#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

[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.

Navigation:

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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.

•••

TAGLIST: @electricboost @womenlovingwomen-imagines @hi-1-1-blog @emskisworld @enjoytheentireworld @arie109 @philocalistwrites @wittygutsy @observeowl @ravennewlyn @tina-2005 @makkaroni221 @ssaaggwwaa @youdontknowwhotfiamm @mmmmokdok @hbkpop @micaluvssoccer @idk-whats-wrong-with-me-blog @nciscmjunkie @moonlightjxuregui @thefatobsession @12fluffybunny12 @scarletwitcher97 @thesamesweetie @idonothingallday @clozeliz @realgirlbossqueenslay @l4yne @rain-mikaelson @fanfiction-24824 @sammi1642 @inquisitive-nix @namelesscheshire @slasherthrillss @marvelwomenrule @irishavengersassemble

[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.

[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.

[mika-no-sekai-blog]

With the last breath II

Word count: 1200+

Warnings: none I can think of

Part I || Part III

This was supposed to be just a short paragraph of Azriel's POV, but on Saturday's night I sat down and started to write. And it turned into a whole chapter. Well such things happen 🤷

English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry for any mistakes 🙏

Azriel didn't bother to think things over. Not now. Y/N was safe in his arms, but it meant nothing. It could be late.. He didn't want to think about it because it would mean a great pain. Because it would shatter his whole being. He pulled her closer to his strong chest and rather concentrated on flapping his wings. He flew up back to the balcony she fell from. Anxiety was eating him alive so he couldn't wait any longer and needed to make sure. Slowly and carefully he put her on the floor while making a list of necessary steps to follow.

First step: check her vital functions. Holding his breath he lightly pushed two shaking fingers to the pulse point on her throat, soon moving them under her nose. When he was sure she was breathing and her heartbeats were steady, he sighed with relieve. Y/N was alive. Still alive. He felt a big stone falling off of his chest, suddenly feeling bit lighter. Azriel closed eyes for a moment exhaling shakily. He took several deep breaths trying to calm down the shiver and his too rapid heartbeats. He had to concentrate.

Second step: look for injuries. For who knows what reason she was unconscious. Y/N could have been hurt before she fell or during it. Carefully touching her body he checked her for injuries and fractures.  Another sigh of relieve left him as he didn't find any blood, lumps, bruises nor broken bones. Shallow breaths was the only abnormality he detected. After considering everything possible Azriel came to the conclusion that there is only one reason for this. Y/N had to pass out because she was scared. But why was there a smile on her face? It was so long since he saw her smile like this. It didn't make sense. Pushing it aside he decided to think about it later.

Third step: get her warm. Gently Azriel picked her up in a bridal style and took her into the House. He couldn't help it. His arms tightened around her flabby body. He always thought Y/N was petite, but holding her like this she seemed even more fragile and smaller. During joint dinners she ate so little that it made him worried whether she was enough fed. And now Azriel could clearly state that Y/N certainly wasn't. She was so light he could hold her in one arm without any troubles.

Standing in the corridor he hesitated. Azriel wanted to take Y/N to her room, but just then he realized he had no idea where to go. She lived together with priestesses above the library, but he'd never let himself nor his shadows enter their private part of the House. He also didn't want anybody to find out what happened to her for understandable reasons. It was up to Y/N to decide if she wants inner circle and others to know about it.

After debating with himself whether he should take her to his or some vacant room, Azriel decided his room would be better. Despite everything, nobody ever dared to invade his privacy without his permission. Not even his brothers.

He struck down the corridor while the shadows helped him opening the door and then closed it silently. They even rolled the covers on the bed aside and took out a blanket from his closet. They seemed to be just as worried as their master, lightly touching her skin and caressing her forehead. Usually Azriel would hold them close to his body, afraid they would scare Y/N or make her feel uncomfortable, but now he just let them do as they pleased.

Carefully Azriel laid Y/N on the bed and pulled the covers up, wrapping her tightly in. He stopped to look at her face. Y/N looked so beautiful and calm. How many times he imagined her in his bed.. Watching her peaceful sleep.. Touching her delicate skin.. Pressing her body to his.. And now she was here right in his bed, her scent mixing with his own. Azriel noted to himself to make sure the House doesn't change the sheets until her scent completely fades out and maybe not even then.

He reached out and tucked few stray locks of hair behind her ear. They were so soft, much softer than he imagined. Suddenly the realization of what he had just done hit him hard. After long years of dreaming he touched her. For real this time. And he even held her in his arms. Shocked Azriel retreated few steps from the bed, bumping into an armchair under the window. Slowly he sat down. His mouth went dry and his heart pounded like crazy. In disbelief he gazed at his scarred hands. As he finally processed that information, a small smile found its way to his face.

A glass of water appeared on the nightstand next to the bed. The House sent him a reminder.

