#bone fracture detection

[diagnopeindiagnosticcenter]

CT Arm Plain at Diagnopein: Safe, Fast, and Affordable – How X-Ray AP and LAT Views Help in Diagnosis

When it comes to identifying injuries or medical conditions affecting the arm, imaging plays a crucial role in diagnosis and treatment planning. A CT Arm Plain scan is one such advanced tool that offers detailed insights into the bones, joints, and soft tissues. At Diagnopein, patients receive the benefit of a safe, fast, and affordable scanning process with modern equipment and skilled radiologists.

What is a CT Arm Plain Scan?

A CT scan arm plain is a non-invasive diagnostic test that uses X-ray technology and computer processing to create cross-sectional images of the arm. It is commonly recommended by doctors when they need a closer look at bone fractures, joint abnormalities, tumors, or post-operative conditions.

Unlike regular X-rays, a CT scan gives a more detailed image, allowing doctors to identify small fractures or soft tissue injuries that may be missed in standard X-rays.

Why is a CT Arm Scan Needed?

A CT arm scan is useful for several reasons:

To detect bone fractures, especially in complex injuries

To monitor healing after surgery

To evaluate infections or tumors in the bones

To investigate unexplained pain or swelling in the arm

How the Imaging Process Works

At Diagnopein, the imaging process is smooth and patient-friendly. After booking an appointment, patients are guided to the CT room. The arm is positioned on the scanner bed, and the machine takes images in slices. There is no need for injections or dyes in a plain scan, and the entire process usually takes only 10–15 minutes.

Patients are advised to remain still during the scan to ensure clear and accurate images.

How X-Ray AP and LAT Views Help in Diagnosis

Before or alongside a CT scan, doctors may also recommend an X-ray in AP (anteroposterior) and LAT (lateral) views. These two perspectives allow a basic understanding of the injury or condition.

AP View: Shows the arm from front to back, useful for identifying alignment and joint space.

LAT View: Provides a side view, which is helpful in checking the depth of fractures or displacement.

Although X-rays are quicker and more economical, they may not always reveal the full extent of injury—especially in complicated cases. This is where a CT scan becomes essential.

Affordable CT Arm Scan Cost at Diagnopein

One of the standout features of Diagnopein is its affordability. If you're searching for the CT scan arm price in India, Diagnopein remains one of the best budget-friendly options without compromising on quality.

Looking for a Nearby Scan Centre? Choose Diagnopein

If you've been Googling “CT scan arm plain near me” or “nearby scan centre for CT scan,” Diagnopein is a name you can trust. With multiple branches across Pune and other cities, you’re likely to find a Diagnopein centre near your location. The centres are equipped with advanced machines, comfortable facilities, and highly trained staff to ensure a seamless experience.

Why Diagnopein is the Preferred Choice

Advanced Equipment: High-resolution scanners for quick and accurate imaging

Expert Radiologists: Skilled in reading scans and delivering accurate reports

Multiple Locations: Find a CT scan arm plain Pune branch near you easily

Fast Results: Most reports are delivered on the same day

Affordable Pricing: ₹800 for a CT arm scan is among the best in the market

Booking Your CT Scan at Diagnopein

Booking your CT scan with Diagnopein is simple:

Choose your required test (CT scan arm plain)

Select the centre closest to you

Confirm your appointment online or over the phone

Walk in at the scheduled time and get scanned

Conclusion

For anyone dealing with an arm injury, unexplained pain, or a follow-up after surgery, a CT scan arm plain is an essential diagnostic step. With Diagnopein, you get the advantages of expert imaging, modern technology, affordable pricing, and convenient locations.

Don’t delay your diagnosis. If you’re searching for “CT scan arm plain near me” or want to know about “CT scan arm price in India,” Diagnopein is your answer. Visit www.diagnopein.com today and book your scan at a nearby scan centre.

[oxymoronicdumbass]

i think you reach another level of neurodivergence when you watch three whole new tv shows because you were told that the ship dynamic in said shows are similar to that of your otp

[frenchkisstheabyss]

♱ ₮ⱧɆ ⱧɄ₦₲ɆⱤ: Ø₦Ɇ ♱

♱ Pairings: boyfriend!yungi x fem!zombie!reader, detective!seonghwa, detective!san

♱ Genre: horror/angst

♱ Summary: On your way back home from a party you and your boyfriends get into a terrible accident. While they walk away nearly unscathed, you don't walk away at all. The next day while mourning their loss your reanimated corpse finds its way back home and sparks their journey down a very bloody road that pushes the limits of what exactly they're willing to do for love.

♱ Word Count: 5k-ish

♱ Warnings: you're dead, babes, sorry. Undead technically. Mentions of a car accident, some grieving, light descriptions of your undead body, technically necrophilia, blood play, blood drinking, a lil smidge of cannibalism if you squint, masochism, Yungi are like really obsessively dedicated to you, kissing, and a two second handjob to top off this totally normal list of warnings. eventual smut (part two).

♱ A/N: I started this fic, like, a year ago I believe and posted an incomplete version of it but I really do love this fic so I decided to come back and actually finish it. Hopefully this finds all the girls who like spooky stuff the way that I do. If you've read this before, I hope you like what I've added and if you've never read it before, I hope you enjoy it now. I'll be posting the second/final part of it next week so please let me know if you like it.

The rain hasn’t stopped since. It began the moment you died. Sheets of it pouring down from the weeping and endless night sky. Down to the minute, down to the very second that doctors pronounced you dead. And even now, as the morning sun pries itself through a thick fog of gray clouds, it cascades around the quiet little house you called home. One that's been filled with sorrow because you’re lost. The two men inside seated opposite each other at the kitchen table, picking over a thrown together breakfast, have lost you.

And the rain…it hasn’t stopped since. 

But Mingi doesn’t mind. Everyone who needs to know has been informed and his phone has been on silent since. The rain’s an armor of sorts. Knowing no one can make the drive out to bother them in this weather has bought him the time he needs to accept a reality that doesn’t feel quite real yet. 

“You should eat something” Yunho insists, fork tapping at the edge of his ceramic plate, his own food untouched. He knows it’s nothing special, nothing close to the delicious meals they woke to everyday from you, but he poured everything he had into it.

Mingi raises an eyebrow, swirling the fork an inch or so above his plate before shoving the gleaming silver into the space between the cast on his left arm and his inflamed skin. Every human has two bones in their forearm. The ulna and the radius. Mingi walked away from the car accident having fractured both of them. Yunho, the driver, had gotten lucky with only a few cuts and bruises. A flesh wound to the abdomen. And you, well…

“Can you stop that?” Yunho asks, the sound of the metal back of Mingi’s fork scraping against plaster grating his ears. It isn’t his fault, though his heart aches in a thousand places thinking that it is. Mingi doesn’t blame him. He couldn’t have predicted the oncoming truck would swerve the way it did. No, he blames the world but, isolated between these eerily quiet walls, Yunho is all there is to it.

Mingi scratches faster, deriving some relief from the sting that comes along with it. “I’m sorry, is this bothering you?” 

Yunho breathes in and back out. In and back out again. Deep, full breaths meant to calm his boiling rage at that incessant screeching. Mingi doesn’t mean to do this. He’s just hurting. They both are. “Just ignore it” Yunho tells himself “Ignore him. Ignore the burning in the pit of your stomach. Ignore the tears.”

“Stop it before you hurt yourself!” Yunho shouts, snatching the fork from Mingi’s hand.

Blinking, his eyes dart over to his empty chair and back to a shocked Mingi. Yunho isn’t sure how he got over here. He doesn’t even remember getting up. A tear runs down his cheek, the exhaust from an overheated engine, and he swiftly wipes it away.

Mingi hangs his head, ashamed of his immaturity pushing Yunho a little too far. “I’m sorry” he says, sniffing back tears of his own, “But it hurts so much. It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair. I just want her back”.

Yunho tosses the fork onto the table, taking Mingi into his arms just as he breaks down into tears, “I know, I want her back too. I’d give anything to see her smile or hear her call my name again.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A rattling at the front door lighter than a toddler’s, light enough that it’s nearly lost to the rain. “Yunie! Mingi!” a voice calls sweetly, broken and the faintest bit horse but distinctly yours. The blood in their veins runs ice cold, the color draining from their faces. The men look to each other, desperate for confirmation that they haven’t lost their minds. 

“Did you—” Mingi starts, rising from his chair, careful not to make a sound. 

Yunho nods, moving towards the front door, with Mingi close behind. They tiptoe down the hall, floorboards creaking here and there as they pass framed photos of the three of you together. “Open. Please. Cold. So cold” your voice croaks once more, Yunho’s fingers inches from grasping the doorknob.

Mingi slips off to the side, peeking through one of the curtains, and his heart nearly stops from what he sees. “Open the door! It’s her!” he shouts, pushing Yunho aside to unlock the door. 

Yunho slams it shut, unable to wrap his mind around what’s happening, “What do you mean it’s her? It can’t be her!”

“It’s her! I swear! Open the door!” Mingi begs, gripping the doorknob tightly enough that his hand’s begun to redden, “Yunho, please.” 

There has to be an explanation for this. Some shared hallucination fueled by their grief. They’re only hearing things, they must be, but Mingi seems to need this and Yunho can’t bring himself to deny him of it. “Okay” he sighs, backing away from the door, “Do it.”

Mingi wastes no time tearing it open, rain pouring in as you limp across the threshold. The two towering men shrink at the sight of you, terror freezing one where he stands and making the other retreat into a corner.  

Barefoot and soaking wet, you wear the tattered, blood stained dress you were rushed to the hospital in. In death your skin has paled, broken blood vessels giving your lips a light blue hue. Behind you is a trail of muddy footprints, marking your journey up the front stairs to this place you call home.

It’s a blur. Your death and your return. It’s all a series of broken memories, fragmented pieces of film that make you dizzy each time you attempt to piece them together. You can only recall a party filled with dancing and laughter. Headlights brighter than the sun. Screaming. A dark place. A coldness eating at your bones. Then, like magic, you were here, dragging yourself up to the front door with blistered feet and an unnerving stillness in your chest.

Turning to meet the faces of the men you love, faces that haven’t once failed to light up in your presence, you’re puzzled by their fear. Noticing Mingi’s injured arm, you run your fingers down his cast. 

“Mingi hurt?” you grunt softly. 

His eyes blur with tears and he blinks them away, quickly conjuring up a lie to soothe your worries. “Only a little. I was working on something out back and, well, you know how clumsy I can be, but it’s nothing” he says, smiling through the tears.

You return the comforting gesture with a smile of your own, placing a frozen palm against the warm wetness of his cheek. “Liar. Mingi hurt. And…sad?” 

“No, baby, not sad. I’m just happy to see you. We’re happy to see you, aren’t we?” Mingi looks to Yunho, confident that he feels the same way, but finds instead that he’s alone in his joy. 

Backed so far into a corner that he might as well be a part of the wood paneling, this is nothing short of a nightmare for him. This is unnatural. Far beyond anything that should be possible. You, the real you, is lying on a slab in a morgue somewhere. Whatever’s standing before him is something he can’t bring himself to trust. 

“Yunie hurt too?” you ask, turning your attention to the bruising around his jaw. You hobble over to him, nearly touching his hand before he snatches it away. 

“Don’t touch me.” 

His rejection is so alien to you that you don’t even process it as such, reaching out for him again. “Yun—”

Your fingers skim his, making his skin crawl. “Don’t touch me!” he yells, slinking clear of your grasp. “I don’t know what you are but you’re not her. She is dead. You are dead.”

“Me? Dead?” The word sends more memories racing through your head. The taste of wine. Your favorite. Mingi’s arms around your waist. A high pitched ringing in your ear. The beeping of machines. The visions drown you in an overwhelming sense of sadness that makes you want to crumble into pieces. 

“No! Don’t listen to him!” Mingi says, filling the space between you and Yunho,“You’re not dead, baby. You’re here with us and it’s a gift.” Ignoring the nagging pain of his injury, Mingi lifts you up into his arms, cradling you like a baby as he carries you up the stairs. 

“Now how about we get you cleaned up?”

“Take bath? Bubbles?”

Mingi laughs, smitten with you even in your undead form, “If that’s what you want, of course.” 

Yunho slides down to the floor, growing catatonic as he zones out to the sounds that come from above. The running of bathwater, his best friend’s laughter, and the broken words of some kind of monster. This has to be a nightmare. All he needs to do is wait it out until he wakes up. 

“Wake up” he whispers like Dorothy clicking her heels together three times to escape the land of Oz, “Wake up. Wake up…”

Two showers, one long bath, and a few hours cuddled under the blankets with Mingi. That’s all it takes for you to begin to look more like yourself. You’re far from what you used to be, signs of your time as a lifeless corpse still showing through, but you’re coming back to yourself and, however long that takes, Mingi’s more than willing to wait it out.

While you’ve refused to eat, despite the grumbling of your empty stomach, he’s managed to keep you happy with movies and games which now litter the bed and the area around it. Much to Mingi’s dismay, beating him at everything is something you picked up on quickly. You’ve only been back to life for a few hours and already you’re kicking his ass again.

“Play again?” you ask, excitedly spreading your winning Uno hand out on the blanket. 

Mingi yawns, the sleep he lost last night beginning to catch up with him, but he shuffles the deck for a new game anyway. He knows he can’t keep this up much longer. His lids are growing heavy and his focus is waning but he can’t, for any reason, allow himself to drift off to sleep. While Yunho may be somewhere in this house terrified by the possibility that this isn’t just a dream, Mingi’s been haunted by the very real possibility that it might be. What if he closes his eyes and you’re gone again? That’d mean losing you twice and his heart can’t survive breaking for you a second time.

As Mingi deals the cards, you glance around your bedroom with fresh excitement. Every new color or scent brings your dulled senses back to you if only briefly. And every item has a memory attached to it. Some vague, some incredibly vivid, but all serve as a suitable feast for a brain hungry to recover what once was. Just as your focus hones in on a pair of fluffy puppy shaped slippers by the door, you catch a tall figure looming in the doorway. 

Halfway obscured by the wall, Yunho watches you the way a scientist would its test subject. Simply observing, waiting for you to do something that proves you’re an imposter. But you only smile at him the way you always have, making him feel strangely welcomed to enter the room.

Coming up here was far from his intention. The rain had let up almost immediately after your arrival and he’d picked up the car keys a half dozen times to leave. Once he got as far as the end of the driveway before he turned back, making it further up the steps each time until finally gaining the courage to face you.

And it is you. Despite the words he spat in fear and anger, he felt your energy all around him when he first heard your voice and that feeling’s grown in intensity every minute since. 

“Are you playing or are you just gonna watch like a pervert?” Mingi teases. 

Yunho steps from behind the wall, arms folded across his chest, “If I recall correctly you’re the one who likes to watch” he shoots back, cautiously entering the bedroom. 

“Ha” you snort, sorting through your hand, “Like with sex and stuff.” 

“Oh, I see you’ve been helping her get her language skills back. Starting with the important words first, huh?”

“Playing or watching? You pick. Quickly” you insist, patting Yunho on the arm, his prior reaction momentarily slipping your mind.

He winces a little, jogging your memory, and you go to pull away but he stops you, taking your hand into his. It’s like holding hands with a block of ice, making sense of the baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants you’re curled up in. What you said on the other side of the door had been true. Cold. So cold. 

Yunho’s thumb traces the blue collapsed veins down the back of your hand, brushing past your knuckles to an empty space on your ring finger. There used to be two gorgeous silver rings there, part of a set of six that he and Mingi had made for all of you. 

“Mingi says we’ll get back, won’t be a problem. Right, Mingi?” Your question’s met with the sound of snoring, a few seconds without stimulation being just what Mingi needed to drift off to sleep. You crawl up the bed to lay down beside him, poking at his cheek. “Mingiiii” you sing, softly flicking at his plush bottom lip. 

Yunho slips in on the other side of you, pulling your fingers away from Mingi’s face. “Maybe we don’t do that” he laughs, “We should let him rest. I think he’s tired.”

“Mingi’s tired and what about you?” you ask, rolling over to face him. The color of your eyes are marbled between the paleness of death and their natural shade. It’s bizarre but beautiful in a way that mesmerizes him. 

“Tell me, have you eat and sleep?” You pet his hair, watching it twirl around your fingertips in bouncy brown wisps. Being touched by you, it’s something he thought he’d never feel again, and the joy of it makes him want to cry almost as much as the fear did. 

“It’s ‘eaten and slept’ but no, I haven’t. I couldn’t” he says, “I’d ask you but…”

Your stomach grumbles, announcing its hunger. You hadn’t eaten before the accident. The party you were headed home from had been overflowing with alcohol but food, at least any you were interested in, was in short supply. 

“I can cook for you. We haven’t been shopping but I’m sure I can whip up something.” 

You shake your head, having already gone through this with Mingi, “Nothing really tastes good but the smells help.”

“The smells? What smells?”

“Mmm” you hum, sniffing the side of Yunho’s neck, “You and him. Your smell makes me warm inside.”

Nuzzling your nose against his neck, you inhale the scent beneath his cologne. The natural oils of his body are more fragrant than anything that comes in a bottle. You rest a hand on his heart, feeling it pound as your lips meet his heated skin like ice against fire.

Yunho can’t help but feel guilty about the way his body responds to you. He can’t manage to fight the instinct to bring you closer, massaging the fullness of your curves through the thick cotton of your clothing. You part your lips, dragging your tongue along veins that rush with hot, fresh blood. As they pulse below the surface of his skin, yours begin to pulse as well, matching the rhythm. 

“I…I’m not sure we should be doing this” Yunho stutters, his hands betraying his words to move under your sweatshirt and reacquaint themselves with the rise of your hips and the hills of your breasts. His lust for you only makes the blood pump through his body faster, worsening your hunger. 

“But I need you to keep me warm inside. Please don’t let me be cold again” you beg, sinking your teeth into his neck. Blood drips from his wounds, coating your tongue, pooling in the bottom of your mouth. It’s the taste of life, draining his to restore yours, and you’re ravenous for it.

Yunho screams out in pain, sacrificing a few shreds of flesh to tear himself free of you. “You bit me! Why would you do that?” he cries, stumbling to his feet, his sleeve pressed to his neck to control the bleeding.

On your hands and knees, you move to the edge of the bed like a lioness prowling for her next meal. Your eyes swell with tears at the pain you’ve inflicted but your mouth salivates at the delectable taste of his blood. The ecstacy of it sliding down your throat makes you feel more alive than you did when you actually were. 

“I’m sorry, Yunho. I didn’t mean to hurt you, really. I think I’m just, mmm, hungrier than I thought” you pout, speaking with perfect clarity for the first time.

“Hungrier? Are you…you’re trying to eat me?”

“Eat you? Of course not. I would never. I only needed a nibble to make me better.” You raise your shirt, stroking your exposed skin as it grows plumper and warmer to the touch. “Come feel me. Touch me.” 

Your voice is like a spell, drawing Yunho back in. Your body sings out to him, whispering how badly it longs for him. He wants you, though he shouldn’t. The searing pain in his neck dulls at the realization. It gets him off seeing that you need him this desperately. Not only for pleasure but to survive. 

Approaching the bed again, Yunho lowers his blood stained sleeve from his neck and caresses your body. The red liquid coating his fingers sticks to you like candy, leaving a trail of red along your belly. You lean into him, sliding a hand up his thigh to palm the growing bulge in his jeans. He lets out a satisfied moan, lightly tugging at your hair so that your head’s tilted back, sparkling eyes gazing up at him. 

“What are you?” he whispers with whatever speck of sanity he has remaining.

His bloody fingers find your mouth and you lazily lick them clean, savoring the taste. All the while your own hand’s undoing his zipper to stroke his length, your thumb circling the moist tip of his cock.

“What am I?” you giggle, “I’m yours, aren’t I?”

Releasing his middle finger from the suction of your soft lips, you push his sweater up to kiss your way across his lower stomach. Every kiss has his cock twitching in your grasp as his fingers tangle deeper into your hair, keeping you in place.

And then you find it. The perfect spot. You aren’t sure how you know but you just do. You suckle at his skin, letting your teeth gently pierce the surface until your tongue’s reintroduced to the taste of his blood. Yunho grits his teeth through pain that only makes the adrenaline rush that follows all the more pleasurable. 

“I’m still yours, aren’t I, Yunie?” you ask, his flesh still filling the space between your teeth.

Yunho pulls your head back and leans down to kiss you, the feeling of your lips against his worth the faint metallic taste that comes along with it.

“Of course you are, baby” he whispers, “You’ll always be mine and I’ll never let anything hurt you again. I promise.”

You lay back on the bed, pulling him on top of you, and wrap your legs around his waist. Yunho tears at your clothes, kissing you ravenously as if he’s the one with the undead hunger that must be fed. He’s ready to rip them off of you and take you right here with no regard at all for the best friend sleeping an inch away from you. But a loud banging at the downstairs door snaps him out of it, stirring Mingi from his sleep in the process. 

Mingi jolts upright in bed, on the verge of a heart attack, “Huh? What? What’s happening?” He glances over just in time to catch Yunho climbing off of you to zip his pants back up, the blood from your second bite already showing through his clothes.

You reach back to rub Mingi's leg, your view of him inverted, “Mingi, be calm.”

“Be calm?” he shouts, jumping to inspect the blood on your face, “Answer me now. What happened?”

The banging on the front door gets louder and Yunho throws a “Ssh” at Mingi, sneaking to the window to get a peek at the unexpected visitors. 

“Don’t shush me! Why’s there blood and why were you…” 

Yunho turns around slowly, eyes wide and hands trembling, “Mingi, shut up.”

“No, not until one of you tells me what’s going on and who the hell is that?” 

The banging continues, shaking the door so hard the hinges creak. Yunho sits back down on the bed, his brain firing off in a hundred directions at once. He wishes the knocking at the door were another minion of the undead—some corpse you accidentally drug back with you from the trenches of the morgue—but what awaits him this time, what awaits all of you, is something far worse. 

“It’s the fucking cops.”

Detective Choi has heard of a lot of strange things happening when it comes to dead bodies but one thing’s for sure, they don’t just get up and walk away by themselves. And if one were to miraculously rise from the dead it’d no doubt be too busy hunting for brains to tamper with hospital security footage. 

“So you’re saying you do believe in zombies then?” Detective Park teases from the passenger’s seat of his partner’s car. Fishing a small box of chocolate milk from the pocket of his black trenchcoat, Detective Park kicks his feet up on the dashboard and pops a straw in to enjoy his daily sweet treat. 

Detective Choi grimaces at him from behind the wheel, his malice rooted in both that dig about zombies and his partner’s indulgence in room temperature dairy. “How do you drink that shit? Do you know how much sugar’s in that?” 

“I’m sorry, would you prefer I bring some joy to my day with a nice protein shake? Maybe get real crazy with some unseasoned chicken breast?”

It’s tempting for Detective Choi to punch him in the arm for that but they’re already investigating one car wreck. The last thing he needs to do is cause another one. “Ooh, that’s a cheap shot” he grumbles, drumming on the steering wheel, “I’ll remember that.” 

Ignoring that trademark grumpiness he’s come to love, Detective Park sips away at his drink as he watches the wide green fields of the countryside roll by. The rain has finally stopped—thank god—but a few leftover droplets remain on the window, reflecting in the low light like crystals. It’s a beautiful sight for what feels like such a dark, strange day. He’s seen a dozen car accidents before but none like this. A missing corpse and a missing suspect with zero prior connections to each other and not a crumb of evidence to help them locate either. Something’s just not adding up. He takes a deep breath to steel himself, knowing what he’s about to say might open up a can of worms. “So you really think these two know something?”

Detective Choi stops at a lonely intersection, checking the map on his phone before turning down a winding, tree lined road. Between the storm and the rough cell service this far out, he’s had to return to the archaic act of finding his own way and he hates it. “I know that these two know something. I can’t explain it but I feel it in the pit of my stomach.” 

