#charn

[shijiujun]

Kachen's one mission: Deliberately and proudly third wheeling at every given opportunity much to Charn and Paran's chagrin

[thepittomegaverse]

“Sexy to Someone”

(Alpha Dennis Whitaker x Omega Female Reader — song-inspired by “Sexy to Someone” by Clairo)

You don’t mean to stare.

You really don’t.

It’s just that Dennis Whitaker has this quiet way of existing that makes it impossible not to look. He isn’t like the louder alphas in the ER — the ones who let their presence roll ahead of them like a warning. He doesn’t flood the hallway with scent or command attention with volume.

He doesn’t need to.

He just… is.

Steady. Grounded. Intentional.

And completely unaware of what that does to you.

You’re perched at the nurses’ station pretending to finish charting, fingers hovering uselessly over the keyboard. Across the counter, Dennis stands with a tablet in hand, sleeves of his scrub top pushed up just enough to expose strong forearms dusted with faint hair. His jaw is set in concentration, brows slightly knit as he reviews labs.

He looks sure of himself.

You feel like the opposite.

Being an omega in the ER means constantly navigating assumptions. You’re “gentle.” You’re “comforting.” You’re “great with anxious patients.”

You are.

But you’re also sharp. Skilled. Fast under pressure. You earned your place here.

Still.

Sometimes when you catch your reflection in the break room mirror — flushed from rushing between trauma bays, hair slipping from your ponytail — you don’t see someone desirable.

You see someone useful.

And lately that’s been eating at you more than you want to admit.

You don’t just want to be respected.

You want to be wanted.

You want to be sexy to someone.

Your thoughts spiral until—

“Hey.”

You flinch.

Dennis is suddenly standing in front of you, close enough that the clean cotton scent of his detergent mixes with the warm, subtle alpha undertone that always makes your stomach flip.

“You okay?” he asks quietly. “You’ve been staring at that screen like it personally offended you.”

Heat floods your face. “I was thinking.”

“Should’ve warned the rest of us,” he mutters, a corner of his mouth lifting faintly.

You roll your eyes, grateful for the distraction. “Do you need something, Dr. Whitaker?”

His gaze sharpens slightly at the formal tone. “Dennis,” he corrects gently. “And yeah. Trauma two needs labs drawn. I figured you’d want it.”

You blink. “You figured I’d want it?”

“You’re the best at difficult sticks,” he says simply. “Patient’s anxious. You’re good with that.”

Your chest tightens.

Good.

Capable.

Reliable.

The words land heavy instead of flattering.

“Sure,” you murmur, slipping off the stool.

He walks beside you down the hall. Your shoulders brush accidentally and your omega instincts react embarrassingly fast — a flicker of warmth in your veins, your scent shifting ever so slightly.

You wonder if he notices.

If it does anything to him.

—

The patient is jittery, breathing too fast. You slip into your calm tone instinctively.

“Okay, I’m just going to clean the area first,” you say softly. “You’re doing great.”

Dennis stands behind you, monitoring vitals, his presence solid and reassuring.

At one point, the patient grabs your wrist in a spike of panic.

Before you can even process it—

Dennis moves.

His hand wraps around the patient’s forearm. Not aggressive. Not threatening.

Just firm.

“Easy,” he says, voice low and commanding in a way that makes your pulse stutter. “She’s helping you.”

She.

The word hits differently.

The patient releases you immediately.

Dennis doesn’t let go until he’s sure you’re steady.

When it’s over, you dispose of the needle carefully, but your hands tremble faintly from the adrenaline.

He notices.

He always notices.

“Supply alcove,” he murmurs quietly. “Now.”

You follow him, confused.

The door swings shut behind you.

The noise of the ER dulls.

“Show me your wrist,” he says gently.

“It’s fine—”

“Show me.”

You hold it out. His fingers wrap around it, careful but warm. His thumb brushes the inside where the patient had gripped too tightly.

Your breath catches.

“You don’t have to pretend you’re unshakeable,” he says softly. “Not with me.”

The words hit something raw inside you.

Because pretending is exhausting.

Before you can stop yourself, the insecurity spills out.

“Do you ever look at me like that?”

