#end of trigger warnings...

[mikoworks]

"Always There"

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4: You are here

Part 5

@anyamusumesonlywife @omagpies @charasstick @chilchucks-timbs @lesbirae13 @wrpd-nylvm @cecizilla1 @woolzine125 @tctheintrovert @femtanyladdict @nobecausecheese @dldzz @theratlivinginyourcouchcushions @amberh789 @schiz0ne @astro-mario @lexingtoon @kukya

[crawlingdrawing]

Master post to the X-men evolution fan comic The cage

When a mission to find missing mutants goes awry, Nightcrawler ends up separated from the X-men and trapped in the private freak show of one Amos Jardine.

Inspired by Nightcrawler (2004), and Weapon by Name by CNWrites. Takes place after season 4 of X-men Evolution.

Cover

Chapter One: Part One, Part Two

Chapter Two: Part One, Part Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six: Part One, Part Two

Chapter Seven: Part One, Part Two

Chapter Eight: Part One, Part Two

Chapter Nine: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four

TW: kidnapping, torture (off-screen), dehumanization, misgendering, sexual harassment, attempted sexual assault, implied sexual assault (off-screen), panic attacks, blood.

Extras

Epilogue, Kurt and Rogue: Part One, Part Two

Nightmares

Got your back

All asks and doodles

[youkissedareaderinthedark]

Coraline

Synopsis: Y/n’s childhood and history with her parents has always stayed a secret, and she likes it that way. Until a journalist reveals the truth, and everything seems to come crashing down at once.

young female driver reader x 2023 F1 grid

A/N: a few things for this fic: reader will be 20 years old, had driven for alpha tauri since the beginning of 2022, the 2022 is the same as the 2023 grid, and please look at the trigger warning below.

Trigger Warning: This fic contains abusive parents, talks of eating disorders, neglecting a kid, verbally abusing a kid, signs of depression, and a lot of hurtful comments in general. This fic is not meant to idolize or romanticize having abusive parents or depression. If anyone finds anything particularly disturbing with this fic, do not hesitate to let me know and I will fix it.

tagged: @treehouse-mouse

2023 was supposed to be a good season for Alpha Tauri. The cars looked good, your driver pairing was solid, and the hopes were high for your junior Red Bull team. You could only laugh at the naivety of it now.

Most of the season was exceptional; you and Yuki Tsunoda brought in points almost every weekend, your team was seventh in the constructors championship, and overall, you were having a great time traveling around the world.

This was your second year in Formula 1, and now that you weren’t a rookie anymore, you could have more fun now that you knew what you were doing.

Some people just don’t like others being happy, though.

With less than 10 races left, you walked into the paddock for the Monza Grand Prix Thursday afternoon feeling optimistic. This was the second race after the summer break, and Alpha Tauri was expected to do well in Italy.

Your press officer, Ally, greeted you in your garage, and after saying hello to Yuki, you followed her out of the garage and into the media pen for a press conference.

You walk in to see Lewis, Carlos, Lando, and Fernando and talked quietly with them as the press in front of you get settled. “Everybody ready? All right, first question please” One of the directors asks, as a journalists speaks up.

“Lewis, you’ve witnessed the infamous ‘Monza Curse’ multiple times in your career, do you think the theory is true and will it strike again this year?”

“Um, no” Lewis chuckles. “I don’t believe in the curse, but it would be nice to see someone new finish first today, and if a curse is what it’s going to take, then yeah, why not”

The five of you laugh, not noticing the second journalist beginning to speak. “Y/n, what do you have to say about the recent article published regarding your past with your family?”

You instantly stop laughing, hoping you misheard the man.

“Sorry?”

There’s no way

“The article? That was recently published concerning your past with your parents, what do you have to say about it?” The journalist stared at you curiously while your mind blanked for an answer.

You had no idea what article he was talking about, but if it concerned your past with your ‘family’, you knew it wasn’t anything that should be published.

Suddenly there’s movement in the midst of the media pen, and your press officer emerges from the crowd. “Y/n, come with me” She pauses, seeing one of the directors nearing out of the corner of her eye.

“It’s urgent, I need her” You’d take any excuse to get away from the current situation, so after exchanging a look with Lewis, you follow the woman into the paddock towards your garage.

Once you were both in the safety of your drivers room, you turned on her. “What article is he talking about? What’s going on?” You said, voice heavy with concern.

Ally hesitated, looking uncomfortable, before answering. “This morning, an article published a story talking about you and your parents, and the-um, harsh history you have with them” She hands you her phone, said article already open.

“I think it’s better if you read it yourself” The bold letters blink up at you, clear and sullen.

“F1 DRIVERS UNCOVERED: THE REAL REASON WE DON’T SEE Y/N L/N’S PARENTS”

Your heart falls to your stomach and your hands start to shake as your eyes skim over the words of the most invading and overwhelming article you’ve ever read in your life. Whoever wrote this, wrote it in hopes of exposing every secret of your past, and further tangles the truth of an already over-complicated background.

The real reason your parents are never around you is a reason you hate talking about.

You first realized it when you were around ten years old, the way your parents never looked happy around each other, and always tense around other parents. The way they never said ‘I love you’ or kissed each other goodbye. It confused you, as these were the things you always saw your friend’s parents do, but you were too young to understand at the time, so you mainly ignored it.

It wasn’t until one night when you were eleven that you heard an argument erupting from your kitchen, one about money and divorces and you. The shouting continued for ages, until you heard one statement, loud and clear.

“Think about this, she’s getting good in those karting competitions of hers, and according to other parents she could go really far in this thing and get money from sponsorships and mentors. So let’s just give it a little time, make sure she gets better and gets paid, and the money will go to us and eventually she’ll leave to Formula- whatever and we won’t have to worry about her”

You put your pillow over your head, turned around, and went to sleep sobbing that night.

From then on, there was no ‘I love you’s’ or kisses goodbye even to you, and eventually, no happiness in your house. The ‘other parents’ were right, the older you got, the farther you looked to go in racing. Just before you turned 13, the three of you moved to a city in England so you could pursue karting further, and that’s when it all got worse.

You competed in countless competitions, and every race you won, the more criticism you got from your mom and dad. The second you stepped off the 1st place podium, your parents were waiting to comment on your driving and the techniques you should’ve used to win.

They never let you focus on anything but karting, letting you go nowhere but the track and to school, and made sure you were always looking for ways to get better. They ruthlessly compared you to kids in other series that were performing better than you, and countered every compliment someone gave you with a complaint.

All of this seemed like a dream compared to the treatment you got when you lost. Whether it be second, or tenth, every race you didn’t come first in was a loss, and your parents simply didn’t accept this.

When you lost, they’d make you practice on track for twice as long, no matter the weather, and berated you the second you started to complain. They limited your diet after your losses, claiming you needed to be lighter if you wanted the kart to go faster.

Your mother and father gave you this relentless attention with anything regarding racing, but the moment the topic drifted, you were neglected. There were no family dinners or movie nights, if you wanted something, you were going to have to buy it with your own money, and if you wanted to go somewhere, you needed to walk or find a ride because they refused to drive you anywhere if it wasn’t for a race.

There was no other family to go to even when things go impossibly rougher; you had no other relatives in the UK, and you couldn’t exactly ask your friends if you could live with them.

So you endured these conditions, all the way through the F4 British Championship, F3 and F2. You turned 18 while you were in Formula 2, and the second you did, you took the little money you had, and rented an apartment in South England, where you’ve been living ever since.

Your parents constantly contacted you in whatever ways they could, but you very quickly made sure they didn’t know where you lived and were never given paddock passes again. No one knows any of this anyway; when people ask where your parents are or when they’d get to meet them, you just shrug and say, “they couldn’t make it”

You haven’t seen your parents in person since you were 17, and you’ve done everything in your power to keep it like that.

Though with a few thousand words and 4 hours, one nosy journalist has managed to unravel all your work and growth and release it into the world.

You’re broken out of your stunned silence when Ally puts a hand on your shoulder. “I’ve set up a meeting with Alpha Tauri and Red Bull’s PR managers so we could figure out what we should do next to keep the press off your back, okay? The meeting’s in fifteen meetings, so I’ll leave you for a while”

Ally takes her phone back and exits the room to leave you standing still in the middle of it, astonished and speechless.

The meeting goes as well as you expected it to go. You shared as much as the truth as you saw fit, and came up with a statement to post with the rest of the PR managers. You were confirmed to go back to the media pen to finish interviews an hour later, and while no one asked you about the article, you could tell it was the unanswered question they all wanted to raise.

You are able to avoid most of the press of the remaining of the Italian weekend, and stuck to answering race-related questions only, your safest and only option, Ally told you later. You finished the Grand Prix P10, and flew home still sullen.

You spent the two weeks in between Monza and Japan in your apartment, regretfully thinking about all those years you had to spend under your parent’s treatment, and trying to forget them with simulator work.

You arrive in Suzuka, quiet and unsmiling, and try to ignore the shouting of the press that greets you on your way into the paddock. Ally guides you away as two new voices greet you.

“Hey Y/n, how are you?” Lewis asks, pulling you into a side hug and stepping into place beside you.

“Are you okay? You seem off” Charles says concerned, meeting you in a handshake.

“I’m fine, my flight just got in late last night so I’m tired, that’s all” You half smiled in response, hoping it was believable enough.

“Sure?” Lewis presses father. “Yeah, I’m okay” You nod.

“Okay, well, we’re still going into the city after media today?” Lewis asks. “Of course, I’ll meet you guys at my hotel after” You assure as you near the Alpha Tauri garage.