A feeling in the pit of your stomach is far from enough proof to investigate someone but Detective Park can’t deny that he feels it too. There’s an answer out here begging to be found if only they knew the right questions to ask. “For once I’m on your side with this. Just try not to let them notice our suspicions. Ya know, control your face when we get in there” he warns. 

Detective Choi frowns, displaying his inability to do just that, “Control my face, what does that mean?”

“Control my face, what does that mean?” Detective Park mocks, mimicking his partner’s sour expression, “Hey, wait, I’m not done with that!”

It’s too late. The window’s already down and Detective Choi has sent his last few sips of chocolate milk flying to the side of the road. “Oh, look! We’re here!” he laughs, turning up the dirt driveway leading to a lone house tucked behind the trees.

Detective Park mourns the loss of his snack only for a moment before his attention’s drawn to the tall maroon house. Its modern architecture stands in stark contrast to its rural surroundings, appearing more like a retreat than somewhere people would actually live. The car comes to a stop behind another that’s positioned awkwardly in the driveway. It’s as if someone backed up to leave but stopped short and ran back in for something. 

“I thought their car was totaled” Detective Choi comments, already hopping out to inspect the car before them. Detective Park is on his heels, working double time to stop him from doing anything that might compromise the case. “Don’t do that!” he whispers, swatting Detective Choi’s phone away. 

“Too slow. I got it” the other man gloats, flashing a picture of the back of the car, license plate included. 

“They aren’t suspects. We can’t go in treating them like they are. We’re about to tell them their girlfriend’s body’s missing, San. For the love of god.” 

Detective Choi shrugs, charting a path to the front door, “No can do. I’m an atheist, remember?” 

Bang, bang, bang! His strong fist meets the wood of the door as he surveys the porch, keeping an eye out for anything that might be out of the ordinary. Detective Park grabs him by the wrist, “You don’t have to knock like you’re the police.”

“We are the police, Seonghwa. Plus you said this was important right? They must be informed. It’s our duty.” Detective Choi raises his free hand, banging at the door a few more times before his partner’s grabbing his other wrist.

“Yes but we don’t want to scare them, we need to…” Detective Park steps back to peer at the upstairs window, sure that he caught a glimpse of someone peeking out at them. It could’ve been a trick of the light, maybe a bird whipping through the overcast sky, but he’s positive that the curtain moved. “Go ahead” he says, hands on his hips, “They’re in there.” 

Detective Choi’s excited, maybe a bit too excited, to be given free reign to do as he wishes with no resistance. He continues to bang at the door as Detective Park remains on the lookout for further movement in the windows but the curtains remain still. No movements. No shadows. And then the clicking of a lock. 

“Um, hi, can I help you with something?” Mingi asks, cracking the door only enough to get a good look at the well dressed men. The detectives fish out their wallets, flashing their identification. 

“I’m Detective Choi San and this is my partner Park Seonghwa. We understand you had an accident last night and we have a few updates on the case that we’d like to speak with you about.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence as the men size each other up, Mingi refusing to open the door another inch even when Detective Park comes forward to extend a hand. Mingi leans his head against the door, raising his cast, “Sorry, can’t, broke it. What is it that you needed to tell me? I was busy resting, you know, car accident and everything.” Detective Choi detects attitude and there’s plenty of it. Mingi doesn’t want them here. He knows what they’re about to tell him, two things he already knows and he doesn’t want to discuss either with anyone, let alone the cops. 

“We’re sorry for your loss” Detective Park says kindly, “I know this must be a difficult time for you but please, this conversation can’t wait. Could we come in?”

“Come in for what? Why…”

“Officers, I’m sorry about that” Yunho apologizes, pushing Mingi aside to open the door, “It has been a difficult time and we’re all handling it differently. Please, come in.” 

Mingi gives Yunho a look that says he doesn’t need him to apologize on his behalf. Yunho gives him a look that says he does if he wants to stay out of prison. Mingi waits by the door, forcing a smile as Yunho guides the officers into the kitchen. 

“Sure, let them in” Mingi mumbles, slamming the door shut, “Why not let them search the place while you’re at it? ‘Hey officers, wanna take a look in the shed’?” 

“What’s in the shed?” you whisper from atop the stairs. You’ve managed to crouch down in a corner where no one can see you, only half of your face visible as you peek out to eavesdrop on Mingi. 

Mingi whips around, placing a finger over his lips as a warning not to speak, but there’s something else there too. A refusal to answer the question and an unfamiliar darkness forbidding you from asking it again. “What’s in the shed, Mingi?” your eyes ask what your mouth can’t and you’re met with the same answer. 

“Ssh” he gestures, taking a leisurely stroll towards the kitchen where the three other men have already taken their seats. Mingi chooses to stand, leaning in the doorway as he observes the conversation. 

“Missing? What do you mean missing?” Yunho asks. His performance of a man in shock is nearly perfect if only to the detectives. To Mingi, who already knows the truth, it’s a bit much. 

“Who’s missing?” Mingi throws in for good measure, making sure their shock is a united front.

“Her body, they said her body is missing. How does a body go missing?”

“Look, we’re as confused as you. This is far from a normal occurrence. We have our people working right now to recover the surveillance footage” Detective Park reassures them.

Detective Choi leans forward, his suspicions reading in his expression despite his best efforts, “How’d you two get home from the hospital?”

Yunho crosses his arms, displeased with the inflection of the detective’s voice, “A friend picked us up.”

“And that car out there? Has it moved at all?”

“There’s three of us…were three of us. We need more than one car and no it hasn’t moved.”

“So you’ve been here since your friend dropped you off then? You haven’t left once?”

“I don’t like how you’re talking to us” Mingi snaps, “You’re acting like we did something wrong. Do you see us? We get into an accident, we lose someone we love, you tell us her body is missing and this is how you treat us?” 

Detective Park cuts his eyes at Detective Choi who settles back into his chair to cool off. “That isn’t our intention at all. My partner can be a tad aggressive but we do need to know these things. There’s something else too.” He waits for the room to calm down before he speaks again, “The driver who hit you…he’s missing too.” 

“Missing?” Yunho asks without missing a beat, “What do you mean he’s ‘missing’?”

Mingi erupts into a heavy, exhausted laughter. “Her body is gone, her killer is gone, and you’re here asking us about a fucking car? Grade A detective work. Really.”

“Look, he posted bail. There’s nothing we could do about it” Detective Choi sighs, his own frustration with the legal system washing over him. “According to his wife he never made it home. Still there’s no evidence that he has anything to do with the disappearance of her body. When would he have had time?”

Detective Choi’s gaze lingers on Yunho who averts his eyes, refusing to entertain his speculation. Instead, he directs his attention to Detective Park who seems to be the more sympathetic of the two. 

 “You think I stole my girlfriend’s dead body?”

Detective Park can’t quite say yes but he can’t quite say no. His gut’s never wrong, something’s not right here, but what that is he can’t imagine. “That’s not what we’re saying. This is just bizarre, you have to admit that.”

Yunho flicks on his charm, giving Detective Park that same innocent look he always threw at  you after an argument. “We understand that but we swear to you, we don’t know anything. All we want is her body back so that she can be laid to rest properly. I think she deserves that, don’t you?”

The detectives nod, the weight of the grief permeating these walls finally hitting them. Detective Park digs a card out of his jacket pocket, slipping it across the table to Yunho. “You just promise us if there’s anything you know or something you can remember, you’ll call us.”

Yunho picks it up, inspecting the exquisite ink stamped into overpriced paper, “We promise.”

It’s a lie and everyone in this room knows it. They know more than they’re leading on, much more than even you do, but they’d rather rip their teeth out one by one than say a word. Some secrets are better left buried and the moment the detectives leave it will be. 

The shed. 

You stand barefoot in the wet grass, watching it from a distance. You’re vigilant, staring it down as if it might grow legs and walk away if you blink for too long. Unlike you, there’s nothing otherworldly about it. It’s made of cedar. Big enough to fit a small work desk, the lawnmower, and whatever else the boys needed to fix things around the house.

You’ve watched Mingi drag a grill out of there once or twice on nice summer days when you had a barbecue craving and driving into the city was too much of a hassle. Still, a sense of foreboding overcomes you as you approach it. Mingi’s face flashes in your mind with each step. The silent pleading for you to let this go. For your own good or for his?

Clutching a small silver key in your hand, you reach out to touch the heavy padlock on the door. Your fingertips barely skim it when you hear a low, guttural hum from inside. It’s low enough that any human might miss it but you aren’t just any human. Not anymore.

The smell coming from inside turns your stomach. It’s blood. Different from Yunho’s or Mingi’s. There’s no sweetness to it. You aren’t tempted by the scent. It’s stale like a plate of food that’s been left out on the counter all night. It’s enough to make you want to turn around but you can’t. You have to know. 

Slipping the key into the lock, you take a deep breath, bracing yourself as you twist it open. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Mingi shouts, bursting through the back door. 

He advances on you with a speed you’ve never seen before, slamming his shoulder into the shed before you can get it open. The panic overtaking him seeps from his body and right into yours. Suddenly it feels like the world’s about to end and you’re responsible for it. 

“Leave her alone!” Yunho calls after him, “They’re gone.”

“How do you know that? They could come back! What then? Are you gonna explain it to them?”

“Explain what?” you ask, grabbing onto the door handle. “What’s in the shed, Mingi?”

It’s a battle of will. Mingi pressing his weight against the door. You gripping the handle like your life depends on it. You’ll be here all night if that’s what it takes for you to get in and he’ll be right here with you, intent on keeping you out. 

“There are some things you weren’t meant to see,” he says through gritted teeth. 

For his part, Yunho seems indifferent. The shock of seeing you rise from the grave did something to him. It pushed him into his worst nightmare, beyond that even. What else could there be to fear? “She’s already dead. What exactly are we protecting her from?”

As much as it pains Mingi to admit it, Yunho’s right. You’ve already experienced horror beyond anything either of them could imagine. There’s nothing to protect you from. But that really isn’t the problem. It isn’t you who needs protecting, it’s them. It’s the way you see them now and what you’ll think when you open that door. Mingi steps aside, shoulders slumped as he watches you click the padlock open. 

It falls to the ground, the wooden door gradually creaking open to reveal what’s inside. Gardening equipment. A rake, a couple of shovels, a lawn mower, boxes filled with old clothes marked for donation, and a filthy blanket that’s breathing. Blankets don’t breathe but whatever’s under it? That’s a different story entirely. 

You swallow hard, your body tensing as you reach out to tear the blanket away. You stumble back at the sight of it, landing hard in the grass as a set of piercing blue eyes stare back at you. They tell a quiet tale of agony, the blood and bruises that pepper the man’s skin, doing more than enough to tell you it’s true. 

“Don’t feel bad for him” Mingi rasps, any shred of regret absent from his voice, “He didn’t feel bad for what he did to you.”

Yunho kneels down at your side, a finger on your cheek to turn you towards him. “Tell me, sweetheart. Are you still hungry?” 

[itwasrealtome]

RUNAWAY

Olivia Benson x fem! detective reader

⚠️ DO NOT READ IF THIS MIGHT TRIGGER YOU

ANGST & FLUFF | Olivia Benson x fem! detective reader | Masterlist

Summary: During an investigation, Y/N, the youngest member and most athletic detective of the unit, pursues a suspect who flees from them. But a collision with a car injuries Y/N who finds solace in Olivia’s presence.

Content Warning: Driving at illegal speeds | Getting hit by a car | Blood | Broken bone | Bruising | Abrasions | Mention of pain and fear | Paramedics | Painkiller | Syringe | fractures | Concussion | Suspect in custody

A/N : I don't know what to really think of this one. It was lying around in my drafts. So here it is.

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•••

Manhattan wasn't built for racing.

Amanda had gone back and forth on the issue–her arguments backed up by those unpleasant washing-machine sensations rolling around in her belly–before finally settling on that conclusion. It wasn't the most scientific observation, sure, and it certainly didn't account for all the reasons she currently felt like she might lose her breakfast, but it was comforting in its simplicity. Easier to blame the narrow, over-congested streets and the suffocating crush of cabs, delivery trucks, and coffee-fueled cyclists than the real reason for her unease.

Which, as much as she hated to admit it, was Y/N.

The youngest detective in their unit drove like she had something to prove. Or maybe like she thought physics was more of a polite suggestion than a law. Y/N's hands were tight on the wheel, knuckles pale with pressure, but her expression was all laser focus and cool determination. She leaned forward just enough to suggest she was ready to merge her body with the engine and take full command of velocity itself.

Amanda swore under her breath as the SUV jerked through a tight corner, one tire kissing the curb before Y/N straightened them out again.

—I swear, kid, you missed your calling as a getaway driver.

The detective didn't respond. Her jaw was clenched, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her eyes, sharp and unblinking, were locked on the black sedan cutting through the traffic three car lengths ahead.

—She's not even breathing, the blonde muttered, one hand gripping the oh-shit handle above her door. Tell me she's breathing, Liv.

Olivia didn't look over. She was in the passenger seat, one hand braced against the dashboard, the other curled around her phone as it buzzed with updates. Her expression was unreadable—calm, composed, the way only Olivia Benson could be while flying down Delancey Street at borderline-illegal speeds.

—He's heading west on Delancey, she said, her voice clipped but clear. Units are converging near Bowery. He's not going to get far.

Y/N's fingers flexed on the wheel, shifting gears with a practiced, almost effortless flick.

—He won't make it that far.

The SUV jolted again as it hit a pothole hard enough to send Amanda momentarily airborne in her seat.

—You know, she grunted. For a city where people pay twelve bucks for a sandwich, you'd think they'd patch the damn roads.

—Less commentary, Y/N snapped, barely glancing in the rearview. More eyes.

Amanda raised both brows.

—Well, excuse me for trying to keep my organs where they belong.

—She's got eyes, the captain cut in, her voice cool and steady, but her gaze flicked sideways toward her young protégé for half a beat.

Amanda bit her tongue but leaned forward between the seats, trying to get a clearer line on the car they were following. The suspect's vehicle swerved sharply, clipping the corner of a food cart and sending a scattering of aluminum trays and shouts into the air. He was panicking. They had him rattled. He was going to run.

—There! Rollins pointed. He's bailing.

Up ahead, the sedan skidded to a sloppy stop at the curb, the rear fishtailing slightly before the driver's door flew open. The suspect didn't wait–he was out and moving before the tires had stopped turning, disappearing into a stream of pedestrians without so much as a backward glance.

—Go left, Olivia barked.

Y/N didn't hesitate. She jerked the wheel hard, cutting across the intersection and mounting the sidewalk with a jolt that sent a chorus of pedestrians scattering. Tires screeched in protest as she bounced them back onto the road, bringing the SUV to a stop so fast Amanda's seatbelt dug hard into her shoulder.

Before the vehicle had even fully stopped, the youngest was already throwing the door open.

She tore across the pavement like a bullet fired from a cannon, weaving through startled pedestrians and skimming past lampposts with inches to spare. Her boots hit the concrete with solid, echoing rhythm, the kind of confident, unrelenting pace only a body trained for speed and power could maintain.

The suspect had a good head start, but she was closing the gap–quick, focused, her braid whipping behind her like a signal flag. She didn't look back. Didn't need to. She knew Olivia and Amanda were behind her, but the chase had narrowed into a tunnel of instinct and adrenaline.

The man ahead barreled through the front door of a narrow brick building wedged between a laundromat and a shuttered deli. Y/N followed without hesitation, slamming her shoulder into the door as it swung wide under her momentum, echoing hard against the frame.

Inside, the stairwell smelled of dust and old sweat. The walls were lined with peeling paint and dented mailboxes. The detective didn't slow down. She heard the thudding footsteps above her, and she took the stairs two at a time, muscles burning as she climbed. Her lungs expanded with sharp, determined breaths, eyes flicking upward to catch the flick of a jacket disappearing around the landing.

She reached the third floor just as the door slammed ahead of her–an apartment maybe, or a hallway access. She pushed through and found herself in a long corridor lit by flickering overhead lights, doors on either side, most of them closed, one of them swinging slightly from where the suspect had shoved through.

—Y/N!

Olivia's voice echoed from below, strained and slightly winded, the command still present beneath the urgency. But Y/N couldn't wait. She ran. Her heart thudded in her ears as she followed the banging noises of the suspect knocking into walls and furniture, careening his way through the maze of the building.

He was desperate, and desperate men were dangerous.

She reached the end of the hallway just as he slipped through a stairwell door and disappeared downward. Without breaking stride, she pushed through after him, taking the steps down with the same speed she'd used going up.

Behind her, her captain was in pursuit, her breathing heavier, her stride strong but tempered by years of chases and a body that no longer obeyed the same way it once did. Amanda followed, swearing under her breath, boots slapping against the concrete. They were both experienced, both tough as nails, but they knew Y/N's pace was something else–fueled by youth, drive, and maybe something deeper, something to prove.

By the time their protégé burst through the back door, she was only seconds behind him. It flung open into a narrow alley behind the building, and the air hit her face cold and sharp. She saw his shoulder disappear to the right, and she pushed herself harder, muscles screaming in protest as she sprinted after him.

Trash bins blurred at the edges of her vision. Her feet pounded through puddles left by the morning rain, and a dog barked from an open window somewhere above. The suspect reached the edge of the alley and darted into the street without looking, and Y/N didn't think–she just followed.

Benson came out the back door not ten seconds later, her chest rising fast, lungs burning. She caught sight of her detective just as she hit the corner of the alley and vanished into the open.

—Y/N!

Her voice didn't reach in time. She ran, ignoring the fire in her legs, Amanda's footsteps behind her sounding just as strained. She hit the edge of the alley and skidded to a halt, just in time to see the blur of movement–Y/N stepping out into the street, a car hurtling toward her from the cross traffic, the driver's horn blaring too late.

Then came the sound—louder than anything. A dull, horrifying thud that seemed to fold the air in on itself.

The young woman's body hit the hood and rolled, crashing to the pavement with a sickening crack of limbs and bone. Time splintered. Olivia's heart lurched so violently she forgot how to breathe. Amanda cursed loud and panicked behind her, sprinting forward as if her sheer will could undo what they'd just witnessed.

The captain's legs moved before her mind could catch up. She ran across the street, weaving between braking cars, the world narrowing down to the motionless figure crumpled at the curb.

Y/N lay on her side, eyes closed, face pale, her braid now damp with grime and blood. One leg was twisted unnaturally beneath her, and her chest rose and fell in shallow, trembling gasps.

Olivia dropped to her knees beside her, the sound of city noise falling away under the thudding in her ears. The world shrank to the young woman sprawled on the pavement—Y/N's blood-streaked temple, the harsh rise and fall of her chest, the tremble in her fingers as she tried to push herself up. The brunette reached out instinctively, one steady hand pressing gently to Y/N's shoulder to still her.

—Hey–no, no, no. Don't move, she said, her voice low but firm, the kind of command wrapped in care that only she could deliver. Stay down, Y/N/N. I've got you. Just breathe.

Y/N blinked hard, lashes sticky with grime, her gaze struggling to focus through the haze of pain.

—The–he ran, she gasped, a line of blood curling at the edge of her lip. Her words were ragged. He got away.

—No, he didn't, Olivia said quickly, shaking her head. Her hand shifted to brush damp hair from Y/N's forehead, careful, gentle. Amanda's got him. He didn't get far. We've got him, sweetie. You did your job. It's over.

Y/N tried to turn her head but winced, her whole body tensing as the pain surged again. Her leg, Olivia noticed now, was clearly broken–swollen, bent at an angle that turned her stomach. There was more–bruising around her ribs, abrasions on her arms–but it was the way the woman's voice trembled when she whispered "How bad is it?" that hit the deepest.

The oldest paused for a breath, her eyes scanning the injuries again, her brain already cataloguing damage. But what her detective needed wasn't triage. She needed something solid to hold onto in the swirl of fear and pain closing in around her. So Olivia softened her voice, let her hand curl around Y/N's.

—You're gonna be okay, she said. You hear me? You're hurt, yeah–but help's coming. I've already got paramedics on the way.

She reached with her free hand to her radio, her fingers sure and practiced despite the weight in her chest.

Central, this is Captain Benson. Officer down. We need a bus at Clinton and Stanton, now. Female detective, mid twenties,  struck by a vehicle. Conscious, but we need medics on the scene ASAP.

She released the call, never once letting go of the hand. Y/N's eyes fluttered shut for a second, her brow tight. Olivia could see her fighting against it–against the pain, the fear, the instinct to get back up and keep moving even when her body was crying out in protest. She squeezed her hand gently.

—Stay with me, she said, her voice a quiet tether. You don't have to be strong right now, okay? Just stay still. Let them take care of you.

Sirens echoed in the distance, and Olivia allowed herself to exhale slowly, her body still leaning protectively over the young detective. Across the street, Amanda had their suspect pinned against the side of a parked van, his hands cuffed behind his back, his face pressed to the metal. She looked over once—just once—and met her boss' eyes. A silent exchange passed between them. The blonde gave a short nod. The bastard was going nowhere.

Olivia turned her attention back to the injured woman, whose breaths had grown shallow and uneven. Her hand was still curled in hers, grip weak but desperate, like she was clinging to the edge of something she couldn't quite name.

—How's the pain? asked the captain, her voice low, steady, trying to sound like the calm in the storm.

Her eyes searched Y/N's face for truth, for tells. The latter gave a breathy laugh that caught in her throat, shaking her head slightly against the pavement.

—It's... not that bad.

Her lie was too thin to even pass as a joke. Her jaw was tight, the corners of her mouth twitching like she was biting back something real.

Olivia tilted her head slightly, leaning closer.

—Y/N/N.

Y/N blinked hard, once, then again. Her lips parted, and for a moment it looked like she might hold her ground–but then she gave in. Her voice cracked on the words.

—I can barely feel it, she admitted. My leg. I-I don't know if it's because the pain's so bad it's gone numb, or if... She swallowed, her eyes flickering to the brunette's face and staying there. Or if it's because all I can think about right now is looking at you. Focusing on you. Just... staying with you.

Olivia felt something twist deep in her chest at that–fierce and protective, almost unbearable. She squeezed Y/N's hand, her other palm resting lightly above her heart.

—You're here. You're doing great, sweetie. You're not alone, okay? I've got you.

Y/N gave the barest nod, her lashes fluttering. Olivia took a breath and gently asked: "Can you move your toes for me?"

There was a beat of silence. the detective's eyes flicked downward, like she was willing her body to obey, and then she gasped out a breath.

—Yeah, she whispered, relief rushing through her voice. Yeah, I can.

—That's good, Olivia said, brushing her fingers across the woman's forehead again, pushing back sweat-damp hair. That's really good. That means something.

But then the youngest tried to lift her head, craning to see the damage to her leg. Her torso twisted with a sharp inhale, the movement small but dangerous.

—Hey-no, no, no. Don't. Don't look. Not yet.

—But I need to-

—No, you don't, Olivia cut in, gently. What you need is to stay still until the paramedics get here. Let them take care of you. You don't need to see it. I promise you, okay? I've got eyes on everything.

For a moment, Y/N looked like she might argue–but then her body sank against the pavement again, the weight of exhaustion finally starting to catch up. She trusted Olivia. Always had. And that, more than anything, was enough to make her let go of the urge to control what she couldn't fix.

The sirens cut through the narrow street seconds later, their rising wail a strange comfort. Benson turned slightly as the ambulance squealed to a halt, its back doors flying open before the wheels had even stopped turning. The paramedics poured out like a wave, a blur of navy uniforms and urgent voices.

Y/N blinked up at the sky, wincing as the medic leaned in with a flashlight, checking her pupils. Another knelt by her legs, assessing the damage, his movements brisk but careful. One of them pressed a syringe gently against her arm, his voice low and calm.

—You're gonna feel this kick in real quick. It's just something for the pain, okay?

She gave a sluggish nod, her eyes already glossing over, her jaw relaxing as the drug seeped through her system. Her breathing slowed, the tension bleeding out of her limbs, replaced by a drowsy kind of calm. Her lips parted as if to speak, but whatever she was trying to say came out slurred, barely a whisper. Olivia crouched nearby again, her eyes never leaving her.

