#>>> a bit old but might as well post it <<< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[jxstsxgx]

𝙱𝙰𝙲𝙺 𝚃𝙾 𝙵𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙽𝙳𝚂 | 𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚅𝙴 𝙷𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚃𝙾𝙽

Pairings: Steve Harrington x bsf!Reader

Word Count: 2, 856 words

Summary: It was just one night. Just too many drinks, a party, and years of feelings bubbling over. You both weren’t supposed to let it happen. But you both did. And now? Well… now you’re pretending nothing happened at all.

Contains: Implied smut so MDNI! Best friends to “we don’t talk about it.” Mutual pining, suppressed feelings, party shenanigans, alcohol use, one night hookup, mild smut (not graphic), angsty morning after feelings, emotional confusion, denial, and lots of almosts.

A/N: Been gone for a bit but here it is now since it's weekend and I'm setting aside this damned thesis because it's fucking up my brain, lol. Will probably post some more once finish editing, and yes this is inspired from Sombr's song because the song's been on repeat in my playlist.

masterlist |

Steve’s parties were the stuff of legend.

Everyone knew that when the King of Hawkins High decided to open his doors and crank the stereo, the entire social structure of the town shifted. Jocks and drama kids, metalheads and cheerleadersall crammed into one house, into the warmth of Steve Harrington’s curated chaos.

And of course you were there.

You always were.

His best friend, his partner in crime. The girl who drank orange soda mixed with vodka and laughed at his dumb jokes even when they barely landed.

The girl who wasn’t supposed to mean more.

The one who did anyway.

You arrived late, wearing one of your usual half teasing, half girly outfits that made Steve feel like he might actually lose his mind. A tiny skirt. A shirt that had his name written across the front literally. His old basketball sweatshirt you claimed permanently.

“Steve! I want a drink!” you shouted over the music, pushing your way into the kitchen.

He grinned from where he was mixing something neon blue. “Make one yourself, lazy.”

“You invited me,” you said, batting your lashes, “and as your favorite person alive, I deserve to be served.”

“You're damn bossy.”

“And you’re stalling,” you smirked, reaching for the solo cup he handed you.

The drink was terrible. The burn made your nose crinkle.

“Jesus, Harrington, is this paint thinner?”

“You’re welcome,” he said proudly.

Hours passed in a blur of songs and sweaty dancing. Steve watched you all night. He always did, under the guise of protectiveness. Best friend rights, or whatever excuse he fed himself. But the truth was messier tangled between his chest and his throat, coiled with guilt and want and fear.

He wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you.

And he definitely wasn’t supposed to stare at the way you laughed against the fridge door, a second drink in hand, telling a group of guys a story he didn’t hear because he couldn’t stop looking at your mouth.

“You’re not even listening,” you said when you caught him staring.

“Yes I am.”

“What did I say?”

“Something about a raccoon and… pizza?”

You squinted. “Lucky guess.”

The house was a mess by midnight. People were either passed out on couches or making out in corners. You and Steve ended up sitting shoulder to shoulder on the kitchen floor, your fifth drink half finished, his arm slung lazily behind you.

You were both a little drunk. Buzzed and sleepy and content.

And then came the shift.

“D’you ever think about kissing me?” you asked out of nowhere, words soft but far too clear.

Steve blinked. “What?”

You smiled faintly. “You heard me.”

“I…” He ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Me too.”

Neither of you moved.

And then you did. Faces now inches apart.

Your lips brushed first. Tentative. Testing.

And then Steve was cupping your jaw, pulling you in. And you were crawling onto his lap, fingers in his hair, mouth on his like you’d been waiting years to find out if it would taste this good.

Spoiler alert: it did.

“Fuck,” he breathed into your neck, dragging you to your feet. “Upstairs. C’mon.”

You stumbled up together, laughing, kissing between every step. His bedroom door closed behind you like it was sealing in something electric.

Clothes hit the floor in a trail.

His bed creaked.

You straddled him, eyes wild, grinning like the shot of adrenaline that was his mouth on your throat. “I knew you had a thing for me,” you teased, hands trailing down his bare chest.

“Shut up.”

“You love it.”

“I love you.”

You froze. His breath caught.

“…Shit,” he whispered. “Forget that. I didn’t-”

You kissed him before he could spiral.

And maybe it was the alcohol or the months of tension finally snapping but that night, the kisses turned hungry. The way he moaned into your mouth when you rocked your hips down made you feel like you owned the entire world.

The whole thing was messy and breathless and tangled. And when it was over, he kissed your shoulder and held you so tight it almost hurt.

You fell asleep with his hand still in yours.

The next morning hit like a car crash.

You woke up with mascara smudged under your eyes and Steve’s arm around your waist. His face buried in your neck.

And suddenly, everything burned with clarity.

This was not supposed to happen.

Steve blinked awake beside you. “Hey…”

“Morning,” you whispered, scooting out of bed too fast.

“Wait..”

“I should go.” You said, not even looking at him.

Steve sat up, hair a mess, blanket falling from his chest. “We don’t have to make this a big thing..”

“Right,” you said quickly. “It’s fine. We were drunk. Just… a party thing.”

He looked like he might argue.

But then he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Back to friends.”

And that was that.

You grabbed your shoes. Your shirt.

Avoided his eyes.

The following weeks were a hell of pretending.

You still hangout. Still called. Still shared popcorn at movie night.

But you were both wearing masks now.

You didn't talk about the kiss. About the bed. The confession. About the way he’d whispered your name like a prayer.

And when he caught you looking too long at his mouth, you looked away.

When he stared at your hands like he missed touching them, you tucked them into your sleeves.

The silence between you was louder than it had ever been.

Because love is brave. But pretending it doesn’t exist?

That’s the real risk.

And both of you were still too scared to take it.

“Remember when I said I’d never date someone who owns Crocs?” you say one night on his couch, elbow nudging Steve’s side. “I think I’d make an exception.”

“Wow,” he deadpans, “I am honored to be the exception to your foot based morals.”

You grin, take a sip of his root beer, and don’t think too hard about how close you’re sitting. Or the way your knees are touching. Or the fact that when you laugh, Steve stares like he’s trying to memorize it.

It’s been two weeks since the party.

Since that night.

And you're both pretending so hard it’s almost convincing.

Almost.

There are hiccups, of course.

The way you both pause too long when your hands touch.

The way Steve nearly kisses you after a horror movie when you cling to him out of fake fear.

The way Robin keeps side-eying him when you come over in his hoodie and claim it’s “just comfy.”

He’s quieter these days. Like there’s something caught in his throat.

You’re louder. Filling the silence with stories and sarcasm. Hoping if you talk enough, you won’t hear your own heartbeat.

And still, neither of you talks about that night.

You bring a date to Family Video one afternoon. His name is Tyler or maybe Taylor, Steve doesn’t care. He watches from behind the counter as you laugh too loudly at something that definitely wasn’t funny.

“Is he a drummer or a dumbass?” Robin whispers.

“Both,” Steve mutters.

You wave at him on your way out. “See you later, Stevie!”

He gives you a thumbs up he doesn’t mean.

Then spends the next hour shelving tapes with too much force.

Then, you don’t mention Tyler again. Steve doesn’t ask.

But he starts showing up in your dreams.

Steve, not Tyler.

Steve with his stupid big eyes and his warm hands and the way he used to whisper things in the dark when he thought you were asleep.

You start avoiding sleep. Then comes the cabin weekend.

Dustin’s “surprise bonding trip” that’s anything but. You arrive to find that somehow and mysteriously, your name is paired with Steve’s on the sleeping chart.

“Robin,” you hiss, holding up the paper. “What the hell.”

She just sips her coffee. “Oops.”

Steve chuckles behind you. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”

You don’t say you’re the one I’d pick anyway.