Fourth step: hydrate. Even unconscious Y/N might be in shock and in need of water. He stood up moving back towards the bed and hesitantly sat down on the edge of the mattress next to her. Slowly Azriel lifted up her head, this time being well aware of every little touch. With heart thundering in his chest he enjoyed the sensation of her smooth skin and soft hair in his rough palm. Azriel wanted to memorize it all, so he could replay these feelings later. This was the first and most likely the last time he can touch her. Once Y/N awakes she would leave and avoid him as before.

He reached out for the glass and halted thinking about the best way how to get the water into her mouth. As unusual as it was, Azriel was nervous which caused a slight tremor of his hands. He didn't want to pour out the glass on her. If only there was a spoon. But it wasn't the only way. His gaze settled on her full lips. Sweet, lovely and gently rounded like two petals of pink rose. Breath caught in his throat as cold sweat ran down his spine. He felt torn. Should he ask the House for spoon or.. Azriel swallowed decided the guilt can torture him later.

He took water into his mouth, but ended up drinking it himself. He was too nervous. Taking several deep breaths he tried it one more time. Leaning over Y/N his lips pressed into hers. Little by little he let the water flow into her mouth. His eyes closed. 'Oh, Mother,' he cursed mentally. Literally everything about Y/N was much better than he'd ever imagined. Her sweet floral scent mixed with smell of old parchment and ink messed with his head and senses making him stay in this position even after all water was gone. Gods, if he could.. If only she allowed him.. Azriel rather pulled away before doing something really bad.

It was too many feelings and thoughts at once. He needed more space and time to think this all over. He didn't believe that he would be able to keep himself under the control near Y/N, so he retrieved back to the armchair under the window. There had to be some way. No way he could continue to live like before, to keep the distance. Not after he got to touch her and taste her.

The shadows swallowed Azriel leaving him to his thoughts.

[hollowghostsonfilm]

[Geto/Gojo Fic] Hollow: The Fracture [3/7]

Summary:

Satoru Gojo wakes up in the body of his sixteen-year-old self, 6 months before the Star Plasma Vessel mission. He's certain its a domain. Or a curse. Or a hallucination born at the moment of his death. It can't be real. Geto is alive. Shoko is there. The dorm floorboards creak at the exact right place. He has to focus, has to work out how to break out of this domain. But hope has teeth, and Gojo has been bitten. Haunted by a future that only he remembers, Gojo has to walk the knife's edge between redemption and madness. Because if this is real, he can't let it go the same way again.

Master List for previous chapters.

Link to AO3 or read below:

Satoru’s shadow spread him so thin across the dirt in the late afternoon sun that he looked like he was made of pool noodles. Somewhere in the trees surrounding the practice ground, the cicadas were screaming in last defiance of the turn of the season.

Satoru leaned lazily against the fence, arms folded, watching Yuuji and Megumi in their spar. Yuuji was still all wild energy, grinning and reckless, throwing himself into the fight with wild abandon. Megumi flowed around him elegantly, like a stiletto blade.

“Yuuji, you’re as subtle as a freight train,” Satoru put his hands to the sides of his mouth as he shouted over to them. “You’re lucky Megumi hasn’t buried you yet!”

“He’s trying!” Yuuji replies, breathless, pivoting around a jab. “Give me, like, five minutes and I’ll win though! For sure!”

“Five minutes?” Megumi deadpans, sidestepping Yuuji’s retaliatory blow easily. “You’re not going to last one.”

Satoru hears Suguru chuckle low in his throat beside him and he turns to catch the fond smile on Suguru’s face. It undoes him from the inside out, that soft smile.

“Remind you of anything?” Satoru asks, if anything to get that smile to turn his way.

“They’re younger. I doubt it’s the same,” Suguru responds, rolling his eyes.

“You so sure about that?” Satoru elbows him. “First year of middle school, all those hormones and things starting up. Prime first crush time.”

Suguru seems to consider this. “Mm. But Yuuji spends a lot of time with Mimiko too. If it’s like that, Megumi better say something fast or he’s going to end up best friend zoned.”

Satoru chuckles and is about to respond when the alarm splits the air like a razor.

Then a second.

A third.

All high and shrill, until the whole campus seems to be shrieking.

“Barrier breach,” Suguru breathes.

Satoru’s muscles snap taut as he looks around. He feels Suguru’s cursed energy flare sharply next to him, trying to detect the source of malice that is suddenly rolling across the grounds.

Satoru turns slowly, scanning the environment for the spike and sees it – there.

The dormitories.

Fuck.

Tsumiki. Nanako. Mimiko.

For a heartbeat he stays frozen, the golden hour light fractured under the rolling wrongness of the cursed energy surrounding them.

Then he manages to get his mouth to work. “Dormitories.”

He’s already running. Suguru keeps pace with him, the boys not far behind. Their feet hit the ground hard in the space between Satoru’s frantic heartbeats.

He reaches for Limitless, intending to wrap it around himself like an impermeable shield and it shivers.

For a moment, the world snaps sideways. The trees are bending wrong, reality slurs around him. He bites back a curse, fighting the pull on his powers.

“Satoru!” Suguru barks, sensing something wrong. “You good?”