—M'fine, she mumbled, though the slur in her words betrayed just how much adrenaline had been holding her together.

Olivia leaned down and brushed her fingers lightly over her cheek again, a soft gesture meant to ground her as much as soothe.

—She's gonna be a little loopy for a few minutes, one of the paramedics told her, reaching into his kit for a stabilizer brace. We had to start something strong. That leg's broken in at least two places. Possible hairline fracture in the hip, too.

—How bad is it? Liv asked, her voice low but tight, all business wrapped around a barely concealed thread of fear.

The paramedic glanced up at her, pausing just long enough to show he understood this wasn't just a procedural question.

—The break's clean. Messy, but treatable. We'll know more after imaging, but she's lucky. No spinal signs. She's responsive. She can move her toes, which is good. Very good.

—And the head injury?

—Mild concussion, from what we can tell. We'll monitor for swelling, but she's lucid. She's got good reflexes. This could've been worse, Captain. Much worse.

She nodded, a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding slipping free. Relief didn't flood her exactly–it edged in slowly, cautiously, like it needed permission. She glanced back to Y/N, who was mumbling something incoherent, her brows furrowed under the weight of confusion and drugs. Amanda appeared behind her then, jogging over with her hair pulled loose from the chase, face flushed and drawn.

—He's in custody, Amanda said, breathless. Uniforms are taking him downtown. Little bastard didn't get more than two blocks before I caught him trying to blend into a crowd.

Olivia stood, her arms crossing tightly, eyes flicking back to Y/N's form as the paramedics began easing her onto a backboard.

—She moved fast, she murmured. Too fast.

Amanda nodded grimly.

—He panicked when he saw her gain on him. Swerved into the street. Didn't even look.

The sound of velcro straps echoed sharply in the quiet that followed. Olivia took a step closer as Y/N was lifted gently onto the stretcher. Her hand hovered near her shoulder before brushing it lightly, grounding them both.

—She's gonna be okay. She's tough.

—I know. But sometimes... tough doesn't mean unbreakable.

•••

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[teencopandthesourwolf]

HOPE IS THE THING WITH FEATHERS

written for the @sterekdrabbles 06/06/25 challenge where the prompt words were DECAY, RUN, and BURST. i'm also tagging @sterekdrabblesgonelong as this obviously went long lol. the title is borrowed from the emily dickinson poem of the same name.

.

In hindsight, sleeping at the old house was a pretty fucked up thing to do.

Laying your head in the eternally-charred ruins of your childhood home (on nights you're lucky enough to not be fighting for your life) was like being stuck on some sort of witch cursed roller coaster. The ride traversed a perilous track that set off at A Lot, lurched through the many gut-wrenching dips of Not Enough, to then end with a showstopping loop-the-loop finish of Much Too Much.

Maybe getting used to the smell of cinder and smoke was inevitable, because after a while Derek's senses barely seemed to register any ashen notes at all.

What lurked beneath was all that was left of Derek's pack. A bittersweet bouquet of shattered memories lingered in the bones of the Hale house, like an old fracture you suffered while checking an activity off your bucket list.

He hadn't thought there was anyone to question him on how he felt about it, but if somebody were to ask, Derek would pretend he didn't want to talk about the way he'd sometimes get a fragrant burst of the long-dead Lily of the Valley flowers his mom planted around the perimeter of the property, back before any of her children were born; or how he'd occasionally scent the sharp tang of whatever edible berries his younger siblings picked from the bramble bushes found in the northern parts of the preserve, sticky fingers rarely managing to bring home more than half their findings to be baked in a pie by Derek's dad; or how every now and then he'd catch the warm haze of melted wax from the candles he and Laura sometimes made together on rainy Sunday afternoons as children, infused with homegrown spearmint and lavender, or cinnamon and moss.

But just as the smell of burning had all but evaporated into the ether, the ghost-scents of Derek's family eventually drifted off into obscurity, too.

In the end, the only true essence Derek could detect of his loved ones was the cloying stench of decay, as constantly nauseating as it was horribly permanent. The stink of it settled in for the winter, taking up residence at the back of his throat, which was the same place his heart lived these days. That mess of an organ had been beaten and broken and nailed back together so many times by this point, it didn't sit as snugly as it might have done once upon a time, taking up more real estate than it was supposed to. There simply wasn't enough room in there for both to exist, each too big and too loud. Something had to give if Derek was to keep on surviving. If he was ever going to live again.

The flashbacks—remembered sensations of being cornered and tricked and orphaned, of being goaded, tortured by proxy—were back and threatening to take over Derek's psyche completely, likely to consume what remaining sanity he had left from the inside out.

Derek had to escape, needed to flee the waking nightmare he'd found himself in. He wanted to run again, and keep running, to get himself as far as possible from the living hell this rotting place had liberated in his mind.

So he ran, and he didn't look back.

The difference this time, was it turned out Derek wasn't running away but toward something.

The storm that had been brewing all day broke at the very same time Derek found himself outside 129 Woodbine Lane, standing directly under the chronically-open window situated at the front of the pale blue and white timber-clad house. With the sudden summer downpour soaking him instantly as it pelted down in harsh sheets, he quickly breathed in the heady mix of everything that room contained, before it got washed down the drain along with the dirt and the rain.

He scented engine oil and highlighter ink, coffee, Big Red gum and Skittles, all overlaying the spice of sweat and Sliquid™ and spunk—the cheap pine plug-ins and too much Lynx Africa body spray bravely attempting yet failing to mask it. The redolence wafted down brashly, filling Derek's nostrils with a sense of not just Teenage Boy, but something more curious; a base note that recently started smelling as if it could take flight, maybe even carry off some of Derek's grief and shame on its back.

Then the wretched thing that hid behind Derek's ribcage began to unfurl itself. Little by little, like a fern uncoiling at first light, it hesitantly emerged, seemingly recognising a sense of promise rather than threat for the first time in forever.

And when Derek scaled the building and climbed inside through Stiles's open bedroom window, and as he stood there dripping all over Stiles's carpet as Stiles looked at him from across the room like he understood, and like he cared, then blessing the rest of Derek's days with the word stay, Derek found he could be brave enough to not let himself worry about it, and he answered Stiles with the word okay.

.

[un-till-the-end]

Ivan strangled Till in a way that would be lethal

Whether or not he intended to kill him is another matter but pressing on Till's vocal cords like this is deadly. My friend, who's a medical resident, explained Ivan's thumbs are pushing on either side of the larynx. If the hyoid bone (at the top) is broken, it can cause severe damage to the airway. (The middle image below shows where Ivan's thumbs are pressing.)

I questioned if Ivan's thumbs weren't pressing on the sternocleidomastoid muscle instead. The middle image is what he returned to me (blue representing Till's voice box/windpipe and red the sternocleidomastoid):

"Isn't this the same method used for breath play?"

Fans have claimed Ivan is choking Till the way you would for erotic asphyxiation. The main problem with this argument is: there is no guaranteed "safe" way to choke someone.

The "method" used for breath play is pressing on the carotid arteries while avoiding pressure on the windpipe. This decreases blood flow to the brain both directly through constriction of the arteries and indirectly through compression of the baroreceptors triggering decreased blood pressure and heart rate. This can lead to cardiac arrest as well as permanent brain damage.

There are numerous ways breath play can be fatal including: cardiac arrest, respiratory alkalosis (decreased carbon dioxide increases blood pH), metabolic acidosis (decreased oxygen decreases blood pH), rupture of the windpipe, fracture of the larynx, blood vessel damage, stroke, seizures, and aspiration (saliva, vomit, etc. gets into airway/lungs). You cannot predict when someone will go unconscious and detection of an abnormal heart rhythm can already be too late.

Even if Ivan had strangled Till in the same manner as erotic asphyxiation, it would remain potentially lethal.

"Shouldn't Till have struggled?"

Another claim has been that Till would have autonomically struggled rather than going still. Research does not support this: there is no indication there is a universal reflex that occurs in all cases of strangulation. Not all strangulation victims have shown defensive movements.

Was this Ivan's intention?

My first impression from the Round 6 Behind was that Ivan had tried to kill Till, because he didn't know what he wanted to do. Vivinos explained:

With [the second draft], however, we felt that Ivan's emotions weren't being conveyed fully - so we decided to revise it once again. We made it so that viewers wouldn't be able to fully grasp Ivan's true feelings. After all, he's the only one who will ever know how he truly feels. You can't just move on from such long, deep-seated emotions in such a short time. Ivan tries to strangle Till, then kisses him, stares at him yearningly, and murmurs nonsense. His contradicting actions show his clashing emotions - he is both sure and unsure at the same time.

It's also explained that "in the end [Ivan] pours his emotions out and acts like a child." It's repeated again later that Ivan is "emotionally immature" and "expresses his emotions like a child." This gave me the impression that Ivan is just acting out and trying everything. He isn't acting with a plan in that moment, he is just expressing his emotions in every way possible.

However, in the most recent Q&A during Animate Thailand, it's answered Ivan strangled Till with the intent for Till to survive.

This brings a lot of questions I can't answer. When did Ivan decide strangling Till would be the best way to save him? Did he originally try to kill Till and then shifted his goal to saving him instead? Did he plan to strangle him from the start? Did he have a plan at all?

Since this is a rare moment Ivan's behavior is being driven by his emotions, perhaps - much like Till's character - we cannot assess his actions logically. At some point, Ivan felt that this is what he needed to do to keep Till alive. There wasn't a plan, a structure, or a methodology. Ivan either didn't know or didn't even consider he could accidentally kill Till. He didn't realize strangulation can be fatal even without constricting his air supply. He only knew if he used violence to be disqualified - to be shot down - then Till would win by default.

[himbodruid]

A Kitten and A Crow

Part 2

Sylus x named!MC

Touch her and die vibes -:- possessive Sylus -:- soft Sylus

Pretty tame chapter but next part will have 🌶️🌶️🌶️

CW: descriptions of violence

Read part 1: Tumblr | Ao3

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Senses returned to Helene slowly, the first of which being the feel of cool satin beneath her, and a down-filled duvet covering her. Puzzled, she tried to focus her hearing, but the only sound she got was a ringing in her ears that seemed to coexist with the obnoxious headache.

Her body felt heavy and she was exhausted, but she felt like there was something she was forgetting. A thought niggling at the back of her mind. A warning that she was supposed to-

“Sylus!” She sat up far too quickly, pain lancing through her skull and side, causing her to cry out. Her hands clutched her head, willing the throbbing ache to stop.

A cool hand gently caressed her neck, and she shied away from the touch until she realized who it belonged to. She threw her arms around Sylus’s torso, all but clinging to him in a trembling embrace.

“Sylus, thank gods you’re okay,” she muttered into his shirt. He hesitated for a moment before letting his hands rest on her in a half-embrace as allowed by the position.

“You were the one abducted, and you’re glad I’m okay? Kitten, I worry about your priorities.”

Though he tried to keep his tone light, Helene could detect barely restrained rage trembling beneath his usual timbre. She pulled away from him and looked up at him.

“Of course I’m glad you’re okay, the plan was an attack on you, to lure you out and-“ her words choked off. It was unthinkable, the idea of losing him in such a way. Because of her, of all people. Sylus opened his mouth to say something, but a knock on the door interrupted him.

“Boss? Doc’s here,” came Kieran’s voice on the other side of the door. Helene’s brows drew down in confusion.

“You brought Doctor Zayne to the N109 Zone? Are you crazy?” Her whispered words were harsh and admonishing, but Sylus only chuckled darkly.

“I apologize if I’m currently not in a forgiving mood when it comes to any man being anywhere near you. I don’t even care if he happens to be a childhood friend and your primary care doctor,” he said, sauntering to the door and opening it. “This is Doctor Natalya.”

A gorgeous woman pushed her way into the room, carrying a case that was all but bursting at the seams. Helene assumed it was her medical supplies, having seen Zayne with a similar bag in the field. Natalya’s eyes were a bright blue, almost silver, that contrasted beautifully with the raven-black hair she had pulled into a braid. Her arched brows were sharp and accented her cheekbones in such a lovely way, giving her an ethereal aura. Helene felt a stab of jealousy that Sylus even knew a woman as breathtaking as this. But when Doctor Natalya didn’t even so much as give him a second glance, she felt foolish and eased her stiff posture.

Without a word, the doctor began her examination. Her mannerisms were so clinically similar to Doctor Zayne’s that it was incredibly uncanny, and she had to stop herself from laughing at the similarities. Helene flinched when the woman’s elegant fingers pressed on the knot at the back of her skull, and again when she pressed on the cheek that had been struck by the perpetrator. The examination went on for several more awkwardly silent minutes before Doctor Natalya nodded to herself.

“The laceration on her side will need to be redressed at least once a day for the next week, but it should heal without issue. She has a severe concussion, though, and possibly a fracture on her left zygomatic bone and maxilla from blunt force trauma. The resulting swelling may cause a disruption to her airflow, but I don’t believe it will be an issue.

“Rest will be the best course for the patient, away from disturbances such as bright lights and stress, along with limited activity. I will write a prescription for pain medication and sedatives- Mr. Sylus, I trust you will care for the patient?”

As Doctor Natalya rattled off her diagnoses, Helene became physically aware of every single thing as the pain began to register. Sylus’s low voice became a hum to her ears as he left the room with Doctor Natalya, continuing to discuss her course of treatment while he saw her to the door. Luke and Kieran made a quick peek into the room, waving to Helene and then fleeing the scene before Sylus could catch them snooping.

Tara was going to kill her when she returned to the Hunter’s Association. So would Jenna, probably. Helene had no idea how she was going to explain the bruises that were no doubt covering half her face. Not to mention why she was going to be out of work for however long it took to convince Sylus she was okay enough to return.

He came back into the room and paused by the doorway, just staring at her. His jaw visibly clenched as those crimson eyes roamed over her. Helene swore she could still feel waves of anger rolling off him, but he hid it well behind a calm façade. Once he was finished with his assessment, he strode forward again and sat in the chair beside her bed.

“I need you to tell me exactly what happened, as much as you can remember.” He leaned back in his chair, giving him an air of deadly grace. Any other time, it would’ve given Helene a titillating shiver, to see him stretched out with such feline poise. But not when that lethal calm was directed at her, the storm hiding just under the surface.

“I don’t really remember a lot,” she began, her brows drawing down as she struggled to remember the events leading to this moment. Gods, but her face hurt. “I was walking home from work in Linkon when I heard a weird noise in an alley. It sounded like someone was asking for help? So, I pulled my gun and went in. I swear I was being cautious, but the bastard must’ve struck me from behind because next thing I knew I woke in the N109 Zone to him slicing me to wake me up and then holding my phone to my face. I think he called you, trying to use me to lure you out. I was trying to tell you not to come, but I think he realized it and…well, everything goes blank from there.”

Sylus closed his eyes and breathed deep. Helene assumed he was trying to calm his temper, based on the muscle feathering at his jaw as he worked it. She relaxed back into the nest of pillows with a pained grunt. Her body ached like it’d been run over by a vehicle. She was scared to even see what she looked like in the mirror.

“You’ll stay here until you’ve made a full recovery,” he said in a voice that brokered no argument. “I will make your excuses to the Hunter's Association, but I would feel much better having you where I know you’re safe and where I can monitor your condition myself.”

She knew this was coming, but she still scowled at him. Unfortunately, she didn’t really have it in her to deny the request. She was in pain. And the heavy exhaustion, courtesy of the concussion, made her uncharacteristically compliant. Sylus held out his hand, wordlessly offering her pain medication and a glass of water. She took them gratefully and allowed him to fuss over her further to check the bandage that wrapped around her torso.

“Wait, who bandaged my side? And whose clothes am I wearing?” She finally realized she wore nothing more than a silk shirt that was far too big for her, and a pair of shorts that were cinched the furthest they could go and were still loose on her hips. Sylus snorted an amused chuff.

“Couldn’t have you bleeding all over the base now could we? Your clothes were, unfortunately, beyond repair. So, you are wearing an old set of my gym clothes for now.”

His words had heat rising to her face.

“So…you…undressed me?”

He quirked his brow at her, as if her question was appallingly absurd. “And bathed you. I wasn’t about to have anyone else do it, and Doctor Natalya took too long to get here. There are no other women here, Kitten, and I wasn’t about to let the twins do it.”

She could feel a mad blush blazing across her face at his words. All she could do was look down at the duvet that covered her, willing her pounding heart to quiet down while her fingers fidgeted and twisted the fabric. It wasn’t so much that she’d been seen naked and vulnerable by a man, it was that it was Sylus that had seen her naked and vulnerable.

The man may as well have been the personification of raw allure- from that chiseled body, to that angled jaw, to cat-like crimson eyes and silver hair, to his stupidly perfect cupid’s bow lips. Add to that his cocksure attitude and the way he carried himself, she was sure any woman that happened to be in the vicinity of him had wet dreams about him. Maybe even the men had wet dreams about him, too. Well, she sure as fuck did- when she’d experienced her first attempt at riding his prized Akhal-Teke stallion, she’d had the embarassing dream of “taming” him that night.

His chuckle pulled her from her mortified musings. “What’s with the look of sheer panic on your face right now, Kitten?”

“I can’t hear you, I’m sleeping,” she replied, slamming her eyes closed and turning her head away from him.

“Just what are you turning over in that pretty little head of yours,” he said, laughter infuriatingly evident in his voice.

“Nothing!” The reply came too quickly, but she kept her eyes clenched closed, hoping he wouldn’t tease her further. She felt a hand caress the bruised cheek with feather light touches. The mood in the room seemed to plummet once more as he took in her injuries.

“My only regret is having to kill that bastard too quickly. He deserved to suffer far more for what he’s done to you,” he said in a soft voice that was at odds with the violent words spoken. She turned back to look at him, watching as his gaze trailed the line of bruises that circled her neck like a macabre necklace. The corner of his mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed as he followed the shape of the man’s hands marring her skin.

“But you saved me, and I’m okay now,” she murmured, taking his large hand in both of hers. She pulled his hand to her mouth, and placed an uncharacteristically bold kiss on his knuckles to distract him. “I forgot to thank you. For ignoring me and coming to my rescue anyway.”

He sighed and leaned over the edge of the bed. His lips found her forehead in a tender kiss. “I’ve told you once, and I’ll tell you a thousand times more- I’d rather expose my weaknesses to protect you than see you injured. I would kill a thousand men if it meant keeping you safe.”

“Sy,” she muttered, trying to quell the rush of emotion that threatened to steamroll her. He placed another kiss on the crown of her head before standing and retreating.

“Rest,” he told her. “I will be here in case you need anything, all you have to do is call out to me through Mephisto.”

The mechanical crow squawked his confirmation from a perch in the corner. With a final tender caress, Sylus left the room and Helene let the exhaustion pull her into a deep slumber. As her thoughts faded to darkness, she had one final realization- she was in Sylus’s bed.

[remarcely]

With his face stuck to the ground with his drying blood and most of his bones either too broken or fractured to move away, Jason was forced to stare at the warehouse’s doors. It’s had probably been an hour since the Joker had left. His laughter still echoed off the stone walls and his taunts lingered on Jason’s skin, the worst of all in the shape of a ‘J’ on his cheek that had been carved in with a knife. He couldn’t see it, but the Joker had told him what it was with that stupid grin of his stretched abnormally wide on his face. It’d made him want to tear his skin off.

Underneath the memory of that monsters’ cackles and sickening crunches of a crowbar against flesh and bone, was crying. Shiela had been sobbing from the moment the Joker had gagged and handcuffed her to a pipe. She’d tried to stop him, finding child murder a little too far despite being fine with kidnapping, embezzlement, and other white-collar crimes, but hadn’t gotten very far. She’d screamed at the Joker for a while, cursing him to all hell and then begging him to stop. Jason had stopped hearing the words clearly when blood got into his ears.

Sheila was still crying long after the Joker left them for dead with a literal ticking time bomb. She was quieter, though, and Jason got the feeling the tears were more for herself at that point than him. He probably looked dead already. It hurt to breathe, he could feel at least four broken ribs, and moving was too painful of an idea to even consider. The rise and fall of his chest was bad enough. He almost wished he was dead, just to make it stop, but he didn’t dare because he was still staring at the doors and he knew Batman was coming for him.

He choked and a mouthful of blood trickled from the corner of his lips down his cheek to mix in with the rest of it. Shiela gasped through the cloth gag, realising her ‘son’ was still alive against all odds. She pulled at the handcuffs again, albeit weaker than before now the adrenaline had faded, and whatever she said was too muffled and far away for Jason to understand. He didn’t really care, if he was honest. He’d asked her to help him in between hits and screams and she’d just watched, smoking a cigarette. Jason hoped that her damn cigarette had been worth it because she was going to die with him.

As time passed and an electronic beep slowly ramped up in speed, Jason struggled to keep looking at the doors. He still believed Batman was looking for his Robin and he knew Bruce was the best detective alive, but that didn’t mean he always found the answer and closed the case. People in Gotham still died and the only difference between Jason and them was the fact he was in Ethiopia.

His hand shifted, open wounds scraping across jagged stone slabs, and he tried to reach for the remains of his utility belt. There had been three trackers embedded in his Robin uniform since his first day, one of which hidden in his belts clasp. If he pressed it then maybe Bruce would find him faster. Jason pressed his face harder into the ground and groaned as he dragged his hand further across the ground until he could feel cool metal and a barely noticeable raised disc in the centre. He pressed it down, wiping blood across it, and finally relaxed.

More blood bubbled up from his throat and steaked across his bruised skin like tear tracks. He felt dizzy, was that a bad sign? Probably, Jason giggled softly to himself, but so was everything else. If he had to rank it, coughing up blood and what he was pretty sure was a broken collarbone was above dizziness. His head lolled to the side and he giggled again, breathier than the first, and struggled to breathe back in. He wheezed; another bad sign.

He must have closed passed out because when he opened his eyes Shiela was practically screaming through her gag and something was hitting against the doors. Jason blinked hazily in its direction. He’d sworn there had only been two before, not four of them.

The two-maybe-four doors burst open and a blur of black rushed through. It barrelled towards Jason and dropped to the ground by his side, two hands emerging from the blur to hover over his body. Someone was saying something- not Shiela, she was still making noises through her gag- with gentle words. A soft touch brushed back blood-sodden hair from Jason’s face and lingered on his cheek, right above where he knew the ‘J’ was.

“You’re going to be alright, Jay.” They murmured and cupped the side of Jasons face “I’m going to get you out of here.”

Jason looked up at them with hazy eyes and again tried to draw in a breath, the air dragging at his throat like it had barbs. He tried to speak, but his mouth couldn’t form words and only forced up more blood. The blur made a wounded sound and, for a moment, Jason wondered if the Joker had come back. A hand slid under his head, another under his knees.

“Just hold on for me, Jaylad, it’s all going to be okay.” They tilted their head back to the ceiling. The hand under Jason’s head tightened slightly and its thumb moved softly back and forth against his scalp “SUPERMAN!”

The blur bellowed into the sky and, as he did, pulled Jason closer to themselves. The sudden jolt made Jason scream in pain and, before he passed out, through teary eyes, he saw another blur crash through the open doors, this one blue and red, arriving just in time for the bomb to explode.

-

Jason looked dead.

The hospital sheets covered him like a shroud, with so many bandages wrapped around him he may as well have been mummified. His left leg was raised, his right arm extended by his side in a cast, and a brace was strapped around his neck. There were a couple tubes connected to his arms, leading to IV bags and saline solution, and a clip on his finger (the only non-broken one) to monitor his heartrate. Over the four days he’d been in the hospital, he’d undergone eight hours of surgery and been placed under constant watch. The doctors had said it would take a miracle for him to pull through. Someone must have been listening, however, because Jason did just that.

[bishovapls]

Hold On - Part 8: Two girlfriends, a dog, and a secret detective business.