Because you’re trying really, really hard not to be that girl.

That night, you lie on opposite ends of the shared bed, back-to-back, tension thick as fog.

You can hear his breathing.

He can hear yours.

You both pretend to be asleep.

In the morning, you wake up tangled together. His hand on your waist. Your face pressed to his collarbone. His mouth inches from your temple.

You don’t move.

You just listen to him breathe. Feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your hand.

When he finally stirs, you pretend to be asleep until he pulls away.

He doesn’t mention it.

Neither do you.

You think you’re doing okay.

Then comes the week later.

You're at Steve’s house, helping him clean the garage. It’s hot, you’re sweaty, he’s shirtless, and it’s a problem.

“I hate you,” you say, chucking a sponge at him. "Can't you clean your own car on your own?"

He smirks. “Can’t handle the heat?”

“Can’t handle the ego.”

But you’re grinning. Because he’s glowing. Because his eyes crinkle when he smiles at you like that. Because you’re completely, utterly gone for him.

And then it happens.

You both reach for the same box. Your hands touch.

And something snaps.

He freezes. You do too.

Your breath stutters in your chest as he looks at you.

“Don’t,” you whisper. You’re not even sure what you mean.

But Steve’s already moving. Already leaning in. Already pulling you into him like he can’t not.

The kiss is sudden. Fierce. Tension crashing like a dam finally broken.

You don’t even know who grabs first, his jaw in your hands, your back against the wall, his hands on your waist, your shirt rucked up.

“God,” he pants against your mouth. “I tried to forget.”

You kiss him harder. “Don’t.”

It’s messy. Too much. Not enough.

He lifts you onto the workbench like it’s muscle memory, like your body’s the only thing he’s ever known how to hold.

You moan into his mouth and he pulls away just enough to whisper, “I’m sorry. For the morning after. I was scared.”

You blink. “Me too.”

His hand finds your cheek. “Can we just..can we not pretend anymore?”

You hesitate.

Then nod.

And it’s everything.

[bittybeanscafe]

Oh, They’re So Weird (☉-⚆)

“You recently got laid off of your job. Thankfully, you found an ad on Craigslist that paid quite a bit for you to just housesit! 🍩”

DAY ONE -> DAY TWO

Contains: Kopi, Daisuke, Wyndolyn, Betty, Eddie and Volt, and Tony.

🍰 Café Menu 🍰

Getting laid off sucked, but the worst part wasn’t the lost job, it was the silence afterward. Bills didn’t care about unemployment, and your fridge had been making a weird knocking sound that screamed “I’m dying” for two weeks now. So yeah, maybe scrolling Craigslist at 2:13 a.m. while eating peanut butter off a spoon wasn’t your proudest moment, but that’s when you saw it.

HOUSE SITTER NEEDED - URGENT

Spacious, fully furnished home.

3 weeks.

$1,500/week.

Must be kind. No loud music. No shouting. Absolutely NO cursing at the housemates.

Contact: xxxx

Serious inquiries only.

You blinked. Then read it again. Then checked the listing date: posted 10 minutes ago. Honestly? It didn’t sound like a murder ad. And fifteen hundred a week? That was rent for two months. You clicked “reply” before your brain had a chance to argue.

One weird video call later…

“Just be nice to them,” The owner said. Their face was earnest, a little too close to the webcam. “The bed gets moody if you ignore her, and the mirror likes compliments. Oh, and please don’t cuss at anyone. They’re sensitive.”

You’d nodded slowly. “...Right. The furniture is sensitive.”

They beamed. “Exactly! You’re a natural.”

You weren't, actually. You were broke. There was a difference.

The house was new, a bit creaky, and gorgeous.

It stood like a storybook illustration, rose vines on white walls, tall windows like blinking eyes. The front gate opened on its own when you approached. The door was unlocked. And there, sitting right inside the foyer, was a small table with a handwritten note:

“Welcome! Bedroom’s on the second floor. Please greet everyone before settling in. Be polite. No exceptions.”

You stared at the note. Then looked around.

...There wasn’t anyone here.

Was there?

You stood in the middle of the living room, feeling about as dumb as someone could feel while talking to furniture.

“Hi, everyone,” you said, eyes shifting to the antique mirror above the fireplace, the couch with those overly plush cushions, and the teacup-patterned wallpaper that somehow felt judgy. “I guess.”

Silence.

Well, yeah. What were you expecting? A lamp to wave?

You gave yourself a mental shrug and moved toward the kitchen. The house might’ve been old, but the appliances were surprisingly modern: sleek, clean, and probably worth more than your last paycheck. You figured coffee wouldn’t hurt. You hadn’t had real coffee in weeks. Just that sad instant stuff that made your teeth feel like they were dissolving.

The coffee machine purred to life like it knew what it was doing. Which was weird.

You blinked when it poured your drink.

In the frothy surface was an intricate little heart surrounded by ferns and flowers, like a garden in your cup. You hadn’t touched any settings. Hell, you didn’t even know how to do latte art.

You stared at the cup.

“…Thanks?” you said, lifting it gently.

Deep within the inner world of the house, Kopi beamed. “You're welcome! Finally, someone with manners,” she thought, pride bubbling inside her ceramic chest. She loved giving people a good start to their day.

You sipped. It was perfect. Not too bitter, just creamy enough, like something out of a dream. You let out a soft hum of satisfaction and felt… lighter.

Okay. Weird, but not bad.

After finishing the cup (and whispering another awkward “thank you” before setting it in the sink and cleaning it, to the liking of Daisuke), you figured you might as well do something productive. The house wasn’t dirty, but there was dust on the window sills and a few cobwebs here and there. You found an old cloth in a drawer, wet it, and started wiping down the large bay windows.

They sparkled immediately, almost too fast.

You frowned, then smiled anyway, running the cloth in slow, thoughtful circles.

“Looking better already,” you murmured, almost to yourself.

In her own little corner of the dimension, Wyndolyn, the ever-elegant window spirit, preened at the praise. “Such lovely hands,” she thought, her panes practically glowing. “This one appreciates beauty… oh, what a treat.”

You didn’t see the way the sunlight caught just right, casting little prisms of color across the floor like she was showing off. You didn’t notice the faint scent of fresh-cut flowers that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Not yet.

But they saw you.

And you were kind.

That was more than enough, for now.

The storm rolled in faster than you'd expected.

One minute, it was just gray clouds and a gentle breeze. The next, thunder cracked so hard it rattled the windows, and rain slammed against the walls like it had a personal grudge. The lights flickered once, twice-

-and then went out completely.

"Of course," you muttered, setting down the book you'd been reading. You reached for your phone. No signal. Of course.

You remembered the owner mentioning the breaker box upstairs in the attic hallway. Something about “power hiccups” being normal in a house this old. Still, you didn’t love the idea of going up there in the dark. But sitting in silence with no lights and a wind that sounded like a ghost screaming? Less appealing.

So up you went, flashlight in hand, the wood creaking under your feet with every step. The breaker box sat tucked behind a narrow door next to the linen closet, sealed shut with a rusted latch. You struggled with it for a second, then remembered the neat little red toolbox you saw in the bottom of the small closet earlier.

Inside, every tool was perfectly clean and in order. Like someone really cared for them.

You handled each one with care, lining them up just like they were, using the screwdriver gently, placing it back precisely where it came from.

Deep within the heartbeat of the house, Tony grinned behind his stubbled jaw. “Finally, someone who knows how to treat their tools.” His arms crossed proudly. He liked this one.

With a quiet clunk, you flipped the main breaker switch back on. The lights flickered downstairs, then steadied.

Somewhere, inside the wires that ran like veins through the house’s bones, Volt stirred with a low hum of relief. “Oh, thank the circuit.” Sparks flickered behind his eyes as the flow stabilized. No more shorts. No more headaches.

