#i love her and i love how much she reminds me of myself

[wendichester]

hey olivia darling!! absolutely love ur works, was just wondering what you think sam and dean's dynamic would be like with a shy and chubby reader? like what would they be like if they have a crush/have feelings (for the same girl or separately mueheueh)? i just feel like they would appreciate the (literal) softness and the shyness would be something interesting bc theyre very much not shy people lol

hope this isnt weird, its just as a chubby and shy girl myself it was a little sad to only see skinny and bold/outspoken love interests in the show, not that there's anything wrong with those women ofc, i just feel hella unrepresented lolz. would love to hear your thoughts or if you had the time or inspiration, a little drabble perhaps? no worries if not ofc, love lots 🫂❤️

hi baby! first of all, absolutely not weird at all—this is so valid and honestly? something that a lot of us think about but don’t always say out loud. you're not alone, babe. chubby & shy girls deserve epic, bone-melting, emotionally devastating supernatural romance too. period. am i shy? no. sadly i was cursed with a leo sun and moon, thus i'm loud and unsufferable BUT i am chubbs so, i gotcha. let's dive in!!

ᯓ★ sam winchester & shy, chubby reader

sam would be so down bad and it would sneak up on him. like, you walk into a room quietly, kinda head down, sweater sleeves past your wrists, and he’s instantly looking up from his laptop. not even in a “she’s hot” way (yet), but in a gentle intrigue kind of way. he’d notice how your voice gets quieter when you’re nervous. how you tug at your shirt when you think no one’s looking. he’s hyper-observant, always has been, and his brain goes “oh. she’s careful with her space. she’s not used to being looked at.” and suddenly he’s looking at you all the time. and girl, if you’re chubby? sam canonically does not care about conventionally skinny ideals. in fact, i think he’d love the way softness feels—like, deep comfort vibes. he’s been through so much loss and hard edges and trauma, so the way you feel warm and real and huggable would be like some kind of miracle to him. like he can finally breathe. also? he’d be so nervous to make you uncomfortable. he’d get really self-aware about his height and voice, like “am i too loud? did i scare her? should i back off?” total respectful green flag behavior. he’d wait for you to make the first move—except you won’t, because you’re shy, and he’ll spiral about that too 😭 expect lingering glances, asking if you’ve eaten, doing little things like fixing your laptop cord so you don’t trip. oh—and books. he’d 100% lend you books and leave little notes inside the pages like “this part reminded me of you.” he’s a slow burn, but the second you trust him enough to take his hand first? he’s yours. entirely.

ᯓ★ dean winchester & shy, chubby reader

now dean?? oh girl. he would be unwell. he’s not used to quiet girls throwing him off his game. normally he flirts, gets flirted with, rinse and repeat. but you? you look away when he smirks at you. you blush when he compliments your outfit. you can’t even look at him when he walks in shirtless (which he 100% starts doing more often just to see you turn pink). and it kills him in the best way. the chubbiness? he’s obsessed. like in a carnal, old-school, wants-to-worship-you kind of way. stretch marks? tummy squish? full thighs? he’s literally on his knees. not just because it’s hot (which it is), but because it’s yours. and because you’re shy about it, he goes extra soft with the compliments—low voice, barely-there touches, telling you, “you know you drive me crazy, right?” in a way that doesn’t feel like a joke. that makes your breath catch. dean’s the type to find what you hate about yourself and kiss it with reverence, like he’s mad that you don’t see what he sees. he’d call you “sweetheart” so often it becomes dangerous. he’d tease you, but it’d never be mocking. more like... coaxing. “what’s got you so quiet, sweetheart? me?” smirk. cheeky wink. a little too close. he’s a tease through and through, but he checks himself fast if he sees you retreat. he’d never push too far—he knows what fear looks like. but he’s also a touch-starved little mess, so the first time you lean on him, even for a second? done. he’d go all in. call you “his girl” to cas and sam. get jealous when you talk to other hunters. become your personal bodyguard. the minute he knows you're his safe place, he becomes yours, fully.

final thought, from my whole heart: you don’t need to be loud or skinny or “main character energy” to be worthy of romance. you are already worthy. your softness isn’t a flaw—it’s exactly the thing someone like sam or dean would crave after years of war and grief and sharp edges. don’t ever think you’re too quiet or too much. you’re not invisible. you’re the whole damn story, babe ♡

[fangirlfuel]

The Space Between Us

Oscar Piastri x Reader (exes)

Lando Norris x Reader (current)

Genre: Angst

The request

---

You used to think some people were permanent.

Oscar had been one of them.

From riding bikes as kids down the quiet Melbourne suburbs, to celebrating your high school graduation with sparkling apple cider and a kiss beneath the stars, Oscar Piastri had always been a part of you. You knew his favorite cereal (Honey Nut Cheerios), his worst fear (wasps), and the way his voice cracked when he got too excited talking about cars. He was your best friend. Your first everything.

And then, he broke you.

It wasn’t just the cheating.

It was who he became after. How cold he went. How the Oscar you loved vanished into the shadow of the man who now posted pictures with her the girl he swore meant nothing.

You had caught him in Monaco, of all places. The apartment you two had picked together still smelled like the vanilla candles you always lit before bed. And yet, when you walked in early from your flight, the sight that greeted you her hair tangled in his fingers, her lipstick smudged on his jaw burned itself into your memory like a brand.

You didn’t scream.

You left.

---

Lando came later.

He wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a shoulder to cry on. But he was soft with you. Gentle. No pressure. He made you laugh again when the only sound you’d been capable of was sobbing.

He picked up your shattered pieces and never once asked why you were still bleeding.

And yet, nothing made it easier to see Oscar with her. She was always there. Every race weekend. In the McLaren garage. Laughing, kissing him before the grid, smiling like she hadn’t stolen your whole world and remade it in her image.

Lando’s hand would always find yours. But it couldn’t stop the lump in your throat. Or the way your stomach dropped every time you caught Oscar looking at you like he remembered.

Like he regretted it.

---

Abu Dhabi. Final race of the season.

The paddock glowed with celebration, music vibrating through the Red Bull afterparty. Lando had win . He was golden in the lights, champagne on his curls, and his smile was aimed solely at you.

"Come dance with me," he grinned, pulling you onto the floor.

You let him.

You tried.

But then Oscar walked in. And so did she.

Her laugh carried over the music. Her hands were all over him. You froze. Your breath hitched. Lando noticed.

"You okay?" he whispered into your ear.

You swallowed. "Yeah. Just need a drink."

You slipped away before he could follow. Found yourself at the balcony, away from the strobe lights and pulsing bass.

"You still run away when you're hurt."

The voice made your skin go cold.

You turned.

Oscar.

He was standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets, looking at you like he had every right.

"Go back to her," you said quietly. "She’ll be wondering where her trophy is."

He flinched. "Don’t."

"Don’t what? Remind you that you chose her? That you threw everything we had away for a few nights in her bed?"

Oscar stepped closer. "I made a mistake."

You laughed, bitter. "You made a choice. You looked me in the eye for weeks and lied. That isn’t a mistake. That’s betrayal."

His jaw tensed. "You think I don’t regret it every day? You think I don’t see you with him and want to tear my own chest open?"

Tears stung your eyes. "Then why did you do it?"

Silence.

"I was scared," he whispered. "Of how much I loved you. Of how real it felt. I thought if I ruined it myself, it would hurt less when I lost you."

You stared at him. "Well, congratulations. You lost me. And it hurts. Are you happy now?"

His eyes were glassy. "I’ll never be happy without you."

Your breath caught. But you shook your head.

"Then that’s your punishment."

You walked away.

---

Back at the hotel, Lando was waiting.

You climbed into bed beside him, fully clothed. He turned to you, concern etched across his soft features.

"You saw him, didn’t you?"

You nodded, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

He exhaled slowly. "Do you still love him?"

The silence stretched too long.

"I love you," you said finally.

He nodded. "But he still has pieces of you."

Your throat tightened. "I don’t know how to make it stop hurting."

Lando pulled you into his chest. "Then I’ll hurt with you. Until it doesn’t anymore."

You buried your face into his shirt, tears soaking through the fabric.

But even wrapped in the arms of someone who truly loved you the ache remained.

And Oscar's shadow never really left.

---

Weeks passed. The season ended. The cold set in.

You deleted Oscar’s number. Unfollowed him. Blocked her.

You kissed Lando in front of cameras and laughed at his jokes and smiled like you meant it.

But one night, alone in the dark, you re-read an old text from Oscar.

"I can’t imagine my future without you in it."

You stared at the screen until the letters blurred.

And then you cried.

Not because you wanted him back.

But because a part of you still did.

And that part was the one thing even Lando couldn’t fix.

---

End.

[breakmeoff]

lights, camera, action

featuring: choi seunghyun (t.o.p) x fem!reader warnings: swearing, SMUT: fingering (f. receiving), degradation, light bondage, public interactions. MDNI, 18+ only* word count: 2.4k (ya, i know drabbles are 1k or less, i couldn't help myself...) synopsis: seunghyun takes his girlfriend on a date to see one of his favorite, vintage foreign french films. she has zero interest in the movie, but finds him so much more interesting to look at. slightly frustrated with her stubbornness, seunghyun decides to tame his brat the best way he knows how. note: this is part of the Larie's Libations 200 Followers Celebration. this was a request by my lovely anon reader🦎, whose selection is listed below. not yet proofread, so please forgive any errors - i'll try to edit them asap. thank you for reading! LARIE'S LIBATIONS - Cabernet Cran Sangria [Wine] — Choi Seunghyun [Cranberry Juice] — Movie Theater [Citrus Rind] — Kinks (blindfolds, restraints, degradation) Masterlist

“You’re really starting to aggravate me,” Seunghyun teased, reaching towards your hand nearest him, lacing his fingers between yours.  

“Oh yeah?”  You questioned, a devious grin curling over your lips as you turned up to peer at his face.  “Can’t stand it when I compliment you still, huh?”

He merely shifted his eyes towards you, smirking as he brought his cigarette up to his lips between fingers of his opposite hand.  Simply offering you a wink, he continued leading you down the sidewalk towards the movie theater.