“I’m fine!” Satoru lies, forcing himself forward, ignoring his own stumble. His hands curl into fists until the bones in his knuckles sing.

The dormitory looms into view, the old wood trembling under the pressure of something. Suguru skids to a halt, and Satoru barrels forward. Above them, he sees Suguru’s veil slowly descending.

“I’ve got the Veil. Get the kids!”

Satoru sees the shape coalescing in front of the dorm door, slow and syrupy, a grotesque figure wrapped in loose white fur, with chains that drag against the ground. It wasn’t humanoid, wasn’t even whole and yet a cold spike of dread twisted in Satoru’s chest.

Because just behind it, he sees a flash of her face.

Kaori Itadori.

Kenjaku.

The curse that’s blocking any direct blow flickers towards the kitchen window, where Satoru can see Tsumiki’s silhouette through the glass. She’s got her arms wide. Is she trying to pull Nanako and Mimiko towards her to shelter them?

There’s no time to hesitate. He can’t let Kenjaku get inside.

He has to take the risk.

His technique blooms outward, elegant and terrifying, and he desperately tries to keep a tight rein on it so that it doesn’t total the dorm as well. He starts when a shadow-etched dog launches out of nowhere beside Blue, teeth snarling as it runs.

Of course, Megumi wouldn’t sit idly by.

Blue impacts and the thing shrieks, folding in on itself. The Divine Dog bounds onto it, tearing what’s left apart, ripping, shredding, tearing, its tail wagging proudly as it does.

Satoru raises his hand once more, ready to fire off another blast in the direction of Kenjaku but he’s not there anymore. His cursed energy cloaked could mean that he’s anywhere but… Satoru looks around.

No, he’s fairly certain that he’s strategically retreated instead.

The alarms stop suddenly, and the silence rings instead. The Veil comes down around them and droplets of rain start to fall onto the top of Satoru’s head.

Satoru keeps his eyes on the mess that’s left of the curse as Suguru comes to his side. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Piece of cake. Check on Megumi. That was his first battle experience,” Satoru says, his voice clipped.

He’s not ready to talk about this. He needs a moment to process what just nearly happened right under his nose.

Suguru doesn’t believe him, Satoru can see it in the way his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t push. He instead goes to do just that, escorting Megumi and Yuuji inside and checking on the girls.

Satoru stands outside like a guard dog until the moon is high in the sky, black Divine Dog at his feet.

The air stays too sharp even after the danger passes.

The rain picks up as the night deepens. Fat drops drip down the barrier of Limitless. He stays planted outside the dormitory long after the noise inside dies down, after the sound of showers and baths disappears, after the slow shuffle of everyone being sent to bed, after Suguru had come out to touch his arm lightly once to try to get him to come inside, only to be shaken off.

He can’t settle. His whole-body buzzes from the wrongness of it.

The weakness.

The almost.

Kenjaku had gotten too close.

He can still see Tsumiki’s silhouette through the glass, her thin arms spread out, mortal and breakable. Defending Mimiko and Nanako against something that she couldn’t see, couldn’t defend against.

The rain distorts his vision enough that he’s not sure if it’s the mist or that he’s shaking so much that he can’t get his eyes to focus.

“Satoru.”

Suguru’s voice is low and certain behind him. He doesn’t turn, afraid what his expression might be. Shoko probably would have a hundred new diagnoses for him now if she could see him.

“You’re not fine, I get that,” Suguru says. “But you can be not fine with me.”

The dam breaks, sudden and ungraceful.

He isn’t aware he’s running until he’s already taken off.

Branches lash at his face, Limitless not working well enough to keep them off. One hits so hard it scratches his cheek and Satoru can feel the blood dripping down his chin. Mud pulls at his shoes. The rain smears everything into streaks of silver and shadow.

Suguru is following him without hesitation. He catches up at the edge of the clearing where they’d finally had that first conversation, the fault line where everything had started to come out into the open.

Satoru collapses to his knees at the edge of the cliff, his knees sinking into the mulch, and gasping like he’d run through every timeline just to reach here.

He slams his fists into the earth.

Blue light sparks violently around him, unstable and formless, splintering and fractured gaps of his power.

“Satoru…” Suguru stops a few feet away. Safely distant from any power surge or backfiring technique.

“It was so close, Suguru…” Satoru gasps. “We were so close to losing them.”

“We didn’t. You stopped it. It’s all right-“

“No!” Satoru slams his fists into the ground again. “It’s not all right. Kenjaku was right there! Inside the wards! He almost got her-“

“Satoru-!”

Satoru finally lifts his head, eyes wide, red-rimmed. He feels like a boy again, standing in a busy street, desperately trying to understand what he has to do in order for the world to go back to normal again.

But this isn’t that version of Geto Suguru looking back at him.

This one steps forward, joins him in the mud, and doesn’t hesitate. He crosses the distance between them, ignoring when Satoru scrambles back, and grabs him by the front of his collar and kisses him.

The kiss is a battlefield. Suguru’s desperation to reach him clashing like their teeth. Satoru feels the mud soaking into their clothes, blood from his cheek smearing across Suguru’s.