And within the walls, behind the plaster and wallpaper and pipework, Eddie leaned against a support beam and exhaled. “Smooth fix. Didn’t even overload me this time.” He’d braced himself for the usual slapdash button-mashing most humans did, but this one… this one had patience.

You closed the breaker box gently, wiped your hands on your jeans, and gave a half-smile to the darkness. “There. That should do it.”

The hallway lights stayed on. The house gave a low, satisfied creak, like an old cat settling into a nap.

You didn’t know what you’d just done for them.

But they did.

And all three, Tony, Volt, and Eddie, watched you descend the stairs like you were some kind of quiet hero.

You padded back down the stairs, warm light humming gently through the halls again. The storm still raged outside, wind clawing at the shutters and rain pelting the roof, but inside, the house felt… calm. Like it had sighed with relief.

You stretched, body pleasantly tired from moving and cleaning all day. Your feet led you to the bedroom Hank had set aside for you, the door already cracked open like it had been waiting.

The bed inside was reasonably sized, an old-fashioned four-poster with soft, sea-colored sheets and an absurd number of pillows. It should’ve felt stiff or creaky. Maybe even haunted, considering the whole "talk to the furniture" vibe this place had going on.

But the second you sank into the mattress, all thoughts slipped out of your head like sand through your fingers.

It was warm. It welcomed you. Like arms cradling you. Not too soft, not too firm, just the exact kind of comfort you didn’t know your body had been aching for.

“…Huh,” you murmured, pulling the covers up to your chin. “You’re… actually really nice.”

The bed didn’t respond, of course. But you felt it in the way the blanket settled just right around your shoulders. How the pillow fit the curve of your neck perfectly. You swore you heard the faintest creak, like someone humming a lullaby through the floorboards.

Somewhere, deep in her quilted soul, Betty the Bed glowed with pride. “Sleep well, sweetheart,” she thought. “You’ve had a long day.”

You yawned, blinking slowly at the ceiling. “Goodnight, everyone,” you whispered into the dark, voice thick with sleep. “Don’t stay up too late gossiping.”

A soft gust of air rustled the curtains. A light flicked off down the hall.

And you fell asleep: warm, safe, and strangely… cared for.

[gorgiawrite]

Rabbot fic in the work

So, I've started a story that spans over 3 months after Pittfest. I fudged the timeline a bit (I didn't find out Pittfest happened on September until later), so the story will include the 4th of July, and some other fun events for the Emergency Department to deal with. It's gonna be a full cast (I deliberately picked 3 months to follow a full 12 weeks rotation for Javadi and Whittaker, I have plans for everyone) and I can already tease a "Sexuality Crisis" tag. Also, it shall be rated E.

This is a sneak peak of what my story plans look like. I did the full 3 months like that, because I'm an insane person. Below is what my writing looks like.

The governor visits the PTMC...

“Thank you for all your extraordinary work. I cannot imagine how much more losses we would have had to endure without it.” 

The governor had a sensible, context-appropriate expression, with camera-ready make up on. Robby shook his hand, right after Abbot, swept up in the performance. The whole ED staff, it seemed, was gathered around them.

Robby had voted for him. He was the lesser of two evil : a democrat, as likely to gut healthcare’s budget as the other, but less enthusiastic about it. At least he had the good sense to not bring any camera in the ED. Although Robby should probably give Gloria credit for that : she knew high mortality areas and visual press didn’t make for great PR.

Still, there was one journalist : he was introduced as a reporter for the Washington Post. Gloria preened in his presence, even more so than in the governor’s. He had an old fashioned notepad, but Robby was quite certain he was also recording audio with his phone.

“We do our job,” Robby answered simply. He eyed, over the crowd, Doctor Mohan who kept tabs on the boarders during this commotion, assisted by McKay.

There were gurneys in the hallway, as always, and maybe a few more wheelchairs than usual. Robby might have done one last pass in triage, picking up non-criticals with the most visible, impressive looking wounds to fill up the floor.

“Doctor Robinavitch is too modest,” objected Gloria, moving to his side. “He’s one of the best Emergency Physician of the country.”

���It was a team effort,” Robby retorted, voice grating, with a shake of his head.

“Well, I wanted to salute you all personally,” the governor nodded, looking over at the rest of the staff assembled around them.

“Unfortunately,” said Robby, glancing toward Gloria with a sardonic smile, “you won’t get to meet most of the people who worked that night. We are sorely understaffed, so a lot of those who volunteered their time are off right now to keep the department going,” he explained, intonation rising. “And the charge nurse leading during the MCI quit because she was assaulted. We don’t have enough security either.”

Glory, whose eyes had gotten a little fixed when he started talking, stepped forward, right in front of him. “What he means is, unfortunately the public-”

“What I mean,” Robby said louder, to cover her voice, “is a patient punched a nurse in the building-”

“She was outside.”

“She was by the door in the ambulance bay,” Robby corrected, facing Gloria, “and she stayed to do her job, despite a fractured nose, because she knew we can’t afford even an hour without one of our staff.” Robby turned to the governor. “And that’s how she ended up working past the end of her shift, through the pain, to save dozens of people. But our establishment doesn’t pay her a living wage, and that punch was the last straw. All my nurses are taking four to five twelve hours shifts a week, which is above the national or recommended average-”

“Robby,” Collins spoke, stepping forward to his side. He was raising his voice, he now realized. He didn’t acknowledge her presence, but took a breath.

“And we are months away from being put under corporate management,” he continued, more evenly, “which would deprive this city of its biggest trauma center—because I can assure you, that is the way it goes. Because while the number of lives we save is very high, our patient satisfaction averages are in the toilet. Because people wait eight to twelve hours sitting in a crowded waiting room, and then spend days right here, in the hallway,” he waved to the multiple gurneys lined against the walls “hoping for a bed upstairs. Which we have-”

“Doctor Robinavitch-”

“Which we have,” he said again, talking over Gloria, “but can’t staff because the wage we offer is substandard.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Robby could hear the beeping of machines and the soft whisper of nurses still working with patients from across the room. Everyone was staring at him : some wide eyed, some pitying ; Collins looked, worried, between him and Gloria.

The governor, who had nodded gravely through all this, had a frown between his eyes. Robby could feel Abbot at his back ; moved closer in the last minute.

Gloria plastered on a polite smile, the skin around her eyes gone tight, and she gestured a hand, good-naturedly, at him.

“As you can see,” she told the governor, with a nod to the journalist, “our doctors are very passionate about the care they provide. The Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center is a big family, and we have, like many other across the country, suffered greatly in the aftermath of the COVID pandemic. We do wish to improve the working condition of our nurses. ” She smoothed down her cerulean blue jacket in a practiced move. “Our board have put down several requests, for the last three years, for some special state funding to be granted to trauma centers like ours, so that we may provide our citizens with the best healthcare there can be. The nursing shortage is nation wide, but there is no reason Pennsylvania can’t put itself at the forefront, when it comes to creating more nursing jobs and ensuring a higher standard of care.”

She ended her sales pitch with a raised chin.

“Well, that is worth discussing,” the governor answered, nodding with a stiff smile.

A hand closed tightly over Robby’s shoulder, squeezing painfully. He realized the chief medical officer had taken her guest farther, toward the ambulance bay. She was introducing him to Ahmad : his security badge gleamed as he shook the politician’s hand. While she did some damage control, the Pitt crew had moved back to their posts.

Robby could hear his heart beating, a shrill whistling in his ears covering the ambient noise. He’d spaced out again.

“Lets go get some air, brother.”

Robby nodded listlessly. He let Abbot direct him toward the elevator, eyeing automatically the board, the patients and his team as he walked by. But everything seemed in order, and ambulances were temporarily directed to West Penn for the duration of the governor’s tour.

