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If they're not adding any extra transition or angles, it becomes the sexiest CPR in the world.

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Wild Magic Mishaps

Once more tossing my self indulgence NPC character studies to the void. Also very much outside of my comfort zone but that’s neither here nor there.

Contents: fantasy resus setting, male rescuer, gender neutral victim, CPR, mtm, conscious victim (kinda)

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Quinn supposed that they had been a tad too lucky lately.

That’s the thing when harnessing the tides of wild magic. At the end of the day, it was a matter of luck that would determine how the world around them reacted to their attempts to harness its raw power.

At times, it had been incredibly helpful; blasts shot with more power than they thought possible- entire battles shifted by a single spell in ways they nor their enemies could predict.

Other times?

Quinn was left sprawled out, face down in the dirt.

They had been attempting to cast dispel magic on the trapped runes that were inlaid on the door in front of them. Perhaps it was their blatant attempts to wrangle the force of magic, a force that bowed to no one, that left them particularly unlucky.

It took them a moment to be calm enough to recognize the effects of the spell that hummed through their veins in the backfire. Feign death, or something in the same school at the very least. Which meant at worst, they were stuck looking like a fool for only a short time. That is if the spell’s hold wasn’t influenced by the tides of chaos as well.

They supposed that there could have been worse consequences. Until they felt themselves being rolled over and heard the frantic voice of Milo calling their name. With that, Quinn was suddenly reminded that their companion would be unaware of the fact they were in no real danger.

While the world was bathed in a blanket of darkness, they heard the sound of the man’s knees hitting the dirt as he crouched over their supine form. They could do nothing as they felt fingers feel along their neck until he pressed firmly into their pulse point. Based on the way Milo had begun to curse in such a way that Quinn had never heard before they assumed that the spell was as they suspected. Arguably a victory.

To the rest of the world, they seemed completely and entirely lifeless. It left Quinn a passive audience as they felt their robes being tugged open, all too aware of the air’s chill against their skin.

They wondered if the spell was keeping the blush from their cheeks from the warmth that rushed through them. What was it that their companion was seeing? A blue-tinted face and slack jaw rather than the flushed mess they would have been otherwise? It was a horribly vulnerable position but they couldn’t find it in themselves to mind.

As his hands settled into the center of their chest, they did their best to brace themselves before the first hard press down into their ribs. It was entirely unnatural; the way their chest bent and flexed under the force. Not entirely unpleasant.

The soft hurk that left their parted lips was entirely involuntary. As was each soft huff of air that was forced from their throat with each compression. Their body flexed and shifted in time with the warrior's efforts; head lolling back. Dimly, they wondered if they were drooling or just imagining things.

The man above them seemed to have found their rhythm as they fell into the steady pattern of compressions. They were muttering in a language that they didn’t recognize. Perhaps they would have to ask about it later.

Just when Quinn had thought they could get used to the sensation, they felt those determined hands suddenly lift from their chest. Instead, they reached for their face. He held them with a tenderness that made their stomach twist among the heat that had begun to settle within it. The sorcerer felt as their head was tilted back and fingers pinched their nose closed.

As soft lips connected to their own, Quinn questioned if perhaps they really had died. And hells, they would do so again if it meant that they bask in the feeling of a warm breath forced down their throat for even a second longer.

It was entirely foreign. Entirely unnatural. But gods above if it didn’t make them weak in the knees. There would be time to analyze exactly what that said about them later. For now? The mage basked in the actions and attention of the man whose lips left theirs far too soon for their liking.

Fingers were caressing their jaw and his words softened from a firm edge to something more pleading. They’d give everything in their pack to understand the foreign tongue he was speaking. It was rather unfair of him to leave them guessing. Their complaints were quickly brushed away as the heavy pressure of compressions returned to their chest.

God's above was it all too much. They were caught between the warring desires of wanting the sensation to last forever and for the pressure to finally give. It wasn’t exactly up to them though. Until the spell ended they would be at the mercy of the man’s efforts to save them. It would have almost been touching if it didn’t have their mind wandering to places they quickly tried to wave away.

Lips were suddenly on theirs again and they wished for nothing more than to move them ever so slightly to get a better point of contact. Once more their lungs were forced to expand with the air pushed down their throat. It made their mind go blank and hazy.

When the world suddenly came back into view around them, they choked on the air that had been ever so gently eased into their lungs. The lips that had been pressed into their own pulled away and they groaned at the loss of contact. Or perhaps the way the world tilted and shifted in such a dizzying manner.