Just out front of the cinema’s entrance, he stubbed out his cigarette and dropped it in a nearby trash can before pulling the door open for you.  

With a light shrug of your shoulders, you stepped inside and spoke again matter-of-factly.  “Not my fault my boyfriend’s got a jaw that can cut glass and looks sexy when he drinks.”

Dropping his head, Seunghyun chuckled to himself as he placed a hand on your lower back and guided you inside.  A few minutes later after a stop for two sodas at the concessions stand, you walked into theater number seven and glanced back down at the paper stub in your hand.  “Remind me what we’re seeing again?  Les… Enfants du Paradis?”

Hearing you butcher the classic French film’s title, he groaned and nodded his head towards the staircase.  “Back row, and yes.  Children of Paradise.”  Taking his hint, you started up the stairs, speaking only loud enough for him to hear.  “Remind me why I let you drag me to these weird foreign films?”

Seunghyun did his very best to not stare at your ass as you walked up the stairs in front of him, but between the short hemline of your dress and the swaying of your hips he couldn’t help himself.  Finally at the top, he guided you to the appropriately assigned seats and held his hand out to you to have you sit first.  Sinking into his own seat, he looked over at you to reply.  “Because you love me and I am trying to broaden your horizons by introducing you to cinematic art.”

“Man, you are so lucky to have such an open-minded girlfriend,” you sighed heavily, keeping eye contact with him as you took a sip out of the straw in your cup, obviously still teasing him.

“The luckiest,” Seunghyun said, lifting the arm rest between the two of you to wrap his arm around your shoulders and placed a kiss to your temple before you leaned back into him comfortably as the lights in the theater dimmed.

As the opening credits of the movie started to roll, both of you focused your attention on the big screen, however you were well aware of the fact that subtitled movies were not your thing.  You’d tried for his sake, but classic black and white films in foreign languages wasn’t your idea of a good time.

About fifteen minutes in, you could already feel your mind start to wander.  And it didn’t exactly help that Seunghyun seemed to be thirsty.  Each time he took a sip of his soda, you couldn’t help but turn your head slightly and watch his Adam’s apple bob each time he swallowed.  

By the third time this happened, he glanced down at you out of the corner of his eye and lifted his arm around your shoulders, placed his hand on top of your head, and ‘forcefully’ turned your head back towards the screen.  With a quiet giggle, you looked back towards the movie.  

The next time he caught you watching his throat again, he leaned in towards you and whispered against the shell of your ear.  “You better knock it off and watch the movie, Princess.”  The deep timbre of his voice caused a small shiver to run down your spine, and you kept your eyes on his face - challenging him.  

“And if I don’t…?”  you whispered in reply.

“Test me,” he replied quietly, turning his attention back to the movie screen.

You decided to behave.  For the time being.  But, less than 5 minutes later, you really couldn’t give a shit about the plot of the movie and you not so subtly looked back at your boyfriend, tilting your head as you stared at the harsh line of his jaw - now clenched and sharper than usual.

Without even turning to look at you, he placed his cup in the holder beside him and pulled his arm from around your shoulder.  Slowly, he began tugging on the thin scarf that had been resting loosely around his neck and began winding it around his hand.  

Your eyes were glued to his hands, and he knew it.  Turning to face you slightly, he lifted the scarf to your face and covered your eyes.  “What are you doing?”  You whispered harshly and his fingers went to tie the soft material behind the back of your head.

“You didn’t wanna watch the movie, so now you don’t have to,” he murmured in reply, giving the scarf a gentle tug at the back to make sure it was secure.

“What the hell…” you mumbled, and he brought one of his fingers to your lips to silence you.

“Shh… some of us are trying to watch the movie,” he whispered against your ear before he placed a soft kiss to your jawline, and then leaned back in his seat, his arms at his sides.

You sat there frozen, somewhat confused, and more than a little bit turned on.  Leaning back in your own chair, you pouted a little, tuning out the French dialogue of the movie and focusing more on the fact that you were hyper aware of everything else around you.

Inhaling deeply, you tried to relax, but to no avail.  And more than anything, you were missing Seunghyun’s touch.  So, testing the waters, your hand nearest to him went to his thigh and rested it idly there for a few moments.  

No reaction.  So far, so good.

Slowly, your hand started to creep further up his thigh, fingernails dragging lightly against his pants leg.  Seunghyun cleared his throat, flexing his thigh under your touch in response to your advances.  “Careful…” he whispered deeply.

Never one to back down from a challenge, your now flat palm skimmed over the top of his thigh to the front of his pants, and rested directly on top of him.

With a low groan, Seunghyun reached over your body and grabbed your purse out of the empty seat beside you.  The next thing you knew, he roughly held both of your wrists together and began looping the long strap of your crossbody around your hands, effectively tying your hands together.  

Your lips parted in surprise, shocked by your boyfriend’s sudden overreaction.  “Seunghyun… what, wait…” you tried to stammer, and he shushed you sharply.

“You acted like a brat, I’m gonna treat you like a brat,” he said through gritted teeth, giving the purse strap a tug around your wrists.  Wincing a little, you tried to pry your hands apart but with zero success.

Leaning back in his seat, he crossed one leg over the other and placed the bulk of your purse in his lap, covering any sign of his slowly growing erection.  Unable to look away from you, blindfolded and restrained, he took note of the slow rising and falling of your chest and the way your plump lips were parted.  

Seunghyun pulled on your purse in his lap slightly, causing your bound wrists to pull towards his body.  Whimpering softly, you began whispering “I’m sorry, Sir… I promise to be good…”

Inhaling sharply, he drug the tip of his tongue over his lower lip, hungry eyes unable to leave your vulnerable figure beside him.  God, you looked hot like this.

“How sorry?”

“So sorry, Sir.  So, so, so sorry…” you mumbled, trying to pull your arms back towards your body.  Seunghyun only held your purse straps tighter.  

His hand closest to you went to your bare thigh, just below the hem of your dress and slowly his fingertips found the inside of your leg.  “You aren’t sorry yet,” he whispered, tapping your inner thigh just enough to silently encourage you to part your legs.

A small gasp slipped past your lips as you felt his long fingers grip the meaty flesh of your inner thigh, and you instinctively parted your legs to give him better access.  

With a low chuckle, his fingers moved further up your leg, and lightly brushed a knuckle against the dampened fabric of your panties against your core.  “Pathetic…” he mumbled wickedly.

Inching his fingertips to the edge of your soft, cotton underwear, he pulled the fabric aside just enough to expose your heated flesh to the cool air of the theater.  Leaning closer towards you, his lips brushed against the side of your neck.  “Look at you, just exposing your pussy to the whole room…”

You whimpered quietly, his words causing a filthy rush of excitement to course through your veins.  “Please Sir…”

“What, Brat?”  Seunghyun questioned between soft kisses against the heated expanse of your throat.  “Please what?”

“Touch me,” you whined, barely above a whisper, rocking your hips closer towards his hand in encouragement.

“Only good sluts get their pussies touched… and you haven’t been a good slut, have you?”  He mumbled, biting gently into the flesh of your neck just above your collarbone, eliciting a harsh gasp from you.  

“I’ll be so good, I promise…” you quietly cried, flexing your fingers with your wrists still tied together.

With that, Seunghyun moved the tip of his index finger over your slit, dragging some of your slick up to your clit where he began rubbing agonizingly slow circles.  “Yeah, we’ll see just how good of a slut you can be…” 

Your breath hitched, and you exhaled a silent moan as he touched your sensitive bundle of nerves.  Then, without warning, that same long digit dipped down to your entrance and thrusted into your warmth.  “Seunghyun…” you whimpered.

“Shhh Princess… you said you were gonna be good for me, remember?”  You whined, nodding your head blindly as he began slowly pumping his finger in and out of you.  “Shit, you’re so fucking wet for me… I bet I could…” he paused, pulling his finger out of you completely before returning it alongside his index finger as well.  

“Gooood girl…” he chuckled lowly, biting your earlobe appreciatively.  “Taking both of my long fingers with no prep… such a good slut for me.”  

“Fuck,” you gasped quietly, feeling the delicious stretch of both of his large fingers, adding the perfect amount of pressure to the soft spot deep within you.

“Stay quiet if you don’t want me to find something to shove in your mouth to shut you up, Princess,” he demanded, dragging the tip of his tongue against your neck.  Hearing his dirty threat caused your inner walls to clench, and Seunghyun growled, obsessed with how responsive you were to his touches and words.

“Love when I tell you what a dirty fucking slut you are huh, baby?  My perfect little whore, ready and waiting for me to treat her like my toy whenever, wherever I want, huh?”  His words were rough, husky, and filthy.

“Oh my God, yes…” you moaned, trying to keep it as quiet as you could though you could feel the familiar tightening of your lower muscles, and your breath starting to stagger.  “Yes, Sir… wanna be so good for you.”

“You gonna be a good little girl and cum all over my fingers?”  He murmured, nipping softly again at your flushed skin while his fingers started increasing their pressure and speed.  Angling his wrist, he then pressed the heel of his palm against your clit, rubbing firmly against it as his fingers continued fucking you.

You stuttered, biting your lower lip in an attempt to silence yourself as best you could.  “Yes, please… please let me,” a tear had slipped past the corner of your eye with the intensity of the moment, causing a small damp spot on the scarf still wrapped tightly around your head.

Feeling your inner walls tightening around his fingers, Seungyun rubbed his palm rougher against your sensitive clit and turned your head to brush his lips over yours as he commanded “Cum slut, now,” silencing your imminent noises with a fierce kiss.

Clenching your inner walls, you came the moment he demanded it, moaning into his mouth as his tongue brushed past your lips.  Your hands gripped into fists, unable to pull them apart as you felt your release wash through your body, rocking your hips against his hand, chasing the aftershocks now with a light sheen of sweat dotting your forehead.

As he felt your body relax and the tenseness of your muscles finally release, his fingers slowed their pace, languidly dragging them in and out of you while you tried to catch your breath.  Pulling away from the kiss, he used his free hand to gently trace over your parted, flushed lips as you came down from your high.  