“See you then, and try to sleep a bit, yes?” Charles says before the two men walk off together.

Your friendship with the two drivers started because of the Spanish and British Grand Prix’s, the two races that gave you your two highest race finishes, and ended with two of your closest friends. Spain was a great race for both you and Lewis, yourself in P4, him in P2, and after non-stop talking in the paddock, you flew back to the UK together, effectively starting the friendship existing today.

You’d been friendly with Charles previously, but after his P9 finish in Silverstone and your P5 finish, he realized in a conversation before an interview that you were undeniably good at cheering people up, and you guys have been close since.

You’ve talked with them since Monza, of course, but not about the article. They want to talk to you about it, you can tell, but Charles and Lewis aren’t the type of people to just come right out and ask if you’re feeling okay about your history with your abusive parents being exposed to the world.

They also don’t want to pressure you into talking about something you clearly don’t want to talk about, so if all they can do is help distract you from the media, they’re going to.

Your night out with the Mercedes and Ferrari drivers does distract you; Lewis leads you and Charles to different shops and restaurants all over Suzuka, talking and laughing the entire time. You take a few photos along the way, and you go back to your hotel still smiling.

You kept your good mood until qualifying on Saturday, and are brought back into the reality of racing when you only manage P11. It’s technically not bad of a result for your car, but P9 or P8 would’ve been better right now, because all you can think about is what your parents would’ve said if you finished P11.

They’re paying you millions of dollars to race for them and the best you can do is eleventh?

You think you deserve to be here?

They are hundreds of other drivers that would do so much better than you

You are nothing compared to the other drivers

You’re lucky if you keep you seat next season, I know I wouldn’t let a P11 driver on my team

You go quiet at the thought, and get through post-race media stoic. You leave with your trainer as soon as you can, avoiding Lewis and Charles’s eyes on your way out. You have a week before you have to leave for Qatar, and spend a countless amount of hours on your simulator, hoping this time it’ll make a difference.

You flew into Lusail not knowing what to expect other than hot weather, and unfortunately you were right. You felt the heat as soon as you got in your car for FP1 on Friday and was already dreading the rest of the weekend.

You qualify P11 for both the race and the sprint, and end up in P12 for the two. You felt terrible after Sunday’s race, both physically and mentally, and you’re already berating yourself for your performance by the time you get weighed.

Charles and Lewis are in your post-race press conference group, and you can see them exchange a look after every cold and detached answer you give. You only stop to talk to your friends for a few minutes afterwards before you excuse yourself to go cool down, and leave minutes later with the defense of needing rest.

You fly back to the UK with Lewis, and you’re glad the two of you are asleep for most of the trip so Lewis won’t ask you to talk about why you’ve been so quiet.

The 10 days you have until you fly out to Austin are spent mostly on your phone, looking at all the comments people have been making about you since the article came out, saying how you probably deserved the treatment that you got, and how Alpha Tauri needs a more “stable” driver if they want to advance in the championship.

You don’t do much except exercise and train on the sim in those days, finding neither the desire or energy to do anything else.

Even though everyone is happy to be in Texas that week, you can’t find the energy to truly smile once that weekend. Charles and Lewis are practically stuck to your side, and even though you can tell they’re dying to ask you to talk about it, they only ask a few times if you wanted to tell them something, and when you denied, and simply offered companionship through silence.

It’s another sprint race, and you only pull off P12 and 13 for qualifying and the shootout, and drop a place by the end of both races.

You feel more frustrated with yourself than ever; you don’t understand why you can’t work with the car like you once used to, and you can’t even figure out how to again. You were doing so well until that fucking article came out, and all the sudden you don’t know how to drive.

The worst part about it is that every race, more and more people are realizing how you’ve been under-performing, and how people are starting to question your ability to drive for the junior Red Bull team.

You aren’t stupid, you know how things work at Red Bull, so you know that if you don’t pick your pace up soon, you could end up without a seat for the 2024 season.

This thought alone starts to destroy you, and soon you can’t even deny how burnt out you are. You pick up on the forced habit of not eating much, and making yourself to do nothing but train and look for ways to be better.

You spend the days before Mexico with data analysts and strategists, looking for any and every way to go faster. You dedicate too much time looking at successful F2 drivers, hearing Liam Lawson’s name come up too much for comfort, thinking about how Dennis Hauger had been looking fast in F2.

It’s a terribly unhealthy time killer, one that makes you look sick and go quiet. Charles and Lewis aren’t the only ones exchanging concerned looks now; multiple other drivers on the grid, friends with you or not, notice the change in your behavior and quickly grow worried when they hear Yuki’s description of you.

The drivers aren’t stupid either, they all know about the article that was published in September, and most of them would be lying if they said they hadn’t looked at it in curiosity. They’d also be lying if they saw their eyes didn’t widen in concern or eyebrows didn’t furrow with worry when they read how terrible your parents treated you.

The grid saw how the comments got nastier and nastier under your lessening social media posts every day, and even asked your PR officer multiple times to make sure she was managing your accounts and making sure you didn’t see what people had to say about your background or yourself.

They saw how you got quieter every race, how you stopped hanging out with Yuki and Charles and Lewis, no matter how many times they offered. They saw the rumors of you and your 2024 seat, how apparently Helmut Marko was paying close attention to you and the clauses in your contract.

They asked a lot, if you wanted to talk or if they could help in any way. It was always the same response; a weary smile, a small shake of the head, the words,“No, I’m fine, just tired” and an excuse that you were needed in your garage or media pen.

So they try to help in more discreet ways; when Yuki is asked about your position on Alpha Tauri or your future with Red Bull, he calmly assures that you are working hard with the team, and is doing everything possible to understand the car.

Charles, Lewis, and a few other drivers make a routine of coming to your driver’s room, most of the time just to sit with you as you look at data, or talk with you when you’re feeling up to it.

Mexico goes somehow worse than Texas, and you finish with your lowest result in F1 yet, P15. You try to be as approachable as possible in post-race media, but your sullen face gives you away.

You leave with Ally and your trainer to catch your flight to Brazil mere hours after you passed the checkered flag, and spend most of your time in Sau Paulo alone in your hotel room, replaying every hurtful comment either your mother and father or fans have said about you, and debating whether or not it was true.

You walk into the Brazilian paddock Thursday morning more grateful than you thought possible that this was the third-to-last race of your season.

And according to over twenty media sources, your third-to last race of F1.

After a public statement made by Marko talking about how Red Bull was “considering your future with their junior team” every journalist in the F1 community has decided that it means this was your last season in F1.

And honestly, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Whether you raced in 2024 or not, you just wanted to go home and avoid the press for three months.

It was another sprint weekend, and another terrible qualifying and shootout. You placed 15th in both sessions and kept your place in the sprint, and spent a quiet Saturday evening in your hotel.

You could feel almost every journalists eye’s turn to you as soon as you walked into the paddock on Sunday. You arrived early that afternoon to get some extra data-stuff done, only now realizing that it gave the growing group of reporters behind you more time to ask you questions.

“Y/n! Can you tell us about your future in F1?”

“Will you have a seat next year?

“Y/n, what does Helmut Marko think about your decrease in performance?”

“Does your past with your parents have anything to do with your recent race results?”

You try to keep your face emotionless as you make your way into the Alpha Tauri garage and to your drivers room. You prepare for the race with your personal trainer and look over the arranged strategies for Sau Paulo while you wait for the go-ahead to get in your car.

Due to all the crashed-out cars, you ended the race in P12 in front of Oscar Piastri and Daniel Ricciardo. Statistically speaking, it was one of your better 2023 races, but everyone knows if it wasn’t for all the DNF’s, you’d finish in the bottom five.

You know that everyone knows this because just before you walked into the media pen after your race debrief, you saw Christian Horner and Marko speaking to your team principle, and after Yuki’s P9 finish today, it didn’t take you even a second to understand who they were talking about with disappointed faces and multiple shakes of the head.

Sure, this could mean nothing. This could just be a conversation between the three people that control the top team and it’s junior team. But you also like to think you’re a bit smarter than that.

You walked deeper into the crowded area before the three could see you, and walked to the first open journalist you saw, in hopes of leaving early.

“Y/n, hi! Not too bad of a race for you today, I guess?” The man asked, pointing his microphone towards you

“Yeah, not too bad. The car felt pretty okay and there was a bit of pace, but not enough to overtake or anything, clearly” You reply.

“Can we expect more race pace from you in Las and Vegas and Abu Dhabi?”

“I mean, it’s a bit too early to tell, but we’ll hope and see what comes out out of the practices” The man nods before looking down at his notebook.

“And your seat for Alpha Tauri next year, we know you’re apart of the confirmed driver lineup for 2024 but Helmut Marko states that there are attainable clauses in your contract, what do you think about that?”

You’re caught off guard by the question, but right when you’re about to respond, the man continues.

“Surely, Alpha Tauri isn’t really considering keeping you for next season, are they?”

You’re standing in front of the man speechless now, your brain barely comprehending what’s being spoken.

“Because I know the last thing a team wants is an incapable driver that is too emotionally effected by her “traumatic” childhood to race,” the volume of his voice starts to increase, and other drivers are starting to focus on your one-sided conversation.

“I mean, c’mon, no one even believes that even happened to you, and if it did, your parents were probably right for doing it-”

Your hands are shaking, eyes are wide with shock, body suddenly freezing, and you don’t even think you’re breathing. All you can do is listen as this man goes on and on about how you’re a shitty driver and deserved how your parents treated you.