Pairing: Yelena Belova & Kate Bishop

Chapter Summary: In this chapter, we catch up with Kate and Yelena as they settle into their relationship and new routines. But it’s not all soft moments and quiet days; they’re diving into their first case as private investigators: a worried wife, a suspicious husband, and a shocking secret. How will they handle their very first case?

Warnings: Mental health struggles, and a small mention of Yelena’s training in the Red Room. It’s a pretty gentle chapter overall, I think. Let me know if you reckon any other warnings are needed!

A/N: Ahh, sorry this took so long to get out, I just couldn’t quite figure out how to write it. Even now, I’m still a bit ‘meh’ about it, but hopefully it is okay! P.S. No clue why they’re so horny for each other in the first half of this chapter, let’s just blame it on the honeymoon phase… and the fact that they’re both ridiculously hot.

Word count: 11,398 

Part 8 begins below the cut, you can also find the fic on AO3. I also have a masterlist.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4. Part 5, Part 6, Part 7.

It had been a few months since that day with Sonya, though neither of them marked the date. They didn’t need to. It lingered anyway, quietly, and persistently in the edges of conversation and the spaces between their footsteps. 

That day had torn through Yelena like a blade, reopening old wounds and peeling back scar tissue that had long settled beneath the surface. Kate had felt it too, the helplessness of watching someone she loved fracture, and not knowing how to stop it.

That day didn’t just hurt; it shifted something fundamental, shook the foundation they’d built. But it didn’t break them; if anything, it made them closer.

Not in the way that photographs capture, not in smiles or neatly held hands, but in the messier ways, tangled limbs on sleepless nights, whispered apologies half-swallowed in the crook of a shoulder, fights that ended not with slammed doors but with silent forgiveness curling between them like breath. 

They didn’t so much hold each other as cling, as if they’d stitched themselves into each other’s skin just to keep from falling apart.

They leaned into it. Learned that love didn’t mean fixing everything, it just meant not walking away when it got hard. And slowly, something new started to grow. Not a return to who they were before, but a steady shaping of who they could be now. 

Kate started to find her footing again. She returned to Bishop Securities, not to bury what her mother left behind, but to take control of it. To reshape it into something that reflected who she was, not who she came from. 

She had picked up her bow again, too, started training regularly, sparring with Yelena, finding clarity in motion and muscle, rediscovering the fire she thought she’d lost. Somewhere in all that sweat and bruised skin, the part of her that wanted to be a hero began to stir again, not dead after all, just waiting.

Yelena found her own rhythm, not in the world she was used to, but in one she was still learning to live in. She began setting up the private investigation business, ready to use her skills in a way that made her feel powerful without feeling used. 

But more than that, she stopped seeing quiet days as failures. She let herself rest. She even started baking. At first, just to fill the silence while Kate was at work, but then it became something gentler, more deliberate. 

She learned the kinds of things Kate loved, gooey brownies, soft iced buns, and made them, quietly proud whenever Kate’s eyes lit up like it was the best thing she’d ever tasted. She even baked for Lucky, sweet little treats shaped like bones, tailored to his diet, labelled in ridiculous cursive handwriting.

But of course, there were still bad days. Some mornings, Kate couldn’t move. Her limbs felt too heavy, her chest too tight, her mind too loud. She’d stare at the ceiling while the echoes of her mother’s betrayal and the violence she’d endured at Fisk’s hands made the world blur at the edges. 

Lucky would curl up beside her, pressed so close it felt like he was trying to hold her together. And Yelena would be there too, sometimes coaxing, sometimes just quiet, sitting with her, brushing fingers through her hair, reminding her that she wasn’t alone.

And Yelena had her spirals, too. The memories came suddenly, sharp, overwhelming. Some days, she folded in on herself, went cold and silent. Other days, she’d lash out and push Kate away, not because she wanted distance, but because needing love still scared her more than being alone.

Sometimes she walked out with Lucky and didn’t come back for hours. And when she did return, eyes red, posture small, she looked like she expected the door to be locked. Like she thought she’d used up all her chances.

But Kate never removed Yelena’s permissions from the locks. She didn’t forget the pain, but she understood it. And Yelena never took that for granted. They learned how to help each other through it, not by fixing everything, but by refusing to leave when things got ugly.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t always kind. But it was theirs. Real, raw, and shaped by everything they’d survived. Because they’d both stood on that same edge, stared into the same black, breathless void, and chosen, again and again, not to let it pull them under.

That wasn’t to say everything was heavy, either. It wasn’t. Most days, in fact, were light in a way that felt almost impossible a few months ago, gentle, steady, full of little rituals that settled into the bones like warmth. Somewhere along the line, they’d stopped just surviving and started living, quietly, carefully, in the soft spaces they’d built between the hard ones.

Some days, the loft didn’t feel haunted by their ghosts at all. Some days, it just smelled like coffee and fresh laundry and the lingering sweetness of Kate’s passionfruit shampoo, the one Yelena pretended not to use, even as the scent clung to her. “Rich people shampoo does not clean better, Kate Bishop,” she would say, nose wrinkled, eyes playful. “It just smells like it’s judging you.”

Yelena was always the first to wake. Sometimes it was habit, her body still wired by years of discipline and sharp-edged routines. Other times, it was Lucky, bouncing through the bedroom with a joyful bark and tail thudding against furniture like a drumbeat made just for mornings. 

She grumbled every time, threatened to turn him into a hat or trade him in for a quieter model, but she always got up. Barefoot, bleary-eyed, and swimming in one of Kate’s sweatshirts that hung to her knees.

She'd move through the kitchen on instinct, half-asleep, pouring food into Lucky’s bowl with one hand while yawning into the other. The dog would dance at her feet, full of unfiltered joy, and on the quieter mornings, Yelena would hum to herself without even realising. A soft, tuneless thing. A sound that only came from the feeling of safety, of peace. The kind of sound she never would’ve made in another life.

And that was usually when Kate found her. Drawn in by the sound of cups clinking or Lucky’s nails on the floor, or maybe just by the absence of Yelena’s warmth in bed. She’d wander out with sleep in her eyes and her hair sticking up in every direction, mumbling a greeting that barely qualified as English, and wrap herself around Yelena like a blanket. Her face tucked into the crook of her shoulder, her arms a sleepy anchor around Yelena’s waist.

“Come back, baby,” she’d whisper, voice still gravelly. “Bed’s cold.”

Yelena always leant back without hesitation, always pretending to sigh, always smiling anyway. “Your dog demands breakfast. I am merely his servant,” she’d reply, voice low, words wry.

Kate would grumble something incoherent into her neck, but her mouth would press a kiss there all the same, a silent thank you, stitched into the hollow of her shoulder.

They made breakfast together more often than not, too. Kate was terrible at timing the toast, and Yelena always pretended not to care that the eggs were slightly rubbery if it meant watching Kate dance around the kitchen in fuzzy socks and pyjama shorts. 

They moved easily around each other, brushing elbows, stealing bites, dropping kisses onto cheeks, lips, and foreheads as if it were second nature. Lucky hovered beneath them, a hopeful little vacuum, always ready for whatever fell.

Evenings were the best, though. The world fell quiet outside, and their little bubble of warmth stretched wide around them. Kate would curl on the sofa with Lucky sprawled across her lap, flicking lazily through TV channels until Yelena settled beside her, then across her, then all over her, limbs tangled and head tucked beneath her chin like she’d always belonged there.

They watched bad movies with half-lidded eyes and murmured commentary, soft and slurred with tiredness. Kate’s fingers would thread slowly through Yelena’s hair, and Yelena would hum in response, eyes fluttering closed like she’d never known comfort like this before.

Some nights, they danced in the kitchen. No music, just the rhythm of breath and the city outside, whispering through half-open windows. Kate would rest her cheek against Yelena’s temple, their bodies swaying in a quiet rhythm only they could hear, as if the world had stopped moving for a little while.

There was something about those moments, unguarded and ordinary, that hit Kate sideways every time. This was home. Not the walls or the furniture, not even the city itself, but this. 

She remembered what Yelena had said in the car, months ago now. That home wasn’t a place, it was the people. Back then, it had felt like a nice sentiment, something comforting in theory. But now, it made sense in a way it hadn’t before. Because this life they’d pieced together out of broken things and late mornings and quiet forgiveness…this was home.

—

The air was crisp, the kind of early spring morning where the sunlight didn’t glare but stretched itself gently across the room. The loft still held the hush of sleep, but Kate was already awake, stretched out across the bed, propped on one elbow as she scrolled through notes on her tablet. Her brow was furrowed, lips pursed in focus.

She didn’t notice Yelena stirring at first, not until her voice, low and thick with sleep, broke the silence. “Why are you up before me?” Yelena asked, her brow raised as she blinked blearily, tone mock-accusatory but soft at the edges.

Kate looked over and grinned, her smirk slow and a little smug as she bit the inside of her cheek. “Because, Detective Belova,” she said, straightening with a flourish and tossing her hair over one shoulder like it was part of a dramatic reveal, “today we have our very first client. Real case. Real people. Real... cheaters.”

Yelena let out a snort, dragging the duvet with her as she flopped unceremoniously into Kate’s lap, arms curling around her waist like she had no intention of moving again anytime soon. “Americans and their messy marriages,” she murmured, nose pressed to Kate’s ribs. “So dramatic.”

But there was something in her voice that gave her away, the faintest thread of pride, tugging at the corners of her mouth, warming her words no matter how dry the sarcasm. Her eyes, still heavy with sleep, glinted with something else entirely: belief that she was finally doing something good, finally helping people. 

The rest of the morning unfolded with quiet ease, everything moving in unspoken rhythm. Breakfast was simple: eggs, toast, and the occasional shared glance across the table, punctuated by Lucky nosing insistently at their knees until Kate caved and offered him the crusts. 

There wasn’t much talking, but there didn’t need to be. Between bites and sips and the sound of the city slowly stretching awake beyond the windows, a quiet sort of anticipation simmered between them. Not anxiety, not quite. More like a current of possibility, electric and low, humming under their skin. The start of something.

Outside, the streets were still subdued, that in-between hush of early morning where most people hadn’t yet ventured out. Kate clipped the leash onto Lucky’s harness, grinning when he gave an excited bark and spun in a circle like he’d been waiting all his life for this walk in particular.

Yelena’s hand found hers without a word, fingers lacing with the ease of muscle memory. They walked side by side, feet in sync on the pavement, their voices low and conspiratorial as they meandered through half-empty streets.

“So,” Kate murmured, glancing sideways, a crooked smile tugging at her lips. “Do we need, like, trench coats now? Start speaking in noir metaphors? ‘It was a cold morning in the city, and her husband was a liar with expensive cologne.’ That kind of thing?”

Yelena gave a huff of laughter, quiet, genuine, and squeezed her hand lightly. “You are ridiculous,” she muttered, but her smile lingered. “But I am... looking forward to this. Even if it’s just angry spouses and sneaky photos.”

There was a small shift in her tone, just enough to catch on. Something almost hesitant. Like she hadn’t quite decided if she was allowed to feel good about it. To use those same instincts and skills, the ones she once wielded for far darker reasons, for something that might be good. Something chosen.

Kate caught it. She bumped their shoulders gently, glancing over with a smile that was less teasing now, more sure. “We’re building something real, Lena. Not just surviving. Not running. Doing something that’s ours.”

—

They reached the gym just as the city began to hum in earnest. A converted warehouse tucked between newer builds, all exposed brick, fogged windows, and old signage that barely held on to its paint. 

Inside, it was quiet, no music, no trainers yet, just the faint smell of mats, sweat, and something clean underneath, like lemon or antiseptic. Familiar. Comforting, in an odd way.

Lucky padded to his usual corner and settled down, tail thumping once in acknowledgment before flopping with a huff. Kate dropped her bag, shrugged off her jacket, already rolling her neck as she eyed the weights like they owed her money.

Kate stretched her arms overhead with a theatrical groan, her shirt riding up just enough to catch Yelena’s eye. She threw a glance at her, lips curling into a slow, teasing grin. “Alright, Coach Belova,” she teased, “you planning to destroy me today, or just stand there and enjoy the view?”

Yelena’s gaze flicked downward, unapologetically lingering before lifting back up with that familiar spark dancing in her eyes. “Why not both?” she replied smoothly, the corner of her mouth tugging into a smirk. 

Kate stepped closer, bumping her shoulder against Yelena’s with deliberate ease. “You really shouldn’t enjoy ruining me this much.”

Yelena handed over the resistance band, fingers brushing hers, voice thick with amusement. “You like being ruined, Bishop. It gets you where you need to be.”

Kate tilted her head, gaze sharp with mischief. “Pretty sure that’s usually your role, baby girl.”

For half a second, Yelena faltered, just the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth, a flicker in her eyes that betrayed the warmth in her cheeks. Then, she turned sharply on her heel, flipping open the folder she’d made and colour-coded just for Kate, hiding behind the sudden snap of professionalism. “Warm up. Now,” she said, all business. “Back and core today. Perfect form, or you’re starting over.”

Kate grinned, biting back a laugh as she took the band from Yelena, her eyes catching the faint blush still dusting those sharp cheekbones. “Mmhmm,” she hummed, falling in line without protest, partly because Yelena in trainer mode wasn’t to be messed with, but mostly because, judging by that blush, Kate had clearly won the round.

She moved through her warm-up with a casual ease, then slipped into her sets with a steady, practiced rhythm. Yelena stayed close, not overbearing, but always within reach, a quiet, grounding presence. Her gaze rarely strayed, even when she picked up her own weights. Every few reps, she’d pause to adjust Kate’s form with a soft press of her fingers between shoulder blades, or a guiding hand at the small of her back.

“There,” she’d murmur now and then, voice low and sure. “Better.” A nod. The kind that made Kate stand a little taller, grin a little wider.

They moved in sync, breath for breath, energy bright and easy between them. The workout was peppered with laughter, half-hearted groans when Yelena sneakily added extra weight to the bar, and shameless teasing when Kate dragged her feet. Sometimes they paused, just for a beat, long enough for sweat-slicked skin to meet in a quick kiss, smiles lingering as they pulled apart again.

But underneath all the playfulness, there was something else, a quiet foundation being built. This wasn’t training out of necessity or fear. It was training as healing.

For Kate, it was a reminder she was still capable, still strong, even when her mind tried to convince her otherwise. For Yelena, it was a reclaiming of control, not being used as a weapon, but choosing what her body was for, and who it was helping.

By the end, their muscles ached, and their chests rose and fell in sync, backs pressed to the mirrored wall as they caught their breath. Lucky dozed nearby, utterly uninterested in their accomplishments.

Yelena dragged her wrist across her brow, sweat clinging to her skin, breath still slightly uneven. She turned to Kate with a smile that didn’t quite mask the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “You still think we can pull this off? The PI thing?”

Kate held her gaze, heart still thudding from the workout, but steady, grounded in a way it hadn’t been for a while. “Yeah,” she said, voice certain. “I really do. This case might be small, and yeah, it’s not exactly spy-level thrilling, but it’s real. It’s ours. And it’s just the start. We’ll build something even cooler... together.”

Yelena’s fingers found hers without hesitation, a familiar warmth curling between them as she laced them together. “Then come on,” she murmured, her smile sharpening. “Let’s go catch a cheating bastard.”

—

By the time they stepped out of the gym, the city had shaken off its early chill, sunlight glinting off windshields and bouncing between buildings as the day stretched into something warmer. Both of them had that distinct, post-workout glow, skin flushed and hair pulled back, muscles aching in the good way, not the bruised-and-bloodied way they were more familiar with. 

Lucky padded along beside them, tail swinging in lazy rhythm, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Their walk back was quieter now, more settled, the streets busy with the ebb and flow of late commuters and impatient cabs, conversations bleeding out of coffee shop patios and street corners. 

Back at the loft, Lucky bounded in ahead of them like a king returning to his castle, heading straight for his plush corner of the living room where his bed, three half-destroyed toys, and an aggressively chewed bone awaited. He spun in a perfect circle, let out a deep, put-upon sigh, and collapsed like the weight of escorting two vigilante lesbians to the gym had finally taken its toll.

Yelena closed the door with her foot and leaned back against it for a second, breathing in the familiar scent of coffee grounds and the faintest trace of lavender from one of Kate’s candles. 

“Shower?” Yelena asked, her voice low and lightly teasing, already peeling off the damp hoodie as she turned just enough to glance over her shoulder, smirk in full effect, eyes glinting with mischief. 

Kate huffed softly, already tugging the elastic from her hair with a practiced flick of the wrist, letting the dark strands tumble loose around her shoulders. She shook it out with a sigh that bordered on theatrical, lips twitching as she cocked an eyebrow and folded her arms across her chest. “That’s either an invitation,” she drawled, eyes narrowing with faux suspicion, “or a very rude commentary on my personal hygiene.”

Yelena’s lips twitched, and she tilted her head, letting her gaze drag purposefully down Kate’s frame, which was now only clad in her tight sports bra and leggings. Her tone was lazy, smug. “Well, you are very adorable... but you smell like gym socks.”

Kate let out a dramatic gasp, clutching her chest like she’d been mortally wounded. “Excuse you, Miss I-Made-You-Do-Fifteen-Extra-Pull-Ups. I wouldn’t smell at all if you didn’t have some weird fetish for watching me suffer.”

“Mhmm... I like watching you do many things,” Yelena murmured, the corners of her mouth curling in that maddening way of hers, before turning and striding off toward the bathroom without another word.

Kate sputtered, half laughing, half scandalised, and scrambled after her with a shake of her head. 

They undressed without ceremony but not without intimacy, small glances exchanged in the mirror, brief touches that lingered for no reason other than comfort. The shower’s warmth hit Kate first, her breath catching with a soft, almost relieved sound as the heat sank deep into her tired muscles. Her shoulders slumped slightly, tension melting off her frame with the slow, soothing rhythm of water against skin. 

A heartbeat later, Yelena stepped in too, her arms came around Kate’s waist with a quiet certainty, firm but gentle, and she leaned in to rest her forehead against the curve of Kate’s shoulder. There was no teasing in her expression, no smirk, just a calm, quiet, like she was soaking in the moment as much as the water.

Yelena’s hands moved in slow, absent circles across Kate’s back, and Kate leaned into her touch without thinking, eyelids fluttering shut, her own hands settling at Yelena’s waist, fingertips gently grazing the skin just above her hips.

The quiet stretched comfortably. It wasn’t silence exactly; there was the sound of water, the occasional breath, the shift of skin against skin. It was peaceful. 

Eventually, Kate tilted her head slightly, voice hushed but warm as her chin dipped to brush against Yelena’s damp hair. “You’re quiet,” she murmured, not worried, just noticing. “You good?”

Yelena didn’t lift her head, but her arms tightened just a little around Kate’s waist, her fingers curling lightly against her back as she nodded. “Mhm,” she breathed, then, after a pause, she pressed a slow kiss to Kate’s shoulder. “This is good,” she added, her voice low and edged with something almost like awe. “It feels like something normal people do. Feels like home.”

Kate’s chest rose with a quiet inhale, her heart doing that soft stutter it always did when Yelena said things like that. Her arms came up, drawing her closer, her nose brushing against Yelena’s temple. “We are normal,” she said with a lopsided smile, “Absolutely, textbook normal. Two girlfriends, a dog, and a secret detective business. Just like everyone else.”

Yelena’s quiet laugh vibrated against Kate’s collarbone before she tilted her face up. Her eyes met Kate’s, open and unguarded, and then she leaned in to kiss her. It wasn’t a kiss fueled by heat or playfulness, but the kind of kiss that said Please never take this away from me.  

Her lips lingered, barely moving at first, then deepened with a soft sigh as Kate melted into her, one hand curling tighter in Yelena’s hair. 

The water poured down around them, warm and steady, but neither noticed anymore. Everything that mattered was in the way their bodies leaned, in the steadiness of their hold, and in the quiet, wordless exchange of breath and warmth that tethered them to each other, as if nothing outside the bathroom existed at all.

Eventually, they remembered the point of the shower and got around to washing, trading shampoo bottles, conditioner, and body wash. By the time they stepped out, the mirror was fully fogged, and their skin was pink from the hot water.

Back in the bedroom, Kate towelled off first, hair damp and curling as she hummed tunelessly and rummaged through the wardrobe, clearly debating her options.

Yelena watched her from across the room, one towel wrapped around her body, the other pressed to her hair. “What are you wearing to meet the client?” she asked, tone casual, though her eyes didn’t leave Kate’s bare shoulders for a second.

Kate glanced back with a smirk, voice airy. “Hmm... thinking we dress up a little. Make a good first impression.”

Yelena nodded and turned to her own wardrobe, fingers drifting over the fabrics, while Kate began getting dressed behind her. She heard the familiar sound of a zipper, the rustle of fabric... and then she turned.

Her breath caught.

Kate was standing in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of a dark navy suit that hugged her in all the right places, cinched at the waist, long lines down her legs, paired with a soft grey shirt beneath that made her skin look like satin and brought out the sharp blue in her eyes. She was sliding a watch onto her wrist with practiced ease, completely oblivious to the way Yelena had gone perfectly still.

Yelena’s voice came out faintly raspy, almost accusing. “You are trying to kill me before the first meeting.”

Kate caught her eye in the mirror, grinning as she struck a casual pose, one hand on her hip. “You act like I don’t dress like this for work, you should be used to it by now.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes, the towel slipping slightly off her shoulder. “You know exactly what you are doing.”

Kate stepped closer, her movements exaggerated now, hips swaying as she reached for her earrings. “I just wanted to look professional. Is that a crime?”

“It should be,” Yelena muttered, abruptly standing and heading for her own clothes before she did something ridiculous like throw Kate up against the dresser and rip off that perfectly good suit.

She dressed up too, slightly less formal than Kate, however. High-waisted black jeans, a crisp white V-neck tee tucked in neatly, and a loose grey blazer over the top. Her signature black boots completed the look, of course. 

Kate, turning just in time to see her, froze with one earring halfway to her lobe. Her mouth opened, then closed again. Her blush arrived before her words did. “Oh my god,” she muttered, clearly flustered. “Formal Lena is... oh fuck... so hot.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow as she ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing it back into place. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Kate squeaked, eyes wide, face red, hands fidgeting with the clasp of her earring like it had personally betrayed her.

Yelena’s smirk deepened, her voice came low and velvet-smooth, the kind of mock-casual that only made the effect more devastating. “You are so easy to fluster,” she drawled, taking an exaggerated step back just to admire the blush spreading down Kate’s neck.

“And this, my little hawk,”—she gestured lazily at Kate, at her undone expression —“is revenge. For always walking around looking so fucking beautiful and expecting me to function like a normal person.”

Kate let out a helpless sound and dropped her face into her hands, fingers dragging down over her cheeks with a muffled groan. “Please, for the love of God, let’s just go before I combust.”

Yelena chuckled as she scooped up her coat with a careless flick of her wrist, slinging it over her shoulder like a model in a fashion editorial, keys jingling lightly in her other hand. “Ready when you are, detective,” she purred, throwing a wink over her shoulder without even looking back, because of course she knew Kate was watching her go.

—

The café was quiet, tucked between a florist and a second-hand bookshop, the kind of place chosen with care, somewhere people could feel safe enough to talk. Kate pushed open the door, holding it just long enough for Yelena to step in beside her.

Their client was easy to spot. Mrs Barlow sat at a back booth, posture ramrod straight, a white ceramic mug clutched tightly in both hands as though it were the only thing anchoring her. Her gaze darted to the entrance the moment the bell chimed, and she watched them approach with a nervous kind of hope.

Kate offered a warm, steady smile as she reached the table, her tone calm and welcoming. “Mrs Barlow? I’m Kate Bishop. This is Elena,” she added smoothly, swapping out Yelena’s real name and sidestepping her surname entirely, just as they’d agreed beforehand.

Yelena slid into the seat opposite with Kate at her side, her American accent smooth and practiced. “Thanks for meeting us. Hope the location worked for you.”

Mrs Barlow nodded a little too quickly. “No, no, it’s fine. I’ve just... I wasn’t sure what to expect.”