His brows draw together. “Like what?”

You swallow hard. “Like I’m more than just good at my job.”

Silence.

Thick. Heavy.

You laugh nervously. “Forget it. It’s stupid.”

Dennis steps closer — not cornering you, just closing the space enough that your pulse jumps.

“It’s not stupid,” he says quietly.

Your heart pounds so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

“I look at you,” he continues carefully, “like you’re the calm in this building when everything else is chaos.”

“That’s not what I meant,” you whisper.

“I know.”

His jaw tightens, and for once it’s not from work.

“I try not to,” he admits.

Your breath falters. “Try not to what?”

“Look at you like that,” he says. “Because you deserve someone who isn’t technically in a position of authority over you.”

The air leaves your lungs.

“You… try not to?”

He exhales slowly. “You think I don’t notice when your scent shifts? When you get flustered? When you tuck your hair behind your ear and pretend you’re not hoping someone’s watching?”

Your knees weaken.

“You deserve to feel wanted,” he continues. “Not just appreciated. Not just protected.”

His hand hovers near your waist — restrained, waiting.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep my distance?”

Your omega instincts flare at the strain in his voice.

“Not what?” you whisper.

His eyes darken — not dangerously. Just honestly.

“Not pull you closer.”

The confession settles between you, fragile and real.

You shake your head slightly. “I didn’t think I was… sexy to anyone.”

The words are small.

Vulnerable.

Dennis’s expression softens instantly.

“Don’t say that like it’s a fact,” he murmurs.

His fingers brush your waist — light, testing.

You don’t pull away.

“You’re sexy to me,” he says quietly. “Not because you try to be. It’s the way you hold a room without raising your voice. The way you steady people. The way your eyes sharpen when you focus.”

Your heart feels too big for your chest.

“You undo me,” he adds softly. “And that’s not something I say lightly.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your throat ache.

You step closer this time.

Just once, you think. Just once, I want to feel chosen.

Your hand rests against his chest. You can feel his heartbeat — steady, but faster than normal.

“Then stop trying so hard not to look,” you whisper.

Something shifts in his expression.

His restraint cracks — not violently, not recklessly.

Just enough.

He pulls you gently into him, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other settling at your back. Protective. Secure. Certain.

His forehead rests against yours.

“I’ve been looking,” he admits. “For months.”

Your breath mingles between you.

“For the record,” he continues quietly, “I think about you when you’re not in the room. I notice when you’re tired. I notice when you wear that soft sweater on night shifts. I notice everything.”

Tears sting unexpectedly at the corners of your eyes.

Because you haven’t felt seen like this in a long time.

His thumb brushes just slightly along your side.

“Tell me something,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“Do you want this? Not just the attention. Me.”

There’s no pressure in the question.

Just choice.

“Yes,” you breathe.

His lips find yours slowly.

Deliberate.

The kiss isn’t rushed or overwhelming. It’s grounding. Warm. Certain.

Like he’s been choosing you quietly for months — and now he’s finally allowed to show it.

When he pulls back slightly, his hand stays at your waist.

“You’re not invisible,” he says softly. “Not to me.”

For the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like the omega who has to earn her place.

You don’t feel like the background support.

You feel wanted.

And as the overhead speakers call for the next case, he squeezes your hand gently before stepping back — professional mask sliding into place, but his eyes still warm.

“After shift,” he says quietly. “Dinner.”

Your heart skips.

“Is that an order?”

A faint smirk.

“No,” he replies. “It’s me choosing you.”

And this time, you don’t doubt it for a second.

[asha-mage]

The costuming of each of Rand's ancestors is ALSO insane, each iteration of the cadin'sor a step forward towards the one we recognize on Janduin and the modern Aiel, and each reflecting the moment that ancestor lived in:

Charn has simple but well made work clothes that reflect his upbringing as someone form a culture that still practices agrarian farming in a sci fi utopia. It's simple brown that looks more rough and rustic standing in contrast to Miren's sleek white lab outfit, but still contains the hints of modern amenity: his over the shoulder cape, the buttons on his coat and shirt. This is someone who lives in a society where he could be wearing something more clearly modern, but deliberately choose something humble and simple.