You’re only broken out of your trance when an arm clad in red wraps around your shoulders and pulls you through the paddock. You’re not even aware of the yelling from a certain Mercedes drivers gets quieter and quieter as you’re brought into your driver’s room.

You’re being sat on a couch, and suddenly Charles Leclerc’s face is right in front of you, hands on your shoulders and eyes filled with concerned. “Y/n? Y/n, look at me, please, Y/n-” Your eyes dart to him and in an instant, everything from the past five minutes comes rushing through your head, and you can’t stop the tears that start to fall down your face.

“Oh, Y/n” The Ferrari driver moves to comfort you, but stops as you begin to cover your face and move away.

“No, Y/n, it’s okay, please, let me help you, Y/n” Charles wraps his arms around you in a hug as your body begins to shake with uncontrollable sobs.

“I can’t- I can’t do this anymore, Charles” You say in between breaths.

“I have to quit or something, I can’t keep doing this Charles, I can’t” You let your head fall on his shoulder, as the man tries to calm you down.

Charles’ heart is breaking as he comforts his friend; he remembers loving his first few years in Formula 1, how everything was so new and exciting to him, he could never not want to race, not then and not now. But to hear one of his closest friends breakdown because of how much she hates being there, makes the man’s heart shatter.

The door abruptly opens, and for a moment, all you can hear is the low angry cursing of Lewis Hamilton, until he sees you and Charles, and his face immediately softens.

“Love, I’m so sorry. That guy is a complete jerk, don’t listen to him” The British man says as he takes a seat beside you and wraps an arm around your shoulders.

“I don’t know what to do anymore, I feel so stuck in this place where everyone is always talking about what happened and I don’t know how much longer I can go through it” You say, your voice breaking off with another sob.

Charles hushes you once more, exchanging a worried look with Lewis as you pull away from him again. “I’m sorry, I know I should be doing better and everything but I just can’t-” You say, voice shaky through the tears.

“Don’t for one second be sorry that you’re not competitive right now. Y/n, thousands of people are talking about the one thing that hurt you the most, and I understand why you feel this way, just please, love, for your own good, let us help you. I promise it will make you feel better” Lewis assures, grabbing your hand.

So for the first time, you do. For over an hour, you tell Charles and Lewis everything that happened when you were younger, and how the article has made you feel since then. They listen quietly, nodding once in a while to let you know they understand, and gave you a hug when you stopped talking.

“Do you feel better now?” Lewis asks.

“Yeah, not entirely, but better”

“Good, that’s all I wanted to hear,”

“Are you ready to go home now? There’s a plane waiting for us, if you want”

“Definitely. I need to go home” You say as Charles helps pack up all your things and Lewis makes sure there’s a car waiting for you two outside. As you’re all walking through the nearly-empty paddock, Charles turns to you.

“I have to go back to my garage, but please Y/n, if you ever need to talk, call me? I want to help you, I don’t want to see you like this again” The Monegasque brings you into a hug.

“I know, Charles, I will” You promise.

“Okay, I’ll see you before Vegas, yes? Feel better!” He calls as he moves backwards and further into the paddock.

“You promise?”

Lewis asks you hours later in the front of the airport in England, just about to get into separate cars.

“Yes, Lewis, I’ll call when I need” You say to the older man in a hug.

“Alright, text me when you’ve made it home and make sure you get some rest. Don’t be too hard on yourself either, you don’t give yourself enough credit for everything you do” You smile at him.

“Okay, I’ll see you before Vegas?”

“See you before Vegas!” He shouts from his already-closed car door.

When you do see the two next, they make sure you’ve made an appointment with a therapist and are setting up a meeting with your PR manager to put together a statement in regards to your well-being the past two months.

Charles and Lewis make sure the media inside the paddock is severely monitored and checked before being allowed near the drivers, and help you fall back into healthier habits.

These changes don’t happen overnight, and they don’t take affect overnight, but you do use the winter off season to make sure these changes are helpful and working.

The three month break is utilized to mentally and physically prepare yorself in time for your 2024 seat at Alpha Tauri that was re-confirmed after your P8 finishes in Las Vegas and Abu Dhabi.

The media still knows everything, and you haven’t completely forgotten your childhood, you never will, but dealing with it still gets easier.

[babacontainsmultitudes]

AH. So that's why they put that content warning. I see!

[ericshoney]

Perfect ~ Sturniolo triplets

Warnings: angst, eating disorders, crying, mental health, mentions of a broken home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You had been friends with the triplets since high school and you loved every second you spent with them. As you didn't have the best home life, you found comfort and protection in the Sturniolo home and once the guys moved to LA, you were close behind. You moved in with the trio, saying you'd help with their filming and any meetings.

However, after spending years in LA and now having your own social media fame, you couldn't help but feel bland and simple. You also couldn't ignore the comments on your posts about your weight. You had always struggled with your weight, it going up and down constantly.

But now, it was getting to your head. Your mind was telling you that you wasn't good enough and you were fat and ugly and that the guys only kept you around as you help edit or keep them on track of important meetings. Your mind telling you they didn't really like you.

It then resulted in you skipping out snacks, only eating three meals a day. Which then went downhill. You then cut out breakfast, before skipping lunch and slowly dinner as well. Your mind tells you that eating would just get you fat and nobody would like you.

Your weight then dropped drastically and the guys noticed. They noticed how sunken your eyes looked, how thin you were getting, how your clothes hung off your body and they were worried. They were scared to lose you.

Nick, Matt and Chris sat on the sofa as you were showering, the trio talking about your sudden weight loss. Concern written all over their faces.

"She's not eating." Matt mentioned.

"We need to talk to her." Chris said.

"Yes, but we need to be careful not to hurt her more than she already is." Nick said, agreeing but also thinking logically.

Matt and Chris nodded and when you walked out, the guys told you to sit as they wanted to talk. You nodded, taking a seat between Matt and Nick on the sofa.

"What's going on?" You asked.

"We've noticed your sudden weight loss." Chris blurted out, earning a slap from Nick.

"It's great isn't it. I'm now fitting the perfect LA image." You said, a fake smile printed on your face, which the guys knew was fake.

"Sweetheart, we're basically your brothers. Talk to us, you aren't eating which isn't healthy and we don't want to lose you." Nick softly said, taking your hand in his.

"Just not hungry." You mumbled.

"That's what your mind is telling you. But we know it's not true." Matt said.

"None of you really like me.....I'm only good for helping you work." You mumbled, tears ready to spill over.

"No, that's not true, kid. You are one of our best friends and as Nick said, basically our sister. We love you and care about you. If we didn't, we wouldn't be having this talk." Chris said, sitting in front of you on the floor.

You looked into his blue eyes, the tears now falling freely down your face. You looked at Nick and to Matt as well, all their faces showed worry. You mind now screaming at you for making them upset.

"I'm sorry." You cried.

"Don't be sorry. We're sorry for not seeing the signs first of all." Matt said, rubbing your back.

"We want to help you. Will you let us?" Nick asked softly.

You nodded laying your head on his shoulder. Chris laid his head on your knees as Matt continued to rub your back. In that moment you felt loved and supported and knew over time you would get better, with your friends help.

[gosuckseamonkeys]

Arid Melancholy

Summary: Rafayel is captured and endures brutal torture at the hands of an agent of EVER Group intent on exploiting his people’s secrets.

Zayne, Xavier, Sylus and Rafayel must confront their deepest fear, losing you, and fight against an enemy whose ambition threatens their survival.

AN: Apologies in advance for the angst, I've been looking for similar heart wrenching fics on here for a while now before I decided to write my own. Then an evil little idea formed and pulled me reluctantly out of writing retirement.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4....

Chapter 1 - Approx. 2pm

Jealousy

"I think that's enough for today. We've been at it for hours," Xavier said, wiping the sweat from his brow and stepping back, sheathing his practice sword. "I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted."

“You’re always exhausted,” you groaned, letting your sword fall to your side. “I think I’m getting better, though!”

“You certainly are. I’m looking forward to our next mission together.” A faint blush spread across his cheeks as he ran his fingers through his damp silver hair, brushing it out of his eyes. “I think you deserve a reward for your excellent swordsmanship. How about dinner on the way home? Our usual hot pot place—my treat.”

“I don’t think anyone loves hot pot as much as you do, Xavier,” you teased, packing up your belongings for the walk home. “I’d love to, but I have a date tonight with Rafayel.”

“A what now?” Xavier froze mid-step, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

“His exhibit is tonight. I’m sure you’ve heard about it—Thomas has been working overtime promoting the event. It’s all over the news.”

“Who is Thomas?” Xavier picked up his pace to walk alongside you, his expression tight with frustration.

You smiled and turned to face him, gently raising your hand to cup his cheek. “No one you need to worry about.”

Caught off guard, his tense demeanor softened as he leaned into your touch.

“I doubt that… but as long as the whole city is also invited to your ‘date,’ I think I can stomach it,” Xavier muttered.

“You’re adorable when you’re jealous, you know that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he scoffed, grasping your hand and continuing toward your apartment building.

Your phone buzzed, and you reluctantly let go of his hand to retrieve it from your pocket. Seeing the picture on the screen, you grinned, and Xavier’s frown deepened.

“Hey, Rafayel! How are the preparations going?”

“There she is…” Rafayel’s voice carried a note of relief. “I was starting to worry when you didn’t respond to my texts. You didn’t forget about me, did you?”

“With you reminding me every hour on the hour? Not possible,” you chuckled. “I’m almost home. I just need to shower and change.”

“I have something for you,” Rafayel said, his smile evident in his tone. “Hurry up—I’m terrible at surprises, and you need to open it ASAP.”

“See you soon, guppy.”