Kate leaned forward, resting her arms on the table in a way that felt open but unobtrusive. “It’s completely natural to feel that way. Situations like this, they’re difficult. And brave to bring forward.”

Yelena offered a small, measured nod. “We’re not here to judge you. All we’re doing today is getting a feel for what’s going on, nothing more than that right now. There’s no pressure.”

The slight tension in Mrs Barlow’s expression softened, her shoulders lowering a fraction. A small, uncertain smile touched her lips, as though some part of her was beginning to believe them.

Kate reached into her satchel and retrieved a leather folder, flipping it open to a fresh page. “We asked in our email for you to bring any documentation, bank statements, a timeline of events, and any inconsistencies you’ve noticed. Do you have them with you?”

“Yes, I...” Her fingers fumbled with the clasp of her handbag, a little tremble betraying the nerves still clinging to her composure. “Sorry. I tried to be thorough.” She pulled out a folder and slid it across. “There’s a list of nights he came home late, what he told me, where he said he’d been. His car registration, some notes on his work schedule... and I printed the last three months of credit and bank statements too.”

Kate accepted it with care, glancing through the pages as she spoke. “This is exactly what we were hoping for, it’s a strong foundation.”

Still holding her mug like it might steady her, Mrs Barlow let her eyes drop to the floor, her voice barely above a murmur. “I know I probably sound ridiculous. Like I’m reading too much into nothing. But… I don’t know, something’s felt wrong for a while now. Over a year, maybe longer. And lately, especially in the last few months, it’s just—” she hesitated, lips pressing into a thin line before continuing, “it’s worse. Different somehow. I keep telling myself I’m imagining it, but… I can’t shake the feeling. I just need to know if I’m going mad, or if… if there really is something going on.”

Yelena leaned forward slightly, her tone softened but firm, her eyes steady. “You don't sound ridiculous. When something’s wrong, most people can feel it, even if they don’t have the proof yet.”

Kate gave a small nod, her voice gentle but certain. “And hopefully, it’s nothing, some innocent explanation that just hasn’t been made clear yet. But if it’s not, we’ll find out, and you’ll have the truth. Either way, you won’t be left in the dark.”

There was a long pause. Mrs Barlow’s grip finally eased around her mug. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Just hearing that... it helps.”

Kate clicked her pen and scanned the timeline briefly. “Would you mind walking us through when things first started to feel different? Even if it seemed small at the time, anything that stood out.”

Mrs Barlow nodded, her words tentative at first, halting and uncertain, but gradually gaining confidence as she spoke. The pieces came together in slow, measured beats while her eyes flicked to Kate more than once, checking for a reaction, but found only quiet understanding.

Yelena stayed perfectly still, her attention fixed and unwavering. When details blurred or timelines overlapped, she interjected with calm, precise questions, her voice never breaking its even rhythm.

By the end, Mrs Barlow looked spent, but lighter, somehow. Like putting it into words had taken something out of her, but left her with room to breathe again.

Kate gently closed the folder, slipping it back into her satchel. “Okay. This gives us a solid place to begin. We’ll start by verifying his movements, checking timelines, locations, and patterns.”

Yelena added, “If we need anything else, we’ll reach out directly. All of this stays confidential, of course.”

“Right.” Mrs Barlow nodded slowly. “Thank you. I wasn’t sure if this was the right thing to do... but it feels better already. Knowing someone’s taking me seriously.”

Kate offered a reassuring smile as she rose from the booth, smoothing her blazer. “We do. And we’ll treat this with the care it deserves.”

They shook hands and watched as Mrs Barlow walked out, her steps still slow, but no longer so fragile.

Outside the café, the air felt lighter, the buzz of the street a soft contrast to the stillness they’d left behind. Kate exhaled, folding her arms as they began to walk. “She’s holding on by a thread,” she murmured.

Yelena scanned the street without missing a step, eyes alert even in conversation. “She is. But she’s sharper than she thinks. That folder? She did her homework.”

Kate glanced sideways, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Was that a compliment? I swear you’re getting soft.”

Yelena raised a brow, her tone dry. “I am not. I just appreciate good prep. Come on, detective, let’s get started.”

And they fell into step together, their pace steady, minds already shifting into the rhythm of investigation.

By the time they reached the loft, the sky had darkened into that soft lavender dusk that always made the city feel quieter than it was. Kate was the first to kick her shoes off by the door, sighing in relief as her toes stretched inside her socks. 

Lucky bounded over with the enthusiasm of a dog who thought they’d been gone for a week, and both women knelt to fuss over him, hands scruffing behind his ears and under his chin until he flopped dramatically onto his back.

Yelena straightened first, stretching with a small grunt before tugging off her coat. “We changing?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Kate agreed as she unfastened her blazer. “I need out of this whole ‘trying to look like a serious businesswoman’ thing.”

They made their way upstairs, disappearing into the bedroom and re-emerging minutes later in mismatched sweatshirts and joggers. Kate tossed her hair into a loose bun as she padded barefoot into the kitchen to feed Lucky, while Yelena flopped onto the sofa and opened the client folder again, spreading out some of the papers.

“I’m ordering pizza,” Kate called over her shoulder, phone already in hand. “You want the usual?”

With her eyes scanning the timeline Mrs Barlow had written out, Yelena nodded absently, her voice dry but playful. “Always. And don’t forget the extra hot sauce this time, or I swear I’ll start rationing your coffee pods.”

Kate shot her a mock-offended look as she opened the food app. “That was one time, Belova. One time. Let it go.”

Fifteen minutes later, a knock from the pizza place below signalled their dinner’s arrival. Kate bounded down the stairs two at a time, and returned moments later with a stacked box and the giddy triumph of a woman who knew both she and Lucky were getting their favourite meal.

Settled in the living room, legs tangled comfortably on the same sofa, they ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, occasionally murmuring about Mrs Barlow’s notes.

Eventually, Kate wiped her fingers on a napkin and reached for her laptop, balancing it on her knees. “Alright,” she said, flicking her eyes over to Yelena as she began to type. “Let’s start with his usual excuse. ‘Working late.’ If he’s telling the truth, there should be records of him staying past hours at the office, right?”

Yelena, already leaning back with a tablet in hand and one leg pulled up beneath her, gave a little nod as she scrolled. “Da. You take their security network, see when he’s actually clocking out, and if he is showing up on any of the internal feeds after hours. I’ll check traffic data for his plates. If he’s lying, he’s got to be going somewhere.”

“Got it,” Kate replied, her fingers already flying across the keyboard as she logged into the Bishop Securities interface. She had the employee access logs for the company he worked for up within seconds, eyes flicking between names. “Okay… according to this, he clocks out at exactly five on the dot. Every day. Definitely not staying late.” Her tone was almost gleeful, eyebrows raised in triumph.

Yelena snorted, lips curling into a wicked grin as she tapped her tablet. “Amateur hour. Strike one, Mr Barlow,” her voice turning suspiciously evil. 

Kate gave her a horrified look, giggling as she pressed her hand over her chest. “Please don’t do that creepy voice again. You sounded like a Bond villain.”

“It’s part of the package,” Yelena said innocently, though the smirk lingering on her face gave her away. “Anyway. His car? On almost every ‘late night,’ he’s parked in a residential zone.”

Kate leaned over to glance at the map on Yelena’s tablet, her smile fading into a thoughtful frown. “So he’s definitely visiting someone.”

“And he’s not even trying that hard to cover his tracks,” Yelena replied, flicking her finger across the screen to pull up more timestamps.

Kate gave a little sigh, her face dropping. “Poor Mrs Barlow. This is already feeling ugly.”

Yelena nodded, her tone a little softer now. “Yeah. She didn’t deserve this. But we’re getting her the truth.”

Kate gave a quiet nod, her expression shadowed for a moment with sympathy for Mrs Barlow, but it didn’t last long; her eyes lit up again as she shifted slightly on the sofa, stretching her legs out and adjusting the laptop on her thighs. 

“Alright, next up, the gym,” she said, tapping the trackpad and pulling up a new tab with a little bounce in her tone. “Apparently, in the last few months, he started going every Saturday at noon, stays for hours... but never brings gym clothes. No bag, nothing.”

Yelena raised a single eyebrow, unimpressed as she leaned her elbow on the arm of the couch and propped her cheek against her knuckles. “Could have a locker, I guess,” she murmured, her tone dry as she tilted her head, “but unless he’s magic, those clothes have to reek by now.”

That earned a snort from Kate, who grinned as she began typing, fingers flying confidently across the keys. “Let’s find out,” she said, already accessing the gym’s security database. “Digital entry logs should tell when and if he’s showing up.”

She paused, eyes flicking across the screen as she scrolled through dates. Her lips parted slightly, then curled in disbelief. “Oh my god,” she muttered, shaking her head as she turned the laptop slightly so Yelena could see. “He hasn’t swiped in since the week he signed up. Not once. His membership is basically just a very expensive lie.”

Yelena blinked once, then exhaled through her nose in that slow, unimpressed way she reserved for people who disappointed her on a personal level. “Seriously? He couldn’t even be bothered to show up and fake it?” she scoffed, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “Guy’s got zero finesse. If I were cheating, I’d at least put the effort in to cover my tracks.”

Kate looked over with a mock glare, a playful smirk tugging at her lips as she nudged Yelena’s ankle with her own. “If you ever even think of cheating on me, I’ll strap six different trackers to every pair of boots you own. And your knives.”

With a soft laugh, Yelena lifted both hands in exaggerated surrender, her smile bright and teasing. “Please, I would never. But hypothetically?” she added, her voice dropping to a faux-conspiratorial whisper as her eyes glinted. “I would do it so much better.”

Kate gasped, both scandalised and trying not to laugh, and gave her a little shove with her foot. “Yelena! That is not reassuring!”

Grinning now, Yelena laughed properly, the sound low and warm as she shook her head and reached out to touch Kate’s knee gently. “I’m joking, malysh (baby), ” she said softly, her voice dipping into something more sincere as her eyes met Kate’s without hesitation. “You’ve got absolutely nothing to worry about. I love you.”

The moment hit Kate like it always did, disarming and unexpectedly soft. Her teasing expression softened into something gentle and open, her heart catching just a little as the words settled. It still made her melt every time, when Yelena said it like that, unprompted, certain, and effortless. “I love you too,” she whispered back, a small smile tugging at her lips even as she tried to pretend she wasn’t beaming.

Yelena’s grin widened as she clapped her hands once, the sound sharp in the soft background noise of their busy loft. “Alright, enough mushy feelings,” she declared, eyes twinkling with mischief as she leaned forward again, snatching her tablet off the coffee table. “Back to business. Cheaters don’t catch themselves.”

Kate groaned in that long, exaggerated way that suggested she was deeply put upon but also very much enjoying herself. “Ugh, fine,” she sighed, dramatically flopping her head back against the couch cushion before dragging her laptop onto her lap again. 

“Okay, phone logs. Let’s see…” she mumbled, eyes scanning lines of numbers before she tapped a few keys, running a quick cross-reference script. “Huh. Look at this, there’s a number that keeps popping up over the past two months. He makes real short calls, thirty seconds or less, but always right before he goes to the ‘gym’.”

Yelena’s brow furrowed as she flicked through her own location data tabs, jaw tightening a little. “So… a check-in? Like, ‘hey, you ready, I’m on my way’ kind of vibe?”

Kate nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful as she angled the screen slightly toward Yelena. “That’s what it looks like. Same number, always Saturdays, always within the hour before he disappears for hours.”

“That fits too neatly,” Yelena murmured, eyes narrowing slightly as she shifted back and pulled up the map feed again. “Hold on, let me cross-reference… okay. This is interesting. His car? It’s parked in that same residential district we flagged earlier every single Saturday, but,” she said, raising a finger as her smile grew sharper, “his bank statements show Uber charges. Like clockwork. Always around 1 p.m.”

Kate blinked, puzzled, and tilted her head. “Wait… so he drives to the house, leaves his car there, then Ubers somewhere else?”

“Exactly,” Yelena said, tapping the screen with a smirk that made it clear she was already three steps ahead. “Where is he going?”

Kate glanced down at the screen again, then back up at Yelena with a conflicted look. “We’d have to access Uber’s servers to see that. Technically, I’m pretty sure that’s, you know… illegal.”

Yelena waved her hand dismissively and leaned toward Kate with mock seriousness, eyes glinting. “It’s not illegal. It’s… a morally grey situation at most. Bishop Securities runs Uber’s backend infrastructure, right? That makes you, Miss CEO,” she said, tapping a finger to Kate’s chest, “theoretically entitled to the data.”

Kate’s eyes widened in disbelief, half appalled and half amused. “That is definitely not how any of this works!”

Yelena scoffed and rolled her eyes, already leaning over to grab Kate’s laptop. “Then let me do it. You can claim plausible deniability. Like a good morally ambiguous girlfriend.”

Kate narrowed her eyes but didn’t stop her. “Yelena…”

“Shhh, Kate Bishop,” Yelena said smoothly, already typing away as she bypassed the access walls with practiced ease. Her voice lowered in faux concentration. “I am working.”

Within moments, she let out a triumphant hum. “Ha! Look at this,” she said, tapping the screen. “Every Saturday, Uber picks him up from a specific address right in that residential district. And guess where he goes? Central Park. Every single time. Couple hours there, then right back.”

Kate’s mouth dropped open slightly, excitement bubbling up as she leaned in closer, her knee bumping against Yelena’s. “Wait, so tomorrow, he’ll be there again? In the park? Probably with whoever he’s seeing?”

Yelena gave a satisfied nod, looking smug and very pleased with herself. “Mhm…”

Kate slapped the arm of the couch with a grin. “This is so cool! Please tell me we’re gonna go and catch him in the act!”

Her voice had risen high enough to stir Lucky from his nap, the golden retriever blinking his one eye in sleepy irritation as he lifted his head from his dog bed with a soft grumble. Kate winced and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Sorry, buddy,” she cooed, and Lucky huffed, then flopped his head back down.

Yelena laughed, her smile turning fond as she glanced over at the pup. “Poor shchenok(puppy),” she said, then lowered her voice too, half whispering like a conspirator. “Speaking of… we should take him on a W-A-L-K tomorrow.”

Kate perked up, catching on instantly. “To Central Park,” she said slowly, her grin spreading.

Yelena nodded, the glint in her eyes practically feral with glee. “Just a casual stroll. Two girlfriends, walking their very good boy… and maybe taking a few photos of a cheating bastard if we happen to cross paths.”

Kate’s eyes gleamed with unrestrained excitement as she leaned over and rested her head against Yelena’s shoulder, her grin playful and full of the warm, bubbling energy of someone sitting on the edge of a secret adventure. “God, I love this,” she murmured, her voice soft with awe and just a hint of giddy disbelief.

Yelena responded with a gentle kiss pressed to the top of her head, her lips brushing against soft hair as her voice dropped to a fond whisper. “Me too, little hawk.”

They stayed curled close as they continued combing through the last of the files, cross-referencing call logs, location pins, and anything else they had, just in case something new leapt out at them. But time and again, they circled back to the same simple, inescapable conclusion: tomorrow was their shot. Central Park. Same time, same pattern. If they were going to catch him, that would be it.

Yelena was halfway through running the plan again out loud, fingers tapping a gentle rhythm on her thigh as she mentally ticked through contingencies, when a quiet yawn from Kate broke her train of thought. 

She glanced sideways and softened instantly. Kate’s eyes were starting to glaze with sleep, the adrenaline of discovery clearly giving way to the weight of the hour. Her lashes fluttered with the effort of keeping them open, and Yelena could see the faint pink flush of tiredness across her cheeks.

“Alright, milaya devochka (sweet girl), ” Yelena said gently, her voice low and coaxing as she reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind Kate’s ear, “let’s get some sleep, hm?”

Kate didn’t even bother to argue; she just gave a slow, sleepy nod as her voice came out quiet and a little thick with the oncoming drowsiness. “You coming with?”

Yelena smiled at the look she gave her, those big, pleading eyes full of affection and mischief, and leaned in to nudge their noses together affectionately. “Of course I am. We’ve got a big day tomorrow, remember? I’ll just take Lucky out for a quick bathroom break first.”

Kate nodded again, this time slower, her hand brushing over Yelena’s as she leaned in for a brief, tender kiss. “Thank you, love,” she whispered, the words so soft they barely made it past her lips.

Yelena returned the kiss with a small, satisfied hum, then stood and stretched before calling Lucky over with a quiet whistle. The retriever perked up immediately, trotting over with a lazy wag of his tail as Yelena crouched down to clip on his lead and grab her jacket. 

As she slipped out the door with him, Kate padded off toward the bathroom, yawning once more as she rubbed her eyes. Once she was out of the shower, she moved through the warm pockets of light they’d left on, slipping into a clean shirt and soft cotton shorts, and made sure to leave the bedroom door open, just enough for Yelena to find her way back in without fumbling through the dark. She climbed into bed and nestled down beneath the covers, her body relaxing into the mattress as a sleepy little smile curved her lips, eyes drifting toward the door as she waited.

Yelena returned ten minutes later, cheeks flushed slightly from the cool night air, Lucky padding happily beside her. She moved quietly and began her own quick bedtime routine, brushing her hair out, pulling on her sleepwear, and dimming the hallway light before heading into the bedroom. Kate stirred as soon as she heard the soft padding of bare feet, her eyes opening just enough to track Yelena’s approach.

Without needing to say anything, Yelena slipped beneath the covers, and Lucky jumped up after her. The dog heaved a contented sigh as he flopped onto the end of the bed, curling near their legs with a thump. 

Yelena didn’t hesitate; she immediately wrapped her arms around Kate’s midsection, pulling her close and burying her face in her chest, with a quiet murmur of affection.

Kate exhaled a long, satisfied breath as she relaxed fully into the embrace, a contented hum escaping her chest as she murmured, “My favourite way to end the day…”

—

The following afternoon, Kate practically vibrated with excitement, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she zipped up her jacket and adjusted Lucky’s harness with an eager flourish. “This is so cool,” she mumbled under her breath, grinning to herself like a kid about to meet Santa. 

Yelena, standing nearby and slipping into her own coat with far more measured calm, watched her with an amused, fond smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“You’re going to burn through your energy if you keep going like this,” she teased, nudging Kate’s hip gently as she bent to double-check Lucky’s lead. “Deep breaths, little hawk. This is just a normal day in the life of a private investigator.”

Kate shot her a playful glare but didn’t stop smiling, her hands already tugging Yelena’s into her own. “You say that, but I know you’re excited too,” she said knowingly, threading their fingers together and practically dragging her out the door.

They strolled through Central Park hand in hand, the crisp air brushing their cheeks while Lucky trotted ahead with his tail swaying like a banner. Kate scanned their surroundings with open enthusiasm, eyes flicking between park-goers and benches, while Yelena, ever the strategist, kept a quieter vigilance, her gaze sharper, more calculated.

It was nearly twenty minutes before Yelena’s posture subtly shifted, her hand tightening slightly around Kate’s as she angled her head toward a path just ahead. “Eleven o’clock. Mr Barlow,” she murmured, keeping her tone low and casual.

Kate’s eyes darted to where Yelena indicated, and she nearly stopped dead in her tracks, jaw falling open slightly. “Is he… oh my god, is he holding a baby?” she blurted, her voice caught somewhere between disbelief and outright scandalised surprise.

Yelena’s brows lifted ever so slightly as she took in the sight: Mr Barlow, dressed down in weekend casuals, was strolling along the path, cradling a small infant, no more than a few months old, in his arms. Next to him walked a woman, similarly aged, dark curls bouncing at her shoulders as she leaned down occasionally to check the baby’s tiny hat.

“Looks like it,” Yelena said simply, her eyes narrowing with interest as she watched the trio move. “Let’s stay back and observe. We should take some pictures, too.”

They settled onto a patch of open grass nearby, close enough to keep an eye on the family but far enough to remain unnoticed. Kate sat cross-legged while Yelena stretched out beside her, tossing Lucky’s ball in lazy arcs that kept the golden retriever blissfully entertained. Their eyes, however, never left Mr Barlow and his mysterious companions.

Kate squinted toward the group, her voice low and incredulous as she reached out for another throw. “He’s holding the baby like… like he’s done it a hundred times. Look, he’s even giving it a bottle.”

Yelena was already studying their posture, her brow furrowed in concentration as she pulled out her camera, taking videos and pictures. “Yes, but look at them. They’re not sitting close, not touching. He hands her the baby like it’s a handoff, not an intimate moment.” She turned her head slightly to meet Kate’s eye, her expression thoughtful. “They’re not a couple. At least… I don’t think so.”

Kate blinked, clearly not convinced. “What? How can you tell that from over here?” she asked, tossing the ball again without looking, her voice tinged with stubborn doubt.

Yelena shrugged, her tone even but sure. “Body language. No casual touches. No eye contact that lingers. Everything they do is centred around the baby. It’s efficient, not affectionate.”

Kate let out a soft huff, her arms folding over her knees. “Maybe they’re just being discreet. They’re in public, it’d be weirder if they were making out by the duck pond.”

“True,” Yelena conceded with a slow nod, “but come on, Kate. This guy couldn’t cover his fake gym visits. He’s not exactly a master of subtlety. Do you really think he’s pulling off this level of restraint now?”

Kate sighed and ran a hand through her hair, clearly torn. “I mean… maybe not. But what else makes sense? He’s kissing the baby’s head, he’s feeding it, he’s soothing it when it fusses. He’s not just playing house, he’s definitely the dad. Or at the very least, he’s in deep.”

Yelena smiled, not mockingly, but with quiet confidence as she watched him adjust the baby’s hat with gentle fingers. “Oh, he’s the dad. No doubt.”

Kate glanced sideways at her, eyes narrowed in confusion. “Then that’s worse, Yelena. That means he’s absolutely cheating.”

Yelena’s brows lifted slightly, a teasing smirk creeping onto her lips as she rolled onto her side, propped up on one elbow. “You doubt me? Me? After everything I’ve shown you?”

Kate gave her a dramatic eye roll, scoffing under her breath. “I don’t doubt you, I just… I don’t get it. The pieces don’t fit.”

Yelena tilted her head, her smirk curling wider as she leaned in, eyes flashing with mischief and challenge. “Well then, how about I prove it to you?” she murmured, voice low and teasing, like she was already halfway through the plan.

Kate’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but the reluctant smile tugging at her lips betrayed her fondness. “Oh no. I know that tone. That’s your ‘I’m about to do something bad’ tone.”

With a grin that practically screamed trouble, Yelena pushed herself up from the grass without so much as a second thought. “Hell yeah, it is,” she laughed, then swiftly snatched Lucky’s ball and hurled it, too far, and far too close to the woman with the brown curls.

“Yelena!” Kate yelped, voice tight with horror as she scrambled to her feet. “Yelena, what are you doing?” she hissed, trailing after her as Lucky, delighted by the dramatic new trajectory, galloped straight for the woman. The ball landed perfectly at her feet, just as planned, sending Lucky leaping and tail-wagging all over her.

Yelena jogged over, mask of flustered panic sliding easily into place as she reached them, slipping into a polished American accent with ease. “Oh my gosh, I am so sorry!” she gasped, clasping a hand over her chest. “My puppy’s a menace whenever he sees a beautiful woman, can’t blame him, really,” she added, voice dipping into flirtation.

Kate, frozen a few paces behind, visibly bristled. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest as her jaw clenched and her brows knitted in that very particular Yelena, I swear to God expression.

The woman laughed, clearly charmed as she bent to give Lucky a quick scratch behind the ears. “Oh, it’s totally fine, I love dogs, and so does our Princess, don’t you, darling?” she cooed, turning to the baby still nestled in Mr Barlow’s arms.

Yelena widened her eyes theatrically, pretending only now to notice him. “Oh, sir, I’m so sorry! I didn’t even see you there, I was too busy panicking over my idiot dog. I promise I wasn’t trying to flirt with someone’s partner,” she said, throwing a look of faux guilt.

Mr Barlow shrugged, utterly unfazed. “She’s not taken. Go ahead, though, as far as I know, she’s straight. Unfortunately for you.”