When they reached the rooftop, Robby felt like someone had cut off his strings. He barely made it to the guardrail, draping himself over it, head hung low above his crossed arms.

“Well, that was something,” Abbot declared in his sarcastic drawl.

“She won’t fire me.”

“No. But she can force you to retire.”

Robby turned his head, laying his forehead against the cool metal of the rail to get Abbot in his eyesight. The man was resting near, looking down at him, an amused tilt to his lips.

“Then I’d have nothing to lose,” Robby replied.

Jack Abbot smirk faded, a little nod of acknowledgement his sole answer.

Gloria was smart. She was going to be a pain after this, but there was a reason she hadn’t fired Robby so far. Hell, she’d already turned this thing to her advantage. He hated it, how easily she’d sided with him, like she wasn’t part of the problem.

“You had any day off since Saturday?” Jack asked.

Saturday. That had become the code word for Pittfest. Most of them couldn’t name it, these days. Or they just didn’t risk it around him. Robby wasn’t too sure.

“I was supposed to get Sunday, but there was too much to catch up on,” he answered, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I have a four day break starting tomorrow, but I’ll be here Friday, since I’m missing a senior resident.”

Langdon was another name he’d rather not hear or speak.

“You going to the memorial, Saturday?”

Robby nodded yes. The whole city was in mourning. Not that you’d notice, in the echo chamber that was the ED. Abbot turned his back to the guardrail, resting the hollow of his waist against it. He was mulling over something, Robby could feel it.

“You thought about what I told you?”

Robby straightened, confused. “About?”

“I got an appointment with my therapist tomorrow I need to cancel. I’m needed for a consult I asked for a patient at the VA. You could take it, if you wanted.”

The reflective no hit the back of his teeth. Robby hadn’t been sleeping. His department was a mess, he was loosing his grip on the one thing he could always count on—his professional acumen—and Jake still wouldn’t talk to him.

“It won’t be a problem?”

Abbot’s ability to keep the surprise off his face was commendable. He only blinked his eyes pleasantly. “I’ll shout him a text. Tell him to expect you.”

Robby turned to look over the city, in a silent assent. Next to him, he felt Jack moving ; could see him, out of the corner of his eye, typing on his phone. Rule number one of flighty patients and uncooperative next of kin : the moment you get an agreement, you set things in motion. Don’t give them the time to change their mind.

Robby forced the tension out of his shoulders, pushed himself away from the guardrail and gripped both ends of the stethoscope around his neck. “You sticking around?” he asked.

“Not in the ED” Abbot answered, slipping his phone back in his pocket. “I’ll make a round with the patients upstairs, see if Head and Neck is ready to sign off on its MCI charts.”

They walked back companionably toward the elevator.

“Shouldn’t Walsh do that?” Robby asked once they were inside, his mind catching up slowly. “She was Primary Surgeon.”

Abbot smiled—the closed-mouth one he only displayed in good company. He pressed on the fourth floor button.

“Flores is being a pain, as usual. Emery has been bitching about it for the last two shifts. If I handle this one, chances are I’ll get a very cooperative Trauma Surgeon on consults for at least a week.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Nice change of pace.”

Robby snorted. “You’ll just get bored.”

The elevator doors opened and Jack stepped out. He taped the side of his fist on the metal as he turned before it closed : “I think we could all do with a little boring, right now.”

Back down on the Emergency Department floor, Robby checked prudently for any sign of Gloria before going in. But it seemed the danger had passed.

“Doctor Robby.”

Perlah made a bee line to him. He was walking toward the staff lounge, slowing to let her join him on the way.

“Did Dana really quit? I thought she was on leave.”

Robby nodded noncommittally, glancing at the nurse’s expectant face. Her hijab, today, was green, and her lips were pinched. He poured himself a cup of coffee.

“She’s still on leave,” he confirmed, leading her back out in the hallway. “But she did give her resignation. Gloria talked her into taking two weeks first, to think it over.”

“You have to convince her to come back. We need her. I can’t be a charge nurse.”

“Yes, you can. You did great on Bridget’s day off”, said Robby, taking a tablet from the nearest station. “But we’re not there yet,” he quickly added when he saw Perlah’s expression. “I talked to Gloria. She wants Dana gone even less than we do. She’s been trying to convince her to come back. Hopefully she’ll find the right argument.”

He checked the board with a glance and went to Collins, who was overseeing McKay’s work on a broken arm waiting for the OR. “Hell, Dana might negotiate us an extra security guard for the ED,” Robby told Perlah when she kept pace with him. 

“The anaphylactic shock in South 20 is ready to be discharged,” Doctor Collins reported when she saw them approach. “And I put King, Santos and Javadi on all the extremity lacs that suddenly got admitted en masse” She gave him a pointed look. “So that we can clear up the hallway a little.”

“Who’s on chairs?” asked Perlah.

“Jesse is keeping an eye out, and I’ll be back there now that you are here,” she addressed that last part to Robby. He nodded, after checking the labs of South 20 on his tablet.

“Good work Doctor Collins. Perlah, we can discharge Mr Rodriguez. Make sure he has his script. And ask Bridget if she can get some update from her spies in the ICU : we need to snatch beds while everyone is still distracted with Gloria’s little press tour.”

The next hour went on as usual. The kids made quick work of the injuries that only required stitches and a dressing. They were all now incredibly efficient when it came to treating multiple patients in rapid succession ; and those didn’t even need to be stabilized. The day before, Whitaker—who was currently off—had been halfway through putting an airway before they all realized it wasn’t a task they usually attributed to med students in a standard capacity. But the hell with it : Javadi and him were old hands at it now. And Santos had executed a damn near perfect REBOA, in circumstances so chaotic it would have given pause to even the most seasoned physician.

Doctor King showed herself to be as self-sufficient as Doctor McKay, and Robby made sure to coach them both on some procedures once the ambulances started bringing back trauma patients to the PTMC. It was easy to rely too much on the two R2s, and forget to teach them as consistently as the rest of the lot. Collins managed the tide of the waiting room beautifully, sending him the occasional worried look when she came by ; and Mohan was back to her sluggish pace—a disappointing return to form after her incredible work during Pittfest. Still, she was his best diagnostician.

All in all, things were going great. Or as great as could be in his department. But every time Robby stopped, there was a hollow carved up below his diaphragm that grew wider and wider. It felt like the pressure of its vacuum pulled his insides into a compact knot. Robby hadn’t set foot in pedes since Saturday. He didn’t know how long he’d manage to keep that one up.

“What am I looking at, here?”

Abbot stood beside him, backpack over one shoulder. In front of them was an EVS worker, scrubbing green glitter paint off the floor in the middle of the ED.

“Kid covered himself in arts and craft supplies. Developed a rash. He’s fine,” Robby recounted. “You’re going?”

“Yeah. Off to get some sleep,” answered Jack, inviting him with a motion of his head to follow. “I’m on shift tonight. I’ll be back to pick up the slack.”

“No slack, just overflow,” Robby quipped in a lilting voice. He made sure Bridget saw him walk outside, and signed with a tap on his watch and raised fingers two minutes.

They moved to the side of the ambulance bay, backs to the wall, and Abbot handed him a card-stock paper. It had a name—Dr. Francis Murphy—and an appointment time for the next day.

“Fair warning, I told him were I found you the night after Pittfest. I had a quick session on the phone with him after the whole thing. It wasn’t about you. I have my own issues with the place. But it came up.” Abbot cocked his head to catch his eyes dead on. ”If that’s a bother, you can ask him for a referral.”

Robby shook his head, waving the note pinched between his fingers. “Nah.” He huffed. “It might be easier if he already know the stuffs I’m not telling. But that’s probably cheating,” he added with a rueful smile.