With your next deep breath, Seunghyun removed his fingers from your sensitive pussy, and gently moved the fabric of your panties back in place.  With his opposite hand, he lifted his scarf from your face, and searched your eyes as you blinked them open again.  Smirking, he brought the two fingers that had been deep inside you to his mouth and licked them clean, keeping his vision locked on yours.

A small, tired smile presented itself on your lips, watching your boyfriend savor your taste.  Your arms fell limp against your lap, and your hair was a disheveled mess, but you couldn’t care less.  Moments later, Seunghyun reached towards your bound wrists and untied the purse strap, giving you your freedom once again.  

Placing your purse and his scarf in the empty seat beside him, he turned back to you and began massaging both of your wrists.  Lifting each one individually, he pressed a soft kiss to your pulse point on the inside of each wrist.  “You okay?”  He murmured quietly, eyes still on you.

With a heavy sigh, you nodded your head, and shifted to lean back against his chest once more.  “Think I’ll watch the rest of the movie now…” you whispered in reply.

Shaking his head, he smirked, wrapped his arm around your shoulder again and pulled you in closer towards his body.  “Just call me the brat tamer…” he chuckled softly into your hair, placing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

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[relicsongmel]

On Iris and Miles: the commonalities of Ace Attorney's most underrated duo

Ah, Iris and Miles...by this point it's no secret that the pair has one of my favorite dynamics in all of Ace Attorney. They're just...silly. Delightfully so. Autism-to-autism communication except their autism wavelengths aren't compatible in the slightest. Autism starers who hate being stared at lest the other see the hidden depths of their soul they’ve put so much work into hiding. Spacing out and getting lost in thought and needing to remind the other that they’re still there and the conversation isn’t over. Among many other charming little moments.

Of course, nothing in this series is surface level, and there's a lot more to be said about Iris and Miles aside from the fact they're both socially awkward disaster introverts who at times can barely seem to stumble their way through basic conversation (and believe me, I say that with nothing but love for them). In terms of fandom discussion, one of the most common things you'll see is conversations regarding Iris' canonical romantic feelings for Phoenix Wright versus Miles' subtextual ones (if it can even be called "subtext" at this point), and specifically how a certain bit of easily missable dialogue seems to imply that Iris is aware of Miles' feelings (which I give my thoughts on in this post here). And while analyzing their relationship from that angle can certainly be interesting...

There is so much more to Iris and Miles that I've never seen anyone else talk about.

Don't get me wrong; I don't think anyone's in the wrong for getting lost in Gay Lawyer Excitement. I'm far from innocent of it myself—it's compelling to think about, and the Narumitsu framework serves as a backdrop for much of my analysis on the franchise, BttT and Iris included. I just think it's reductive to focus solely on the possibility of love drama and jealousy between her and Miles, while ignoring everything else that makes that oft-referenced scene actually work—that being, the very way the two work exceptionally well together as characters, through the many, MANY parallels in their upbringing and traits that I can no longer be silent about.

In fact, I'm just gonna come out and say it: Sister Iris Fey-Hawthorne of Hazakura Temple mirrors Miles Edgeworth so goddamn much that she is quite literally the perfect choice for his first client as a defense attorney. And it's through this mirroring that his choice to defend her becomes so much more than a desire to help his childhood friend, or a chance to briefly live the life he once dreamed of at age nine—it's emblematic of his own personal self-acceptance and healing, and culminates his trilogy character arc in a beautifully full-circle, satisfying way. So, let's get into the details, shall we?

The first point I'd like to bring up is that Iris and Miles have a shared disdain of spirit channeling. There's some slight differences in how they express it—Iris' distaste is mostly directed toward the practice of channeling itself, as she states very early on in BttT. That said, she lives at Hazakura Temple even as an adult and continuously dedicates herself to her training, so she still has some level of respect (or at least tolerance) for spirit medium culture. Miles, on the other hand, rejects everything to do with channeling and mediums themselves/their lifestyle, as seen by how he angrily denounces Misty Fey at the mere mention of the Kurain Channeling Technique. The way his and Iris' lingering resentment presents itself is different, but the root of it is the same: The DL-6 Incident, an event that brought both of their families to ruin and left them with a great deal of trauma. They were inextricably linked by it years before they met—and though we never see Miles move beyond his denial of spiritual abilities (there's kinda a whole lotta other shit in BttT that needs to take priority), I like to think that he and Iris could have some very interesting conversations with each other on the subject post-canon.

Next, I'd like to point out that there's a noticeable parallel between Iris hiding herself away at Hazakura after Turnabout Memories and Miles “choosing death” after AA1. I'm of the opinion that neither of them had any intentions of returning to Phoenix, let alone explaining anything, when they set out to do so—Iris resolved to train endlessly as a form of self-flagellation penance, never appearing before Phoenix again so as not to hurt him any more, and Miles left his note at the Prosecutor’s Office with full confidence he would never again return to the courtroom (whether it was truly a suicide note is up for debate, but the game makes it fairly clear that before his offscreen epiphany Miles' initial choice was to leave his prosecutor career for good). They both wholly blamed themselves for being the reason they were even put in such a position, and their absences left Phoenix with unresolved grief as large as a mountain, and deep as an ocean. They both had events that brought them out of hiding—Miles chose to reforge his life and helped Phoenix from the shadows during Turnabout Big Top, and Iris received and accepted Godot’s request for help with his plan (though I’d imagine Phoenix’s presence caught her by complete surprise). They both were put through the wringer and came out of it resolving to reveal the truth. Phoenix, despite being hurt, wanted to believe in them both and ultimately decided to forgive them due to his unwavering faith.

Now, as for the events of BttT themselves, specifically Miles' choice to take up the mantle of a defense attorney and represent Iris in court, it's worth noting that he has multiple reasons for doing so. He just saw his best friend clam up in the hospital when pressed about Iris and wants to do what he can to help him heal, and in Miles' mind, truth in the most healing thing of all, so he becomes her attorney on the condition that she will eventually tell Phoenix what she's been hiding from him. The popular fanon joke about this is that Miles flew halfway across the world in a private jet when he heard his boyfriend was in peril, and took his attorney's badge simply because he couldn't say no to him—and they do have a point that that is an utterly Deranged™ way to express loyalty to someone...but I will argue until my dying breath that it wasn't just about Phoenix or Miles' latent feelings for him (or his latent jealousy prompting him to self-sabotage by pushing Feenris together). It was more than that.

Phoenix may have been the instigating factor, but I believe the reason Miles ultimately decided to defend Iris was because he empathized with her.

Because he saw himself in her.

A young, guarded individual stuck in the detention center for a murder they didn't commit. Going along with the punishment because even if the crime they're on trial for isn't the same as the one they committed, they believe themself guilty regardless. Stuck in a hopeless rut of neverending self-blame, and desperate to keep someone they care about from discovering the truth about them.

Sound familiar?

Miles doesn't make any promises to Iris initially, but after hearing her out...he learns of a tale all too familiar to his own experience in the defendant's seat two years prior, and he empathizes with it. He's far from upfront about his own feelings most of the time, but he demonstrates on multiple occasions that he actually has quite the knack for understanding other people's emotions (such as the end of BttT, when he explains to Phoenix that Maya is very emotionally resilient when there's someone she has to be strong for). Miles may have chosen the path of a prosecutor, but due to his upbringing of having been raised by Gregory, he has the instinct of a defense attorney—he feels strongly compelled to save people, whether they be the falsely accused or the victims of crime. And after finding common ground with Iris, he resolves to do the same thing for her as Phoenix once did for him—save her by proving her not guilty and giving her closure. It's an undeniably selfless act that speaks volumes as to how far he's come since we first met his douche-y AA1 self, and serves as excellent contrast for how we just saw Bratworth act in Turnabout Beginnings.

What really tips the scene over the edge, however...is that because Iris reminds Miles so much of himself, his offer to defend her becomes symbolic of his own self-acceptance.

While it's true he was proven innocent two years ago, and reinvented himself as the kind of prosecutor who can truly bring about justice for those who need it, and shows nothing but confidence in his newfound ideals...we never really see him acknowledge that he was worthy of such redemption. Certainly not with words, at least.

But thanks to Iris, we get to watch him prove it through his actions. Through his unyielding dedication to ensuring that this woman, who's clearly suffering from repressed guilt, knows that she is just as worthy as he was of being freed from her shackles, both real and self-imposed, by the all-encompassing light of truth. And I don't think it's a stretch to say that Iris found that inspiring. So much so that after a single conversation, she decides to finally let go of her need to obfuscate anything and everything about herself/her actions that could interfere with how she feels she has to be perceived in that moment, and begin to own up to the harm she's done by telling Miles what she did (in vague terms, granted, but this is the most progress ANYONE'S made in getting Iris to come forward with what’s on her mind to this point, which is still impressive). And for the first time, someone has helped her realize that maybe, just maybe...she could start on the path toward revealing the truth to the person most in need of the answers she's kept locked away in her heart all this time.

Iris wouldn't have found the courage to seek the truth if not for Miles. And it's because of Iris that Miles gets the chance to prove to himself that he was worthy of salvation all along.

They're perfect, your honor.

[mask4rah]

WLW soft morning sex

The morning sun poured lazy light across the sheets and I could feel her body breathing slow beside mine. She hadn’t stirred yet but I knew she was awake quiet in that way she gets when her thoughts are too loud

I slid my leg over her hips and straddled her thighs gently, pushing her onto her back without a word. Her eyes blinked open slowly, hazy, like she was still halfway in her dream. I leaned down and kissed her lips soft at first then deeper, tasting her breath, waking her up with warmth

“Good morning my love” I whispered against her mouth, brushing her hair back “Did you miss me in your sleep?”