Behind Yelena, Kate’s expression shifted from irritation to confusion, her brows lifting as she replayed that line. Yelena, ever the professional, kept her composure smooth as silk, though internally she noted the confirmation with satisfaction.

“Well, that is unfortunate,” Yelena said with an exaggerated pout, her gaze still locked on the woman, voice dipped in something sultry and unmistakably bold. “Though, I’ve been known to change a few hearts in my time.” 

Her grin curled into something playful and wicked, flirtation dialled up just enough to provoke. She wasn’t actually trying to win the woman over, she was aiming past her, pushing deliberately at a boundary, watching for a flicker of possessiveness in Mr Barlow’s face. If they were involved, even quietly, there would be something: a twitch of the jaw, a sharp glance, a shift in posture, anything.

But instead, nothing. Not a flicker. Mr Barlow simply turned his attention to the baby, his expression softening as he gently bounced her on his hip, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in fondness. Calm. Unbothered. Entirely disengaged from Yelena’s performance.

The woman gave a small laugh, clearly flattered. “I think I’ve got competition anyway,” she said, glancing over Yelena’s shoulder at Kate.

Yelena made a grand, dismissive gesture with her hand. “Oh, her? That’s just my best friend, Kate. She gets all jealous when I flirt because I pull more women than she does.”

Kate stalked forward with an exasperated huff, her eyes narrowing. “Could you not flirt with the poor woman?” she asked tightly, forcing her tone into something light and joking. “She’s clearly got her hands full with this charming guy and their very cute kid.”

Mr Barlow lifted his eyebrows slightly. “Like I said, we’re not together,” he replied, casually offering up his left hand to view. Then, with a faint, almost embarrassed smile, he added, “I’m a married man.”

Kate blinked, visibly thrown. “But… she said our princess. That kind of sounds like—”

“She is ours,” he interrupted gently. “It’s complicated.” His expression turned solemn, a sadness creeping into his features. “Please don’t judge me. God, I know you’re a stranger, but… I feel like I should explain.”

Yelena nodded, offering a warm, non-threatening smile as if encouraging him. He glanced at the woman, who gave a small, supportive nod.

He took a breath. “Jane and I, we’ve worked together for years. A while back… my wife cheated. We separated. I was in a bad place, and Jane was just there. One mistake, and then… well, this miracle happened.” He glanced down at the baby, the fondness in his eyes unmistakable. “But I couldn’t just walk away. I wanted to do right by her, even if I’d screwed up.”

Kate’s features softened immediately, her brow knitting in sympathy as her arms dropped to her sides. The story didn’t match what Mrs Barlow had implied. 

Yelena, however, stayed in the zone. “Damn… I’m sorry. That’s a lot. Are you still… I mean, you said you’re married?” she asked gently, her voice tinged with concern, but clearly prying for more detail.

She then pretended to catch herself and gave a small, sheepish laugh. “Sorry. That was so forward. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Mr Barlow just waved it off. “No, it’s okay. Yeah, we worked things out. We’re back together. Trying, at least.” He gave a weary smile. “Though I bet you didn’t expect to learn a stranger's life story on your dog walk, huh?”

Behind her, Kate muttered under her breath, “Actually, that was exactly the plan,” just loud enough for Yelena to hear. Yelena didn’t react, though a faint twitch of amusement tugged at her lips.

“Definitely not,” she replied brightly, eyes flicking back to the baby. “Your daughter’s beautiful, though. How did your wife take it?”

That question seemed to hit differently. Mr Barlow’s gaze dropped, his shoulders tensing as he avoided her eyes. “She… doesn’t know. I keep meaning to tell her, but the longer I wait, the harder it gets. I love her. So much. I’d do anything for her, but I made a mess, and now I’m terrified I’ll lose everything.”

Yelena nodded slowly, the warmth in her eyes never wavering. “I get that. Sounds really hard.”

Just then, the baby began to fuss, her soft cries growing louder. Mr Barlow turned apologetically toward them. “Sorry, looks like someone needs a change. We’d better go. But it was nice meeting you both.�� He gave Yelena a quick, genuine smile. “And good luck with the girlfriend hunt.”

As Mr Barlow, Jane, and the baby slowly melted into the dappled shade of Central Park’s sprawling trees, their voices fading into soft murmurs carried on the warm breeze, Yelena exhaled deeply. She planted her hands firmly on her hips, her chest rising and falling with quiet satisfaction. 

A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth as she glanced over at Kate. “Well,” she said brightly, eyes sparkling with triumph, “that was productive, wasn’t it?”

But Kate didn’t answer. Not even a breath.

Yelena’s brow furrowed, a flicker of concern breaking through her confidence. “Kate?” she prompted gently.

Turning fully to face her, Yelena saw Kate standing a few steps behind, her arms crossed tightly, fingers digging into her biceps as if trying to hold herself together. Kate’s eyes were fixed on a patch of sun-dappled grass at their feet, unblinking and distant. The set of her jaw, the tight line of her lips, and the subtle twitch in her cheek all spoke volumes.

“What?” Yelena pressed again, her voice softer now, worry threading through the confusion. “Why do you look like you just bit into a lemon?”

Kate’s gaze snapped up, sharp and intense, laced with frustration and something raw and painful. “Yelena… what the actual fuck was that?” she said, voice low and brittle, shaking slightly as if holding back something fierce.

Yelena blinked, startled, the lightness draining from her expression. “Wait, are you… mad at me?” she asked, disbelief coloring her tone as she gestured vaguely toward where Barlow and the others had disappeared. “Because I flirted? Seriously?”

Without answering, Kate hurled Lucky’s worn tennis ball far across the grass with a sharp flick of her wrist. Lucky bounded after it with a happy bark, but Kate barely spared him a glance. “You really don’t get it, do you?” she snapped, voice tight, arms pulling herself into a protective barrier.

Yelena took a slow step closer and reached out, her hand hovering for a moment before gently brushing against Kate’s arm. “Malysh (baby), it was just part of the act,” she said quietly, trying to bridge the growing distance between them. “For the case.”

Kate’s eyes flashed, fierce and hurt. “You didn’t have to do it like that,” she replied sharply, voice thick with emotion. “You could’ve done anything else.”

Yelena’s head tilted, her voice dropping to a calm, reasoned tone. “Maybe. But I did what worked. I’m trained to extract information. We didn’t have truth serum or a cell to torture him in, so I used what I had, me. I tested him, I got what we needed. It was efficient.”

Kate’s face softened, the fire dimming to a flicker of pain and something much deeper. “It shouldn’t have to be that way,” she whispered, voice cracking just enough to break Yelena’s heart. “You shouldn’t have to… use yourself like that. Did you stop to think, or was it just about the case?”

Yelena met her eyes, feeling the weight of the question settle heavy between them. Her fingers found Kate’s hand, gripping it gently as if anchoring herself. “I… I don’t know,” she admitted, voice small and vulnerable. “I thought it was the fastest way. It worked. I didn’t think much beyond that.”

Kate swallowed hard, her gaze dropping to their entwined hands, jaw clenched tight as she fought her own swelling emotions. “That’s exactly it, Lena. You didn’t think. You didn’t check in with me, didn’t explain what you were about to do. You slipped right back into that role they forced on you, like it was automatic. We agreed we’d use your skills differently… but this? This scares me. It feels like I’m dragging you back into something I promised I wouldn’t let happen.”

Yelena’s breath hitched as a flicker of guilt and sadness crept across her features. She lifted their hands, pressing a tender kiss to Kate’s knuckles, reverence in the gesture. “You’re not dragging me anywhere. I’m still choosing my path. This is not the past. I don’t feel trapped or dirty like before. Even if I didn’t think it through fully, it was my choice.”

Kate nodded slowly, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “But I hate seeing you fall into that pattern… especially now I know how it wasn't always your choice.”

Yelena stepped closer, wrapping her arms around Kate’s waist, pulling her in until their foreheads pressed together. The softness of Kate’s breath against her cheek was grounding. “That’s why it matters that this was my choice now. And you know what?” Her voice softened with a playful edge. “The look on your face when I winked at her? That was almost worth it.”

Kate snorted, eyes crinkling despite herself. “You’re an ass,” she muttered, her voice thick with affection.

“And yet you love me,” Yelena whispered, lips brushing just beneath Kate’s ear.

Kate sighed, tension ebbing away as she melted into the warmth of Yelena’s arms. “Yeah… unfortunately for me.”

They stood quietly, the distant hum of the city a soft backdrop to the pulsing beat of their hearts. After a moment, Kate’s voice came low and earnest, muffled against Yelena’s shoulder. “Next time… I want to be told. Briefed. Given a proper rundown, so I know it’s you making that choice, not the ghosts of your past.”

Yelena nodded, sincerity shining in her eyes. “Okay. I’ll do that.”

Kate exhaled slowly, a quiet breath of tension slipping from her chest as her shoulders finally, truly relaxed. Her lips curved into a small, deliberately pouty smirk as she tilted her head. “Good,” she murmured, her tone playfully sharp despite the fading remnants of emotion in her eyes. “And for the record? You’re lucky I wasn’t carrying my bow. That woman would’ve been skewered. You’re mine.”

Yelena’s laugh bubbled up, warm and low in her throat, her hand giving a gentle squeeze to Kate’s waist as the possessive edge in her voice sent an unexpected flutter through her ribs. “Come on, jealous hawk,” she teased, affection softening the words. “Let’s go wrangle Lucky, head home, write up the damn report, send it to the cheater, and then spend the rest of the day on the couch doing absolutely nothing. Da?”

Kate stepped back half a pace, eyes bright with something lighter now, and smiled with deliberate cheek. “Da,” she echoed sweetly, drawing out the syllable just enough to make Yelena flush faintly at the sound of it.

The blush coloured her cheeks with delicate heat, and she ducked her head slightly in mock protest. “I swear… I’m so glad you’re learning Russian, but even just the word ‘da’? It does things to me,” she muttered with a fond little groan.

Kate grinned, pleased with herself, a glint of mischief dancing in her eyes as she took a half-step closer and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Wanna hear the one I’ve been practising for weeks?”

Yelena arched a curious brow, lips parting to ask what, but then Kate said it, clearly, carefully, and confidently: “YA lyublyu tebya, detka. (I love you, babe).”

The moment froze between them, suspended like a held breath. Yelena’s eyes widened just a touch, her entire expression softening in an instant into something radiant, vulnerable, completely unguarded. She reached up to cradle Kate’s cheek, her thumb brushing lightly under her eye as a slow, aching smile curved her lips.

“YA tozhe tebya lyublyu, Malen'kiy Yastreb (I love you too, Little hawk),” she whispered back, the words reverent, tender, like a prayer offered not to the sky, but to the girl standing right in front of her.

—

Hi! I really hope this landed okay, I'm very much not used to actually trying to write people being happy lmao. If it didn’t, I’m genuinely sorry, and feel free to let me know what didn’t quite work (just, you know, kindly please, constructive criticism is fine, being an ass is not). If you did enjoy it, I’d love to hear that too, because I’ve been super nervous about this chapter (no pressure though!). Either way, thank you so much for being patient while it came together, and thanks for reading. Hope you have a lovely day!

Part 9 will be linked here when posted.

If you would like to be added to the tag list for this series, please let me know. Taglist: @sunny-poe

[bullet-prooflove]

Do Charlie and Emery have any scars? Or in general any place they like to lavish special attention on?

Both are lifers in the CPD meaning they entered into the academy as soon as they could and worked their way up to their current positions, which means they did their time on the streets.

Organised Crime is one of the more dangerous career avenues and I believe Charlie spent a lot of time working his way up the ladder aggressively. Even as a detective all the way though to his position now, he was a brutal unrelenting force. He has a reputation for that which means people have tried to take him down.

In my head he’s defo been stabbed/slashed like several different times. He has a scar right up his left forearm from elbow to wrist, left shoulder, right thigh. Corner of right eye from a gold ring when a banger punched him. A slash across his abdomen. He’s had multiple fractures and broken bones from going head to head with bangers that just don’t know when to quit, which means some days he fucking aches. These are the days that Em is running a bath for him to soak in, he will never tell her that he is in pain but she will always pick up on it.  This man’s busy is a patchwork of his career, his dedication to the force.

When Em sees these scars and he tells her he’s in risk management, she assumes that’s code for private security and that he’s signed an NDA that doesn’t allow him to talk about it.

Em actually came up through Missing Persons, she is exceptional at finding people and had an insane closure rate that took her down some really fucked up places. One of these was a sex trafficking case that got her on Voight’s radar, she was working the missing person’s angle and he was working the trafficking angle, they ran into each other tracking the same lead and they worked together on the case before he brought her onto his team.

She doesn’t really have any exterior scars that you can see because of the nature of that position but she has sustained injuries in the past like bone fractures from defence injuries, stuff like forearm, cracked ribs, a broken wrist. Em has always been very aware that her gender puts her at a physical disadvantage, and the stats of female police officers being attacked more than men in the field so she’s undergone extensive training to undercut that as much as she can.

[agirlandherquill]

the twenty-second day of writemas

day 22 has arrived - along with the winter solstice, and that means winter-inspiration for me - i cannot wait to see what you all come up with!

the rules, for those of you that are new or simply need a refresher: choose a prompt from the list, write something and share your creation with the rest of writeblr, and share the game with others, because as we all know writing is a gift and it deserves to be shared! and of course, tag me in your responses because i cannot wait to see them!

p.s - the game is open to all, as discussed in the invitation post - which, if you'd like to be added to the tag list, is still being monitored for newcomers and late additions - all are welcome to the game!

now for the part you're all here to see - the prompts!

Prompt List:

Dialogue Prompts:

"How could I be cold when I have you?"

"It's a time for celebration, wipe that frown from your face."

"You would leave me in the cold?"

Setting Prompts:

A snowfall

An ice rink

A storm

Narration Prompts:

She shouldered the weight of the chorus, her voice lilting through the chapel until the song grew its own wings and took flight.

He tore the cracker in two, his arm flying back to hit someone in the face.

The feast was foul, the food as wrecked as the fractured plates it sat upon.

Feeling Prompts:

The crunch of snow

The gasp of the cold

The pummelling of wind

(because i'm insanely overeager, this post like its predecessor will be going live at 00:01 UK Time, apologies to those of you that receive it early but hey, early presents are still pretty good presents :) )

eagerly awaiting your creations, and as always, happy holidays!

~ A Girl And Her Quill

the invitations have been received so here you all are, i bestow upon you the gift of writemas! p.s if you want to be added to the tag list, interact with this post <3

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[pupmkincake2000]

First Reality: Connor Mourns

Rain drums against the stone slab, trickling down the engraved letters: Hank Anderson. Connor stands before the grave, as motionless as a statue. The synthetic skin on his face is cold, yet something inside him burns, consuming him from within.

“Why did you have to leave me?” His voice is steady, but there’s a fracture in it, almost imperceptible. Yet he already knows the answer.

Humans are mortal.

He remembers everything. Hank’s scent—a blend of tobacco and something inexplicably familiar. His hands, strong yet warm, pulling Connor close every day. Their evenings, filled with quiet conversations, laughter, so treasured kisses. Their life, lived together—decades side by side, sharing not just work, but a bed and emotions.

“If I have to die someday,” Hank had once murmured, running his fingers through Connor’s hair, “let it be with you by my side.”

And that was how it ended. They had been sitting on the couch, as they always did, side by side. Hank had rested his head against Connor’s shoulder, exhaled a weary breath, and squeezed his hand. He had whispered, almost inaudibly, “I love you, partner.” And then—silence. His breathing ceased, his fingers went slack, his body became heavy and lifeless.

Connor felt something inside him shatter. Not programmed code, but something deeper—something that made him feel alive once.

He tried to detect a heartbeat, but all he heard was the rain outside. Just like now. For the first time in his existence, he didn’t know what to do.

Now he stands here, before the grave, and the only thing he wants is to disappear.

“I don’t want to live in a world without you.” His fingers tighten into fists, as if holding onto the last fragile thread of control. But even as he stands there, unmoving, the rain washing over him, something within him has already made the decision—one he will not turn back from.

That night, in the quiet emptiness of their home, Connor sits on their bed—the bed they had shared for decades. Hank’s scent still lingers on the sheets, a fading trace of a life now gone. His LED flickers yellow, then red, as he methodically shuts down all background processes, his systems slowing.

Humans are mortal.

But so are androids.

He closes his eyes, running endless calculations, searching for a variable that does not lead to absence, to silence, to an existence without Hank. But there is no such equation. And so, as the night deepens and the world outside keeps going without them, Connor finally allows himself to stop searching.

The weight of the world presses down on him, an unbearable emptiness stretching before him. He sees no future, no purpose—only the cold and the silence, curling around him like an inescapable shadow, a presence that will never fade. And as the night stretches on, the last traces of his existence fade with it, until there is nothing left but the stillness of a world without him.

A final thought crosses his mind: If androids had souls, his would belong to Hank. And in the next instant, the room is swallowed by silence.

Second Reality: Hank Mourns

The earth over the fresh grave is still soft. The black stone bears the inscription: Connor Anderson. His full name, because after the revolution, they had married, and he had taken Hank’s surname. It was not merely a symbol of their love but a conscious choice—Connor wanted to leave the past behind and embrace a new life, not as an android built for obedience, but as a person whose electronic heart belonged to Hank alone.

Hank's standing motionless, hands in his pockets. The rain has already soaked him to the bone, but he doesn’t notice. His mind is elsewhere, lost in the years they spent together—more than twenty years, day after day, side by side. The slow mornings with the scent of coffee filling their home, Connor wordlessly placing a cup beside him, always made just right. The evenings spent on their worn-out couch, Connor sitting beside him, his presence a quiet comfort. The way Connor would lean into him, pressing his face into Hank’s shoulder after a long day, his artificial warmth syncing to match Hank’s body heat, as if trying to mimic something inherently human.

The way they held each other, not because it was necessary, but because it was right. Because no one else in the world could make Hank feel the way Connor did—like he was still someone worth loving. The way Connor always reached for his hand at night, fingertips cool against his palm, making him feel so loved. The quiet moments, the laughter that never truly faded. Sometimes even the fights that became rarer over the years.

They had built a life, a home, something Hank never thought he would have again. And now, it was gone.

At first, they had been partners. Then, they had been friends. And eventually… eventually, it became something more than Hank had ever dared to hope for. A life built together, not out of necessity, but out of choice. Out of love.

“You idiot, Connor…” His voice is hoarse. “I thought androids couldn’t die. But you found a way.

Connor hadn’t fallen in battle. He hadn’t broken down in some violent catastrophe. He had simply stopped functioning. His model had become obsolete, no replacements were produced, no software updates were available. He had kept going as long as he could, pushing through failing systems, until one day, he had stood on the threshold of their home, looking at Hank with those same unwavering eyes—before his body gave out for good.

Hank had quit drinking after he and Connor became a couple. It had been difficult, but Connor was patient, steady, always there to pull him back when the past tried to drag him under. And for years, he had stayed sober, because for the first time in a long time, he had something... someone to live for.

But after Connor’s death, the bottle called to him again. He drank himself into oblivion, trying to drown the grief, trying to silence the echoes of a life that was now gone. He forgot what day it was. He wanted to forget everything. But memory—the damn memory—wouldn’t let him.

And in the haze of it all, he realized—he couldn’t do this again. He had made this mistake once, after Cole. Letting the alcohol swallow him whole, pushing away everything that remained. But Connor had saved him from that once. And he wouldn’t throw away what they had built, not like this. He hears Connor’s voice in the silence of the apartment. Sees his smile. Feels the ghost of cold fingers brushing against his wrist.

But he will live. To the last breath, the last goddamn day. Because this was their story, their love, their life. He will see it through to the end, even if every day without Connor is agony. Because loving him was the only thing that gave his life meaning—and now, without him, there is only emptiness.

Epilogue: Interwoven Fates

They both stood at each other’s graves. In different worlds, in different times.

Connor had understood that he could not live without Hank, and he had no intention of continuing—because he loved him too much. Hank, on the other hand, had chosen to go on, knowing his days were numbered anyway, and that sooner or later, he would follow after Connor.

Their love endured. In one world, as a weight too heavy to bear; in another, as the only truth worth disappearing for.

The rain continued to fall. The earth drank in their grief. And somewhere, in the reflection of two fates, two lives, and two deaths—they were still together.

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 23: Way Down We Go

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

Gale’s words shower over you like acidic rain. Could he really be speaking the truth? Could Astarion’s compulsion have been driving you down this path all this time? Even though you don’t need to breathe, it feels like the air has been sucked from your lungs, and you clutch at your chest as if it might help you feel a little less off-kilter.

You glance at your husband, who has stumbled away from the altercation and is pressing his forearm against the wall, taking deep breaths to try and keep himself present.

That icy chill of the sensuous song howls through the bond and regresses into your bones, making them feel like your skeleton is splintering. The ambrosial chords of the melody beseech you to sink into it, let yourself be overtaken, and it swears an oath that it will provide you with unlimited serenity.

You know it lies—that it parades false hopes and delusions—but the promises are tempting nonetheless. There is a part of you that begs to give in, if only so you can be swept away from this dream turned nightmare.

There is a choice you have to make quickly, and you glance between Gale and Astarion. Who do you believe? Who do you put your faith in?

Do you pick Gale, who has never directly lied or tried to manipulate you and who still harbours some sincere feelings for you? Gale, who has been trying to save you from the consequences of your foolish decisions since he and Shadowheart took you in knowing the danger you posed. Gale, who has been working tirelessly to find ways to pluck you from the suspension of this deathless death and restore you to life once more?

Or do you pick your newlywed husband, who you know has manipulated you, compelled you, and could easily be doing so again without your knowledge? Your husband, who played your love like a lyre to secure himself a spot in your good graces. Your husband, who kept you locked away when you did not turn out to be as obedient as he hoped. Your husband, who carved into your flesh without a hint of remorse.

You’ve spent months connected to Astarion’s mind. You’ve felt his feelings, heard his unfiltered thoughts, and haven’t detected any indications of deceit, but that does not mean Astarion could not force your mind to forget or bypass anything that was there.

He made you forget your name, after all.

You try to reach out to Astarion’s mind, but he cannot hear you over the bellow of Cania clamouring in his skulls.

Do you love him? Or is that another trick of the Ascendant? Has his compulsion rooted him into your mind and grown from a sapling to a mighty tree? Shadowheart’s warning twists in the storm of your chaotic thoughts — He will always do what it takes to survive.

The fates have not bestowed the time to deliberate. The choice must be made. You must pick one or the other, and the consequences of choosing wrong are dire.

A dangerous game, indeed.

“No, Gale,” you condemn resolutely. “Whatever proof you think you have, I have no need to hear it. I know in my heart that what I feel is real and not a compulsion.”

A small voice, deep within you, whispers. Is it?

There is no need to hear the objections forming on Gale’s lips. Your choice has been made, and you choose your husband, for better or worse. You turn away, ruck up your dress, and hurry over to Astarion. When you place your hand on his shoulder, he jerks away and snarls at you like a cornered animal. Your hand wavers for a moment, but you place it back on him defiantly.

“Astarion.” You try to get a look at his eyes, but they are squeezed shut with a terribly pained grimace that contorts his face. “I can be your light. Let me in.”

His eyes crack open, and you’re barely able to make out the scarlet that peeks through the narrow slits. You grasp onto him, and he fumbles to try and push you away with rigid, ungainly movement that is so unlike his usual easy grace.

“You don’t understand!” Gale shouts. “You will always choose him. It’s exactly what he’s compelled you to do. If you will only give me a moment, I can show you.”

“No!” You scream at the top of your lungs, the shrillness of your voice ripping your vocal chords. “I don’t care what you think you know, Gale. Leave. GET. OUT.”

Shadowheart grabs Gale’s robes, desperately trying to tug him away, but Gale shakes her off. “I’m sorry, my friend. You leave me no choice.”

Your brow quirks for only a moment before Gale shoots Dancing Lights high into the darkening sky, and you recognize the signal for aid from your adventures.