“Far be it from me to keep you from using every trick in the book to ace therapy. Murphy keeps telling me it’s not a competition, but I think he’s just a sore loser.” Abbot bumped his arm. “Just give me a heads up if you tell him anything he can use against me.”

“You sure you don’t want me to ask for a referral?”

“I’d rather you didn’t, honestly.” Abbot stepped away, turning to face him with a serious expression. “I know he can handle your brand of closed-off, since you and I are of the same mold. And he gets a lot of healthcare workers. He knows the drill…”

Robby lifted the card-stock in a lousy salute.

“All jokes aside, I doubt he’ll slip up between what you tell him and what I do. He’s solid.”

Robby nodded, eyes shifting to the ground, ready for this conversation to be over. He stayed there a moment, the soft card-stock squished between his fingers, listening for Jack’s steps once he finally walked away.

[essie-essex]

WIP Wednesday Thursday

I was tagged by @porcelainseashore and @medeaft to post a WIP. Thank you both so much!!! I'll share two, since I was tagged twice.

From the Vineland Chantry fic:

“I will not cause any trouble. I will do as I'm told. I'll keep my head down and focus on my work. I will not seek what has not been freely offered to me. I will behave. I will behave. I will behave.”

Asha repeated the phrase over and over as she stared her own reflection in the eye through the tiny mirror in her quarters. Although she tried to focus on the words she said, another series of thoughts ran through the back of her mind.

“Why is this mirror so small?” The mirror barely fit her entire face, and the same kind had been installed in all of the dormitories. She had asked both Winnie and Nick about it, but both were reluctant to talk about the subject. Finally, the Regent admitted that he did not remember why they had taken down the mirrors. In fact, no one who had been in the chantry when the mirrors were taken down remembered exactly why they needed to go. They just knew that they had to get rid of them.

Asha hadn't noticed the lack of mirrors at the Vineland chantry until she found the missing ones in the basement. Some had been packed away in boxes, others covered in cloth, and many bound with rope and twine. Pulling a dusty sheet from one of the full length mirrors, she eyed her own reflection in the glass. There was nothing strange about it.

“I will not cause any trouble. I will do as I'm told. I'll keep my head down and focus on my work. I will not seek what has not been freely offered to me. I will behave.”

Asha repeated the phrase over and over as she stared her own reflection in the eye through the large mirror in the basement.

“I will not cause any trouble. I will do as I'm told. I'll keep my head down and focus on my work. I will not seek what has not been freely offered to me. I will behave.”

Her reflection giggled.

“Maybe you will, but I won't,” she said. “It's so boring. Why are you limiting yourself?”

From The Curse of Sorrow's Heart:

“Please, this is disgusting! I think I might actually throw up...”

Jen's voice echoed up from the basement through the large hole in the water damaged ceiling to where Asha and Beckett waited on the first floor of the building.

Beckett fidgeted, as though wrestling with some thought before creeping to the edge of the hole.

“I suppose I will help you out a bit,” he said, sneaking a quick glance at Asha.

“What?” she asked.

“It's... nothing,” he replied. He crouched, leaning down into the hole before making a strange sound from his lips.

It's almost like he's... squeaking, Asha noted.

The Gangrel continued to squeak, as Asha watched, enthralled. She noticed that the noises from the rats in the basement had faded, replaced by the sound of scurrying feet in the floor and walls. Soon, streams of rats popped from various holes and cracks all around them, hurrying toward the area where she and Beckett stood.

Asha gasped, drawing up her blood to use as her feet left the ground and she floated several inches above the floor. Rats continued to fill the room, swarming around Beckett, and soon the entire first floor was full of them. They scurried over the area in which Asha had been standing, hiding the rotten wood beneath them.

“Rats? You can call rats?” she said with a shudder.

“More than just rats, but yes, rats.”

“Why rats?

“If you truly have to ask that, I have to say that I'm surprised that you, as a Tremere, are so ignorant of the relationship between vermin and old cities like London.”

Asha sighed, floating closer to the hole. She eyed Jen, hurriedly scooping droppings from the floor in the absence of the live rats, which had all relocated to the first floor.

“Well, I'm not picking you up,” she said to Beckett. “So, have fun standing there while rats chew at your ankles.” She called down to Jen. “Hurry up. I'm not fond of using up all of my vitae just to hover half a foot in the air.”

Beckett continued to stand casually, somehow not bothered by the horde of rats at his feet.

“This isn't another trick of yours is it? The poor girl's had enough of that, don't you think?”

“You think she's not capable of doling out 'tricks' herself? She survived living in a chantry,” Asha replied.

“I believe she can, but she is not... like that.”

“...and I am?”

Beckett gave Asha a look that suggested she knew the answer already.

I tag: @calyshine @chantrykomori @justdrawtheworld

[charlie-rulerofhell]

Contra Cruciatam

chapter 1: You shall honour your mother and father

The second part of the Holy Mother Church is the secular lords. Their duty is to defend the law of God, to protect the servants of Christ, and to oppress the ministers of the Antichrist, for this is the reason why they bear the sword. This state is dangerous in three ways: Because it is prone to be overcome by pride, by worldly greed, and by the perishable pleasures of the body.

a few words ahead: this is not the full story. in fact, this is only the beginning of the first chapter in six (plus an epilogue), which is also the reason why this won't be posted under the KCD tag yet. i still wanted to share it under 'janosh uher', to let all you other janosh freaks know that this story is coming, because this is, essentially, about him. the story is set both in 1412, and in the past (pre-1403). it follows the events of my previous story, Sed Proditionem (so if you're wondering who Stepan or Mirtl or Magnus or this Jagiello fella are, you can read about that whole adventure here on AO3), but you won't have to know Sed Prod to understand Contra Cruciatam.

also, for the curious nerds among you, the quote above is (just like all the other quotes before the coming chapters will be) loosely translated by me from a latin sermon of jan hus. so yes, we're going there too. but also to so many other places. places that might make you laugh. places that might break your heart.

and now enjoy the read!

* * *

The biting stench of paint and vinegar filled the room, drow­ning out the sweet scent of old but polished oakwood, of dusty tapestries and molten wax. Even the smell of the food was si­lenced under that stench, but it was not quite done yet either. A soup with onion, carrots and cabbage, and a few hard cured sausages inside, served together with roasted bread and strong, aged cheese. The sausage Janosh had made himself from a stag Henry had brought him. It would allow Samuel to eat from the soup as well, and he hadn't minded the work either, the distrac­tion it had offered, as the memories had come back to haunt him. Worse than it had been in a long time. And caused only by the foolishness of that boy.

Janosh turned the spoon around a few more times, before he finally lifted his eyes off the pot. The boy was looking at him with an expression of sadness and regret. Finally. “Are you angry with me?” Speaking so quietly now, after having protes­ted loudly enough before when Katherine had scrubbed his face clean. I'm not a child anymore, he had said, and You're tearing all my hair out! There was not much to tear out to begin with. And a child? Janosh doubted that any child would have been smart enough to think of something so ridiculous.

“You lucky you still alive.”

“It went well enough.”

“For you. Not for others.”

The others in this case were the two unlucky boys who had pulled the cart on which Štěpán had throned. Dressed in old clothes he had been given by Mirtl. His face painted like a common whore, or what a green, inexperienced boy like him imagined a whore to look like. Mirtl had only laughed at him. Laughed, when all she should have done was to scold him! Not for dressing up as a prostitute, the people of Prague had seen far worse than that, but for doing so while handing out mock letters of indulgence to the curious crowd, and while having the two students pulling the cart shout: Beware, good people, here comes the Pope!

At least Štěpán, up on his wagon, had been quick enough to notice the city guard as they had shoved the townsfolk aside to storm at the heretical procession with their weapons raised. The two other boys had not been that lucky.

“You make it sound as if I acted carelessly.”

“Careless too good of word.”