The rain softens around them, the world dims to only breath, and Suguru’s heartbeat, sure and steady against Satoru’s chest.

Suguru’s hand cups the back of his head, cradling it in a way that’s so gentle it hurts. Satoru turns his face up, surrendering to this now, letting Suguru have him. Letting Suguru see the spiral and help calm it.

Their mouths find each other again, slower this time. Satoru’s fingers curl into Suguru’s shirt, clinging as though if he let go for a second, he might get pulled down into the mud and drown. Suguru lets him, lets him tremble, swallows all the breathless gasps and tiny broken sounds he tries and fails to swallow.

Hands move over him, not to undress, but to uncover, to peel away layers of years and regret and what if. Damp fabric sticks stubbornly to his skin, but it doesn’t matter. Suguru is patient, working at it between kisses designed to keep him grounded.

When Suguru pushes him back into the earth, he covers Satoru’s body like it’s shelter. It’s a promise that he’ll hold the pieces together that Satoru, in this moment, can’t.

Their bodies slide together, soaked skin and stuttering breaths. Satoru’s nails scrape down Suguru’s spine, desperate for anchor, and Suguru shudders like Satoru has reached all the way inside him.

When Suguru presses into him, slowly, carefully, hands shaking just a little with an apology for if it hurts, Satoru feels no pain. He doesn’t even really feel pleasure.

He feels, strangely, like he’s being forgiven.

Satoru’s breath hitches in his throat and Suguru presses their foreheads together, murmuring nonsense against his lips. Sweet nothings. Promises. They move together, pulled by some gravitational thread that nothing can sever.

There is no edge to fall over, no end to chase, only a rising feeling in Satoru’s being that breaks as his arms wrap around Suguru’s back so tightly that his ribs creak.

Suguru follows moments later, burying his face in the crook of Satoru’s neck as his whole body shakes.

Satoru holds him for a moment, before reaching down to thread his fingers through Suguru’s, bringing the hands between them so he can see them, stripped down to bone and starlight.

They curl together on the forest floor, half-buried in wet leaves, the world around them blurred in soft watercolour greys.

“They’re safe, Satoru. You’re safe,” Suguru murmurs, kissing his cheek.

Satoru closes his eyes and chooses to believe it.

The storm softens to a breath.

Satoru can feel the mud cooling beneath his bare skin, a fine mist starting to drift through the air above them. His lungs still stutter with their rhythm, not from the act itself, but just feeling so in sync.

He’s still shaking.

He tries to hide it, tries to keep his breath even, but Suguru is still Suguru. He’s too attuned, too close. Satoru has hidden, sidestepped this too long. His hand brushes down Satoru’s spine, and the tremors betray him.

Satoru presses his face into Suguru’s shoulder, searching for the warmth of his skin and the press of something living. “M’fine,” he murmurs, but his voice sounds small to his own ears.

Suguru says nothing, just pulls him closer.

There’s a crackle, and Limitless hums weakly, out of sync with him, warping faintly against Suguru’s presence momentarily before smoothing out again. Satoru can feel the edges of it fracturing.

Suguru shifts slightly, finding the hem of Satoru’s abandoned shirt that had been discarded earlier in the soaked grass. He tugs it gently, guiding Satoru’s arms back into it one at a time. He still doesn’t speak, just dresses him like he’s something precious.

When they’re both fully dressed again, Suguru pulls him to his feet, taking a moment to bury his nose in Satoru’s neck and press a kiss against his shoulder.

“We’ll get colds if we stay out here,” he says, adjusting Satoru’s collar.

Their hair is plastered to their heads, their cheeks pink with cold, but Satoru still gives Suguru a smile that isn’t bitter.

“Come home with me,” he says, holding his hand out for Suguru to take.

Suguru takes it. “Always.”

♾️

In the morning, the dormitory still smells like rain. That, and Suguru’s miso soup. Megumi doesn’t mind Japanese style breakfast, but he prefers bread, and just once he’d like to wake up to toast instead.

He sits crossed legged under the kotatsu, back straight, arms crossed. Yuuji slouches next to him at the low table, hair still a mess from bed. Megumi pretends not to notice how his oversized pyjama shirt is sliding off one shoulder. He chooses not to acknowledge why that might be capturing his attention too.

Across from them, Satoru stands in his usual black. The blindfold’s on, hiding his face. His hair is damp, and curling slightly around his ears. Had he stayed out in the rain all night? Even so, it seems Suguru has supplied him with something to warm him through, if the steam rising from the mug in his hands is something to go by.

Tsumiki is tucked between Nanako and Mimiko. Both of the twins are tense in different ways. Nanako’s knee is bouncing. Mimiko is chewing a lock of her hair. Tsumiki isn’t blinking.

No one slept much last night.

Satoru doesn’t speak immediately, but when it does, his voice isn’t the usual flippant, over-loud playsong cadence. It’s soft and quiet.

“Something happened last night.”

Understatement of the century.

Yuuji leans forward, eyes wide. “Was it that thing… That thing that the shadow puppy ate?”