Quinn felt themselves being rolled into their side, a hand gently rubbing at the dark red mark already blossoming across their pale c hest. Their breaths came in heaving gasp, and Milo’s voice was more clear when he spoke lowly, ��Gods above Quinn. You’re lucky I was here.”

Of course, they supposed. Real lucky.

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Historically inaccurate CPR in ancient China ;)

Anime The Apothecary Diaries S02E11

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The Edge of the Abyss

Sansa Stark floated in darkness, weightless and unmoored. There was no sound, no sense of time, only a heavy, endless void pressing against her. It should have been terrifying, yet there was a strange peace to it. A cold peace. She felt as if she had drifted far from Winterfell, far from her family, far from the world of pain and loss she had so long endured.

Then, faintly, like the softest ripple on still water, she heard her name.

“Sansa.”

It was distant, like a whisper carried on the wind. It was enough to disturb the stillness, to pull her from the edges of this strange, shadowed realm. She tried to respond, but her lips wouldn’t move. Her voice was gone, her body unreachable. She realized then how cold she was, her very essence wrapped in frost. The voice came again, sharper this time, piercing through the fog.

“Sansa!”

Suddenly, she was no longer floating. She felt a weight on her chest—pressing, hard, again and again, as though the world itself was trying to force her back to it. It wasn’t just her chest; it was her ribs, her very heart. She wanted to recoil, but she couldn’t move. The pressure came in steady, rhythmic bursts, each one jolting her slightly closer to awareness.

What is happening to me? she thought. She couldn’t open her eyes, couldn’t see. But she could hear.

The cold deepened, sharper now, cutting through her. She could feel it not just in her chest but over her entire body. Something brushed against her—no, not brushed. Something was being removed. Layers of warmth, stripped away one by one. The familiar weight of her fur cloak disappeared first, then the heavier wool of her surcoat, the embroidered Stark sigil slipping from her mind as easily as it had been pulled from her shoulders.

Her subconscious stirred at the loss of her defenses. No… no, leave them. I’m too cold without them. But the thought was fleeting, a whisper lost in the storm.

The next sensation was more intimate, more startling. A faint tugging at the neckline of her linen shift, fabric sliding over her skin, exposing her to the chill of the hall. Her instinct was to cover herself, to protect herself from the vulnerability of being seen, but her limbs refused to obey. She could feel the air on her chest now, sharp and unrelenting. Somewhere deep within her, a flicker of embarrassment stirred, but it was overwhelmed by the weight pressing down again—this time heavier, more insistent.

Sansa’s awareness flickered, fragile and incomplete, like a candle guttering in the wind. She couldn’t see, couldn’t move, but she could sense. Voices floated through the haze, disjointed fragments of sound and emotion weaving around her like a tapestry frayed at the edges.

“She’s so pale…” a voice murmured, trembling with what felt like genuine concern. A woman’s voice—soft, worried. “Too pale. The gods… oh, please let her come back to us.”

The warmth in that voice wrapped around her like a blanket, offering her a sliver of comfort against the unrelenting cold. Sansa latched onto it, clinging to the thought that someone still cared, someone was praying for her.

But the warmth didn’t last. Another voice cut through, harsh and grating, like a blade scraping against stone. “She’s laid bare like this? In front of everyone?” It was a man this time, his tone somewhere between scandalized and fascinated. “Lady Stark deserves dignity, not this... display.”

Sansa’s subconscious recoiled. Dignity? The word rang hollow. It wasn’t dignity she needed now—it was life. The healer’s hands, firm and unyielding, pressing against her chest were the only connection she had to the mortal world. Still, the man’s words lingered, twisting into something uglier.

“She’s beautiful like this,” another voice whispered, low and quiet, but not quiet enough. It was laced with something that made her skin crawl, even in this liminal space. “Even now. Like a perfect marble statue. So still.”

Revulsion surged through her, fierce and visceral. If she could have screamed, she would have. Instead, her subconscious thrashed against the darkness, clawing at the void, desperate to return to her body—not to live for herself, but to escape the leering eyes and vile thoughts she could feel circling her like vultures.

A burst of anger broke through the haze, sharp and searing, like a wolf’s growl in the distance. “Shut your mouth,” Arya’s voice hissed, venomous and protective. “If you have nothing useful to say, leave.”

Another voice—firm and steady, unmistakably Jon’s—followed. “Turn away if you can’t handle it. She’s fighting for her life. This isn’t a spectacle.”

The tension in the air shifted slightly, the inappropriate murmurs fading into uncomfortable silence. Sansa felt a flicker of gratitude for her siblings’ presence. Even here, trapped between life and death, she could feel the strength of their love for her, their unwillingness to let her go.