The boy pouted. He pouted. Two years in which Janosh had known him, two years in which he had become a proper bacca­laureus at the Karolinum, in which his voice had become dee­per, firmer, his features a bit sharper, his chin growing at least the shadow of what could one day be a beard. And yet, it could just as well be nothing more than two days, because in the end, Štěpán was still a boy. Nothing but a boy. “It was needed. Pope John is desecrating the holy sacrament with his actions.”

“Don't speak like priest, boy, you make law, not church teachings.”

“And as a student of the law I am well aware of the fault in this indulgence of the cross. Absolution should not be for sale. And even if it were to be sold, it should not come as cheap as support through money or arms in the his crusade against Pope Gregor and King Ladislaus of Naples.”

“A crusade not seem cheap to me.”

“Yes, which is exactly the point!” He spoke louder now, more agitated. The heat in the air of the kitchen was more op­pressive than what the fire of the hearth could have caused. “You cannot tell me that it is just to expect faithful Christians to either offer their hard-earned money or their life for some­thing that should be granted to them by the priests' officium alone.”

“If they not want pay, don't need pay.”

“And face repercussions and threats for it? Pope John's com­missio indulgentiarum is campaigning through Prague as we speak, holding mass to convince the people that their souls were damned if they refrained from supporting the Pope's cause. I heard that Wenzel Thiem, the head collector of said commission, has been given the right to arrest everyone who threatens to get in his way, such as the Knights of Saint John. Clerics fighting other clerics over who gets to rob the people first and harder, it's madness.”

“Speak like Hus.”

“As everyone should. Master Hus knows what he is talking about. Well, in most cases, that is.”

Master Hus, Janosh wanted to answer, has demanded way too much from this little band of ours already, and I doubt he will be done demanding any time soon. Oh no, if anything, things would only become worse. They already did with every passing day. And Janosh had seen too much senseless suffering in his life, had lost too many good people to some fight for jus­tice that had grown too big for a single man to understand, so big it eventually collapsed and crushed everyone underneath. And what good could justice do? When King Jagiełło had gran­ted him a place at his council as compensation for the failures of the former King of Poland, had it eased the pain? “The title perhaps,” Jagiełło had offered, “if not all the properties. It would only be just.” Janosh had declined. No justice could ease the pain, no justice could bring them back.

“And it's not like I'm alone in this either,” Štěpán continued, still in his youthful fury, unaware of what his fight could cause. “Henry was there too, and Hans, and Godwin has helped me get the paint, Žižka has brought that cart.”

“And they all painted too like whore?”

“Oh, so it is about the paint? Is it also about the paint when Godwin walks up a podium to preach to the masses about the prelates' greed? Do you think the Archbishop or the King will hear him any less because his face is not painted?”

“And because Godwin high on podium, you get high on wagon at square of Old Town, handing out letter of Pope like food to hungry on Green Thursday?”

Štěpán widened his eyes in taunting surprise. At some point in the past two years they had stopped looking like two large plates filled with mushed hazelnuts, and had instead taken a shape that was narrower and perhaps more like what the lasses around him would see as attractive. Janosh missed the plates. “So it is about the wagon now, eh, not about the paint!”

“Is about you,” Janosh responded a little harsher, hissing almost as loud as the splashes of soup on the hot stone did. ”Godwin and Henry and the rest, they can do as want, is not my concern, because they are not you.”

“And you are not my father.”

The soup hissed, the wood in the fire splintered with a crack as loud as a bone breaking. The air smelled of old tapestry and wood and dust and vinegar, and a little bit of carrots and cab­bage too.

Štěpán lowered his eyes to his feet, his slim shoulders dropped so much they formed a crescent around his neck.

“You not child to me,” Janosh said, and his voice sounded distant now, as if lost in the past. “You make me think of Janosh when was young. Make me think of Adder. And Adder is dead.” Adder is dead, Žižka had said, back then at the lake, the last night before they had left for Grünfeld. When they had sat together to fish and talk and make plans for an uncertain future. We need to find our own way. Janosh had wanted to. Had tried. Had failed.

He stirred the soup again, the spoon was trembling between his fingers. “Go to others,” he whispered. “Food is soon ready.”

* * *

The sitting room of Godwin's house alone was bigger than his former accommodations in the university had been, and they had shared that room with all ten of them at times. Winning a war definitely paid well. And having a good relationship with the dean of Theology at the Karolinum, which was just on the other side of the street, and perhaps making said dean annoyed with his long-lasting presence, that too, not to mention the pre­sence of his nine loud, wine-and-blood-reeking friends. But what did it matter how Godwin had acquired this house? It was a good place to stay at, Štěpán found. Or to live in for the past half a year now. Big and warm and homely. An attic filled with beds where the others could sleep when they visited, a sitting room that offered enough tables and chairs for all of them to get together, eat, laugh, talk.

There was no talking this late April evening. Only awkward silence and the hammering of the pouring rain on the windows. But they had all busied themselves to pass both wait and si­lence, and to consider on which side in this conflict they wan­ted to stand. For Hans and Henry at least, it seemed to be the same side. Hans was sitting in front of the fireplace with a book on his lap, Henry was standing close by with crossed arms, face turned towards the cornflower shield on the wall.

For both Samuel and Mirtl as well as Žižka and Katherine, things looked different. Mirtl had not been present at the square today, but she had helped Štěpán with his costume, much to Samuel's dis­content as he had thought the whole endeavour to be entirely foolish. So they sat separated, Mirtl on a table with Kubyenka, Godwin and Žižka, playing a round of farkle in which none of them had rolled a single dice in a long time, while Samuel had joined the company of Katherine and Mag­nus.

Magnus was, other than his name suggested, anything but big. For a one-year-old he was, in fact, rather small, and so weakly built, Žižka had once jested that they “should have named him Štěpán.” Magnus was also a little shit, as Kubyenka rightfully called it. And apt to produce way too much of the same. Furthermore, he was a child that had never heard of nightly sleep, it seemed, because he did not care the slightest for the hour of the day or whether the sun or the moon was shi­ning. Magnus was always awake, always blabbering or wailing or screaming, always shit­ting.

He was also the only one talking. Or trying to, that was. The rest of the room had become unbearably silent. Lost in the events of this very morning. The protest on the Old Town square, the growing uproar amongst the crowd, and then the arrest of Kasper and Derslaw. While Štěpán, for one, was lost in a far more distant past. One that he failed to fully grasp.

He turned his head, regarded his own reflection on the rain-shrouded window pane. Like Janosh, when he was young. Like Adder. The rain dampened the torchlight appearing down on the street, made it flicker in a mismatched rhythm to the song that the men's clattering armour made. The flames were still bright enough to illuminate their coats. A dark cloth, Štěpán did not have to see the colour to know that it was red as wine, be­cause the three white towers were clearly visible. Prague city militia. The protest had made waves, like a boulder tossed into a lake, but as of now, there was nothing to fear. They did not know that they were looking to the wrong side.

The three watchmen stood under Saint Margaret's bay win­dow chapel for a while, looked up to the impressive Rotlev pa­lace that was the university, then to each other, gestured and spoke words Štěpán could not hear over the sound of the rain. They went for the Karolinum's door, found it locked. One of them pounded against the wood with his iron gauntlet, so roa­ringly loud that Kubyenka and Žižka lifted their eyes from the disregarded dice shaker, and that Magnus started to cry again. Katherine cradled the child against her breasts, held his head, sang a quiet song that reminded Štěpán all too much of the ele­gies the Polish soldiers had sung in Grünfeld. The university's door was opened, the three soldiers stormed inside without as­king any questions. They would turn every stone and book to find the culprits. And would fail. Jan Hus was not living in the Karolinum anymore, neither was the boy whose face they had only seen under a thick layer of paint and who was silently watching them unbeknownst this very moment.