She gave me a little noise half whine, half moan and I smiled, grinding my bare pussy against her thick, strong thigh. She was so warm beneath me, solid and still, like a grounding place I could press into

“You’re always so good for me in the mornings” I murmured, tracing her jaw with my lips “Let me use you a little. Just like this”

I started moving slow hips rolling against her thigh, wet already, sighing into her neck. She groaned, eyes fluttering as I kissed her again and again, deeper each time, my hand resting on her chest to keep her still

“You feel that baby? How wet I am just for you?” I whispered dragging my lips along her cheek, then down to her neck “Your thighs were made for me to ride”

She whimpered under me and I smiled guiding her leg just where I wanted it. I moved slow grinding myself down on her, slick against her skin, letting the friction build between my folds and her thigh. My hands stayed on her chest, soft and steady, holding her in place like a precious thing

“You don’t have to do anything” I told her gently, voice low but firm “Just lay there and let Mommy feel good. Let me show you how much I love you, how much I crave you”

She nodded, breath catching when I leaned down and kissed her again, this time deeper, tongue brushing hers while I moved against her harder. Her hands stayed down, obedient, like a good boy. My good boy.

“You make me feel so good puppy. Just like this. So strong for me, always… my perfect butch” I moaned into her mouth as my pace picked up, body pulsing against hers

Her thigh was soaked with my need, and I was close..so close and still I kept my mouth on hers, talking her through it, reminding her of how safe she was here, how wanted. She whimpered under me, her own hips twitching like she could feel it too

When I came, it was soft and slow grinding down hard with a moan in her mouth, holding her tight, thighs trembling. I stayed right there on top of her, kissing her lazily, stroking her chest, whispering through heavy breaths “You did so good for me, baby… didn’t even have to move. Just stayed there and let me use your perfect body. I love you so much”

And she exhaled deep and shaky finally soft under me, her body sinking into the mattress like she could finally breathe again

[lost-in-thoughts03]

Falling for you || Hwang brothers

A special Chapter

" My love is alive and not dead."

Summary: Hwang In-ho's normal point of view. A backstory about how he fell for you. The difficulties, temptation, and prohibition he experienced for you.

Warnings: Nothing beats a Jet2 holiday.

Hwang In-ho's POV

I never expected to meet someone like you.

Hell, if I’m being honest, I didn’t even notice you at first. You were just another teenager Jun-ho brought home—quiet, awkward, hiding behind him like a skittish little kitten meeting new people for the first time.

I barely glanced your way back then. You were just Jun-ho’s best friend, our mom’s favorite visitor. You didn’t talk much to me. Barely looked my way unless I said something first. Even then, it was short, polite, distant.

I thought nothing of it. Just some kid trailing behind my brother. But time…time has this wicked habit of shifting everything you thought you had under control.

I remember the day you and Jun-ho graduated high school. You two were bickering again, like usual—arguing about something dumb like what flavor of cake is better. Our eomma and I just watched from the sidelines.

She smiled like she was watching her favorite drama unfold. I just grunted, told you both to shut up like some grumpy old man. And of course, Jun-ho wouldn’t let that go. Called me a "cranky ahjussi," which made you laugh.

That laugh…I didn’t realize it then, but it stuck with me.

It was warm.

Real.

Unfiltered.

My eyes landed on you, and suddenly everything slowed. It was like the world around me dipped in silence, and there you were—glowing in laughter. My chest tightened. I remember blinking fast, shaking my head.

What the hell, In-ho? I thought.

Why did my chest feel like it had been set on fire?

I brushed it off. Denied it. Buried it. I was the older one. The “responsible” one. And you were…off-limits.

But then college happened. You and Jun-ho were practically glued at the hip. Research projects, partner activities, study sessions. You were around the house so much it was like you had your own room. My eomma even joked she should put your name on the lease.

You changed around me too. No longer that quiet, nervous kid hiding behind Jun-ho. You became loud. Sharp-tongued. Teasing me like I wasn’t seven years older than you.

You clung to my arm when you wanted your favorite snacks, your voice all whiny and sweet—god, I hated how much I loved it.

Every time your skin brushed mine, I felt electricity crawl up my spine.

I couldn’t say no.

I never could say no to you.

I tried to act like I didn’t care. I watched from the shadows, always. Just watching. You were beautiful, chaotic, bright. I told myself that being near you was enough.

Until you asked me that question.

“ If a guy likes me…what do you think he’d do?”

It was innocent. But my heart stopped. I almost confessed. I almost told you that I couldn’t sleep some nights thinking about you. That I hated how close you were to Jun-ho. That I wished I could be younger, or braver, or anything but your second choice.

But I bit my tongue.

And then you dropped the bomb.

“ I like Jun-ho.”

I already knew. Of course, I did. I’m not an idiot. But hearing it from your lips? It shattered something inside me. I smiled, nodded, and gave some brotherly advice. Then I locked myself in my room and punched the wall.

I reminded myself to set boundaries. Keep my distance. Stop being so fucking obvious. But every time you were near, I forgot. You called me names, teased my grumpy ass. You crawled into my space and took up all the oxygen. You drove me insane and made my heart race in the same breath.

And then…my first mistake. I got obsessed. Slightly, maybe. Maybe more than I want to admit. I put a tracker on your phone. Convinced myself it was for your safety. Nothing else.

Then one night, you didn’t show up.

I waited. Checked the tracker.

A club.

What the fuck?

My heart dropped. I didn’t even think—I just ran. I tore through the city like something was chasing me. And when I got there, some asshole was too close to you. Too drunk. Too handsy. I blacked out. My fist connected with his face before I could register it. I dragged you out like a lunatic. Tossed you into my car.

You cried.

You told me everything. How Jun-ho rejected you. How you felt so small, so not enough. And you cried, god, you cried so hard. I didn’t know what to do. My hands shook on the wheel.

Then you straddled my lap.

You started flirting—sloppy, slurred, but still you. And god help me, I wanted to kiss you. I wanted to hold you. But I couldn’t. I pushed you off gently, tucked you in the passenger seat, and told you to sleep.

That night destroyed me. But it also lit something in me.

I couldn’t hide anymore.

So I pursued you.

Like a goddamn fool in love, I chased you. I wrote poems, terrible ones. Sent you flowers every day. I flirted, teased, and made you blush. I didn’t care anymore. I wanted you to know. I was done pretending.

Three years. Three long years of you laughing, dodging, testing me. Until finally—you said yes.

I almost passed out. You little shit, you pranked me first. Told me you couldn’t be with me, then laughed when I paled. I wanted to scream. Instead, I kissed you so hard I forgot my own name.

And those three years of being yours…

They were everything.

I saved up for a ring. Simple, honest. Paid for with sweat and heartache. I made a video for you—just in case. Me, talking to the future you, while you were in the kitchen making ramen. I hid the ring. Let fate decide when you’d find it.

Five years passed.

You said yes to the proposal.

I wanted to prank you in return, but Jun-ho ruined it with his dumb loud laugh. It was messy. Imperfect. Perfect.

And then...tragedy struck.

The diagnosis came like a bullet to the chest. Kidney failure. Transplant needed. Time was ticking.

I tried everything. My savings vanished into hospital bills and false hope. I couldn’t breathe knowing I might lose you.

So I joined the game.

That cursed game.

I survived. Barely. But at what cost?

I disappeared. Couldn’t face you. Couldn’t face Jun-ho. Promised I’d be back. Lied. I became a ghost.

But I’m alive because of you.

And I pray—beg—that you’re still alive because of me.

Because without you, I am nothing.

The world without your laughter, your bratty teasing, your sleepy mumbling in the morning—it's hell.

If I have to trade my life just to see your smile one more time, then so be it.

I’ll die for you.

Gladly.

Because loving you—loving you is the only thing I know how to do right.

A/n: In keeping with my previous promise, this is the special chapter to deal with the story's ending. This primarily represents Hwang In-ho's perspective. A special chapter or deleted chapter for this series may be coming soon.

I miss updating this story. I thought I needed to release new chapters every three days, but when I looked at my drafts, there was nothing to come up. Literal na minumulto—eme.

Enjoy reading!

[dragonridersandhighlords]

Bloodline | T W O

masterlist | Bloodline Masterlist | ATWWS Masterlist

Summary: While Kaelin and Bodhi steal a moment of quiet connection, a hallway confrontation between Xaden and Wren explodes—threatening the fragile balance of friendship, loyalty, and love.

Notes: Takes place simultaneously with CS 3

Warnings: Smut 18+, oral (f receiving), p in v, light exhibitionism?, eavesdropping, grief, heartache, emotional breakdown, Bodhi is THE best friend, Xaden/Wren cheating incident

Word Count: 5.5k

Read on Wattpad | Read on AO3

previous part

K A E L I N

The dim light of the library cast shadows over my usual table, where ink-stained fingers absently traced the lines of a half-filled notebook, the pages fluttering under the weight of a stack of untouched tomes. I kept telling myself I was buried in research, yet the words in the glyph language before me remained stubbornly unread. 

Ever since Bodhi vanished that fateful night nearly a month ago, everything had felt off—my focus splintered, my grades slipping like sand through my fingers. The looming Adept project was a thundercloud on the horizon, a daunting culmination of everything I had learned, yet I found myself standing at the edge, with no idea how to leap.

Suddenly, Jesinia Neilwart, one of the first-years I mentored, plopped down across from me, her presence a welcome interruption. She exhaled sharply, tapping her fingers on the table, a gentle reminder of the world outside my spiraling thoughts. “You look tired,” she signed, her expression a mixture of concern and amusement.

I offered a faint smile in return, acknowledging the truth in her words. “I could say the same to you.” Her satchel hit the ground with a thud as she began rummaging for her textbooks, her brows knitting together in thought. 

“You’ve heard about the Adept project, right? What are you doing for yours?” she asked, curiosity brightening her eyes.

Surprise flickered across my face. “How do you know about that? You’re a first-year.”

She shrugged, a confident smile dancing on her lips. “You’d be surprised how much I pick up. People don’t always think before they speak around me. I can read lips, you know?”

I leaned back in my chair, feeling the familiar creak of worn wood beneath me as I tapped my pen against my knee, the rhythmic clatter mingling with the soft rustle of pages turning in the library's hushed atmosphere. A chuckle escaped my lips, lightening the weight that had settled on my shoulders like an unwelcome cloak. Then I signed, slower this time, my hands moving fluidly in the space between us. “Sneaky. As for my topic, I have no clue.”