“Guppy?” Xavier echoed, arching a brow. “Will I see you tomorrow, at least?”

You turned to Xavier, catching his dejected expression. “Tomorrow should be—oh, shit.”

Your sudden exclamation startled him. “What? What is it?”

“I forgot to reschedule my appointment with Dr. Zayne.” You hastily texted your physician, bracing yourself for the inevitable lecture about last-minute cancellations. “He’s going to kill me!”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ for tomorrow, then…” Xavier sighed.

The Gift

Rafayel paced outside your apartment, gently swinging a bag containing your gift. He’d been imagining you in it for weeks. The gown was tailored to match the colors of his suit for the event, and he was eager to see you wearing it.

The elevator chimed, and Rafayel’s heart leapt. His excitement dimmed slightly when you stepped off—with Xavier in tow. Wonderful.

You dashed down the hall and threw yourself into Rafayel’s arms. He dropped the bag without hesitation, scooping you up and holding you close. He breathed in your scent, missing you terribly, despite only being apart for a few days.

“I thought we were meeting at the venue!” you exclaimed before trailing off, noticing Xavier looming behind you.

“Xavier,” Rafayel greeted with a forced smile.

Rafayel's greeting was ignored as Xavier bent down to kiss your cheek. “I’ll see you later this week, okay? Let me know when you get home tonight.” His tone carried a warning as he cast Rafayel a sharp glance before striding back to the elevator.

“Who spit in his seabed?” Rafayel asked, raising an eyebrow.

You shrugged, looping your arm through his and opening your front door. “Xavier can be… overprotective.”

“Possessive,” Rafayel countered.

“Something like that.”

“He should learn to share.”

“Says the man who wants to see me every waking hour.” You quipped.

Rafayel smirked, picking up the bag and following you inside. “I’ll take the sleeping hours too, if you’re offering.”

Walking inside, you set your things down on the coffee table and headed toward the bathroom. Rafayel caught your hand as you passed and pulled you close.

“Oh no, you don’t,” he murmured, tilting your chin to make you meet his gaze, his ever-changing eyes mesmerizing. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” you whispered, your noses almost touching.

Rafayel couldn’t resist as he guided you backward until your back met the wall. Threading his fingers through your hair, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips trailing soft kisses down your throat.

“Wait, Rafayel! I’m gross—I was just working out!” you squealed, squirming in his grasp.

“You’re never gross to me, cutie,” he rasped, his lips brushing against your ear before capturing yours in a slow, sensual kiss. He tugged gently at your lower lip, teasing with his teeth. “Do you need help getting out of your clothes before your shower? I don’t mind getting wet if you want company,” he whispered suggestively.

“We don’t have time for all that—we’ll be late!” You laughed, slipping out of his arms and darting toward the bathroom.

Rafayel let out a dramatic sigh, his voice loud enough to carry through the door. “I could make time,” he teased before muttering to himself, “or just skip the event entirely after I see you wearing the gift I’ve brought...”

After a few minutes, he knocked lightly on the bathroom door. “Cutie, I’m hanging your present on the doorknob. Get dressed and come out when you’re ready.”

“Rafayel, what did you do?” you called out suspiciously.

“You’ll see,” he replied with a playful lilt, sauntering back to the couch and sprawling across it as he waited impatiently.

About fifteen minutes later, he heard the soft click of heels against the floor. He sat up eagerly, his anticipation building. When you stepped into view, his breath caught in his throat.

“How do I look?” you asked, spinning slowly to show off the dress.

“You’re… stunning,” Rafayel whispered, his gaze locked on you in awe.

The gown was a masterpiece, its top half a deep midnight blue that seamlessly transitioned into a rich royal purple near the hem. The silk shimmered with hues reminiscent of the ocean’s depths, and a high slit on the right side revealed just enough of your thigh to make his pulse quicken.

The strapless design left your shoulders bare, a perfect canvas for the delicate necklace he’d chosen. Holding the back of the dress together, you turned to him shyly. “Do you think you could zip me up?”

Rafayel rose slowly, savoring the sight of you. He moved behind you, his fingers brushing yours as he zipped the gown closed with deliberate care.

From his pocket, he pulled out a long silver necklace adorned with a small oyster-shaped pendant cradling a pink pearl.

“You’re enchanting,” he murmured, draping the necklace around your neck and fastening the clasp.

“Rafayel, this is too much,” you said, your voice tinged with awe as he reached for the matching pearl bracelet and earrings.

“It’s nowhere near enough,” he replied softly, his reverent gaze fixed on you. As he fastened the bracelet around your wrist, his tone turned teasing. “These are just little accents to highlight the real treasure by my side tonight.”

“These must have cost a fortune,” you protested, your cheeks warming.

“Don’t even think about it. They’re yours, freely given, with no expectations. All I care about is seeing you happy. Do you like them?”

“Of course I do!”

“Good,” he said with a wicked smile. “Because I can’t wait to unwrap you later.”

His lips claimed yours in a searing kiss that left you breathless. “The sooner we get to the exhibit, the sooner we can leave—and I can have you all to myself,” he murmured against your lips.

“I’ve been dying to see your exhibit! Thomas refused to tell me anything. What did you say to him?” you asked.

Rafayel shrugged, holding the door open for you. As you stepped out of the apartment, he bit his lip and glanced up at the ceiling before quietly closing the door behind him.

“Maybe Thomas is onto something. That dress is going to torture me all night long,” he murmured. His eyes drifted to your exposed thigh, and he rested a hand gently on your soft skin. “We really need to do this more often.”

“You know you don’t have to bring your gun everywhere, right? We hired private security for the evening, so you’re officially off duty tonight, Miss Bodyguard,” he added with a teasing smirk.

You tugged your dress down slightly to ensure the holster strap on your thigh remained hidden. “Wouldn’t you rather have it and not need it than need it and not have it? I feel naked without it.”

“So tempted to make a comment,” Rafayel grinned, “but I’m trying to be a gentleman here.”

The Security Team

Thomas opened the back door of the gallery, greeting four imposing men dressed in all-black suits. One by one, they entered the facility at his invitation.

“Gentlemen, thank you for being here today. Normally, Mr. Rafayel has a smaller security detail, but for an event like this, I insisted on something more formal.” Thomas let out a relieved sigh.

“Of course. You’re Thomas, correct? We spoke on the phone,” said Marcus, stepping forward and gesturing over his shoulder, "meet my team."

He introduced the guards and gestured to a man with similar features and build. “This is my brother, Bennett.”

"Family business?" Thomas remarked with curiosity. Bennett nodded in acknowledgment.

“We came out last week to map the facility layout,” Marcus continued. “We’re familiar with the building, but you should walk us through the event details.”

“Wow, you’re thorough,” Thomas replied, visibly impressed. “You came highly recommended by the agency, and I’m beginning to see why.” He motioned for the group to follow as he began walking them through the venue.

Marcus strolled calmly at the front, his sharp eyes taking in the exhibits. “We handle many protection details for high-profile clients and look forward to safeguarding Mr. Rafayel tonight.”

“We appreciate it,” Thomas said. “This is Rafayel’s largest gallery show yet. It includes his work spanning decades and various mediums, all centered around Lemuria—a recurring theme in his art since, well, forever.”

Marcus’s expression darkened slightly as he studied the pieces. “Some research suggests he might be Lemurian himself. Any truth to that?”

“Hardly,” Thomas scoffed, brushing off the question. “He’s just a little more sensitive and eccentric than most. The public likes to paint him as otherworldly, which, of course, I encourage. Free marketing,” he added smoothly, the line rolling off his tongue like a practiced mantra.

Yet deep down, Thomas couldn’t ignore the signs. How could he have worked alongside Rafayel for so many years and not know he was… different? Though Rafayel had never explicitly claimed to be anything other than human, there were too many signs to dismiss.

“My brother will double-check the more restricted areas—the catering hall, lavatories, and employee break room,” Marcus said, snapping Thomas out of his thoughts. “You can never be too careful.”

Marcus glanced over his shoulder and nodded at Bennett, who silently split off from the group and retraced their steps. “My men and I will remain with you to cover all ancillary details. What’s the final count for attendees?”

While Marcus kept Thomas occupied, Bennett slipped outside to the van, pulling a set of keys from his pocket. Climbing into the driver’s seat, he glanced back as he fastened his seatbelt.

The real security team lay unconscious in the van’s rear compartment.

Bennett smirked wickedly, turning the ignition. As he backed out of the parking lot, he glanced at the figures sprawled out behind him.

“Sorry, boys, but this was the path of least resistance. Don’t worry, you’ll be found in a few weeks. At least your families will get a chance to say a proper goodbye.”

Humming along to the radio, Bennett tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. “I’m not a complete monster. Unlike my brother.”

Target Acquired

Rafayel led you into the gallery, trying to shield himself as photographers swarmed outside the venue. Thomas greeted you both in the lobby, looking frazzled.

“You’re late!"

“I’m actually right on time, thanks to this one,” Rafayel said, draping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you close.

“You’re going to put me in an early grave, I swear! I needed you here an hour ago,” Thomas huffed, shoving a stack of documents into Rafayel’s unoccupied hand.

Rafayel rolled his eyes, “accidentally” dropping the pages into a nearby trash bin. He grabbed your hand and followed Thomas deeper into the building.

“You weren’t kidding about giving me the night off,” you remarked.

“I prefer your exclusive protection, of course,” Rafayel replied, flashing a grin. “But this way, I get your undivided attention. Your only job tonight is to enjoy yourself, Miss Bodyguard.”