The door was closed, the light of the torches swallowed. Ště­pán blinked a few times, saw his own reflection again, distorted by tilted streaks of rain. The black hair perhaps, but his eyes were brighter, and there was a defiance in them that he had carefully groomed over the past year, a look that he had never seen in Janosh's eyes, which were always filled either with kindness and jest or utter sadness, as if there was no in be­tween. And Adder? “Who was Adder?”

Hans lifted his eyes from the pages of his book. Henry, Sa­muel and Katherine turned to him in surprise. Kubyenka brought his hand down on the table and made the shaker top­ple, dice rolled over the table, one of them fell to the ground. Not a one, and not a five either.

“He was a friend of ours,” Žižka finally started in an unu­sually cold tone. “One of our pack. But you know that.”

“I do, and I know of the others too. Such as that gambler Ranyek, or the one who became a priest. You have told me plenty stories about all of them, about the Devil even. But it's different with Adder. As if none of you wants to share anything about him, even when he seems to have left a hole in this group that not even time could fill.”

“Adder's story is not ours to share, lad,” Kubyenka replied without looking up from the scattered dice. “Janosh was closest to him, closer than you can even imagine. He's the only one who should talk about him.”

“But better not to ask him,” Henry added. “He's in a bad enough mood as it is.”

“Ts.” His brother crossed his arms, leaning against the floral ornaments of a slim, but towering bookshelf. “I wonder why that is.”

“But what happened with him?” Štěpán pressed on, without paying any attention to their quarrel. “Surely you can tell me that much at least.”

The door was opened. The delicious smell of the soup floo­ded the room like the people flooded a church on Sunday mor­ning, creeping closer with every step Janosh took. He placed the pot in the middle of one of the tables, went out to get the second one. No one spoke a word. Henry and Hans and Samuel sat down silently, Katherine placed little Magnus in a cradle, before she came over to sit down with them too. The soup emitted its pleasant scent, but it only managed to make Štěpán feel sick tonight, the ten wooden spoons sticking out of the brazen pots reminded him of the heads of snakes.

Janosh sat down on the other side of the table and began to eat. Silently. The rain fell, the fire crackled. The spoons clanked against the walls of the pots and against each other, the sole of Hans's right boot hammered a swift but monotonous song into the floor boards as he nervously lifted his leg up and down, up and down. The carrots were well-cooked and sea­soned in such a way that they unfolded their full sweet taste, the meat was fat but crisp, roasted before it had been added to the soup, every spoonful was rich of pepper and nutmeg and even saffron. To Štěpán, it could have just as well all been no­thing but the plain rain water.

“They are leaving,” Mirtl said, and when Štěpán raised his head, he saw the torchlight of the Prague soldiers disappear left, down to the now empty Havel's market.

“Without arresting anybody,” Katherine breathed out. “Thank God.”

Godwin shoved the spoon into his mouth with his right hand, wiped his mouth with the left one. “I wonder, however, how long it will take them until they start looking on the other side of the street.”

They continued to eat. In silence. The drumming of the rain, the clanking of the spoons. Janosh's dark eyes were clouded. Lowered onto a piece of carrot on his spoon, averted from the faces of the others, so unlike he would normally do when he would look at them curiously, searching for their pleasure and joy over the food he had made for them. There was no joy to­night.

“Who was Adder?”

Janosh lifted his gaze. The moonlight painted the shape of raindrops to the table, to Janosh's kaftan, to his eyes.

“Who was he really?” Štěpán continued. “What was he like? I would love to know more about him. To know his story, his full story.”

“Why?”

“Curiosity.”

Janosh did not reply, did not move a muscle. The answer had not satisfied him.

Štěpán swallowed. “Because he matters so much to you. And I'd like to understand why.”

“Hm.”

“You're the only one who can tell me, aren't you? The only one who properly knew him.”

Rain and the rhythm of Hans's boot, but no clanking of the spoons anymore. Everyone had stopped eating. They only stared. At the moon and at the fire, and at Štěpán and Janosh.

Janosh stood up. Left the table, went over to the door, dis­appeared into the next room. Kubyenka shifted the dice around under the hollow palm of his hand. Katherine regarded Magnus with a worried look, as the child had started mumbling in his sleep. Henry continued to eat. He was the only one.

Štěpán already wanted to leave the table too, walk up to his room, hide under the cover of his bed and just let this horrible night drown in the past, when Janosh returned. He held a piece of parchment in one hand, quill and ink in the other, and placed it all on the table in front of Štěpán.

“Here,” Janosh said. “I will tell story. But only when you write. Write just as I say.”

“Yes.” Štěpán's voice was only a whisper against the noise of the rain. “Yes, I will.”

“And listen good so you leave no thing out. Will only tell once.”

“I will listen carefully. You can trust in me.”

“I do.” Janosh smiled. The faintest smile, before he turned his back to the table and to the others, walked over to the fire­place.

Štěpán took the quill into his hand, which was shaking with excitement, and waited. Waited, while Janosh's shoulders lifted and fell heavily under deep breaths. Waited, while his gaze had got lost somewhere in the embers of the fire.

“We need start before Adder,” Janosh finally said, and it seemed like even the rain was quieter now, was listening. “Much before. We need start with Janosh. Because story about Adder is story about Janosh. We need start in beginning, when Janosh was young. We start with Janosh Gilet.”

* * *

Janosh Gilet was five years old when his whole word fell apart.

[ashley-kins]

Y'know what, I'm going to answer all of these after the break.

Fictotype/kintype

I have multiple types. I have a few that I call my "core types", basically things lives that are etched into my very soul, for one reason or the other. So good, some bad.

Over 40. Haven't counted in a while.

The community overall. Sure, things have gone south due to some of my more problematic lives, but most people are quite understanding

Meeting canonmates. :3 I love them so much /platonic

Yes, I've told people. Most just don't get it ™️ but one of my offline friends was so ecstatic and ended up being fictionkin.

Yeah. Mostly people give neutral reactions, but I've had a few people react positively.

Yes. There's a few. (You know who you are. ❤️)

How we, for the most part, respect each other regardless of our fictotypes.

Being called the name of who I am while in a shift. Also, being called "human", not being called "a human" just "human. It fits with on of my core types.

Yes, quite often. I have a few permashifts as well. It's... well, I don't really know how to describe them. They just happen. Suddenly it feels like there's a switch being pressed

Yes. For 5 of my lives.

Yes as well. There's a handful where I don't.

Yes because I miss my canonmates a lot.

I think I have a few? I don't really save much of it, but, if you want some art that I as Rouge the Bat like, check out all my reblogs on @a-bat-named-rouge

Yes. But I will not share it. It's embarrassing

Some of them yes. Way too many to explain, but all I have to do is tell you that I probably will post a bit of my canon on @linklethehylian for my Linkle life

Yeah, some kinsiders of mine that ended up being wrong because of a different kin that I didn't know I had at the time or are aspects from other lives.

All of my fictotypes are spiritual. I believe they were all past lives

My theriotypes are psychological, they exist due to the influence of my past lives

18 years old? Kinda, not really, a bunch blended together that I just I wouldn't consider it. But, April 28th 2024 is when I discovered my first fictotype. So, I consider that my actual "debut"

No.

No.

I don't know.

I don't know.

No.

Yes. Hyrule in general. That one is probably my favorite for so many little reasons. It's just... my home.

No.

Yes. I'm fictionkin. My journey started when I was predicting everything that would happen to a character with about an 80% accuracy and also getting memories and having chosen my name to be the same name as said character. *cough* Ashley *cough*

No, not so far.

No

N/A

N/A

No.

Yes. I mainly give big memories to @/fictionkinfessions to post because I don't have anywhere else to post and they might be interesting to people.

Out of all of my lives? I cannot give you a favorite. That is impossible.