Jesinia’s brows shot up, her surprise palpable, and I could see the glint of mischief dancing in her eyes. “Really? You always have a plan.”

“That’s the problem,” I signed, a soft sigh following. “There are too many options. Healing theory, magical ethics, battle histories… I keep thinking I should do something useful. Something that matters.” 

Jesinia’s expression softened, her gaze steady and reassuring. “Pick what do you care about. Not what you should do.” 

I hesitated, that question always felt like a trap—like there was a right answer I could almost see but never quite reach. But with Jesinia, I didn’t feel the need to be polished. “I don’t know, but I’ll come up with something before the end of the year.” I offered a half-hearted smile, trying to convince both her and myself.

Just then, the heavy door creaked open behind me, interrupting the moment. I glanced up, the sound of boots echoing across the polished tile catching my attention. Jesinia looked past me, her smirk widening as she signed, “Incoming. I’ll leave you two to… study.”

I rolled my eyes, a playful groan escaping me. “Very subtle.” 

With a grin and a little wave, she slipped away down the nearest aisle, her belongings tucked snugly under one arm. 

I turned just in time to see Bodhi stop at the edge of the table, his presence like a breath of fresh air, looking entirely unbothered by the flush that had probably crept up my cheeks from Jesinia’s teasing. 

“You looked like you were solving the mysteries of the gods themselves,” he said, nodding toward my scattered notes. 

“Jesinia was asking about what I was doing for my Adept project,” I replied, flipping my journal closed with a quiet thud. “Which as of right now, is nothing.” 

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of disbelief mingling with concern. “Wait. You don’t know what you’re doing yet?” 

I sighed, shutting one of the tomes with a definitive thump. “Thank you for the overwhelming faith in me.” 

Bodhi chuckled, leaning against the edge of the table, a casual confidence radiating from him. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just… you always have a plan. Backup plans. Color-coded plans.”

“Maybe I’m trying to let myself not know things for once,” I murmured, the weight of uncertainty pressing on my chest like a stone. It was a fragile admission, my voice barely breaking the stillness of the library, but it felt liberating to voice my thoughts aloud. 

Bodhi’s response was immediate—a soft laugh that warmed the cool air around us, and he reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His touch was gentle, and for a fleeting moment, the chaos of my mind quieted in the face of his calm presence. 

“You’re on leave this weekend, right?” He tilted his head slightly, as if gauging my reaction. I nodded, my heart racing at the implications of his question. “I was wondering if you’d want to spend it with me. My room. Just us.”

At that, my heart did that familiar fluttering dance, a mixture of excitement and apprehension that I despised for how easily it overtook me. But there was an undercurrent to his invitation that sent my thoughts spiraling. 

“You don’t have to say yes,” he added quickly, as if sensing my hesitation. “I just thought it’d be nice. No archives. No schedules. You can even bring your notes.”

I raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge in my gaze. “How generous of you,” I teased, feeling the tension start to ebb away under the weight of his easy grin.

“I’ll make you tea,” he promised, his eyes bright with sincerity, making the offer feel all the more enticing. 

I hesitated, fingers brushing the well-worn edge of my notebook, the familiar texture grounding me in the moment. “Alright,” I said softly, my heart steadying as I finally voiced my decision. “Yeah. I’ll come.”

Bodhi’s expression transformed, a spark of joy illuminating his features as he reached out to offer me his hand. It was a question without words, an unspoken promise of companionship and warmth. 

I slid my hand against his, feeling the warmth of his skin as he gently tugged me away from the weight of the library's silence and into the promise of the weekend ahead. 

We were halfway up the stairwell to the second-year wing, the cool, polished stone beneath our feet contrasting sharply with the warmth radiating from Bodhi's side. His room was just a few doors away, a place that felt increasingly like a sanctuary, but that comfort was abruptly shattered when the unmistakable sound of voices echoed down the hallway, cutting through the hushed atmosphere. 

Bodhi froze, one hand gripping the polished railing tightly, his knuckles turning white. Time seemed to slow as he held his breath, the tension coiling in his body like a tightly wound spring. I could feel the shift in his energy, an almost electric charge that coursed through the air. Then, a female voice sliced through the silence, clear and demanding. 

“Have you been with anyone tonight?” 

A curse lightly slipped from Bodhi's lips, barely audible, but it was enough to fill the space with a palpable sense of dread. “That’s Wren.”

Instinctively, I reached for him, my fingers brushing against the back of his hand, hoping to anchor him amidst the sudden storm of emotions. His jaw clenched tight, a muscle twitching under the pressure of unspoken thoughts. I tugged him into the shadowed recess between the archway and the wall, concealing us just around the corner from where is best friend was.

We weren't supposed to be here—definitely not together, and certainly not eavesdropping on whatever drama was unfolding just beyond our reach. I glanced at Bodhi, his expression now a mask of guarded stillness, the kind of calm that belied the chaos roiling beneath the surface. I could feel the tension in his muscles, coiling and uncoiling like a tightly wound spring, ready to snap.

“Good.” Wren's voice flowed through the air again, dripping with expectation. “Kiss me.”

At that, Bodhi twitched beside me, a visceral reaction to the command that felt like a physical blow. “Don’t,” I whispered, squeezing his hand tightly, trying to ground him. He remained silent, leaning further against the wall, the cool stone pressing into his back.

“Listen, I’ve dreamed about this but Xad—”

“Xaden’s currently making out with Violet.” Her voice cracked, laden with fury and something far more vulnerable. “So you can either kiss me right now or I’ll find someone else who will.” 

We remained cloaked in shadows, unable to see them but acutely aware of the storm brewing in that small space. Bodhi’s grip on my hand tightened painfully, a silent plea amidst the confusion. 

“Why the fuck is he kissing Violet?” he whispered, voice raw with disbelief, the question hanging heavy in the air, echoing the fracture in his very foundation.

“Ridoc—” Wren’s voice sliced through the quiet, her tone broken and breathless, a fragile thread woven from tension and heartbreak. 

Then came a low, commanding voice, unmistakably Xaden’s: “Get your hands off her, first-year.” 

I felt Bodhi flinch beside me, though not from fear; he didn’t fear his cousin. No, this reaction was deeper, like a surge of unbridled emotion threatening to burst forth. The weight of it made my heart ache for him. I could sense the turmoil raging inside him, a tempest of loyalty and conflict. Should he step out and intervene, risking everything, or remain in the shadows, guarding our precious secret? His thumb brushed against mine, a fleeting touch, but it sent a ripple of warmth coursing through my veins, grounding us in this moment of chaos. 

“I should—” he started, his voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t just let them—” His words trailed off into silence, heavy and suffocating, before Xaden’s voice cut through the stillness once more.

“Upstairs,” Xaden ordered, the command laced with an authority that felt like it could dismantle the very walls around us. 

“You don’t tell me what to do.” Wren’s response was sharp, defiant, but Xaden shifted, darkening like a storm cloud.

“I can either tell you as your boyfriend or order you as your Wingleader.” 

Bodhi muttered under his breath, “Fuck, Xaden. Don’t do that.” His grip tightened around my hand, knuckles white with tension, either as a comfort for the swear he let slip again or to ground himself from charging his friends.

“Ex. The minute you kissed her, you became my ex-boyfriend.” 

That line struck like a whip, slicing through the air with cruel precision, leaving both of them reeling from the fallout. 

“Wrenley—” Xaden attempted, but she cut him off, her voice cold as ice. 

“Leave me alone, Riorson.” 

The last name dripped from her lips like venom, a calculated insult that lingered in the air, sharp and bitter. The sound of her footsteps echoed with determination as she stormed toward the stairs, her fury leaving a scorched trail behind her. 

Bodhi remained motionless beside me, frozen in the moment as though caught between two worlds. 

Wrenley rushed past us, so close I felt the gust of air as she moved, yet she was oblivious to our presence, blind to the silent storm brewing in the shadows. Then came Xaden, halting with us just out of view, his breath coming in ragged gasps, eyes locked on the path Wrenley had taken. His fists were clenched at his sides, and in that fleeting moment, something raw and unguarded crossed his face—an expression of loss that seemed strange on Xaden Riorson.

He didn’t speak as he turned and walked away, each step echoing against the cold stone of the corridor. The shadows flickered around us, a silent audience to the turmoil brewing in his chest, the conflict between loyalty and heartbreak. 

Only when the hallway had settled into a profound stillness, a hush that seemed to envelop us in a cocoon of uncertainty, did Bodhi finally release the breath he’d been holding, a shaky exhale that resonated with his turmoil. “I should’ve stopped it,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, laden with regret.

“You couldn’t have,” I replied gently, reaching out to brush my fingers against his arm, a small gesture of comfort in the storm of emotions swirling between us.

“She’s my best friend. And he’s—” His words faltered, caught in the web of confusion and anger. He ran a frustrated hand through his tousled hair, and for a moment, I could see the battle waging inside him. “What the hell was he thinking?” The question hung in the air, thick with desperation.

“I don’t think he was,” I said quietly, my voice a fragile thread weaving through the tension. “That’s kind of the problem.” 

He leaned back against the cool stone wall staring up at the ceiling as if searching for answers in the intricate patterns of the ancient masonry. “I’ve never seen her look like that,” he whispered, his tone laced with a sorrow that twisted my heart. “Like she was about to come apart.” 

A silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, before Bodhi took a few deep breaths, each inhale an attempt to find clarity amid the emotional storm. He glanced down the corridor, ensuring it was clear of any prying eyes, and then, with a sudden determination, he pulled me into his room.

Sunlight slanted through the shutters, casting warm, golden beams that danced across the room, gently warming the bare skin of my legs. The worn cotton of Bodhi’s shirt draped lazily over me, barely offering any coverage, yet I didn’t bother tugging it down. I was far too comfortable, cocooned in a softness that felt almost ethereal, as if the world outside had faded away, leaving only this tranquil space for us.