“Hurry up!” Thomas scolded as he led you into an overcrowded back office. Inside, four broad-shouldered men dressed in sleek black attire stood waiting.

“Mr. Rafayel,” Marcus greeted, stepping forward. His pale green eyes locked onto Rafayel like a predator spotting its prey. “Good to finally meet you. My team will be managing security for the event tonight. I’m Marcus. Let us know if you need anything.”

“I feel safer already,” Rafayel said, pulling you closer. “Just make sure her safety is a priority too. I can’t live without her.”

You blushed, gently elbowing him in the ribs. “Nice to meet you,” you said, trying to sound professional. “But really, you don’t have to worry about me. I work for the Hunter’s Association, so please focus on his well-being. I can handle myself.”

“Of course you can, cutie,” Rafayel teased.

“I mean it,” you insisted.

“No, she doesn’t. She’s a terrible bodyguard,” he retorted with a smirk.

“Rafayel,” you growled, “if you don’t quit, they’re going to need to protect you from me.”

“So feisty. Love that about you,” Rafayel quipped. “Let’s go grab a drink before the mob outside rushes in. I can’t wait to meet all of Thomas’s little wallet-weasels.”

“They’re donors and patrons, Rafayel,” Thomas groaned. “Be on your best behavior, or I swear…”

Rafayel ignored him, pulling you out of the office before Thomas could finish his lecture.

The Halls of Lemuria - Approx. 5pm

Rafayel spent about thirty minutes mingling with guests, shaking hands, and pandering to the crowd before he slipped an arm around your waist, gently steering you toward the double doors of the exhibit hall.

“Rafayel, wait! You’ve barely scratched the surface of your list. You’ve only spoken to about ten people so far!”

“My social battery is officially empty, and I need a break,” he grumbled. “Besides, you haven’t even seen the actual art yet.”

The transition from the gallery lobby to the exhibits was marked by enormous floor-to-ceiling curtains in rich oceanic hues—deep teals, bright blues, and majestic purples. Rafayel chose a spot in the draped fabric, parting it to invite you under his arm.

The first sight inside took your breath away. Vaulted ceilings were illuminated in soft, swirling colors of cerulean, lavender, and pale blue, mimicking the mesmerizing depths of the sea. Small bubbles descended gracefully from hidden mechanisms in the ceiling, adding to the immersive experience. It felt as though you’d been transported to Rafayel’s long-lost kingdom—a world erased from the planet centuries ago.

The walls showcased paintings in various mediums: sprawling white palaces, lush underwater gardens, coral clusters glowing in vibrant hues, and graceful sea creatures. Yet, the sculptures stole the show. Many appeared suspended, floating on transparent wires above the crowd, as if swimming through the air.

At the room’s center, elevated on a pedestal, stood the exhibit’s centerpiece—a striking sculpture of you. The figure depicted you as Lemurian royalty, complete with an elegant tail and delicate fins. Serene and regal, the sculpture held the emissary of the sea in its hands. Its detail was stunning, from the curve of the tail to the expression of wisdom and grace.

You covered your mouth in shock, overwhelmed by emotion as you took in the artistry. Your eyes finally landed on the inscription at the base of the pedestal, engraved in shimmering gold:

“Property of Mo Art, not available for auction.”

Rafayel’s arms slipped around your waist as he rested his chin on your shoulder, nuzzling close. “I’ve been working on her for years,” he whispered, a proud smile in his voice. “And I’ll be damned if I let her go home with anyone else.”

Your cheeks flushed as you leaned into him, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “I don’t even know what to say…”

“Then don’t,” he murmured. “Just stay here with me for a moment. The next room is… intense. I want to savor this with you.”

He inhaled deeply, committing the moment to memory. “I can’t take you to Lemuria, but I tried to bring a piece of it here for you.”

Behind the next set of thick blue-grey curtains lay a strikingly different scene. This time, you stepped through first, Rafayel following close behind.

The atmosphere shifted immediately. Fishing nets and the bones of sea creatures draped the ceiling, lowering the room’s height and creating a claustrophobic effect. The walls were adorned with paintings—violent, chaotic depictions of Lemuria’s decimation. Abstract oceans were streaked with blood-red carmine and rust.

Life-size ruins littered the space, forcing patrons to step over and navigate around the destruction to view each piece. The lighting deepened, with crimson and shadow replacing the softer lavender tones of the previous room.

At the room’s center was a towering mound of strung pearls, meticulously fastened together into a monument that reached your waist. You clutched Rafayel’s hand tightly. Each pearl represented the tears of Lemuria’s citizens, shed over centuries of devastation. The weight of their sorrow pressed heavily on your chest.

“These were created during one of the darkest times in my life,” Rafayel said softly, his voice heavy with emotion. He squeezed your hand and pulled you closer, his warmth a reassuring presence. “I haven’t felt the need to revisit those memories since you’ve been with me. I hope it stays that way.”

Without lingering too long, Rafayel guided you toward the final set of curtains—billowing white linens that barely contained a bright, inviting light. “C’mon,” he said with a small smile. “Just one more room.”

As you stepped through, the sensation underfoot changed. Sand. It stretched out in soft mounds, leading to an expansive mural on the far wall—a stunning sunrise painted in vibrant hues of orange, pink, and gold. The air felt warmer here, reminiscent of a coastal morning.

The shoreline stretched down the hall, dotted with smaller sculptures of seashells, crabs, and seagulls. Some of the birds hung suspended from the ceiling, frozen mid-flight.

The sand transitioned into a shallow pool of crystal-clear water, complete with gentle waves lapping at the edge. Beneath the surface, an enormous sculpture depicted the ruins of Lemuria in breathtaking detail.

At the water’s edge stood lifelike sculptures of mourners, their faces cast in grief. One figure, draped in black, stood waist-deep in the water, dissolving into the sea as if returning to the kingdom’s ruins below.

Rafayel’s gaze turned somber as he watched the figure. He held your hand tighter, his eyes reflecting the light of the simulated sunrise.

“What do you say we move on to the dining room?” Rafayel suggested softly, attempting a smile. “I could use a drink—or three.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing him sweetly before nodding. Together, you left the exhibit, hand in hand, as wealthy patrons and critics marveled at Rafayel’s masterful portrayal of beauty, sorrow, and resilience.

Closing Time - Approx. 7pm

After hours of entertaining, you and Rafayel stood by as Thomas ushered the last patrons out of the dining room. With a sigh of relief, Thomas closed the door behind them, a triumphant smile lighting his face.

“Well done, Rafayel,” Thomas said, raising a champagne flute. “Nearly every piece is sold! Mrs. Hildebrant alone claimed a third from the first room.”

Rafayel raised his glass with a playful groan. “Couldn’t have done it without you, Thomas. But I’m starving. Can we puh-lease go now?”

You giggle at his dramatics mirroring his eagerness, both of you ready for the dinner he'd promised. The only people left in the building were the three of you and the hired security detail.

“Yes, yes, you miserable fish. You’re free to go.” Thomas says with a smile, waving his hand dismissively. “I’ll be at your studio tomorrow to sort out—”

Before anyone could move, Marcus struck Thomas, knocking him unconscious. Chaos erupted as the security team turned on you and Rafayel.

Bennett snatched you from Rafayel’s side, twisting your arm painfully, pressing a gun to your back. “Rafayel!” you shouted as he summoned his daggers. In a deadly display of skill, he swiftly eliminated one attacker but was forced into battle with Marcus and another guard.

Desperate, you fought back, elbowing Bennett and retrieving your hidden pistol. Firing, you hit one guard and barely grazed Bennett before he retaliated with a brutal blow, sending you sprawling.

Rafayel watched Bennett’s boot descend out of the corner of his eye and raised his hand, Evol roaring to life, setting Bennett ablaze in a fiery rage. The boot barely connected with your ribs before Bennett howled in agony, engulfed in flames.

Managing to recover and scramble to your feet, you raise your pistol to put Bennett out of his misery, but Marcus beat you to pulling the trigger.

Rafayel’s unearthly scream tore through the gallery as he raced to you. His eyes are wide in terror and cries of anguish unlike anything you’ve ever heard before tear from his lungs.

In that moment the pain hit and you collapsed to the floor. Vision tunneling, you clutch at the hole in your chest unable to staunch the flow of blood. Some small part of you finds it funny that after all these years your end wouldn’t be at the claws of a Wanderer.

Falling to his knees, Rafayel cradled you, tears forming into shimmering pearls as they hit the floor. “Stay with me,” he begged, pressing against the wound. “Please, don’t leave me.”

The muffled sounds of struggle soften and you fight to remain conscious, but it’s a futile battle. Rafayel called your name over and over until the darkness claimed you.

Capture

Rafayel would remember the sound of that shot for the rest of his long life. He tried to get between you and the bullet, take it for himself, but he wasn’t fast enough.

“NO!” He cried out, scrambling desperately to your side. As you fall to the floor Rafayel feels his heart fracture. No, please, no no no no.

It took him a moment to realize that the screams echoing through the halls weren’t yours but his.

Falling to his knees, he cradled you, tears forming into shimmering pearls as they hit the floor. You were barely conscious.

“Hey, Cutie. Can you hear me?” His voice was just above a whisper. The eyes he loved so much moved over him in faint recognition.

“There she is,” he wept as he pressed against the wound. “Don’t you dare go anywhere. Please? Stay,” Rafayel begged. “Stay with me.”

Your faint smile was his only solace before your body went limp. The bond between you stalled, and Rafayel’s heart shattered.

Marcus, forgotten in the chaos, reloaded his weapon with tranquilizer rounds and fired. Twice.