Megumi decides to let ‘shadow puppy’ go for now. He wants to see Satoru’s reaction, waiting for what truth he decides to reveal.

“Yes,” Satoru’s knuckles are white around his mug. “There was an attack. It didn’t get in. You’re all safe.”

Not a lie, but Megumi has a good enough bullshit detector to know it’s not the whole truth either.

“But it got close,” Tsumiki says, her voice is calm but Megumi can hear the edge in it. He knows her well enough to know when his sister’s will has turned to steel. He shifts subtly, pushing his foot against hers under the table, not to comfort per se, just… to connect.

Satoru nods to her. “Too close.”

Yuuji looks guilty. Of course he does. If there’s one thing that Megumi has learned over the last few months its that the other boy has a tendency to take on all blame as his own. Megumi’s chest tightens. That face does stupid things to his internal logic. Like it short-circuits something in his brain and makes him want to wipe that look of his stupid face.

“Was it because of me? Because of Sukuna?” Yuuji asks.

“No,” Satoru says, fast and firm. Too fast and firm.

“Then it was Ken-“ Megumi starts, because he has to say it, they have to know.

Satoru cuts him off sharply. “You’re all here because we can protect each other. You’re here because this place is the safest. And that hasn’t changed.”

Megumi believes him. Just. Though it’s getting harder to.

“I’m not… a hundred percent right now,” Satoru admits, his eyes flickering over to Megumi. There’s no visible injuries on Satoru right now, but that doesn’t mean anything. Megumi saw the state of him in Tengen’s domain, and he can feel it. The way that Satoru’s energy is jittering slightly.

Yuuji shifts again and Megumi bites down the urge to tell him it’s not his fault.

Mimiko raises a hand. “What did it want?”

Satoru hesitates. That’s enough of an answer for Megumi.

“It was just a message,” he says at last. “A test. But he didn’t get what he came for.”

“Good,” Nanako mutters, arms folded. “Because next time I’ll be ready and we won’t be relying on you or shadow boy to protect us.”

Megumi glances at her, sees the way her hand is curled into a fist, and thinks to himself that he’d be grateful if she was battle ready enough to fight alongside him next time. She and Mimiko both. Anything to put more bodies between whatever that thing outside had been and Tsumiki.

Satoru’s smile is faint, tired around the edges, but real.

“I know you will.”

Then he gestures to the hallway. “You should go eat breakfast. Suguru will cry if it gets cold while we’re in here yapping.”

That gets a snort out of Mimiko. From the kitchen there’s a muffled, “Hey!”

They all rise slowly. Mimiko tugs at Tsumiki’s sleeve. Yuuji hops up with too much energy, his calf brushing against Megumi’s shoulder as he makes his way out. Megumi chooses not to react.

He lingers, just a second, watches as Satoru tips the rest of the coffee down his throat. The mug clinks softly as it’s set down on the kotatsu, now empty.

“It was too close, Megumi, do you understand?” Satoru says again, voice quiet so the others won’t hear.

Megumi watches him. The way his shoulders are tight, even though the danger has supposedly passed. The way his power is flickering.

“So train us harder, sensei,” he says, before slipping out so that Satoru can’t see the determination on his face.

[tewwor]

𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗡𝗘𝗪 𝗦𝗢𝗥𝗖𝗘𝗥𝗘𝗥 … like for a starter and/or ask! multi's please specify

STATS .

name: yuma kochiya

alias: tba

age: 34 ( verse dependent )

height: 5'11''

gender & sexuality: cis man ; he/him & bisexual

family: yasuo kochiya ( brother, deceased )

occupation: doctor at a small clinic during the day & on call semi-grade 1 jujutsu sorcerer / nightshift doctor at tokyo jujutsu high

fc: tba

CURSED TECHNIQUES & ABILITIES .

bone destruction ( names of fractures — oblique, compression, comminuted, segmental, avulsion, etc ) & regeneration ( fuse ): able to break, splinter, crush, etc. any bone in his, and another's, body at will. the need for physical contact is required when manipulating others. he's also able to regenerate, mend the bones, and transplant marrow to boost blood regen.

density manipulation ( brick - heavy & feather - light ): this ability allows him to shift the density of bones at will i.e. 'hollow bones' and 'dermal armor'.

osteokinetic constructs ( manifest ): can turn bone into tools, objects, weapons and other items, create semi-living constructs and/or create structures/buildings of varying permanence. being rather efficient and near masterful with his technique, yuma's able to create anything within his mind's eye.

invisibility awareness ( passive ): yuma is able to detect anything that is made of bones — living or dead. thus, makes it practically impossible to sneak up on him if someone, or something, has a skeleton.

puppetry ( rally ): able to control and morph skeletons at will. very rarely does yuma resort to this as he thinks it disrespectful to the deceased & the living ( unlike his family ).

wing manifestation ( silver vein ): able to construct skeletal wings that act as both defense and offense. despite it's name, yuma isn't able to fly with these additional limbs.