Bodhi’s head rested on my stomach, my fingers drifted through his hair, slow and absent, savoring the silky strands that slipped between my fingertips. The book I had been engrossed in lay forgotten beside me, face-down against the rumpled bedding. The stillness stretched out between us, punctuated only by the rhythm of our breaths; neither of us felt the need to speak. Words were unnecessary when the silence felt so rich, so intimate.

His fingers traced idle circles along my thigh, warm and teasing, igniting a current of anticipation that shimmered beneath my skin. I should have known better than to think they’d stop there, yet the thrill of the moment held me captive. I sucked in a slow breath as he dragged his hand higher, skimming just under the hem of his shirt. 

Bodhi looked up at me then, his eyes dark and glimmering with mischief, lips curved into a lazy grin that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing. 

“Careful,” I warned, my voice low and thin, a mere whisper of breath. “You’re going to start something.”

“Maybe I already did,” he murmured, pressing a kiss just below my navel, a teasing promise that sent shivers racing through me.

With a soft sigh, I let my head fall back into the pillow, eyes fluttering shut as his mouth followed the path his hand had carved—upward, over my ribs, then back down again. He shifted between my legs without though, as if we were made to fit like this. And gods, maybe we were. The warmth of his body enveloped me, creating a sanctuary where nothing else mattered. 

When his tongue brushed over me, my back arched instinctively, a soft gasp escaping my lips. He tugged the shirt up with gentle insistence until I surrendered and let him peel it off entirely. 

“You’re so pretty like this,” he murmured into my skin, his lips kissing lower, teasing just enough to make me whimper in response.

“Bodhi…” 

“I know,” he whispered, his voice a low rumble that sent warmth spiraling through me. “I’ve got you.” 

And he did. He always did. 

His mouth was slow, deliberate, as it moved against me, tracing every inch of my core. I was trembling under him, my hips instinctively rising to meet every teasing stroke, igniting a fire deep within me. My hands clutched the sheets, then tangled in his hair, grasping for something to anchor me as I spiraled closer to that edge, chasing until I fell into pure bliss.

The moment I had a second to breathe and come down from the high of my release, he was kissing his way up my body, his mouth rough and hungry, like he was savoring every inch of me. There were no words exchanged; just the intensity in his gaze, a burning need that made my heart race. He aligned himself against me, and a low groan escaped his lips, curling hot and possessive deep in my core. I hadn’t even noticed when he stripped, I’m so lost in him.

Then, in one fluid motion, he pushed into me, and a moan tore from my throat, nails digging into his shoulders, seeking purchase as he filled me completely. 

“Gods, trouble,” he murmured, burying his face in the crook of my neck, his breath hot against my skin. With each deep, slow thrust, he moved in a way that sent stars bursting behind my closed eyelids, painting my mind with shades of euphoria. 

I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, tighter, as if the very act could tether us together in this moment, shielding us from the chaos outside. I didn’t care about the world beyond these walls—only him, only this intoxicating connection we shared.

Just as I felt the sweet release creeping upon me, a sharp and impatient knock shattered the air. 

“Bodhi?” Garrick’s voice came muffled through the door. “You in there?”

We froze, eyes darting from the door back to each other, and Bodhi’s rhythm faltered only slightly. He didn’t pull out, didn’t even stop moving; instead, he slowed, a wicked grin creeping onto his lips as he dropped his forehead to mine, laughing breathlessly.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I whispered, my heart racing with a mix of excitement and dread.

He captured my lips in a kiss, brushing them with an infuriating calm before rolling his hips into me again, forcing me to bite down on my lip to stifle the sound threatening to escape. 

“Yeah?” he called, completely unbothered. 

Garrick’s voice came again, louder this time. “Have you seen Xaden or Wren? They’re acting weird today.”

Bodhi rolled his hips into an especially hard thrust, and it took everything in me not to scream as he hit that spot deep inside me, sending ripples of pleasure radiating through my body. My skin felt electric, every nerve ending alive and thrumming with need, and all coherent thought slipped away with each powerful stroke.

“I heard them arguing last night,” he said, his voice a steady murmur, completely unbothered by the sensations coursing through me. It was almost infuriating how normal he sounded. “Might have something to do with that.”

There was a soft thunk against the door, followed by Garrick’s audible sigh. “Do you know where I can find Wren?” His voice was heavy with concern, a stark contrast to the heated moment unfolding in my room.

“Nope,” Bodhi replied, a smirk dancing across his lips as he looked down at me, his grip on my hips tightening possessively. “I’ve been in here all day.” 

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes, my fingers digging into his shoulder, nails pressing into the firm muscle beneath. “You’re insane,” I mouthed, the words barely formed as I fought to maintain my composure.

In response, Bodhi nearly pulled out completely, that infuriating smirk still plastered across his face, before slamming back into me with a force that shattered any hope of silence. A moan escaped me, raw and unrestrained, as waves of pleasure crashed over me, leaving me breathless and undone.

“Ugh, come on! Seriously?” Garrick’s disgusted groan echoed through the door, quickly followed by the sound of his footsteps retreating down the hall, a mixture of irritation and amusement woven into his tone.

Bodhi paused, a glint of mischief in his eyes, waiting until Garrick's footsteps faded completely. Then, with a firm grip on my waist, he snapped his hips into me again, releasing into me with an intensity that sent shockwaves of bliss coursing through my veins.

“You’re horrible,” I groaned, burying my face into his pillow, the fabric drenched in warmth and the lingering scent of him.

“You love it,” Bodhi chuckled, effortlessly cleaning us both up before curling around me, his chest warm against my back. The steady rhythm of his breathing began to slow, calming the storm of desire within me. 

One arm slid beneath my head, the other resting heavy across my stomach, his fingers tracing idle patterns along my skin, soothing and grounding. 

“I think you scared Garrick,” I murmured into the pillow, still trying to catch my breath.

“He’ll be fine,” Bodhi replied, unrepentant, a playful edge to his voice. “He actually walked in on Xaden and Wrenley one time. What we did was nothing.” 

I elbowed him half-heartedly, a smile breaking through my earlier tension. “There was no we in that!” 

“I didn’t hear you complaining,” he shot back smugly, pressing a kiss to my shoulder as heat rushed to my cheeks, the thrill of the moment still running through me.

His thumb traced lazy circles into my side, the warmth of his touch both comforting and unsettling. Silence stretched between us, initially easy and content, as if we were wrapped in a cocoon spun from the remnants of our earlier chaos. But soon, the air thickened, the stillness transforming into a weight that pressed against my chest—a quietness that hinted at unspoken truths lurking just below the surface.

I turned slightly, just enough to cast a glance over my shoulder at Bodhi, whose profile was etched against the dim light filtering through the window. “You really think something happened between Xaden and Wrenley?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

He shifted onto his back, allowing me to pivot fully towards him, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as if it really could give him the answers he’s been craving since last night. “No doubt in my mind,” he replied, his tone devoid of the usual teasing lilt, replaced instead by an unyielding certainty that sent a shiver down my spine.

“You told me Wren doesn’t lose control,” I pressed, trying to understand the gravity of his conviction. “Like ever.

“She doesn’t,” he affirmed, his jaw tightening like a drawn bowstring. “She holds her own in every fight. Hell, she thrives in chaos. But that last night? That wasn’t her being sharp. That was her bleeding.” 

I fell silent, the weight of his words settling in my chest like a stone. It was strange, sitting on the edge of someone else’s storm, feeling its ferocity without being swept into it. I knew Wren in the way most people did—through whispers and glances, a reputation crafted in shadows. A flicker at Xaden Riorson’s side. But Bodhi… he had always been in the heart of it, navigating the tempest.

Swallowing hard, I reached for the shirt he’d stripped off me earlier, pulling it down over my head. “If you want time to check on her, I can head back to the Scribe Quadrant,” I suggested, my voice light, though my heart raced with uncertainty.

His brows knitted together, concern etching deeper lines into his forehead. “What?” 

I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “You should talk to her. It’s not like I’m much help here.” 

Bodhi sat up, his hair tousled and wild from where I’d tangled my fingers in it, the sight almost endearing. “That’s not—” He hesitated, exhaling slowly, as if the air had turned thick with unvoiced fears. “Please don’t go.” 

“I’m not running, Bodhi. Just giving you space,” I replied quietly, feeling the weight of shared anguish. “I know what it feels like when the people you care about are hurting and you don’t have the room to breathe.”

Bodhi's gaze flicked over me, a searching intensity within the depths of his dark eyes. His thumb brushed along the edge of my jaw, the featherlight touch igniting sparks beneath my skin. It sent a shiver down my spine, a gentle reassurance that stirred a longing deep within me. I felt the world outside our cocoon fade away, the chaos and noise of life muting into a distant hum as his fingers slid behind my neck, drawing me closer. 

When his lips met mine, it was slow and deliberate—a kiss infused with gratitude, understanding, and a bittersweet urgency that words could never convey. I lost myself in the warmth of his embrace, feeling the steady beat of his heartbeat sync with my own.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine. “One more night,” he murmured, his voice low and laced with a vulnerability I rarely heard from him. “I’ll find her in the morning.” 

I smiled faintly, but nodded. “Deal.”

B O D H I

Wren’s absence nawed at me, a hollow ache that echoed through the hallways of my mind. She hadn’t shown up for sparring. Meals went uneaten, her seat at the table left untouched. Each empty space where she should have been felt like a silent accusation, whispering reminders of her absence.

It wasn’t until I finally decided to check the flight field that I found her, perched on the edge of the final challenge for the gauntlet, her boots dangling precariously over. Shadows coiled listlessly at her feet, dark tendrils that twisted and writhed like her unspoken thoughts—quiet, aimless, and heavy with despair.

I approached her cautiously, each step resonating with the weight of my concern. “Wren,” I called softly, the name lingering in the air like a prayer. 

Without waiting for permission, I settled beside her, close enough for her to feel my presence yet respecting the fragile space she seemed to crave. The cool breeze brushed against us, but it couldn’t dispel the tension that clung to the air, thick and suffocating.