Both shots struck Rafayel, but he curled around you protectively with a whimper, defying the drugs coursing through his veins. It paled in comparison to the pain of your flickering bond.

You were leaving again, abandoning him to a world without you in it.

“Will you really die without her?” Marcus drawled, walking toward the couple intertwined on the floor. “That would be terribly inconvenient for me.”

Rafayel felt something grip his collar and yank, but he refused to let go. “Please…please…don’t. I n-need…” He moaned in pain. “Someone, please h-help….”

“Go to sleep, fish,” Marcus sighed in irritation and injected Rafayel with another round. “It will all be over soon.”

Rafayel fought against the tide of sleep dragging him out to sea. He didn’t want to go, but he was fighting a losing battle. His last words were your name as unconsciousness claimed him.

𓇼 ˚𓆝 ⋆｡𓆟 ⋆｡𓆞˚ 𓇼 ˚𓆝 ⋆｡𓆟 ⋆｡𓆞˚ 𓇼 ˚𓆝 ⋆｡𓆟 ⋆｡𓆞˚ 𓇼 ˚𓆝 ⋆｡𓆟 ⋆｡𓆞˚ 𓇼 ˚𓆝 ⋆｡𓆟 ⋆ ｡𓆞˚

Cross posted on AO3 under "holywaterbucketchallenge" for those of you who prefer that platform. Looking forward to your feedback!

[enchantedsword]

i read to many wukong somehow ends up human/mostly human the same way mk does, deaged/amnesia and sick wukong fics and now i want to make one thats a mix of all three, i dont have much but i do have a little.

basically wukong caught the nine headed demon trying to wake and take mk, he tried to stop him but the resulting fight ended in wukongs powers and memories being sealed and regressed in age, the nine headed demon leaves them both in the city, where the eventually are found by pigsy and tang(who are married), wukongs is the same age as mk so its assumed they are half demon twins, since mk looks pretty much fully human, while wukong still has his tail and his peach shaped face mark.

as for the sick wukong part of this, i was thinking since his powers are sealed, i think his immortality is also sealed(i dont know how just pretend it makes sense), a lot of his past injuries have reared up and cause a lot of health problems, the furnace resulting in eye problems making him need glasses, along with lung problems, immune system problems caused buy 500 years under a mountain and being fed molten copper, plus the malnutrition, and highly intense migraines caused by of the circlet

they find out about these medical issues shortly after pigsy and tang takes them both in, it caused a bit of trauma for everyone, and a long string of doctor and hospital visits, never really getting a clear diagnosis, but always being told not to expect a long life for him. wukong grows up with a lot of love and support, but he does have a lot of guilt and self conscience issues about being a burden medically and financially. they also found out early on that his body cant handle hot foods or meats. pigsy and sandy make up for their fight a lot sooner then in canon due to sandy training service cats, and they have get one for wukong.

what no one realizes is that wukong is on a time limit, if they dont unlock his powers at least then he will eventually die because of his health problems

wukong is still his hyperactive and impulsive self(he is definitely audhd) but he does have a lot of limitations due to his health and hes weak because of it(and the fact his powers are sealed), he is howeververy agile and loves to do parkour when hes actually feeling well enough. hes obviously a lot kinder due to being raised by tang and pigsy and growing up with mk, he is still a little shit and a bit of a prankster, never cruel ones though. a little socially awkward since his constant health problems and resulting doctors and hospital visits caused him to miss out on school a lot growing up, mei and mk being his only friends. they met mei around the time they started school, mei being the only one willing to interact with the sick kid and his overprotective brother. pigsy and tang tend to hover a lot, even tho they do try to give wukong independence and encourage mk to have his own outside of wukong. the twins did grow up loving the stories of journey to the west, mks favorite character the story being wukong obviously, but wukongs favorite ends up being both tripitaka and the six eared macaque, i subscribe to the headcanon the wukong views tripitaka as a parental figure and obviously im a shadowpeach shipper.

at the time of canons start wukong is in the hospital due to a scare from a serious case of pneumonia, hes not released until around the time macaque shows up, and yeah everyone from wukongs past knows who he is or has suspicions on who he is, there are a lot of assumptions ranging from hes pretending to not know anything and "playing human" to something happened and he was reincarnated, all in all it takes a long time for all of them(mk and crew included) to realize that with all his powers and immortalies sealed that he will actually die. i really dont have a plan for how any of these confrontations and meetings would go, but i know its all gonna be angsty as hell. also lots of hurt comfort on all sides.

im not sure if i want to keep his name wukong or something with like xiaoyang or something with yang in it, either way his nickname would be sunny(i know its overdone im sorry i like it), im also throwing my headcanons in that hes trans and uses he/they pronouns. i even have a sort of idea of what he would look like by the start of canon, i love long haired haired wukong, so his hair is about shoulder length or a bit past, his outfit is a yellow hoodie with a macaque emblem on the back(boy has a crush and doesnt hide it) a pink skirt(cause i think that would be his favorite color) black leggings because he moves around a lot, and im not sure if i want to give him shoes or have him refuse to wear them. wukong, mk and mei are all about 19/20 around the start of canon.

i think thats everything, if i remember anything else ill just edit this post here

EDIT: i should probably go to bed but someone reminded me of the name shihou(thank you btw,i forget things easily) and now i have a cute/funny little scenario stuck in my head, we all know pigsy is the one that called mk monkie kid when he was found and adding wukong to that pigsy just names him sunny, tang however being the voice of reason on names gives them the legal names of qi xiaotian and qi shihou, named the baby monkey after the baby monkey cause he couldnt think of anything else and he loves jttw and hey if pigsy can name the more human looking one monkie kid and then he can get away with naming one shihou, they both still go by mk and sunny most of the time tho

[mountainsinaboat]

Yennefer & Tissaia - All That Really Matters

[dem0batz]

I’m so tired of seeing constant criticisms of dark romance and dark romance love interests. Just enjoy what you enjoy and let others enjoy what they enjoy. Like some of y’all are so cruel and mean for no reason to people who are just minding their own business.

[tiramisume]

Lowkey I'm pretty sure my edn0s is just b3d now.

I've def gained visible weight and I feel slugish and sick daily but I can't stop eating. I have to stop before I end up like my family but I just CAN'T. I'm fucked up. I need fucking help but if I ask for treatment then my friends will think I've been faking my 3d the last 3 years.

Or, even worse, my mom will start watching me closer and I'll lose the chance to ever restrict again. I don't want to lose the only coping mechinism that I've ever had (but what if I already lost it?)

[gelu-the-babosa-multiversal]

¨Stop beatboxing, Dani. Our brother is dying...¨

@guardian-of-fandoms @agentsquirrelsgotrobots @bluy1206 While I'm still working on part two of this angsty series because they took my wifi down have a little rest... I guess

[spark-circuit]

Major, MAJOR spoilers for Rain World: The Watcher DLC below the cut:

MY TOUYS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! <3333333

(also does this canonically mean The Watcher, if discovered early enough by the Ancients, inspires them to create more slugcats as pets? and is therefore retroactively like the First Slugcat?)

[zillychu]

@staff please give us a mute option for users. please I'm begging you. how many shoelaces do you want me to buy. please

[affluent-havoc]

Finished Chapter 2! SPOILERS AHEAD! I must say that this chapter oddly made me dislike Makoto a bit. I genuinely thought I'd potentially dislike Byakuya in some ways more, perhaps feel a bit more upset at him than I do. On the contrary though, Makoto sucks in some ways. Which, don't get me wrong. Makoto deserves to be a flawed individual!! Golly though. For one, he really is a normie in some ways with how little he knows. How he asks so many unneeded questions, specifically when he was being dragged around by Byakuya which I get to some extent. He was very much disoriented from the whole ordeal, struggling to figure out why Byakuya of all people was interested in him specifically in regards of sleuthing about for the investigation. At the same time though, he needs to quit it with the rhetorical reciting questions that almost parrot what the other person just said. I get it's probably a bad habit of his but he need to get a grip about it. I can only extent sympathy for so long. Being a bit intentionally dramatic here by the way, but it sometimes feels like a tension killer or that it makes Makoto look a bit too dense. Don't get me started on the whole "rope" debacle too. Like, UUUUUGH! It's so obviously the extension cord Byakuya used in the library! So very obvious! Like, Byakuya took his time to bring Makoto to the library and I get Byakuya was being stubborn and not letting Makoto look at anything other than what he wanted him to look at. But it's so OBVIOUS!!! Though, I suppose I can blame a bit of this on the game design to some extent. Certainly doesn't make Makoto look smarter by any means. Maybe it's that denial where I can see Makoto's smarts shine in the trials so I feel like I'm internally being a bit harsh on him. I've seen others call him dense after all and I DO wanna look at Makoto in a positive light. I don't wanna be hating on the little bastard after all. It does get on my nerves sometimes though. and I can't lie to myself about that. Furthermore, the fact that I had to progress the trial by Hangman's Gambit-ing a slur for schizophrenic people regarding Genocide Jack. On a meta level, I get that doing D.I.D is a bit short and the full term is probably too long to do for just the second dang trial. Definitely not an excuse to use a slur that has no means being here though. Also though, in an in-world explanation, damnit, Makoto. You sure do have some shit you gotta sort out if that's what you're internally describing Jack as who, by the way, does not have schizophrenia. D.I.D and schizophrenia are very much not the same disorder. You called D.I.D a split personality multiple times which shows you know the difference. And, I can get it to some extent that, yes. This game is from the 2000s. The 2000s was definitely a more ableist time where terminology like that was flung around like it was nothing. So, in a sense of historical accuracy, I can understand why he might have said this word. I must also mention though that this isn't the first time Makoto was unnecessarily cruel to the others internally in his head. Thus, this certainly feels a bit more like a pattern of behavior for him. This is all interesting to me though with how much I've seen this side of Makoto ignored in some ways. He's surprisingly more judgmental than I feel some give him credit for. From internally thinking Taka was annoying when he first met him to finding Hifumi weird for his interests in Hifumi's own Free-time events (which I get. Hifumi isn't exactly written in the nicest light. Don't blame him for that. I blame the dated writing). I find this aspect of Makoto so intriguing though. In a way, Byakuya, the asshole of the group who dislikes everyone and mentions multiple times how he plans on following through with a murder, is less judgmental than Makoto. He said himself not to judge others by your own standards before the murder, during the investigation, and after the trial like he was the narrator of a children's book giving the moral of the story.