Then you have Rhodric in a much sleeker and darker version: the rustic agrarian element has been traded for a straight lines. Everything is imminently practical, from the thick soled work boots, to the leather vest with it's own clip and zippers, to the trousers that allow for range of motion. Rhodric was living through a time of war and now apocalypse. Even his people, sworn to peace, have been altered by the realities of the world they live in, and what their role as servants to Aes Sedai, leaders in that war, demanded.

Centuries later, the cadin'sor has been entirely lost, and Jonai is in what we can recognize now as Tuatha'an style clothing, which makes sense since this is where the two cultures split. Gone are the sleek uniform lines Rhodric was wearing but the deliberate rustic vibe Charn had has not returned. Instead everything is clearly (and messily) hand made. Threads are hanging off a poncho that is clearly hard used. Everything is ill fitting- on Jonai and every one else in this scene. Adan's shirt hangs askew because it's to large while Sulwin's skirt drags in the skirt because it's to long. Their are all these efforts at bright colors and patterning- but their irregular and imperfect. The breaking is taking it's hold and exacting it's price.

Two generations later, Jonai's great grandson, Lewin and his fellows have something that that is first step towards modern Aiel cadin'sor. Everyone has adopted browns and grey, brighter color has been dramatically scaled back, and while stuff still isn't fitting great, it's fitting better. Practicality is back as the main focus, and we see sharp lines return as well. Lewin is the ancestor that most resembles Rhodric, because like with Rhodric he has had to make concessions in himself for the realities of a violent world. The veil appears for the first time, and the colors are now locked in: brown and grey, to match their desert environment.

Jumping forward centuries again to the pre-Clan Aiel, we get Mandein, a sept chief from right before the Aiel cultural identity starts to codify. He is wearing a leather cuirass over a simple linen shirt- the colors are consistent now. and everything is well fitted. The biggest difference is how his rank as a chief is conveyed: he is slathered status symbols, from his cloak, to his sea shell necklace, to his spear with special inlay- all things that demonstrate his singular importance in a society grappling with scarcity. Their is also no uniformity when we see the other sept chiefs during the meeting- everyone is styled differently, draped in different kinds of status symbols. The modern Aiel as a culture now exists, but a common cultural identity is still in the process of forming and getting locked in.

And then finally Janduin- post that cultural identity being codified for two thousand years. He and all the other Aiel warriors are uniform with a clear vision- and being influenced by aesthetic sensibilities that incorporate every step backwards through time. A curiass that seems heavily based on the vest of Rhodric and the others during the war period but with the clear underpinning of being real armor like what Mandein wore, a metal buckler strapped to his back right where the Aiel work hats used to hang during Charn's day, and of course, Lewin's veil but also his same basic silhouette and linens. The only one not represented here is Jonai- which makes sense since that is the lowest point in the Aiel's history, reduced to refugees being preyed upon without anything but their oath and each other to sustain them. Most strikingly to me is the complete absence of any status symbol- Janduin leads many many more people then Mandein but his spears are the same as his soldiers, and nothing marks him out as their leader even in the thick of combat...because such symbols are unnecessary. His right to lead, we know, is carved into his arm.

[ourplacetobefree]

Nothing is funnier to me than Jet taking off Charn's glasses and asking if he's going to be okay without them and Charn replying, "We'll see", bitch no you won't 😭😭😭.

My man's legally blind without them. He started this trip with 2 glasses and is now down to one, and I'm genuinely concerned about what he's gonna do if he loses this one 😭

[raiuakari]

They saved Khem and each other 🫶🏻

(got into a fight with some really angry ancient ghosts and then got their asses beaten)

[figdays]

Hat Mouse Double Sided Stardew Valley Keychain // MenagerieCoop

[i-need-a-pilot-tho]

Does this mean Krongkwan and Kakanang's two servants were Charn and Jets' past lives. And that's why they're all tied together, bc they can never forget what Krongkwan did to save them. Its their curse to watch Khem suffer for helping them in every lifetime

[vani-satur]

White t shirt, investigating something, probably killed someone, liar, has a murder board, annoying. Close enough welcome back Kim Kimhan <3