“Please,” I urged, my voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t shut me out.” She remained still, her gaze fixed on the horizon, a void where hope should have been. “I know you don’t want to talk to him,” I continued, my heart aching for her. “But talk to me. Let me be your person again. Even if it’s just for this.” 

Finally, she turned her head slightly, revealing eyes swollen and bloodshot, a testament to the tears she had not shed in my presence. “Do you know what it feels like to lose someone to fate? Not a fight. Not a choice. Just… inevitability?” 

The question sliced through me, raw and real, and I nodded silently, knowing all too well the weight of her grief. 

Her breath came out in a sharp, bitter exhale, words tumbling forth like shards of glass. “Tairn and Sgaeyl are mated. And Tairn chose Violet. That was the moment I lost him. I just didn’t want to admit it right away.” 

“I’ve seen what happens when the bond takes over,” I began, but her laughter, cold and weary, cut me off. 

“He kissed her, Bodhi. I saw it.” Her voice fractured, a painful reminder of the reality we faced. “And he looked at her like he belonged to her. Like that moment made sense. Unlike me.” 

I felt a surge of anger on her behalf, my fists clenching involuntarily. “Say the word, and I’ll beat the shit out of him. I don’t care if he’s my cousin.” 

Wren blinked at me, startled, her eyes glistening like twin orbs of stormy water. Then, unexpectedly, a weak but genuine laugh escaped her lips, a fragile sound that momentarily broke through the weight of despair hanging between us. “You’d lose. You know that, right?” she teased, her voice a mere whisper of its usual strength.

I gave a small, crooked smile, the gesture bittersweet. “Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t try.” The fleeting moment of lightness faded, slipping through our fingers like sand, her smile dropping almost as quickly as it had come. 

Her gaze fell to the ground, the earth below seeming to absorb her pain, and I felt the ache in my chest deepen. “You didn’t deserve this,” I say, my tone quieter now, a solemn vow. “You’ve always given him everything.” 

A flicker of vulnerability crossed her features, a shadow of hope crushed beneath the weight of harsh reality. “I thought that meant something. I thought I meant something.” 

“You do,” I blurted out before I could stop myself, the words tumbling from my lips with an urgency I couldn't contain. “You always have.” 

Though her eyes remained downcast, we both felt the unspoken truth hanging in the air, thick and heavy. For one stupid, aching second, the memories flooded back to me—what it felt like to want her, to carry that want like a quiet, shameful secret nestled between loyalty and the brutal clarity of knowing I’d never be chosen. 

I loved her once. Part of me still did, a flickering ember buried beneath years of denial. But I had let her go, let her love him, and had resigned myself to being the friend who always caught what fell through the cracks. I would do it again, even now, because that heartache had led me to finding Kaelin, finally attaining the love I craved.

Wren’s shoulders slumped, her posture collapsing under the weight of her grief. “She was my friend, you know?” she whispered, her voice quaking with unspent anger and sorrow. “Violet. She was my only friend for those few years I wasn’t in Aretia. She looked me in the eye, smiled at me… and still kissed him.” Her hands trembled in her lap, clenched as if holding onto a fading strength. “I hate her for it. And I hate that I don’t hate him more.” 

I reached for her hand, and to my relief, she didn’t pull away. “You’re not weak for that,” I said softly, my heart aching for her. “You’re wrecked. And you have every right to be.” 

She sucked in a shaky breath, her body warm and trembling as the tears came faster. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her through the breaking.

“I feel like a placeholder,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath above the rustle of the wind that swept through the grove, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and crushed leaves. “Like I was just… something to keep him steady until fate handed him Violet Sorrengail on a silver fucking platter.” 

The words pierced the quiet around us, shattering the fragile cocoon of solace we had woven. My heart twisted in response, a visceral reaction to the pain coursing through her. “You weren’t,” I said, struggling to keep the tremor from my voice, the intensity of her anguish reflecting back at me like a dark mirror. “You’re not. You are worth more than any bond. And if he can’t see that—he’s a fucking idiot.” 

As if my words had conjured a tempest within her, she trembled harder in my embrace, her body no longer a fortress of strength but a fragile vessel, breaking apart under the weight of despair. I felt her heartbeat, wild and chaotic, against my chest, a rhythm that mirrored the turmoil swirling in the depths of her soul. 

“I loved him, Bodhi,” she sobbed, her voice cracking like thunder, raw and electric. “I still love him and yet I lost him. Not because I did something wrong. But because I was never going to win against her.” 

The bitterness in her words hung heavy in the air, mingling with the fading light of the day as dusk began to shroud the grove in shades of violet and indigo. “You shouldn’t have had to win,” I snapped, the heat of my anger simmering just beneath the surface. “This wasn’t supposed to be a competition.” 

Gods help me, if I saw Xaden today, I would throw a punch—consequences be damned. I could already picture the way his perfect features would twist in surprise as my fist connected, the satisfaction of seeing him finally feel something other than his own self-importance. But right now, Wren was breaking in my arms, and all thoughts of revenge faded into the background. 

So I stayed. I wrapped her in everything I had left, the warmth of my body a fragile shield against the storm raging within her. I let her cry it all out—every breath, every tear, every word she’d swallowed just to keep standing. 

I couldn’t fix it, couldn’t erase the hurt that had carved lines of despair into her features, but I could hold my best friend together, even for just a moment. 

next part

Everything Taglist: @lxnvmvrzx @bodhidurrans @bookwormysblog @nikfigueiredo @fictionalrelapse

Bloodline: @theseinfernalangels @bodhiscurls @violent-little-thing @nisarelle

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter fourteen

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: in the quiet that follows disaster, the days stitch themselves forward. jack holds the line beside you, while the people you love build scaffolding around your sleep. recovery isn’t swift, but it’s real—felt in laughter, in small rebellions, and in breath.

⤿ warning(s): medical talk + procedures

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 2k

Jack jolts awake in the ICU family lounge, neck kinked, mouth sour. 

The wall clock reads 09:48; he must have dozed twenty minutes tops—long enough for caffeine to burn off and hunger to gnaw in. Beside him stands Margot, hair half-escaped her bun, night-shift badge still clipped though daylight streams through the blinds.

“That’s all the sleep you’re getting, soldier,” she murmurs, pressing a protein bar and a cup of lukewarm tea into his hands. “I’m finally going home before Ben files a missing-person report. But heads-up—your girl’s sister just texted the front desk. They’re on their way up.”

Jack scrubs his face. “You pulled a double.”

“Triple, technically,” Margot says, attempting a smile. “But she’d do it for me. Go meet the family—try not to look like a ghost.” She squeezes his shoulder, then forces herself down the corridor, coat over scrubs, exhaustion dragging at every step.

Jack first makes a beeline to the scrub-machine—the hospital’s weary confessional booth. He scans his badge; the carousel inside whirs like a tired roulette wheel and spits out a fresh packet. 

In the staff bathroom he unpacks the crisp set, changes, and then leans over the sink. Cool water sluices over puffy eyes; he scrubs until the copper scent of dried blood yields to antiseptic soap and stale peppermint. A quick brush of teeth, damp fingers through unruly curls. The mirror still shows a scruffy hollow-cheeked man, but at least he’s wrapped in clean fabric and the tremor in his hands has eased. 

One deep breath later he heads for the lobby—ready, as much as anyone can be, to meet your family at the doors. He doesn’t forget to shove his blood-stiffened top and pants down the machine’s return chute on his way, hears them thunk into the bin, and stands a second with palm flat to the metal. He swallows the ache that rises—hold the line, he reminds himself—and heads for the elevators.

The doors part to reveal who can only be your sister and her husband. Her face is unmistakably yours—same determined brow, same worry etched deep. “Dr. Abbot?” Her voice quavers.

He nods and steps forward, catching her hands before she can wobble. “Jack. I’m glad you made it.”

They introduce themselves as Laura and Paul—him clutching their carry-ons, eyes wide from sleepless travel. 

“You saved her,” Laura whispers.

Jack’s voice comes rough. “Surgery saved her. She’s fighting hard.” He draws back enough to see her face. “Come on—I’ll explain everything as we go.”

He steers them toward a quiet alcove off the lobby. As they sit, he outlines the fall, the injuries, the long night of surgery—stripping jargon until only truth remains. He then explains Moylan in measured strokes: a pathology tech who slipped past security, obsessed with you for months, and waiting for one vulnerable window. One which he eventually got and seized. 

Laura pales but listens, knuckles tight around a travel-size tissue pack. “She never told us how bad it was,” she murmurs.

“She didn’t want the worry to cross state lines,” Jack says, voice gentle—then falters. The guilt he’s held at bay all night steals through the crack. “I kept telling myself I’d be there, I should have—” 

The words shatter in his throat.

Laura lays a hand over his. Her grip is firm, eyes bright with the same grief—and strength—you carry. It hurts, it really hurts.

“You saved her life down on that scaffold,” she says. “If you hadn’t been there, we’d be planning a funeral, not a recovery. Hold on to that.” She squeezes once more, anchoring him. Even Paul nods, silent reinforcement.

Jack draws a solid breath and collects himself. “She’s on medications to keep her still,” he explains, guiding them toward ICU. “It lets her body heal without fighting every tube. She can’t wake up until we dial them back, but hearing can slip through. Talk to her.”

They gown, sanitize, and step into the subdued hush of intensive care. Laura’s breath catches at the sight of so many lines feeding into you—the ventilator’s slow hiss, the rhythmic click of IV pumps. But she masters the fear and moves to your bedside.

“Hey, trouble,” she murmurs, voice trembling yet steady. “Lily’s third volcano erupted glitter everywhere. I have pictures for when you wake up—you’re going to roll your eyes so hard.”

Paul circles to the opposite side, finds your uninjured hand, and folds it into his own. “Just rest. We’ve got everything else covered.”

Jack steps back, watches the pulse on your monitor climb half a beat—as if your heart recognizes home when it hears it. When visiting minutes dwindle, Laura turns to him.

“Thank you,” she says. “For staying.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And so, the next two weeks unspool in slow, deliberate stitches—every day a thread that keeps you tethered while the rest of the unit and your family hold Jack steady so he doesn’t rust in place.