I guess so. 80% of my fictotypes would identify with the term "woman" same as myself in this life. But the other 20% wouldn't.

Yeah. Actually, it's so confusing with how they are, that I just say I'm queer and leave it at that.

Not really.

Good luck out there. If you want to follow along with someone's journey, I highly recommend talking to, engaging with, or just follow and quietly stalk the account of @imitative-magpie. They're really cool and it's great to read about their experiences, questioning your own identity, and exchange info with them.

Not gonna do that lol this post is already so long.

Fictionfolk Experiences Ask Game

Yeah, you. Fictionkin, fictive, fictionhearted, fictionlinker, fictionflicker--whatever else you may be in the tags. I wanna get some potentially positivity and experience sharing going because there's some Stuff that isn't great in the tags right now but ALSO I think fictionfolk as a whole (and not just identify-as fictionfolk but yes those too) deserve a nice little platform to share their experiences. So, use this ask game. Or just reblog and answer the questions. Or post the answers yourself. Be free.

1. What's your fictional identity (hearttype, kintype, etc)?

2. If you have multiple, do you have one you're closer to than the others, or is more important to your identity overall?

3. How many fictional identities do you have?

4. What's your favourite part about being fictionfolk?

5. What's a positivie interaction that's happened as a result of your fictional identity?

6. Have you told any people in your offline life about your fictional identity and gotten a positive reaction?

7. Have you told any people in your online life about your fictional identity and gotten a positive reaction?

8. Is there anyone you've met as a result of your interactions in the community who's very important to you now?

9. What's your favourite thing about the fictionfolk community?

10. Tell us about a time you've experienced species/identity euphoria as a result of one of your fictional identities.

11. Do you experience any shifts (mental, phantom, dream, etc) of your fictional identity? Share a bit about those and how they feel!

12. Do you have any canonmates (if applicable)?

13. Do you have any sourcemates (if applicable)?

14. Do you wish to seek out canonmates/sourcemates? Why/why not?

15. Do you have a favourite piece of fanart/fanfic/etc that ties into your identity? Share it (with credit)!

16. Do you have any art/fic/etc specifically made for you as a fictionfolk of your specific identity (made by yourself or someone else)? Share it!

17. Does your fictional identity differ from source in any way/is it canon divergent? Explain a bit about that!

18. Are there aspects of your fictional identity that you previously questioned, decided weren't a part of your identity, but you still look fondly upon? (Past 'types, etc).

19. Do you have any spiritual identities? Explain a bit about that!

20. Do you have any psychological identies? Explain a bit about that!

21. How old were you when you discovered/chose your first fictional identity?

22. Did you ever take a break from the community, but came back later? What made you come back?

23. Have you ever considered fictionlinking? If you already have, what made you decide to do it?

24. If you decided to 'link a fictional character, who would it be and why?

25. If you decided to 'link a fictional species, what would it be and why?

26. Have you ever questioned being fictionhearted? If you already are, what started your questioning into that connection?

27. Do you have any fictional hearthomes? What are your favourite things about them?

28. Have you ever questioned being a fictionbased archetrope? If you already are, what's your archetropal identity?

29. Have you ever questioned being fictionkin? If you already are, what started your discovery of that connection?

30. Have you ever had a fictotype turn out to be a fictionflicker or vice versa? What was that like?

31. Do you have any fictionflickers? What are they, and how do they make you feel?

32. If you're a system, do you have any collective fictional identities?

33. If you're a system, how many fictional identities do you have across all of your headmates?

34. Do you have any soulbonds from a fictional source? Share a bit about that!

35. Do you have any memories/noemata around your fictional identity? Share some if you'd like!

36. If you do have memories/noemata, what's your favourite?

37. Does your identity intersect with your gender in any way? Share a bit about that!

38. Does your identity intersect with your sexuality in any way? Share a bit about that!

39. Is there anything you'd have loved to hear back when you were first questioning your identity?

40. Is there anything you'd like to share toward fictionfolk who may just be starting to look into the community?

41. Free space! Share anything about your identity/ies that you'd like to!

[risingsunresistance]

happy birthday king, i will never stop drawing you over random pigs i find 🐖

[xxplastic-cubexx]

obligatory beach divorce doodling

bonus rough cover redraw of x-men #41 (1995) But Beach Divorce below cut

[dewwshi]

The people demand more Minlach. ( please more we are desperate and your art of them is so good 🥺🥺🥺)

🫡

my beautiful yuri... sooo critical to me that minthara 1. fell first 2. fell harder. something abt the idea of this self-avowed villain being utterly and inexplicably smitten with the sweetest nicest golden retriever girl in the world

[a-most-beloved-fool]

Kira has a nightmare, one night when she's staying at the O'Brien's. Miles and Keiko, sleeping in the other room, don't hear her get up - but Molly does.

And Molly, being clever and kind, knows exactly what to do when someone has a nightmare. (Or, at least, she knows what her parents always do for her.) So she sits Kira down and brings her a glass of warm milk, and sits by her side as she drinks it.

Then, she takes Kira by the hand and leads her - to her parents bedroom. "I always sleep with mommy and daddy after a nightmare," she explains, when Kira stops outside the door. "It helps! Mommy chases the scary things away. And Daddy is warm."

"Molly," Kira says quietly, a little embarrassed, "I don't think your parents want me in their bed. Even if I did have a nightmare."

"No, they won't mind!" Molly assures.

Then, of course, Miles wakes up.

"Molly?" he asks, voice rough with sleep. "Did you have a nightmare?"

"No, but Miss Kira did!"

And now Keiko's awake, too, sitting up and saying, "Nerys? Are you alright?"

Mortified, Kira says, "Yes, I'm fine, I was just - on my way back to bed. Molly brought me here. I'm - sorry for waking you. I'll just be-"

"You can stay, if you want," Miles offers.

Kira doesn't quite think she heard him right. "What?"

"You can sleep here, if you think it might help," Keiko says.

"Or even if you don't!" Miles adds.

Kira opens her mouth, then closes it again. "I, uh-"

Keiko gets up, and takes Kira, gently, by the hand. Her palm is soft, Kira can't help but notice.

"Brr, it's freezing out here!" Keiko says, tugging Kira along. "You'd better get in before you catch your death of cold. Miles is practically a furnace, so you'll be nice and warm with us."

"And, Molly, you'd best go back to bed, too. You've got school in the morning," Miles says, as Keiko bundles Kira into the bed between them.

As Molly makes her way out, Keiko swings a lazy arm over Kira's back. "Sleep," she hums. "We'll be here in the morning."

Kira, feeling warm and cared for and more than a little overwhelmed, does.

[daily-odile]

1,,,, 100 days,,,,,,,,, and 800 followers,,,,,,,,,,,,,

From the bottom of my heart, thank you everyone.........!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[fettiowi]

Also, thinking about this thing i drew like almost 2 years ago in my notes app and never posted

[dendixia]

The price you pay for being pure is a joke Hah, Fuck this magical life! I just really wanna resign! Wanna save all my magic for the ones that I like

Was listening to Magical Girl and Chocolate and then suddenly this appeared on my canvas :9

[cupcakeshakesnake]

I randomly remembered that I wrote fanfic of Jack Skellington going to a theme park and eating ice cream when I was seven 💀

[tyrantchimera]

Something I've noticed about being in a small, 'dead' fandom... when you're a content creator, it's like the whole remaining fandom *reacts* when you do anything. I'm in a small but dedicated group of authors for a small fandom. If one of us posts after a dry spell, the rest of us perk up. The fans react. Other creators (like myself) are inspired to make their own stuff.

For a small while, we aren't just small-time creators. It's like we're the franchise itself! Everyone knows when we post stuff. Our content is THE content.

Wow. What a feeling.

[sleipliir]

I almost forgor I had one too!🦋📷<✨