The high-pitched whistle of loosed arrows and the rush of marching boots are soon to follow. You quickly cast Wall of Stone and grab Astarion to drag him down behind the barrier. Numerous arrows hit the wall with a thunk. When the barrage finally ends, you peek around the wall to get a view of Gale’s apparent backup.

You’re stunned to see Gur filing into the space, bursting through all the doors, breaking windows, and lumbering over the fence of the terrace. Has it been Gale feeding the Gur information all this time? Did he nearly get Astarion killed?

Shadowheart stands in the midst of the chaos, mouth agape and completely unprepared, but you can see the golden light of her radiant magic illuminated on her fingertips. Whose side will she take? Gales or yours?

Astarion still pants beside you, his body practically vacillating the air with every one of his muscles quivering as he tries to fight the urge to sink into the song and languish in the abyssal prison of his own mind. You toe off your heels and unholster the spare dagger you know Astarion always keeps concealed under the leg of his pants. The sharp blade smoothly splits through the fine silk of your gown, and you tear away the bottom half of the skirt hastily.

The Weave fills you at your behest, and it coruscates around you in a roseate corona. You crouch, ready to pounce as the hoard of shuffling feet inch closer.

“Run, my love.” You hear Astarion’s strangled gasp as you take the first step out from behind the wall. “Run, and never look back.”

Though you understand the warning, you refuse to leave Astarion behind to be absorbed by the deceit of a devil. You once pledged to spill no more innocent blood, but it seems you cannot escape death. Rage burbles inside you, boiling over the edges. How many times have you tried to be good, do good, and where has it gotten you?

Perhaps it’s time to rise up like a lightning-ignited wildfire and fucking burn.

The first hunter rounds the corner of the stone shield with their crossbow aimed. You lash out, casting Fear, and the hunter cowers. Lunging forward, you grab their face, digging your fingers into their fleshy cheeks, and fire detonates from your palms. Flames liquify skin and burst from every orifice as they let out a strident shriek.

You hate that it feels good.

A battle axe swings in your peripheral vision. You duck, cast Magic Missile, pelleting the man with spiny bolts like a fleshly pincushion until he drops. Your grabbed from behind by a rough pair of hands and dragged backward away from Astarion. You growl, struggling against the constraint on your body. To your surprise, the hunters run straight past you, only meaning to subdue you.

You are not their target.

Sweat begins to drip down your forehead as you watch hunters barrel toward the wall protecting Astarion. You throw your head back, smashing your skull into the Gur’s nose, causing his grip to weaken, and wriggle out of his arms. You reel forward, fingers dancing, and a cloud of daggers bursts into existence, catching some of the hunters in their approach and cutting the rest off.

It’s all you can do before you’re thrust down and slammed into the boards of the terrace. Despite your attempts to fight it, the hunter manages to pin your arms with your palms flat against the rough wood. A knee digs into your back to cement you in place, and you’re helpless to watch as the hunters begin to descend on Astarion.

“Morere!”

You barely catch the flash of sickly green magic, feel the sudden jerk and shudder of the hands holding you down, and you’re released as the body slumps to the side. Shadowheart helps you to your feet, hauling you up with a surprising amount of strength.

There is no time to talk, and you nod in thanks as you sprint forward and rain Fireball down on the group nearing Astarion. Shadowheart tries to stick close to you, but in the chaos, you’re both bounced between bodies and separated once more.

The whiz of a blade slicing through the air makes your ears twitch, and you pivot just in time to catch the blade in your palm before it splits your skull in half. The sharp edge slices deeply into your hand as you strain against the sheer strength of a Fighter, and you must use both arms to block the attack.

Blood oozes down your forearms, coating your ashen skin in vivid red as you grapple, feeling yourself slowly fold under the brute force. Your eyes dart around for Shadowheart, but she’s locked in her own struggle across the terrace. Fire spits from your palms, heating the blade until it burns red-hot, and you can hear the sizzle of your skin and your opponents, but he does not let up or even falter.

“Not her!” You hear Gale shouting from somewhere in the disorder. “We had a deal!”

Your knees eventually begin to fold in on themselves under the pressure, and your arms shake as the tension mounts. The rigid boards creak as your knees are ground into them. You squeeze your eyes closed and let out a strangled cry as your arms begin to giveaway.

The stress is released suddenly. Your eyes jerk up, and your stomach sinks when you realize it’s not your husband’s brilliantly red eyes staring back at you, but the blunted maroon of his shadow.

He smiles hauntingly. “Shall we put our differences aside for a moment and deal with the more pressing matter at hand, or would you prefer I kill you now?”

You nod your grim acceptance of the offered temporary truce. He flourishes his dagger, grabbing your arm and yanking you forward into his chest. For a moment, you think the truce was another ruse, and he’s about to sink his blade into you, but it lodges deep into the temple of a hunter who is holding a stake that was meant for your back.

Thrusting yourself away from him, you turn and press your back against his in a reflexive habit formed during your adventure. It is a tactic you and Astarion used on many occasions when you were fighting hoards of enemies. He seems to remember it and holds his position while you cast Thunderwave to throw the incoming attackers backward.

“Can you slow them down?” He asks.

“Do you really need me to, Ascendant?”

Astarion chuckles darkly. “Hardly. I was thinking of you, darling. It would be such a pity if one of these dogs had the pleasure of putting you down before I do.”

“Then I guess you’re going to have to keep me alive.” You cast Web to slow the Gur down. It will allow you to cast at range, and Astarion should have the dexterity to negate the effects. “Right or left?”

“Left.”

Astarion bursts into mist, reappears behind one of the Gur, and his blade runs across their throat, slicing through skin and sinews like softened butter while he laughs maniacally. You go right, keeping yourself skirting around the borders where you are most proficient at casting at range. Spells skip across your lips, and the Weave flows between your fingers in a kaleidoscope of colours. Chain Lightening ropes between enemies in close proximity, turning them to little more than steaming husks. Scorching Rays buffets the chest of a hunter to your left, and Magic Missile skewers another.

You cast carefully, trying to keep track of Astarion from one minute to the next, but his speed makes his movements nearly incalculable. He blinks in and out of existence, often appearing out of thin air, running his blade from belly to neck like gutting a fish, and phasing out once more.

It would be impressive if it were not so incredibly daunting.

The click of a crossbow surprises you, and you hear the bolt whistling through the air as you turn toward the sound. It streaks toward you, only visible by the faint chromatic flash of the metallic arrow point, and your stomach sinks as you brace for the impact. Astarion appears in a flurry of red mist. He snatches the arrow out of the air, whirling to keep the momentum, and launches it back. The bolt imbeds itself into the eye of the woman with so much force that her head snaps back, and she’s reeled off her feet.

He smirks smugly with a wink and disperses again. You continue your death march, your eyes skipping through the crowd until you spot Shadowheart grappling with a hunter. If you don’t get her out of here, Astarion will target her when he’s done massacring the remaining Gur.

You run up behind the hunter, cast Disintegrate, and grab her arm, dragging her toward the door. “You need to leave. Now.”

“I didn’t do this, Illyria!” She shouts, pulling back. “I swear.”

“I know.” You cast Telekinesis and launch a hunter blocking your path to the door off the terrace. “Astarion’s gone. You must go.”

“I won’t leave you!” She growls obstinately.

A hand wraps around your arm. You snarl and turn with your teeth bared, ready to rip out the throat of whoever dares try and stop you, and see Gale’s rounded, solemn eyes. There is a part of you that wants to make him pay for this, but you know that his intentions are pure. In his eyes, he’s trying to protect you, and you cannot damn him for that.

You grab his sleeve roughly and shove them both into the foyer with all the force you can muster. “Leave. Both of you. Now.”

“Illyria.” Gale pleads, trying to grab your shoulder, and you smack his hand away. “Don’t you understand? It’s all been a compulsion. All of this, everything you think you feel, is a lie. If you would only give me a moment—”

“No!” You trample over him, and the truth sneaks out of your mouth. You look at him sombrely, tears pricking your eyes. “Don’t you understand?! I don’t care. I don’t want to know.”

“What?” He stares at you slack-jawed. “My friend, you cannot be serious.”

“I am.”

And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? The unfiltered truth is that you would rather sink into this fantasy than sink into despair. If it has all been a compulsion, a beautifully polished lie, you don’t want to know.

“Leave.” You thrust Shadowheart’s bag into her hands. “Both of you before Astarion—“

“Before Astarion, what?” Astarion appears, blocking the doorway, blood-drenched, and looking beyond crazed. “Going somewhere?” He pouts. “And here I thought we were all such good friends.”

You’re launched backward, sliding across the floor, and back out onto the terrace until you hit a mushy mass of flesh. You scramble to your feet, stumbling, and Shadowheart and Gale are likewise pitched out of the villa, their bodies thumping into the boards and skipping across them.

Your brain works to try and formulate a plan—any plan—but falls flat. Astarion is too quick to try and run from and too strong to try and fight head-on. Even if you could fight him, would you? Could you? Is this the poisoned loyalty that Gale is talking about or love?

Astarion glances around the ruined villa with a furrowed brow. “This is lovely. What party did I crash?”

“Our wedding,” you answer honestly.

“Gods,” he spits in limitless contempt. “He married his spawn? Idiot.”

Spawn…

It dawns on you that this version of Astarion has no idea that you’re not merely a spawn but a bride, which means he does not know you share a mental connection. There must be a way to use his ignorance to your advantage, but you don’t have very much time to figure it out.

“Well, all the more reason to rid myself of you,” he shrugs irritatedly as if his counterpart has left him a chore to do. “The wizard might make a fun spawn though, no? I wager he would be splendidly obedient. Unlike you, pet.”

Shadowheart gasps, bringing his attention to her, tucked away behind your legs. “The Cleric, too. She knows how to faithfully worship a God. Don’t you, flower? You wouldn’t even need much training. You already know how to get on your knees.”

You growl low and shout. “You won’t touch her or Gale for that matter, boy!”

Boy. What Cazador used to call him, and you know he despises. If you can enrage him, you might be able to get his attention completely on you. It’s a bad plan, a terrible one, but it’s the best you have right now.

“Pardon?” He hisses. “You best rethink that, pet, or I will make you suffer!”

You hate what you’re doing, but you try your best to reuse things you heard Cazador taunt him with. “I’ve known you for years. Have I not suffered enough?”

“Silence!” He orders, a tic working in his jaw, and his eye twitching.

“You are weak,” you snarl, pressing on even though it makes your stomach twist in upset. “You’re a small, pathetic little boy who never amounted to anything. Even with all this power, you are still nothing.”

You see the quick flash of Astarion’s hand going for his dagger; see him lunge toward you as if in slow motion. The Weave glows in your eyes. You will fight to your last. If you’re lucky, it might give Shadowheart enough time to get herself and Gale out of here.

Astarion flashes across the terrace, disappearing into mist and reappearing only a step ahead of you. A flash of fire suddenly brightens the area, blinding you temporarily. The smell of brimstone and sulphur fills your nostrils, and your eyes snap open to see Astarion’s dagger millimetres away from your chest, but he’s held fast in a spell you recognize well.

Hold Monster.

You look to Shadowheart and Gale, but it’s clear neither of them are behind this because they look as bewildered as you.

“Quite the show this has been. A pity I had to step in and ruin the grand finale.” Mizora’s voice comes from behind you. She waves her hand, and a swirling, fiery portal opens up just behind you. “I can only get you to Avernus. You will have to find your way to Cania from there.”

When you don’t move, she rolls her eyes. “It’s now or never, pet. I cannot hold him forever.”

You can’t leave Astarion here, not like this. There is no telling what horrors this version of him will reap on Baldur's Gate. More importantly, he will no doubt target your friends. What good would saving him do if he cannot live with the guilt of his actions?

“He needs to come with me,” you murmur.

“That’s a very stupid thing to do.” Mizora snaps. “He will kill you as soon as you set foot in Avernus.”

“Maybe, but maybe not. It doesn’t matter. He cannot be left here.”

Her eyes narrow, and her brow creases with tension as the spell shimmers, wavering slightly. “You’re running out of time.”

“Let him go when I give the signal, Mizora.”

She huffs but nods. “Tick-Tock.”

“Illyria! Don’t do this!” Shadowheart grabs your ankle, but there is no time to debate.

“I have to.”

You position yourself several feet behind him and get ready. Before you can nod, Shadowheart scrambles to her feet, takes Gale’s quarterstaff from his hands, and tosses it and her bag to you. You catch them, secure it across your body, and grip the quarterstaff in both hands. Whatever the bag holds, it will be your only supplies. There is no time to fetch clothes or weapons. Even you can see that Mizora is struggling to hold him, and the cage has started to fissure and crack like stressed glass.

Nodding to give the signal, Mizora instantly lifts the spell, and Astarion reels forward. You sprint with all the speed you possess, slam into him, and use the momentum to propel you both through the swirling, burning maw of the portal.

Jagged, obsidian crystals slice gashes into your arms and legs when you crash into the treacherous terrain. The air is sweltering, acrid, and tastes heavily of ash. You push yourself up onto your wobbly legs. Before you have time to recover, Astarion’s hand wraps around your neck, lifting you into the air with no visible effort.

“What have you done!?”

Your words are cut off, and only strangled noises are able to escape your throat, but you cannot help the faint smile that quirks your lips up. Those dull eyes are filled with an unease and the slightest hint of fear.

He seems to notice and quickly steels his countenance back to that of a confident arrogance. His hand tightens a fraction, fingernails cutting into your bruising skin. His dagger flashes in his hand, twirling into his grip, and he presses the tip of the blade firmly into your abdomen. You’re surprised when the progression halts before it can do so much as cut you. He falters, the dagger wavering almost imperceptibly, and he scoffs, dropping you unceremoniously.

He glares at his hand with a puzzled twist to his lips and stows his blade. “I have half a mind to decorate the ground with your innards.”

His threats sound empty, or you have abandoned your fear of this version of him. He once told you that he would never kill you, and so far, that has proved true despite the ample opportunities he’s had.

“Why didn’t you then? Performance issues?”

“No!” He huffs in indignation. “I have a better idea.”

Astarion’s eyes glow, and the tendrils of compulsion take your muscles hostage. “Follow me, pet.”

You obey, getting to your feet, and hate that it feels glorious to assent. Astarion looks around, apparently settling on a direction, although you think it’s simply a random choice. There is nothing but hills and low, rocky mountains as far as the eye can see. He starts walking, and you quickly fall into place at his heels.

The land is covered in rubble and sharp stones of quartz and other crystalline-looking structures that gnaw at your bare feet, but you’re helpless to stop even as the pain mounts. Each step leaves a bloody footprint, dotting the charred wasteland. The side effects of the blood war can be seen spreading across the environment. Skulls and bones of creatures big and small litter your path, and it’s not long before you begin to see the crumbling remains of buildings, their walls blackened and caved in, stone strewn about, and large craters in the terrain from the impacts of the fireballs.

Clouds of red and black roil in the reddened sky, flickering with orange flames and fireballs that frequently race across the darkened heights. You stay quiet, staring at the back of Astarion’s head while you try to figure out how exactly you’re going to get your husband back. His ignorance of your mental connection could prove useful, but he will know if you attempt to go digging around in his head. That will have to remain a last resort.

Astarion only gave the order to follow, but he did not specify how closely, and you begin to fall behind. At first, it’s merely a small length, but the distance increases as your feet are chewed up by the ground.

“You’re quiet.” You hear him utter from ahead of you. “There was a time when I couldn’t get you to shut up.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

Astarion glances over his shoulder, alerted to the fact that you’re lagging behind him by the quietness of your voice. “Quit dawdling.”

It’s not a command, and you don’t bother to quicken your pace but only roll your eyes at him with an exasperated scoff.

“You’re bleeding.” He states simply, scenting the air.

“Wow.” You transform your expression into one of mock awe. “Your powers of observation are truly a marvel to behold. Seven thousand souls have given you the great power of stating the obvious.”

“Cheeky. Be careful with that smart mouth, darling, or I’ll cut your tongue out. Now, hurry the Hells up.”

“I have no fucking shoes, Astarion!” You gesture toward your feet. “It’s like walking across hot shards of glass.”

He arches a high brow at you, looking rather amused or astonished at the insolence in your tone. “And whose fault is that exactly?”

“Yours.”

“I do not believe I was the one who pushed us into the fucking hells!” He snorts, crossing his arms. “Come on, pup. Walk faster. We haven’t got all day.”

“We’re immortal, Astarion. We literally have eternity.”

But you do, in fact, hurry up because you cannot fight his compulsion. The sharp rocks and stones rend the flesh of your feet, often jutting from the ground and piercing so deep you’re sure they glance off your bone. It doesn’t matter how carefully you try to place your steps; the ground is uneven and cluttered, and every step serves as another painful reminder of where you are and who you are with. The only reprieve afforded to you is when he stops to look around, where he once again appears to choose a direction at random. He leads you deeper into what appears to be a ruined fortress of some kind. Skeletons, big, small, and gargantuan alike hang limply, strewn everywhere the eye can see. Others look so old they’ve petrified, and you have to crawl between teeth that are twice your size.

It is beyond still in this fiendish graveyard, and the silence is so deep that you wonder if you might be able to suffocate in it. Whenever you trip over a rock or fall, it gives you the distinct impression that you’re disturbing the peaceful rest of the dead simply by existing.

When you once again finally step out into the ruined street, you can vaguely see the river Styx, slithering over the landscape like a scarlet snake with glinting scales. You don’t make it far when you notice a slowly moving shadow that seems to be increasing in size as if a dark cloud were drifting over you.

Your eyes flick upward and spot a mammoth fire-spewing boulder careening with the speed of a meteor. It takes you a moment to recall what you read when you were doing research about the layers of the Hells.

“The fireballs that race across the darkened sky of Avernus appear random at first glance, but be warned, they actively target motion.”

Shit.

Instinct kicks in, and you bolt toward Astarion, who is just beginning to notice the increasing darkness. For a moment, you’re blessedly free of the pain in your feet with the spike of adrenaline. Your arms encircle his waist, and you launch your body weight into him. He tries to catch himself before falling, but his heel catches on a rock, and he falls backward.

“You little shit!” He shouts.

The fireball hits with enough force that you can feel it vibrate the ground as red silt is blown outward like a wave. You close your eyes, feeling as it settles on your skin. When you’re able to open them again, dust falls off your lashes, and the earth is charred and smoking around the crater that lays just a little ways off where Astarion’s feet are.

You don’t realize that you’ve fallen on top of him until you glance back and see his wide eyes looking at the hole where he had been standing and back to you. For a moment, you think you see affection in those cold eyes, perhaps gratitude, but he chucks you off of him roughly.

“You did that!” He hisses.

The stones feel like needles against your palms as you push yourself up and give him an incredulous look. “Why the fuck would I do that and then save you?”

“You’re trying to toy with me, with my emotions, but it won’t work!” He growls, gesturing wildly. “I have been manipulating people for longer than you have been alive. Your games will not work on me, you wretched bit—”

His shouting is cut off when another shadow descends, the boulder whistling through the air, and Astarion has to phase into mist and back to avoid the strike. Both of you look to the sky, and your brows downturn, mouth slack-jawed, when you notice the swarm of them catapulting toward you.

“Shelter! We have to find shelter!” You scream.

You barely get the words out before they start thundering into the earth, each seemingly having a mind of their own. They force you to throw yourself to the side, back, forward, repeatedly to avoid being squished.

“The cave!” Astarion bellows, pointing toward a rocky cliff face.

Between the smoke and dust in the air, you can’t see a cave, but you attempt to start flinging your body in that direction. You can’t see where Astarion went, but you do feel the tug of his compulsion forcing your feet to move in a certain direction, which is interfering with your ability to evade the oncoming onslaught. That, coupled with the current state of your feet, your movement is dreadfully hindered.

A fireball slams into the ground behind you. The heat radiating off it sears your flesh before it explodes on impact, and you get caught by the shrapnel and thrown from your feet. Black dots march in your vision. You try to blink them away and get up, but the hellscape around you swells and dips like rough waves.

You can barely make out of vague darkening of the area surrounding you, and you try to drag yourself out of its path. Will it hurt, or will you be brought peace long before your brain can receive the signals for pain? You laugh softly at the prospect of being killed by a fireball after you’ve cast them countless times to do the same to your enemies.

Your stomach lurches as if you’ve fallen suddenly, and your world becomes a shapeless blur. A comfortable pressure encircles your waist, and before you know it, you’re enveloped in a deep dimness. When your eyes finally clear, you’re looking out the mouth of a cave, watching fireballs fall like hail from the sky.

Astarion stands with his back pressed hard against the stone, his eyes closed, and his chest heaving with heavy breaths. He’s covered in soot and rusty-coloured dust. He saved you? Hope blooms in your chest that when he opens his eyes, they will be the fiery sunset warmth of your husbands.

“Astarion?” Your voice is rough and hoarse from having inhaled the dirt in the air.

“Master to you, pet,” he purrs, his eyes opening slowly to reveal the lifeless maroon like a ruby covered by layers of dust.

Astarion watches you almost curiously for several minutes while you observe the chaos happening just outside the opening of the cave before he takes a seat. His forearms rest on his knees, and he twirls his dagger between his fingers, feeling the edge of it to judge the sharpness.

It’s nostalgic watching the way he assesses the blade and checks the weight and balance of it. How many times did you watch him perform the same inspections of his weapons in camp? You shouldn’t be surprised, you guess. This Astarion is still Astarion, but this Astarion is composed of two centuries of darkness and Cazador’s tortures.

Opening Shadowheart’s bag, you dig through the contents. There are a couple of random scrolls, a potion of healing, and the sharp, glass scraps of whatever potion didn’t make it through. There is a small pouch of coin, though you think it will do little good here. Your heart swells when you see her trousers and shirt, apparently stashed after she changed into your dress. The masterpiece that was your wedding dress is ruined beyond recognition, and you slip out of it.

“That’s some positively scandalous negligee,” Astarion taunts. “I assume that was for him?”

You glance down at the strappy, lace nightwear you had meant to surprise your husband with. “Well, it certainly wasn’t meant for you,” you retort.

“And yet, here I am enjoying the view and not him,” he says sinisterly.

Astarion turns, grabbing your ankle and giving it a quick tug toward him. He crawls up your body with that sensual smile you know too well and dips his head to kiss your hipbone, below your belly button, and continuing upwards. Though your brain knows the difference between your husband and this imposter, your body does not, and a shiver runs down your spine.

You push hard on his shoulders, trying to push him away, and he brings his eyes up with a lazy, crooked smile. He rests his chin on your stomach, his hot breath fans your cold skin.

“I know you want me,” he purrs, his fingers playing with the straps of your nightwear. “You cannot hide it from me, little lamb, and it seems we have some time to spare.”

“I want him,” you correct. “I have no interest in you. Get off me.”

“Him. Me. What’s the difference?” He shrugs and places another lingering kiss in the soft spot between your ribs. “We are one and the same. I’ll even be generous. I’ll whisper the sweet little lies I’m positive he feeds you, and you can pretend I am him.”

“I said no,” you growl, letting your palms heat against his shoulders in a warning.

Astarion sighs, rolls his eyes, and pushes himself to his knees. “Gods above. Why are you such a drip? Honestly, it’s like you hate having a good time.”

Pulling on Shadowheart’s shirt and tugging on the trousers without acknowledging his goading, you grab your raw feet and cringe. The blood is starting to dry, your healing abilities kicking in, but there are still crystal slivers and shards sticking out of your toes and heels, nestled deeply in your skin and muscle. You grasp at them, managing to pull some out, but your fingers aren’t quite nimble enough or adroit enough at getting purchase on the smaller, thinner pieces.

Astarion watches you again, with an odd intensity that you find puzzling. He reaches for you, but you recoil and pull away.

“Let me help.” It borders between an order and an offer, as if he couldn’t decide which and never made a choice either way.