Day 3

Margot slips in before dawn with contraband Earl Grey and a small Bluetooth speaker. She sets it on your table and queues the lo-fi playlist you once used to tame a jittery med-student. “White-noise with a pulse,” she tells Jack, then corners him outside the glass: “Drink some of the tea, take a shower, and write your op-notes. She’d roast you alive if you missed work rounds.” He returns three hours later, hair damp, charting tablet in hand—tired, but moving.

Day 4

Dana and Robby arrive together on their post-shift shuffle. Dana reads you the day’s memes from the nurse group chat, her laughter deliberately oversized to vibrate through the mattress rails. Robby brings a ridiculous stuffed fox wearing a helmet visor. He props it by your good arm, then drags Jack to the vending machines (“Protein, brother—stat”). Jack swallows a turkey sandwich he swears tastes like cardboard salvation.

Day 5

Garcia appears in crisp clothes—official day off, hair actually down. She spends exactly five minutes at your bedside, whispering numbers you used to throw at each other like darts: “Clamped in three minutes, thirty-two seconds… sponge discrepancy zero.” When she exits she pins Jack with a flinty stare: “If you skip tomorrow’s trauma board, we’ll discuss your liver with the interns.” Jack shows up to the meeting, presents Moylan’s case in objective detail, and feels the weight lessen a gram.

Day 7

Fin tiptoes in after night shift, balancing a Bento of his own making—rice bricks and lumpy tamago. He sets it beside you, clears his throat, then counts the IV pump beeps under his breath to match your heart rate. When Jack arrives, Fin startles and blurts, “I practiced a drain label six times.” Jack claps his shoulder. “She’d be proud.”

Day 9

Jules brings a stack of ridiculous romance novels and places them on your cabinet. “Studies say read-aloud boosts neural recovery,” she claims, opening one sharply. She reads a dramatic kiss scene until Jack’s ears redden and your pulse ticks up two points—visible proof, maybe, that somewhere inside the sedation fog you find the melodrama hilarious.

Day 10

Ellis barges in muttering about missing retractors. She plants a cartoon “NO KNOCK” sign on your door, then informs Jack of every supply-room scandal just to keep him irritated enough to stay sharp. He snorts, retorts, and for ten minutes forgets to track the seconds between breaths.

Day 12

Laura and Paul learnt the ICU rhythm. Laura shows you photos of Lily, some silly, some cute. Paul sets up a video call so your parents—too frail to travel—can see you, even if you can’t answer. Jack hovers in the background, translating every beep for your mother until she finally nods, comforted by the numbers. Neither of the three ever answer fully when they ask about the details of the incident. That's one place where they won't go.

Day 14

Shen drops off a thumb drive of blues classics labeled “Auditory PT.” A speech therapist confirms it’s time to start reducing sedation, test your brain’s response to sound. The first afternoon Jack plays a slow B.B. King track, your eyelashes flutter. The second song earns a faint grimace at a sour note—tiny but seismic. Jack’s knees nearly give out.

Some nights, when the pumps are calm and the monitors steady, he leans close to your ear and recounts the smallest details: Ellis finally labeled forceps right; Fin’s drain counts perfect; the sunrise looked like mango pulp over the river. He tells you he misses arguing over music, misses the way you line up syringes by height. He tells you the rooftop is still waiting.

And though you give no verbal answer, the trending numbers say your body is inching toward the surface—liver stable, chest tube output dwindling, neuro checks a touch sharper each shift. Odds are still a steep incline, but every visitor, every enforced meal, every stubborn return to the ER keeps Jack from freezing on one spot of tile. Together they form the scaffolding—a safer one—holding him steady until the day his voice alone will coax your eyes open to the light.

It happens in slow, uneven increments—nothing cinematic, just the body deciding it’s tired of obeying the drip.

First, your eyelids twitch. Heavy, gummy, like someone swapped them for sandbags. You drift again, surface, drift. Margot is the first to note the flicker and nudges the respiratory therapist with her. Sedation’s already tapering; they’ve been waiting for this.

Hours later your lashes sift open to a strip of ceiling tile. Light blurs at the edges. Something huge anchors your throat, hisses warm air into your lungs. You fight a gag reflex that feels a century old; hands try to rise but soft restraints remind you why they’re there.

Margot leans into view, eyes tired but bright. “Hey, there. If you can hear me, blink twice.” You manage the signal—slow, deliberate.

Then, they run the protocol: neuro checks with a penlight, squeeze tests, a pressure support trial to prove the lungs can solo without the machine. When your numbers hold, the RT deflates the cuff, tilts your chin, and the tube slides free in a hot rush that tastes of plastic and old air.

Your first breath alone rasps like tearing paper; your throat feels flayed. Someone pats saline across cracked lips. You try to ask the time, but it comes out a croak—no vowel, just static.

Margot smiles anyway, then hits the call bell. “She’s awake.”

Footsteps scramble in the hall—orders barked, shoes squeaking—but you slip sideways, exhausted by the effort, eyelids shuttering on the world again.

You wake next to silence and dim daylight. No visitors yet, just the ventilator cart pushed back in the corner and the soft beep of a minimal monitor load. Hair greasy, gown damp, arm stiff in a bulky brace—you feel like a scarecrow after a storm. Still, you’re breathing on your own, chest aching with each expansion but gloriously alive.

Then, the door bursts open.

Jack stumbles to a halt at the threshold, beard now grown and crescent, eyes wide and disbelieving. He hesitates as if the room might vanish.

Your voice scrapes the bottom of a well. “Nice… beard.”

The words are barely there—husky, cracked—but they’re enough. Jack’s face crumples; he crosses the room in two strides and drops to one knee beside the bed. Tears spill unchecked, beard catching the shine.

“You came back,” he whispers, voice breaking on every syllable.

You lift a hand—trembling, IV tugging—and find his cheek, coarse stubble prickling your palm. It hurts to smile, but you do. In that unremarkable, throat-raw moment—no trumpets, no miracle soundtrack—life simply restarts: one ragged breath, one relieved sob, one brief laugh from Margot hitting the monitor silence button.

Outside, alarms continue in other rooms, lunch carts rattle down corridors, the city churns beyond the windows. But inside this modest square of ICU tile, beard scratches skin, tears salt the sheets, and the odds finally lean in your favor.

divider credit

[rameiixo]

animation exercise with ayase !

[bixels]

Taking the current topic as an excuse to ask you to tell me all the reasons you love Rarijack. Your art for the ship is so sweet and intimate I'd love to hear any in depth thoughts you have.

Breathes in.

I think what makes their dynamic really strong is that they have opposing personalities but aligned values. It's deeper than just "opposites attract." Rarity's fancy, prissy, and femme while Applejack's modest, rough, and "masculine." But both value hard work (to the point of being workaholics), their families (both have guardianship over their little sisters), running successful businesses, and eventually each other. Their relationship can be boiled down to, "Despite our differences/disagreements, I still like you because we value the same things."

We see their relationship develop so much. In the first season, they can't stop bickering about surface-level differences. By season four, they still bicker, but will mend their relationship because they can't help but do nice things for each other. In Trade Ya, they start off arguing over personality differences (Applejack likes old junk and Rarity likes useless crap). Then they pivot and start arguing that they value their relationship more than the other. In the end, they mend things by sacrificing their needs and buying each other a gift. Even if they don't understand it, they know it'd make the other happy. And that's all that really matters. It's a genuinely sweet moment that shows how arguing can be healthy and necessary for relationships to strengthen.

We even see them dropping their hang-ups about each others' personalities. In Made in Manehattan, when Rarity runs off in dramatics about someone's fashion, AJ doesn't roll her eyes or scoff, she smiles. Oftentimes, their conflicts are very common domestic conflicts romantic couples face. Applejack's Day Off is about a woman's inability to balance work and life and find time to properly spend with her partner, causing her partner to feel neglected.

By season seven, they're actively participating in each others' interests. Any problems or conflicts that arise are dealt with, and they come out the other end stronger and closer. In Honest Apple, AJ pretty much spells out why their relationship works so well: even though she doesn't understand fashion, she can recognize and appreciate how much work it takes and wants to respect that. When she realizes her mistake in the episode, AJ goes above and beyond to fix things and apologize to Rarity. They care about each other so much.

The two go out of their way, sacrificing their personal desires and beliefs and doing things they normally wouldn't, to make the other happy. That's just love.

There's Simple Ways, where AJ gets stuck in an unwanted love triangle between Rarity and her hipster crush. And her frustration and anger can be so easily interpreted as AJ finding herself in a terrible position; the girl she loves wants another man, and that man wants her.

I dunno. I've always had a preference for opposites attract ships, but Rarijack's stuck with me like a brain worm because they have the perfect chemistry. The way they show they care, or do things for each other, I've always read it as the truest representation of romance in the show.

[faunandfloraas]

im so glad im not the only person that looks at seungmin and goes "❓tism❓" bc he is Way Too Relatable to me as a person w autism

yeah..... like I say it in jest but also..... well, yk. sometimes you notice something and you notice something and you notice something and you go Hmmmm

[patheticpat]

Told my girlfriend if she could guess who Loop actually was I’d divulge who the people helping the cast in my au and she fucking IMMEDIATELY guessed Siffrin, fuck my inter life lmfao

[lambilegs]

GUYSSSSS LOOK AT THE CUP MY FRIEND BOUGHT ME WHEN WE WENT OUT THIS SHIT BELONGS IN A MUSEUM LIKEEEEEE

[xxplastic-cubexx]

friend kayla very delicately asked me today when i first started drawing yaoi and i had to reflect on the fact it probably was avengers that started it all

[batfamfucker]

Appreciation post for 'girly girl' characters and/or shows that celebrate traditionally feminine things that girls and women are shamed for.

Characters on this list that love makeup, fashion, hair, etc. Characters that are still written as strong, intelligent, brave, etc. That told young girls that these interests are valid, they are not lesser interests. Being feminine and liking traditionally feminine things does not make them weak.

[brainfilehasstoppedworking]

Amy Rose, I love you. You're just like me. They could never make me hate you 🫶🫶