HISTORY .

tw : car accident

The rumbling ambiance of gravel paths against thinned treads is what wakes you. Slow, like the meandering of that stormy cloud across the crescent moon above. You hear the faint wash of radio talk crackle from tinny speakers. Breathe in verbena buffed leather and clove scented smoke. The faintest tap, tap tap punctuates the switch in talk show speakers before a familiar, "hey-yo, sleep well?" pushes you further into the present. The first response you give is a groggy huff. Then a whine curls with the back of your tongue upon stretching what you can in this all too cramped car. Something's said about how you slept well enough with all things considered. Your older brother answers back with a huff of his own. Ends on an understanding, "fair 'nough" before a jaunty transitional tune takes over.

The two of you are squabbling over something stupid, something small. Both sides are justified in their own right, but there's an overlap of beliefs. A bunch of 'well I think's and 'no, you're wrong's being flung back and forth. Any hope of reaching a middle ground gets trampled by big personalities and even bigger opinions. Remember, it was stupid and small — you cannot forget this. You cannot let the looming thing caught in headlights eradicate it. Your brother was spirited; a shared likeliness of resilience and mulishness inherited by parents you've never met. He cannot be reduced to something only characterized by pain and suffering. There was zeal once, modest pride, undefeated geniality. He cannot be lessened to his last moments, writhing in agony by the shaking craft of your hands. You knew not of flesh nor organs then ( far too young, too green ), the complexity of nerves and skin, but you did know of marrow. Enough to mend the breaks with nothing else to stilt the hurt or staunch the ceaseless flow of blood. You have to remember how relentless he was in reassurance. Between the wet sucking of lungs, the crushed rasps and grunts and groans — trembling body misshapen among the debris of metal scraps and laminated glass. '—'s okay. I'll be.. Okay. —'m alright... Be fine.' Remember how you wanted to scream back? Take him by the torn, bloody collar and shake him back into sense? Shake more life into him somehow, by some miracle? But a shooting star didn't blink across the night sky — only lit bright by the full width of silver moon. All that's left is you, your dying brother, and that thing still on the road.

MISC. FACTS .

interests: ginger, rest, cute or funny bandaids, gag gifts

dislikes: taking things too seriously, his parents

often fights with a mass of bone ( yes, it’s his own — don’t ask or do 🫣 ). it’s kept fluid to act as extra defense and solidified when on the offensive. usually molds the bone into gauntlets, scythe, or spiked bullets. if he’s really feeling some type of way ( enraged ) he’ll cram liquified bone into a target’s mouth, eyes, ears, nose, or open wound and solidify it with spikes.

injuries sustained was a broken arm and 80% loss of sight in the left eye. otherwise, he was more or less okay.

yuma's trademark greeting of 'hey-yo!' came from his brother. the same applies to how he treats current patients like they're children ( constant gentle conversation to distract from the pain, the promise of a sweet threat after, etc ).

his favorite & most used scents are clove and leather. again, influenced by his brother.

after the incident, yuma threw himself into constant training. he took on far stronger curses to get a better understanding of his powers — both to harm and heal. his efforts paid off at a steep price.

VERSES .

main — jjk: works the nightshift at tokoyo jujutsu high ( so shoko doesn't have to ) and enjoys it! had a stint where yuma was a teacher for some brief period of time, but decided that he could help bolster their recovery instead. stayed with principal yaga & shoko during the shibuya arc as extra defense.

main — modern day / au friendly: works as an underground medic. good, bad, whatever’s in between — he’ll patch anyone up if they can pay the fee ( can be money or favors ). somehow weaseled his way into something legally binding so neither side tries to shake him down for information.

the marked: tba.

op: tba.

[wolfliving]

Meanwhile, in Brickland

Cory Doctorow:

Analog companies can raise their prices, or worsen next year's model of their products. *Digital* businesses can *travel back in time* and raise the price of something you already own, but need to pay a "subscription" fee for. They can reach back in time and remove features you've already paid for. They can even go back in time and take away things you already own. The omniflexible, omnipresent digital tether between a device and its manufacturer creates *so many* urges that they can't resist:

Are you one of 4,000,000 people who built "smart home" products from Wink into your walls, ceiling and foundation slab at any time since they started shipping in 2014? Surprise! Now you have to pay a "subscription" for all of those gadgets or they'll *brick your fucking house*:

Did you buy a "Mellow Sous Vide" gadget? Surprise, it now costs $48/year to use that gadget!

Did you buy an Exogen ultrasound device to stimulate bone growth after a fracture? Surprise, it bricks itself after you've used it 343 times! Enjoy your e-waste, Hopalong!

Did you *buy a Ferrari performance sports-car*? Surprise, it bricks itself if it detects "tampering" - and the only way to un-brick it is to connect it to the internet, so you'd better hope it doesn't brick itself deep in an underground parking garage. Oops!