But not all the voices were silenced. One whispered, just on the edge of hearing, “It’s unseemly for her to be left like that... but...” The sentence trailed off, unfinished but heavy with implication.

A surge of disgust burned through her. She couldn’t see the speaker, but she could feel the weight of his gaze, the slimy undercurrent of arousal behind his words. It made her want to shrink into herself, to cover what she couldn’t. But she couldn’t move. She was a prisoner in her own body, exposed and vulnerable in ways she never wanted to be.

And yet, amidst the disgust and shame, another voice broke through—a voice so quiet and kind it felt like a balm on an open wound. “She’s strong. Stronger than any of us. She’ll come back.” It was a young maid, her tone filled with genuine hope and belief.

Sansa clung to that voice, letting it anchor her as the darkness around her began to crack. The healer’s hands pressed down again, firm and unrelenting, driving her further into the world of sound and sensation. She could hear Maeve now, her voice steady, filled with authority. “She’s still here. Keep faith. Her heart will beat again.”

The pressure returned, relentless and unyielding, driving against her chest with a force that felt as though it might break her. Her ribs groaned under the strain, each compression jolting her awareness closer to the surface. It wasn’t pain, not exactly—more a deep, primal discomfort, an urgent reminder that her body still existed, that it still needed her.

She heard the woman’s voice again, closer now. "Come back, my lady. Fight."

Fight? The word resonated within her, echoing through the dark. She remembered fighting—against Joffrey’s cruelty, against Ramsay’s sadism, against the ever-crushing weight of expectation and survival. Was that what this was? Another fight?

The sensation changed again. Warmth—unexpected, sudden, and shocking. It flooded into her lungs, forcing her chest to rise, then fall. Again. And again. Each breath was like a foreign thing, invasive and strange, yet it filled her with something she hadn’t felt in what seemed like an eternity. Life

Her subconscious reeled, images flashing before her. Her mother’s stern but loving face. The towering walls of Winterfell. The soft fur of Lady’s coat beneath her fingers. The snow falling gently during her first day back home after so many years. Each memory was fleeting, slipping through her grasp like water. But one thought anchored her—Winterfell. Her home. Her family. She couldn’t leave them. Not yet.

The warmth came again, and this time it wasn’t just in her lungs. It spread through her chest, chasing away the cold, and with it came a sudden, burning realization: I’m not ready to go.

The pressure on her chest became more distinct now, and she could feel the world pulling at her, dragging her back. She wasn’t floating anymore. She was heavy again, her body reconnecting to the ground, to the stone of the great hall beneath her. It was suffocating, overwhelming, and terrifying. For one desperate moment, she wanted to return to the void, to the quiet peace of oblivion.

But the voices were louder now—Jon’s pleading tone, Arya’s fierce growl. And the woman, steady and commanding. "Breathe!" she ordered, her voice cutting through the chaos.

Sansa’s chest heaved, though not by her own will. It felt as though something deep within her had been wrenched free, and she gasped. Air flooded her lungs like fire, burning and wonderful and sharp. Her eyes flew open, and the world returned in a rush of sound and light.

She blinked rapidly, disoriented, her vision blurry. The flickering flames of the hearth cast shadows over the anxious faces surrounding her. The woman leaning over her—Maeve, the healer—looked exhausted but determined. Behind her, Arya’s face swam into focus, pale but fierce, her jaw tight. Jon knelt by her side, his eyes wide with relief.

"What… happened?" Sansa rasped, her voice weak and scratchy.

"You’re alive," Arya said, her voice trembling just slightly. "That’s what happened."

Maeve sat back, exhaling deeply. "Your heart stopped," she said matter-of-factly, though her voice was tinged with relief. "But we pulled you back."

The words settled over Sansa like a weight. Her heart had stopped? She had been so close to—no, she couldn’t think about that now. Her fingers weakly curled into the blanket Maeve had draped over her, grounding herself in the feel of the fabric.

"I… felt… everything," Sansa whispered, her gaze far away. "I heard you calling."

Arya leaned closer, her lips pressed into a firm line. "You came back," she said, her tone softening. "That’s all that matters."Sansa nodded faintly, her strength ebbing. She closed her eyes again, not to drift away but to gather herself, the warmth of the fire and her family’s presence drawing her back into the world she had fought so hard to survive.

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I love the perfection, just like this body.

An edition I made of an amazing job from Dafnefetish productions. All credits to them.

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one of the best scenes from 2025 folder in my collection with AED shocks

source:the eastern gate s01e03

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