Fascinating...

[giveemcoffeekid]

Orion’s Belt

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Sherlock and Co fanfiction

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TW: eating disorder , anorexic Sherlock Holmes , Angst with happy ending

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John couldn’t help but blame himself. What kind of doctor was he? Worse than that, what kind of friend?

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It started so small.

Really, if John hadn’t kept going back in his mind (and occasionally his recordings) he wouldn’t have thought that it all had started so long ago.

That they didn’t notice for *months*.

“No milk or sugar, please.” Sherlock spoke up from his position on the couch. Legs long and fingers steepled, he was deep in thought.

John had been about to make some tea for them. A lovely early grey blend that he was scared to look the price up for. As such it wasn’t really a surprise that Sherlock preferred the pure taste of it.

“Fair enough mate.” John chuckled.

The bergamot was such a lovely note in John’s nose, once he opened the tin. His mind was elsewhere, partially thinking about how the hell bergamot even looked like, partially wondering if he still had enough poo bags for Archie.

As such it wasn’t a big surprise when, out of habit he stirred a dollop of milk and some sugar into Sherlock’s tea.

His mind was by now fully preoccupied by the horrendous pricing of poo bags, because really, they were taking the piss (well poo haha). John smiled at his own silly joke as he handed Sherlock his cup. The other man had sat up to reach for it but seemed to freeze once he inspected the cup’s content.

Only then did John notice that he had forgotten Sherlock’s request.

“Aw shit sorry I wasn’t thinking mate, I hope it’s not ruined now.” Sherlock stayed silent, a new expression on his face that John couldn’t really pinpoint. He might not be autistic but even he had trouble reading Sherlock’s facial expression. Quite often if he was honest. Finally his friend seemed to snap out of his stupor. “That’s alright Watson, I apologise for upsetting your tea making routine.” If John hadn’t known Sherlock as well as he did, he would have believed the other man to make fun of him. In reality he knew that Sherlock was being honest and sincere. It touched his heart.

“No don’t worry, I’ll keep it in mind for next time. I’m sorry if the milk or the sugar are ruining the tea blend.” Sherlock smiled gently, but proceeded to put his cup down on the table. “I’m sure it is going to be fine. Thank you.”

The cup went cold.

John tried to not be sad that he had ruined some perfectly good tea.

As days went by, John did manage to keep his flatmate’s updated tea preference in mind. The negative reinforcement from having to pour an entire cup of overpriced tea down the kitchen sink made sure of that.

“Good morning, Listener, it is quite early here in 221b Baker Street! Well also in the rest of England and eh our time zone, but it is especially early for us.”

“It really isn’t Watson.” Sherlock’s deep voice spoke from a distance. “Maybe not for you Mr. I have a new experiment and now do yoga all night long.” He snorted. When Sherlock had started to do stretches randomly throughout the day, he had not thought much of it. It wasn’t like he wasn’t curious, but this was Sherlock. After the couple of weeks they had lived together by then, he was hardly surprised by anything Sherlock did. (Especially after the shoelace tourniquet situation.)

“It’s for an experiment.” John had raised his eyebrows at the time. “It’s in the early stages so I’d rather not share my hypothesis right now.” John had laughed. “No ad hoc adjustments tho! That’s unfair!” Sherlock had rolled his eyes. “Please. I have scientific integrity.” With those words he had vanished.

“It is Pilates John, not Yoga. While Pilates has adapted some movements of various yoga practices it is not yoga.” John sighed. “I…didn’t know that did you know that listener? Well now we know, and we all learned something new today!” John continued his cherry cometary on a not so cherry case and just glanced at Sherlock as the other man sipped his plain tea. Maybe it was some experiment on health? Well Sherlock still wouldn’t share his idea and frankly John had other things on his mind as well.

“Hey what have you got there?”

Those could have been his last words. And yet here he was.

Life was so weird.

One second, you’re being blown up, the next you watch your flatmate in central London do some weird stretch that probably only works if your belly isn’t in the way. Sherlock and his lanky genetics must come in handy in a situation like that.

It wasn’t until after Christmas that John couldn’t help but notice Sherlock was eating weird. Or weirder than usual.

“Did those hashbrowns attack your family or why are you dissecting them so viciously?”

John did what he did best: try and deflect his worry with a bad joke.

Sherlock barely looked up from the assault on the hashbrowns, continued to drive his fork into them, but without ever actually picking up a piece.

“It seems they are upsetting my tummy.” He said in a tone of voice that spoke of deep grief, with words that didn’t. A comical contrast to the usually so serious and scientific man saying the word ‘tummy’. He gently put down his fork, right next to his plate and John couldn’t help but smile gently. “Aw mate I’m sorry. They’re the good ones from Tesco!”

Sherlock did not look massively impressed.

“Do you want something else? If your tummy is upset maybe some porridge?” Sherlock got up way too abruptly, his chair almost losing its balance from being pushed back so suddenly and vigorously.

“That’s alright John. I think I’ll just lay down for a bit.”

John shrugged but couldn’t shake his worry.

“I can make you some herbal tea maybe that will help.” Sherlock was slowly moving towards his room, but haltered.

“I would like that if it isn’t too much of a bother. Do we have fresh ginger?” John, who was not entirely on top of their groceries, but knew that much, nodded.

“Yes, bought some the other day for that curry!” He got up to search for it so he could peel and prepare it for Sherlock’s tea.

“Do you want any honey with it mate?” John looked over to Sherlock just in time to see a shiver run through Sherlock’s body.

He must be really unwell, John thought with pity in his belly. Maybe he should get him some medicine?

“No that is quite alright. Just the ginger, please. Thank you.” Without another word he vanished into his room, the door shut close, and John put on the kettle.

The upset tummy lingered around for a while.

Every time John cooked; Sherlock would refer to it.

“I just feel sick if I eat when I am not particularly hungry John. It really is not that surprising of a phenomenon.”

John, still a sceptical expression on his face, hummed. “I don’t know Sherlock, maybe you should get that looked after? Like from a GP?” Sherlock sighed.

“You worry too much; it is perfectly normal for me. This just happens sometimes.” This did nothing to diminish John’s worries. “Maybe you need a vacation? Some rest?” Sherlock shook his head, a displeased expression on his face. As if John inquiring about his wellbeing was

“No. I am fine; I shall just eat when I am actually hungry.” John raised an eyebrow. “And will you?” Sherlock frowned, but something was off. John couldn’t pinpoint it, but something about his friend’s demeanour just didn’t sit right with him that day.

“Of course, Watson. Why wouldn’t I?”

John couldn’t actually say anything in that regard. Sherlock might be reckless, borderline a danger to himself, but never on purpose, and never solely to just endanger himself.

And really who was John to pass any judgement on that particular type of behaviour, when he himself did the same. If he was being honest with himself.

“I- I don’t know mate. Guess I am just worried about you. You have lost some weight, and I really don’t want you to waste away right under my nose.”

Looking back, John should have understood the pained expression in Sherlock’s eyes as he stiffed in response to John’s words. But it was such a miniscule detail, only around for a split second. And John was known to draw the wrong conclusions, just as he did in that moment. “Shit, I’m sorry Sherlock I didn’t mean it like that!” Sherlock nodded, expression bland and far away.

“It’s okay.” Silence hung heavy between them for a painful moment. “Are you sure? I really didn’t mean- “Before John could continue his apology, Sherlock got up.

“I’ll be in my room.”

The violin wouldn’t stop singing for hours that night.

It all went to hell on a random Wednesday.

John had taken to start arranging Q&A questions on Wednesday, that is if they weren’t on a case. In the beginning it had been both easier and trickier because not as many questions had come up. Now however he had both the luxury and task to go through all the questions and cherry pick the ones he liked most or thought most appropriate for a mailbag episode. His friend had retreated earlier to do some more pilates. It was getting to a point where the loss of weight was undeniable, even if John tried to will the thoughts away.

Nevertheless the increasingly clogged shower drain, where more dark hair than ever dominated the blockage, as well as the lack of colour in his skin and eyes, had John worry.

Probably should tell him to take it slower with pilates, do some light stretches instead.

John had just prepared a lovely list of questions, even some backup ones in case Sherlock did not feel like answering any of them. It wasn’t really a common issue, but he wanted to be prepared. At this point they had been living together for well over a year, and quite frankly Sherlock was his best mate.

Aside from Archie.

Obviously.

“Oh Sherloooock.” He said in a singsang voice, trying to give an indicator to his friend that he was up to some shenanigans.

The detective did not answer, so John went onwards to knock on his door.

“Sherlock mate? Still working out?” Again no answer.

The joy at the thought of catching the insomniac asleep had John override the respect for his mate’s privacy. He would never know. How would he know?