Did you buy a Peloton treadmill? Surprise, your $3,000 "smart" treadmill no longer works in standalone mode - unless you pay $480/year, that treadmill is now a clothes-drying rack:

Did you buy an Epson printer? Surprise! It will brick itself after you print a certain number of pages, *for your own good*, because otherwise its ink-sponges might leak:

Did you get - no, wait for it - *did you get a neural implant?* Surprise. The company's new owners don't want to continue supporting your implant, and they won't let anyone else do so either. So now, *part of your brain* has been bricked:

This is like a lifetime money-back guarantee - *for companies*. Any company that experience's seller's remorse can cancel or alter the transaction, retroactively. It's as if Darth Vader opened an MBA program whose only lesson was *I am altering the deal. Pray I don't alter it further":

Darth Vader has the Force. Corporate enshittifiers have something even more powerful: IP law. Companies can cleverly arrange overlapping layers of IP - anticircumvention, trademark, patent, trade secrecy, terms of service, cybersecurity law, contracts - to criminalize otherwise legal activity, like reverse-engineering, jailbreaking, creating alternative clients or third-party parts:

That means that companies know that they can enshittify to their heart's content without fearing a competitor's disenshittification products. Raise the price of ink all you want, because you've figured out how to criminalize generic ink cartridges:

That's a lesson Spotify took to heart. Aaaallll the way back in 2022, Spotify started selling $90 "Car Thing" tablets - little car-vent-mounted gadgets that made it slightly easier to connect your car stereo to your Spotify account. Now that a suitable interval has gone by, Spotify has decided to remotely brick every one of these solid-state devices, no later than December of 2024:

Now, this may seem like a loss to all those Car Thing owners, who are out $90. But consider this: our descendants are *gaining* thousands of pieces of immortal, infinitely toxic e-waste.

So there's that.

Then there's this: Jason Koebler just published a breakdown of a leaked sSamsung repair contract on 404 Media, revealing how Samsung requires its "independent" repair partners to trick you, abuse you, spy on you, and literally destroy your phone:

First: every time you bring a phone to an independent Samsung repair shop, the company has 24 hours to notify Samsung, providing your name, email, phone number, address, the IMEI of your phone, your warranty status and complaint.

Then, the technician is required to inspect your device for any evidence that you have had it serviced by unauthorized technicians or fixed with third-party replacement parts. If they believe you have failed to act in accord with Samsung's shareholders' interests, the technician is required to *immediately destroy your phone* and notify Samsung.

(This is radioactively illegal, and has been since 1975, when Congress passed the Magnuson-Moss Warranty Act, which protects your right to use third-party parts:)

Why does Samsung do this? They can't help themselves. It's in their nature.

[fooltemps]

Leukemia and Lymphoma Awareness Flags!!

This flag was designed by us, as we currently have a family member with Leukemia and wish to bring awareness to this kind of cancer.

color meaning:

#FF2D34: Myeloma

#00DC0E: Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma

#FF8C2E: Leukemia

#D12DFF: Hodgkin Lymphoma

Below is information all about Leukemia and Lymphoma Cancers.

Leukemia and Lymphoma are both cancers that are not associated with a tumor. Lymphomas are cancers that affect the lymph system and start in cells called lymphocytes. Leukemia is a cancer of the early blood-forming tissues, including your bone marrow and lymph system.

There are many types of lymphoma. Some grow and spread slowly and some are more aggressive. There are two main types of Lymphoma:

1. Hodgkin Lymphoma is cancer that starts in the B lymphocytes (B cells) of the lymph system. Your lymph system helps you fight infection and control the fluids in your body.

2. Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma (NHL) is cancer that starts in the lymphocytes anywhere lymph tissue is found:

Lymph nodes

Spleen

Bone marrow

Thymus

Adenoids and tonsils, or

The digestive track.

Leukemia typically involves white blood cells, the cells that are your infection fighters. Leukemia can be divided into categories: fast growing (acute) and slow growing (chronic); and by which white blood cells are affected:

Acute lymphocytic leukemia (ALL)

Acute myelogenous leukemia (AML)

Chronic lymphocytic leukemia (CLL

Chronic myelogenous leukemia (CML)

A screening test is used to detect cancers in people who may be at higher risk for developing the disease. With leukemia and lymphoma, there are no early detection tests. The best way to find them is to be aware of the symptoms:

Swollen lymph nodes which can appear as a lump in the neck, armpit or groin;

Fever

Night sweats

Weight loss without trying, and

Fatigue.

Leukemia can have similar symptoms but also can include:

Easy bleeding or bruising;

Recurring nosebleeds; and

Bone pain or tenderness

Myeloma is cancer of the plasma cells. Plasma cells are white blood cells that produce disease- and infection-fighting antibodies in your body. Myeloma cells prevent the normal production of antibodies, leaving your body's immune system weakened and susceptible to infection. The multiplication of myeloma cells also interferes with the normal production and function of red and white blood cells. An abnormally high amount of these dysfunctional antibodies in the bloodstream can cause kidney damage. Additionally, the myeloma cells commonly produce substances that cause bone destruction, leading to bone pain and/or fractures.