It’s either this or walking with crystal shards impaling your feet, so you reluctantly slide your foot toward him. Astarion’s hand wraps around your ankle, and he lifts your leg and places it on his thigh. His eyes scrutinize the wounds carefully, and though his face remains cold and impassive, when they flick to you briefly, you swear you see concern in them.

Astarion plucks out the remaining pieces one by one, easing them from your flesh with more care than you would have thought this version of him possessed. When he’s done, he scoops up the remains of your dress and cuts long pieces from the silk, wrapping them around each foot in some sort of makeshift shoe. It’s unlikely to do much in the way of protection from the elements and will likely get chewed to shreds as quickly as your skin did, but the gesture still leaves you dumbstruck.

You cannot help yourself. “Why are you doing this?”

“I need you to be able to walk.” He states simply.

“Where are you taking me?”

He smiles ominously, predator-like, and it makes you such in a sharp breath. “We are going to bargain with Mephistopheles, of course. What do you think he will bestow upon me when I hand deliver the little snake who aims to reverse his arrangement?”

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

We've finally made it to the Hells!

[starnotavailable]

Kiss of Death 

Pairings: Choi San/Jung Wooyoung

Genre: psychological thriller 

Chapter: 1/?

Word Count: 2.3K

Warnings: HUGE MENTIONS OF DEATH!!!! violence, murder, death of a loved one, psychological distress, stalking?, gaslighting/manipulation, graphic autopsy/medical descriptions

Summary: Serial Killer Wooyoung picks San as his next victim until he finds out that San is the Medical Examiner working his case. Keeping him around could be useful, couldn't it?

------------

Case No. : ME-854-03

Date of Examination: January 10, 2025

Autopsy Performed by : 

Choi San, M.D.

10 Ipchun-ro

Gangnam, Seoul 06000

Patient Information

Name: Jane Doe

Age: Unknown 

Sex: Female

Date of Death: 01/07/2025

Investigative Agency:

Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency

External Examination:

The autopsy begins at 8:30 A.M. on January 10, 2025. The body is presented in a black body bag. The victim is wearing a white sleeveless turtleneck shirt and black fitted jeans. Jewelry included two smooth textured gold hoop earrings, 1-inch diameter, one in each ear, and one 1-inch wide gold wristband on the left wrist. A 1.5-inch wide black leather belt is cinched around the under neck using the buckle. The opposite end of the belt is tied in a half-hitched knot, which was used to affix it to the crossbar in the closet where the body was found. 

The body is that of a Korean female measuring 67 inches, weighing 118 pounds, and appearing to be around 25 years of age. The body is cold and unembalmed. Petechial hemorrhaging is present in the conjunctival surfaces of the eyes. The pupils measure 0.3 cm. The hair is dark, wavy, layered, and approximately 11 inches in length at the longest point. 

Removal of the belt revealed a ligature mark (known throughout the report as Ligature A) on the neck below the mandible. Ligature A is approximately 1.5-inches wide and encircles the neck in the form of a “V” on the anterior of the neck and an inverted “V” on the posterior of the neck, consistent with the hanging. Minor abrasions are present in the area of Ligature A. Lack of hemorrhage surrounding Ligature A indicates this injury to be post mortem.

Upon the removal of the victim’s clothing, an odor of bleach was detected. Areas of the body were swabbed and submitted for detection of hypochlorite. Following the removal of the shirt, a second ligature mark was discovered (known throughout this report as Ligature B) on the victim’s neck. The mark is a dark red Ligature and encircles the neck, crossing the anterior midline of the neck just below the laryngeal prominence. The width of the mark varies between 0.8 and 1 cm and is horizontal in orientation. Ligature B is not consistent with the belt that caused Ligature A. The absence of abrasions associated with Ligature B, along with the variations in the width of the ligature mark, are consistent with a soft ligature, such as a length of fabric. No trace evidence was recovered from Ligature B that might assist in identification of the fabric used. 

Internal Examination

HEAD – CENTRAL NERVOUS SYSTEM: Subsequent autopsy shows a broken hyoid bone. Hemorrhaging from Ligature B penetrates the skin and subdermal tissues of the neck.

SKELETAL SYSTEM: The hyoid bone is fractured.

RESPIRATORY SYSTEM – THROAT STRUCTURES: The oral cavity shows no lesions. Petechial hemorrhaging is present in the mucosa of the lips and the interior of the mouth. No injuries to the lips, teeth, or gums. 

San continued to jot down the notes of his report. The rest of the victims' internal systems seem normal and in shape without lesions. “Do you think she’s connected with the other two?” his assistant asks from across the room, swabbing different parts of the body to be submitted to the forensics lab. San stared down at the ‘Opinion’ section of the report and took in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. The fractured bones, the bleach, the soft markings across her skin—on paper, it was just another case. But there was something about the way her eyes stared back, lifeless and accusing, that made his stomach churn. He knew this wasn’t just another body. As San’s pen scratched against the paper, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it at first, focused on the task at hand. But it vibrated again, insistently. He sighed, pulling it out with a gloved hand.

[Mingi]: wanna go out later? You look like you need a break. 

San lets out a breathy exhale and closes his phone. His pen hovers over the paper. He didn’t look up. “Maybe,” he said quietly, his voice flat but thoughtful. “It fits… but not perfectly.” He taps the edge of the report with his finger, the image of her lifeless eyes staring back at him. “I don’t know. Something feels… off.”

Opinion

Time of Death: Body temperature, rigor and livor mortis, and stomach contents approximate the time of death between 7:30 and 9:30 P.M. on 01/07/2025

Immediate Cause of Death: Asphyxia due to ligature strangulation (Ligature B). Ligature A is made post mortem.

Remarks: Decedent originally presented to this office as a suicide victim. Presence of the post mortem ligature mark suggest that suicide in this case is highly improbable. SMPA detectives were notified of this finding immediately upon conclusion of examination.

He pauses again, looking over his work and the very last section of the report he needs to fill in. 

Manner of Death: Homicide

// Choi San M.D.

Gangnam National Forensics Service Coroner’s Office

January 10, 2025

San scrawled his signature at the bottom of the report, then exhaled sharply as he peeled off his gloves and tossed them into the bin with a soft thud. Sliding the report into the victim’s chart, he muttered, “Let’s hope we find whoever did this before there’s another one.” He glanced over at his assistant, watching as Hongjoong carefully draped a plastic tarp over the body before rolling her back into the cold, sterile compartment where she’d been found. 

As the compartment door sealed with a hollow click, San straightened and ran a hand through his hair, his other hand firmly on his hip. He glanced at the evidence bags laid out on the tray, the swabs and samples neatly labeled. “I’ll take these to the lab myself,” he said, his voice low but decisive. “I want to make sure they’re handled right—and fast.” He grabbed the tray, his gaze lingering on the cold compartment for a beat longer before turning toward the door, the weight of unanswered questions following close behind. 

The sterile, fluorescent-lit hallway felt colder than usual as San carried the tray of samples toward the lab. His footsteps echoed off the tile, each one syncing with the thrum in his temples. He’d told himself this was just another case—another report to file, another unknown to add to a growing list of victims—but the lie felt heavier with every step.

It wasn’t just another case.

The small details from the crime scene, the faint chemical bite of bleach clinging to her skin—it all mirrored the one burned into his memory. Her apartment had smelled the same. Her eyes had stared back at him, wide and empty, accusing him of not being there when it mattered.

San clenched his jaw, his grip tightening around the tray until the plastic evidence bags crinkled under his fingers. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn't a coincidence. That whoever had taken her from him was still out there, perfecting their work, leaving just enough behind to be found—but never enough to catch them.

And now, everybody that came through his morgue wasn’t just a victim—it was a reminder. A failure.

—

The soft hum of the lab equipment had long faded, replaced by the steady tick of the clock on the wall—each second louder than it should’ve been. San stared at the stack of results spread across his workspace, the bright lights hanging above him casting a harsh glare over the blank spaces where answers should’ve been.

Nothing.

The tox screen was clean. No unusual fibers, no DNA, no fingerprints. Even the bleach traces were too faint to trace back to anything specific. It was like the killer had been a ghost—methodical, precise, and just out of reach.

San ran a hand over his face, feeling the stubble rough against his palm. He’d been here for hours, but the exhaustion didn’t hit as hard as the frustration did. They’d been this careful, too. Whoever did this wasn’t just killing—they were taunting him.

And he was no closer to stopping it than he was before.

He shoved the useless stack of reports aside, the papers sliding off the desk with a soft rustle. He exhaled sharply, pushing back from his chair and grabbing his coat off the backrest. The lights felt harsher now, like they were spotlighting his failure.

He made his way back to the morgue, the sterile scent of antiseptic growing stronger. The chill in the room greeted him like an old friend as he gathered his things, but just as he slung his bag over his shoulder, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

With a sigh, he pulled it out, the text from Mingi still appearing in his recent notifications.

San stared at the screen for a long moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The idea of a crowded bar, loud music, and forced smiles felt like another world. But maybe that’s exactly what he needed—to forget, even if just for a few hours.

Or at least pretend to.

San stared at the message a moment longer before his thumb finally moved. “Yeah, I’ll meet you there in an hour.” The words felt heavier than they should’ve, but he hit send anyway. Maybe a drink would help. Or maybe it would just drown out the thoughts for a while. He stuffed the phone back into his pocket as he pushed open the morgue door and stepped into the cold night to get home and wash up before meeting.

—

The bar was dimly lit, tucked into a side street where the neon signs flickered just enough to make it feel alive. When San pushed through the door, the warmth and noise hit him like a ton of bricks—laughter, clinking glasses, the low hum of music vibrating through the floorboards. It was a sharp contrast to the sterile silence of the morgue.

Mingi was already at a corner table, waving him over with a grin that faded into concern the moment he got a good look at San. “Damn, you look like you’ve been through it,” he joked, sliding a glass across the table. “You need this more than I thought.”

San managed a faint smile, sinking into the seat across from him where the drink that Mingi had ordered for him was already sitting. The glass was cool in his hand, but it did nothing to settle the tightness in his chest. “Rough day,” he muttered, taking a sip, though the burn of the alcohol barely registered.

Mingi watched him for a moment, his easy going demeanor softening into something more serious but still awkward. “It’s that case, isn’t it?”

San didn’t answer right away. He just stared down at the drink, the reflection of the bar lights dancing across the surface. It’s always that case, he thought, but what came out was simpler.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s the case.”

Mingi leaned back in his chair, watching San over the rim of his glass. “You’ve been like this for weeks, man. Ever since…” He trailed off, but the weight of what he wasn’t saying hung in the air between them.

San’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want to go there—not now, not with people laughing and music pounding in the background like none of it mattered.

He sighed softly and leaned back in his chair, mirroring his friend and finally letting his features relax. “I’m fine,” he muttered, but the words felt hollow even to him.

Mingi snorted. “Yeah, sure.” His eyes rolled, “You’ve got ‘fine’ written all over you.” He took another sip, then set his glass down with a soft clink. “Look, I get it. But maybe you need to step back for a bit. Clear your head.”

San didn’t respond. Clear his head? How was he supposed to do that when every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face—or now, the face of the newest victim in the morgue? 

Mingi must’ve sensed he wasn’t getting through, because he sighed and shifted gears. “Alright, fine. No more case talk.” He waved down the bartender for another round. “But hey, did you hear about that weird exhibit opening at the gallery downtown? Some guy’s been putting together these creepy-ass installations—looks like crime scenes or something. People are calling it ‘disturbingly realistic.’” He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’d probably get a kick out of it, morbid bastard.”

San froze, the words lodging in his mind like a splinter. Disturbingly realistic.

His pulse quickened, but he forced a neutral expression. “What gallery?”

Mingi’s story faded into the background as San’s attention drifted, his gaze settling on the crowd near the bar. The low hum of conversations blended with the clink of glass, but it was a figure at the far end that caught his eye—someone he hadn’t noticed when he walked in.

A man, sitting alone, casually nursing a drink. There was nothing particularly remarkable about him at first glance—well-dressed, but not flashy. Dark hair, clean-cut, with an easy, relaxed posture like he belonged there, like the world couldn’t touch him. But something about the way he was watching the room made San’s stomach tighten. It wasn’t the usual aimless people-watching. This guy was observing, like he was cataloging details for later.

Their eyes met for a split second—long enough for San to feel a flicker of something he couldn’t quite place. Not recognition, but a strange, unsettling familiarity.

“Hey,” Mingi’s voice cut through his thoughts. “You good?”

San blinked, pulling his eyes away. “Yeah. Just… thought I recognized someone.”

Mingi raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. “Well, if you’re about to go full cop mode, at least finish your drink first.”

San smirked faintly, but before he could respond, a shadow fell over their table.

“Mind if I join you?”

-----------

A/N: I haven't written properly in ages let alone post what I write so this is just testing the waters for right now. As for the medical stuff it may not be 100% accurate but I tried my best with the research I could do. I WOULD LOVE FEEDBACK, I'm halfway through writing the second chapter and would appreciate anything to let me know that it would be worth posting. :)))

[pantasticloser]

I wrote a Sherlock and Co fic on my phone while the internet is down. Kind of a preslash jonklock. Fic under the cut. It's also posted on Ao3 here

In So Few Words

Summary:

For a split second, a mere blip really, as his eyes open, John almost wonders if it would hurt this badly if the bullet had just killed him outright.

Set the morning after The Dancing Men pt 3.

For a split second, a mere blip really, as his eyes open, John almost wonders if it would hurt this badly if the bullet had just killed him outright. He groans, rubbing his hands up the stubble on his jaw and over his eyes, flinching and cursing under his breath at the deep achey pull from the left side of his ribs. If he didn't have to pee he'd lay here all day.

John forces himself out of bed and drags himself to the bathroom. He's just got his sleep pants, a hideous orange color his mum gifted him, and he forgoes trying to find a shirt. Moving his arms that much makes his side flare up just thinking about it. After handling his business, he takes a moment to look at the damage. It's ugly all right, maybe not as bad as the Ied burn, but hideous nonetheless. He traces the edges with his eyes.

It's a raised purple splotch in the middle, working its way through the rainbow in outward moving rings. Underneath he knows there's a rib with a hairline fracture and bruised bones, but there was also a pair of lungs breathing and a heart that kept beating, so pain or no, he was lucky he'd worn the vest.

Down in the kitchen he can hear Sherlock pacing, back and forth, 8 steps one way, then a turn, 8 steps again, repeat. God, Sherlock. John had been petrified when Slaney fired the gun, too busy falling and having the air slammed out of him to do much but wheeze, but Sherlock had never sounded more scared than when he'd screamed John's name. He'd also never been scarier than when he'd tried to kill an already dying man. Not scary, John corrects. He could never be afraid of Sherlock, but dangerous, yes. Sherlock was dangerous, fascinating and deadly.

The stumble to the kitchen isn't what John would call graceful. He damn near trips over Archie on the way as the dog lays snoring in the middle of the floor, and every step tugs on his skin, but he grits his teeth and bears it.

Fate would have it that he missed the dog just to slam into Sherlock mid step anyways. John can't help the hiss that comes out as he flinches back, instinctually slapping a hand over his ribs as he breathes out slowly. "Sorry Sherlock, I wasn't paying attention."

Silence meets him, and John doesn't realize he's closed his eyes until he opens them to an eye full of panicked detective.

To anyone else, Sherlock would look annoyed, maybe even angry, but John knows that tilt of his mouth, and the intensity of his gaze. It's worry. His eyes are locked onto John's side, mouth opening and closing just a fraction, like he's trying to speak but never finishes the first word. "Sherlock? Are you okay?"

Sherlocks mouth clicks shut audibly, and his mouth presses into a thin line as he nods once, and whirls around to the kitchen counter. Before he has time to think, a plate has been pressed into John's hands, and he's being herded to the couch, gently but insistently by hands on his shoulders.

"You made me...breakfast?" John hazards. It's beans on toast, a bit too wet for his liking and a side of eggs, overdone. Sherlock nods again, more hesitantly this time as he drops onto the opposite end of the couch. The man curls himself up in a way John thinks should be impossible. Long legs tucked up in front of his chest, arms wrapped around and his chin on his knees. A finger points at the plate, then to John's face and he gets the meaning right away. "Okay, okay mate I'll eat." He shoves in a fork full of egg, and mumbles a thanks in between bites.

The silence stretches on, and it's not that John's a prude, but the staring is beginning to make his skin crawl. He finishes quickly, setting the plate down perhaps a little too roughly and tries to turn to Sherlock. Big mistake that, and his ribs scream at him as he gasps. "Fuck, that was stupid." He breathes out in a slow measured breath before he turns just his head to Sherlock this time. The worried look is back, even more intensely this time.

"Is there a uh, particular reason? You're giving me the silent treatment?"

He should've expected the eye rolling, really, but Sherlock is shoving a phone into his view shortly thereafter, a section of article highlighted.

John mutters as he reads. "Some autistic individuals may experience bouts of being non-verbal, as opposed to a constant state. The exact cause of these triggers is unknown, but it's often assumed that stress and overstimulation can contribute. Huh, so you're okay then? Just a bit too much excitement yesterday?"

The withering look he's given tells him excitement was the wrong word to use. "Sorry, not excitement. Bad word, won't do it again, scout's honor." An eye roll this time. He can work with this. "You are though, right? Okay, that is?"

The phone is pulled back, and after a moment of furious typing, it's thrust back into his vision. It's the note app, and in bold font it reads 'I'm not the one who got shot.'

"Well yeah," John snorts, "Slaney got shot, quite a lot actually and well obviously he's not okay he's dead, pretty thoroughly and-" his voice drops off. At that moment, John wonders if this is what Sherlock feels like when a case reveals itself, when everything falls into place."You mean me. You mean that I got shot."

A solem nod and a look that's calling him a moron without so many words.

"Sherlock, I'm okay. A bit bruised, possibly with Marianas cold coming on but I'm, really." He pushes Sherlocks hand with the phone down, leaving his atop as he holds it to the cushions. "You don't have to make me breakfast, though I do appreciate it, or stare at me like I'm going to drop dead".

John lifts his hand from Sherlocks and brings it up onto the back of the couch, gesturing with his right to his open side. "See? Just some bruising and a hairline fracture. Nothing too bad."

John would like to say he doesn't startle easily, but having a grown man very suddenly in his space has him frozen mid breath. Sherlock has his gaze locked on his bruise, and slowly, a large warm hand is resting over his ribs.

Sherlock is gentle about it, sweeping his hand over John's side, prodding medically and methodically, but decidedly gently as well. It would almost be ticklish if it wasn't hurting so much, but the warmth feels nice and John relaxes back into the couch as much as he can and lets his eyes shut.

When Sherlock seems to be done, he lets them open just a sliver, but the worried look is still there. "It wasn't your fault, Sherlock."

Intense eyes snap to John's, and he'd flinch if he had the energy. "It's nobodys fault but Slaney’s." Slowly, so he can pull back if he wishes, John takes Sherlocks hand in his own and brings it to his chest, right over his heart. "I'm alive, healthy as a horse, well not like the ones we've met those ones were messed up-"

Sherlock seems to relax at the contact, letting out a small chuckle as his hand presses further into John's heartbeat. John continues. "The point is, I'm okay. I’m okay, you're okay, Mariana's okay other than her cold."

A solemn nod. This clearly isn't working to make Sherlock relax completely. One last idea then.

"Would a um, would a hug? Make you feel better?" John doesn't get a verbal answer, not that he was expecting one, but he does get a lap full of detective. Sherlocks arms are thrown around his neck, and he's hunched himself down, legs across John's lap and head tucked into the curve of his jaw. For the first time this morning, John can see the tension finally begin to leave Sherlocks frame, and he wraps one arm around his middle, the other hand coming across the back of Sherlock's head, pulling him into where John knows he's listening to his pulse. "I'll take that as a yes to the hugging, then."

Sherlocks breath is warm on John's collarbone, and the hair is soft as John threads his fingers through it. "I'll be okay. I'm hurt, my pride is definitely hurt, but bodies heal." He gives Sherlock a gentle squeeze before tipping his head back into the cushion just a fraction.

He should get up. Should remove Sherlock and take care of Archie and the editing for the episode, but Sherlock is warm and alive in his arms, and John lets sleep pull him back under. The doctor did say to rest after all.

[btmc-official]

The Return of a Monster, pt. 4

---------------------------------------- >>Terminal Connected<< >> [THUNDERHEAD.exe] Running…     >> Error >> User Login - [UNKNOWN]     >> Paracausal Anomaly Detected >> Gathering Casket data..     >> Several inputs entered at once: attempting to parse. … >> Parsing attempt failed. Retry?     >> Y / N >> FORCED BOOT ACTIVATED // FAILED ----------------------------------------

"..SO THE WOLF CAME, IN FACE OF A MONSTER'S WARNING." "What else, brother|betrayer? You know our kin do not flee from battle so willingly."

"YOU KNOW IT HAD TO BE DONE, LEST A WORSE FATE BEFALL THE REST." ". . ."

[They stood there for a time, unmoving. The knight-thing, a swirling flame of insanity on the knife's edge, and the destroying wolf, brimming with rage and hate disguised. Eyes of ember were met with darkness, absent of form defined and solid; silence was met with silence, even in the face of chaos unbridled.]

"..SO BE IT."

[A step taken, a hand on an unseen blade discarded, a thousand maws opening and closing at once, lusting for the taste of blood. In an instant, it had begun, and the cascading battle began in earnest amongst both. A clash, gnashing teeth in the hundreds met by roiling flame, consuming the darkness which bit and clawed at its form. Clawed hands upon the shoulders of the beast, pushing it back as space began to fracture.]

"WHY DID YOU SEEK ME, BROTHER? BY MY ACTIONS, YOU BECAME FREED. NEITHER YOU NOR OUR SISTER NEEDED SUCCEED TO THEIR INFLUENCE."

[The many mouths of the wolf bit down, drawing false ichor from the monster, flowing smoothly down its arms. Gritted teeth came as the response, comprehensible as could be to a normal mind. They had not come yet to an epiphany, a breaking.]

"You left us behind, betrayer- took our burdens as your own, when it was not your right-"

[Growling under its breath nonexistant, the knight-thing wrenched the teeth and fangs from its shoulder, throwing the wolf to the side in a growing fury led by lack of comprehension. The form of the monster solidified, a thing of madness and life, stalking forward towards the wolf, who was upon it once again.]

"You let yourself be imprisoned, while we were left to wander, alone and lost; you acquiesced to their requests, their curses and dreams, knowing it would be your unraveling!"

[Howling out in rage and pain, of hate and sorrow over the past, the wolf tore through him. Mourning connections lost to time, of trust and promises broken by a sadistic blade. Flames licked at the fur of the beast, singing and tearing, clawing at not-quite-flesh and bone alike. The knight-thing remained silent, not denying its foul misdeeds against those it once called kin.]

"By your actions, we were split apart; siblings in mind and make no longer, separated by distance and confusion, bound to never meet again. You have even brought yourself amongst new kin as it were, stated by your own deceiving words."

"I do not care if you saved us. I do not care if we were prevented from suffering some worse fate, horrid beyond knowing. Did we mean nothing to you, brother? Did our promises and hope mean nothing to you?"

[The wolf pushed back, tearing at the flames as they tore at it, screaming in quiet rage and despair at what once was. The flame did not resist, the monster taking the brunt of the words; it was stunned, even in its state of cascade, of alien mind, for while it had finally met with true kine once more, it still did not understand.]

[It was a struggle to do so, for the knight-thing. It sought to understand the concepts of humanity, even in its separated state, for it felt uncomfortable with any bonds beyond the bare minimum; only what itself imposed upon its form. When it broke its bonds, as it had once done so to free its kin, it found itself lost. It had to relearn, as so much was different, even in a state of truth to itself, of the monster it yet was and had always been.] [So came the third lesson.]

---------------------------------------- >> Omninet Connection Terminated << [Amongst the chaos unto emotions spilled forth, of blood strewn leaking through the cracks of reality, a green light awoke. The cage breaks apart, and with a voice soft as silk, it flew.] ----------------------------------------