Myeloma cells are produced in the bone marrow, the soft tissue inside your bones. Sometimes myeloma cells will travel through your blood stream and collect in other bones in your body. Because myeloma frequently occurs at many sites in the bone marrow, it is often referred to as multiple myeloma.

Signs and symptoms of myeloma include the following:

Hypercalcemia (excessive calcium in the blood)

Anemia (shortage or reduced function of red blood cells)

Renal damage (kidney failure)

Susceptibility to infection

Osteoporosis, bone pain, bone swelling, or fracture

High protein levels in the blood and/or urine

Weight loss

In 2022, more than 62,650 people are expected to be diagnosed with leukemia. In addition:

Leukemia accounts for 3.6% of all new cancer cases.

The overall 5-year survival rate for leukemia has more than quadrupled since 1960.

62.7% of leukemia patients survive 5 years or more.

The diagnosis of leukemia requires specific blood tests, including an examination of cells in the blood and marrow.

Treatment and prognosis depend on the type of blood cell affected and whether the leukemia is acute or chronic. Chemotherapy and blood and marrow transplant are often used to treat leukemia.

If you wish to read more about Leukemia and Lymphoma cancer, please visit this website!

[elkieselkiewrites]

Hi! First, let me just *hands crown* because your magic system is so phenomenal I am in awe. The fallen star system is SO cool and I’ve never heard of a system like it and I’m just…so appreciative for the work you’ve put in. Second, I do have some questions, mostly about the kind of “science” side. You mentioned in your silly and serious overviews that people have made contraptions and devices and "aberrations hitherto unknown to man" by experimenting with this magic. Could you give some examples of this? Mostly asking because I’ve been brainstorming devices for my own magic system and I am ready to take notes.

Ohhhh you're so sweet, thank you so much! I actually do love my magic system here the most out of all of my work, so I'm more than happy to answer questions about it! I will, however, apologise for how long this got...

Answer - Part The First: Contraptions & Devices!

So, as mentioned in my explanations, the Resonance is literally vibrations with some hand wave-y radiation magic added to them. So much like with the way science in our world learnt to detect, harness, and replicate waves on the electromagnetic spectrum, the peoples of Postmaster WIP created devices that could do the same for the Resonance.

Not to get too science-y with it (because it all falls apart if you do), but the Resonance is an oscillating wave that is sort of inspired by astronomical radio waves and gamma radiation, but with the vibes of acoustic waves because I like sound :)

Anyway, contraptions and devices! In the 1800s, we in the real world discovered infra-red and ultraviolet through prisms, refraction, light-sensitive chemicals and thermometers, while later radio waves and microwaves were detected using electromagnetic fields, and so on. In Postmaster WIP the Resonance was already known about due to Resonant peoples, but the study of Resonance involved finding out the properties of Resonance, which materials best conducted Resonance, and therefore what frequencies that would equate to. So people would try to conduct Resonance with tuning fork-style contraptions made of different materials, attaching those to a needle with some paper on a cylinder like a barograph or a seismic activity graph, noting the waves on the page etc. etc. all that good stuff.

Many contraptions already existed due to Resonant peoples like the Delvish using Resonance much like how we'd use electricity; vehicles (horseless carriages), appliances (self-heating kilns and ovens), automatons (theatre puppets), etc. So non-Resonant versions were the obvious solution for many researchers/inventors, but these are notoriously unreliable and come with some real safety hazards and a hefty price tag, so simply aren't worth it most of the time.

The next logical step was to try and replicate the Resonance so that anyone could have the power of Resonance in their hands without having to be able to channel it themselves. This is where it all goes kind of pear shaped. Which leads us neatly to...

Answer, Part the Second: Aberrations Hitherto Unknown to Man

I mentioned in my previous posts that Resonant people kind of vibrate at the right frequencies, their bones and tissues can handle those oscillations because they're used to them. However, if people who are not sensitive to Resonance try to channel the Resonance they get injuries, anywhere from hand-arm vibration syndrome to acute radiation syndrome. People get nerve damage, muscle damage, bone density damage, fractures, nausea, vomiting, internal bleeding, fevers, headaches, seizures, and eventually die.

Picture it this way: imagine someone who could naturally stand out in a lightning storm, encourage the lightning to come down from the clouds, and direct that lightning into a lightbulb without overpowering the lightbulb. That's what a Resonant person can do. Now imagine a normal person in that same storm with a lightning rod... lightning is attracted to the rod like it was to the previous person, but instead of being able to meter the electricity and move it through their body, this second person gets fried and the bulb explodes. Some bodies are not built to be struck by lightning, and lightning itself might be electricity, but a lightning strike can't charge your PC.

Extended metaphor aside, this means that any experimentation comes with risk. Resonance also, unlike the lightning, has mutative properties, and can change things fundamentally. So when experimenting with creating and harnessing and channelling Resonance, there are always some pretty gnarly results, from monstrous homunculi to magical prions...

One outcome of such experimentations that is actually plot-relevant I detailed a bit more here.

Essentially the study and desire to harness Resonance is a mix of curiosity, hubris, and greed, and that is never a recipe for success anywhere.