Indeed when John pried open the door, he caught Sherlock on the floor. It seemed a rather odd position to be asleep in, nevermind the fact that it was on the floor.

After a second it started to sink in.

“Sherlock?”

No reaction.

John entered the room and went straight to check Sherlock’s vitals.

The pulse was weak, which had John’s skyrocket. He tried to wake Sherlock, but not a chance. “Fuck shit fuck. MARIANA!” He yelled as he fumbled for his phone, dialling 999.

The terror in his heart must have conveyed to his voice, as he could hear her running upstairs quicker than he had ever noticed. “John whats going on what- what is Sherlock doing?” Her voice trailed off as she took a moment to process the picture in front of her.

“He, he-“ “999 what is your emergency?” The operator asked through the phone, interrupting John’s non-existent explanation.

“My name is Doctor John Watson and my friend he- he is unconscious, I took his pulse, and he is displaying signs of arrythmia. I’m a medical doctor, but I can’t wake him up, he’s not reacting to external stimulation!” “We’ll send an ambulance right away to?” “221B Baker Street. First floor, set of stairs.” “Alright thank you Doctor Watson. Can you please check his pupillary reflexes for me and try to get a reading on his blood pressure.”

At some point between assessing Sherlock’s eyes under their lids and the ride to the hospital John must have turned on autopilot. He did all the things the operator asked off him, while Marianna, seemingly in a similar state of shock, went downstairs to guide the ambulance people once they arrived. For a moment, the silence in 221 Baker Street could have swallowed London whole.

“Doctor Watson? Miss Ametxazurra?” John jumped from the steely hospital seat. He kind of felt dizzy, whether from worry or getting up too quickly, he didn’t dare to care.

“Mr. Holmes is stable, but severely malnourished. We have initiated measures to keep him stabilised. Please follow Arthur over here he will bring you to your friend’s room.”

John gulped and looked for the nurse she had pointed out. “John what does this mean?” Marianna asked with an uncharacteristic quiver in her voice.

“I…eh I need to check his file to…to know for sure.” For a second the duo followed the nurse silently, only the orchestra of a A&E providing them with a soundtrack.

“John…severely malnourished …does that…” John tried to bite back any and all emotions bubbling up. “I know Mari…I-fuck” He swore under his breath, just as Marianna took his hand. John wasn’t sure if it was for his comfort or hers, but he didn’t really care.

He just took it and held on for dear life.

The room was too small and too big at once for the man lying in it. John couldn’t pinpoint if it was the gown, the bed, or just Sherlock that made the detective appear so fragile.

Marianna seemed to have a similar train of thought, her hand gripping John’s tighter as she drew in a harsh breath. John closed his eyes. He had not seen Sherlock without sweaters in weeks, but even then, he should have noticed how thin these clever, violinist fingers had gotten. How his wrists looked as if one high five would break them. He should have noticed that hairs had been growing all over Sherlock’s arm in a desperate attempt to keep the detective warm.

He let go of Marianna’s hand, rubbing his eyes. Now was not the time. He grabbed Sherlock’s file, could feel Marianna right beside him, but when he skimmed it, one document stood out.

The one he had really really really not wanted to see.

The MARSIPAN checklist.

“John what…what does this mean?” He swallowed the tears that were threatening to fall.

“It’s…it is the protocol for uh patients with anorexia.” Once the word had left his mouth, he couldn’t stop the tears from flowing, no matter how hard he tried.

A glance at Marianna confirmed that her shocked gasp was accompanied with brimming tears.

“So…so all this because…?”

John cursed.

“I should have…fuck I should have noticed. Experiment…he said…” The anger bubbling in his chest wasn’t helping. He knew it was a secondary fucking emotion and that he really was just heartbroken and sad and shocked for his best friend. But for a short moment anger felt better or less harmful to his own sanity.

“I am such a fucking idiot I-“ Marianna took his free hand again. “Hey no, no, no. You and I both know that if Sherlock has something on his mind he won’t be stopped. Even if we had noticed…he…he would have convinced us otherwise.”

John took deep breaths, but he couldn’t find any words. Too many thoughts and none at the same time were streaming through his mind.

“I- they will need to have the rest of this eh...checked. I’ll-“ He gestured towards the MARSIPAN checklist that had fallen on the floor in their shock. Marianna smiled a sad little smile, but the tears drying on her cheeks and brimming in her eyes betrayed her brave façade.

“I’ll uhm grab some coffee.” She said softly, clearing her throat.

John didn’t know how she did it, maybe she was psychic, but she knew he needed a moment alone right now. And if John knew her at all, so did she.

Looking at the cold hard facts of on the checklist that had been ticked by the medical staff had John wanting to rip his hair out. So he just sat there, ticking the boxes he knew, leaving out the ones that Sherlock would have to answer. He just kept looking at the questions. Why had he not done anything?

“It’s not your fault.” A soft voice spoke over the constant beep of the ECG. John almost fell from the chair upon the unexpected disruption of his self-loathing.

He almost didn’t dare to look into Sherlock’s direction. The image of fragile, passed out Sherlock with a feeding tube up his nose and IV nutrients entering through a port on the back on his hand, will forever be burned into the inside of his brain.

Seeing him again like that…and yet, his eyes were open. Once they had found John’s they averted quickly.

“I am a doctor. And your best friend. I should have…something.” Sherlock hummed; his eyes closed. “Profound analysis doctor.”

Silence. John didn’t know what to say, if he should ask something or…just talk.

“We don’t even have a scale.” He blurted out, because really that had been on his mind. How had Sherlock controlled it, monitored it, without a scale. The detective huffed.

“It’s not about weight Watson.” The softspoken vulnerability in his voice had John deflate even more.

He finally managed to move from the chair, as if the magnetic pull from his butt to the seat had finally passed.

When he tried to reach for Sherlock’s hand, the other wanted to pull away, but John was quicker, gently encasing the hand not hooked up to an IV.

“What is it about then.” Silence. John could feel how slowly, so very slowly the detective’s hand warmed up in his grasp.

Sherlock looked out of the window. “I am not sure…how it started. By now I fear…that it has something to do with control. Numbers. Knowing that I am in control of my body. That the numbers bow to me.” John closed his eyes. If he remembered correctly, it was quite a common theme in those with anorexia.

“I am not some 16-year-old kid who wanted to be skinny. I just-“ “Wanted to be in control. I get it mate.” Sherlock tentatively met his gaze for a second, as if to gauge the sincerity of that statement. “You want to have control at least over…over something if not your brain. If you can’t make anything else work…at least that much, right?”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes averted, focused on a singular thread in the sheets.

“Hate to break it to you, a lot of those 16-year-olds have similar reasons, even if it doesn’t seem that way.” John tried to smile, and it did elicit an amused huff from Sherlock.

“I am scared John.” Sherlock spoke after a while. And he did sound it. That mad man who had held guns to his head, chased criminals, scaled buildings, and ordered illegal drugs off the internet sounded genuinely scared. John did not say anything, just applying gentle pressure to his hands to let Sherlock know he was listening. “When…when I passed out. I thought…I never thought I’d die like this. As a byproduct of myself. I could have sworn I felt my heart slow down and stop, which it didn’t I know that factually, but the feeling…I cannot let go of it.” Sherlock mused with terror in his eyes. John understood, gently applied some pressure to Sherlock’s hand to let him know that he did. Not literally, but as a friend, as someone who has his own struggles with mental health or just plain health.

“How long…how long have you not uh…” John tried to ask a question he was scared to hear the answer to. How unobservant had he been, how gullible. But he needed to know. For his own sanity and for the checklist.

“Over the past 8 days I had one apple and 100g of porridge on water basis. No sweetener.”

John closed his eyes trying to process. “A week. You haven’t…” “I wanted to see how long I can go. How long 150 kcal would last.” In this moment Marianna entered the room again, where John was now holding onto Sherlock’s hand for dear life.

“Oh my god Sherlock.” She exclaimed, rushing to put down the coffees on the side table. “Sherlock is alright Mrs Hudson.” The detective tried to joke, but both John and Marianna were not in the business of being deflected. John, still trying to process the information, now turned to the checklist and ticked: acute food refusal.

“That is not correct Watson.” Sherlock chimed in, his eyes focused in on the checklist, but John wasn’t having any of it. “Oh yeah, so you would eat? Right now? Anything?” Silence hung over the room.

“That’s what I thought.” He murmured as he went to ring for the nurse.

Sherlock seemed to understand how serious John was about this, because his entire expression sobered. “Please don’t…don’t make me stay.” The genuine fear in Sherlock’s voice had John feel his heart break clean into two.

John was torn, a sentiment returned by Marianna as they exchange glances.

The nurse came, and John handed him the checklist. “What about treatment?” The nurse asked upon skimming the answers John had added. It was the only one he did not know how to fill in.

“Is there…I don’t know an outpatient program? Since I am a doctor and I live with him is eh is there something we can do?” He asked the nurse, who now checked some other vitals and values in the file. “Hm…I’d have to check in with Dr. Doyle, she is the one to make the call. In theory we can, but only once he is stabilised. You would have to take care of his feeding tube too.” Sherlock visibly deflated a bit more with every word the nurse said.

“I think I can handle that much. What about therapy?” “I don’t need therapy.” A sharp and determined glare from John had Sherlock turn silent. “Yes you do.” John said with a new found determination in his voice.

If he had not been there to prevent any of this to escalate, he sure as hell would amend the damage that had been done.

“Again, I’ll check with Dr. Doyle. We will need to keep him for a day or two, just to make sure his heart is strong enough.” Marianna took a deep breath, closing her eyes. And John was tempted to do the same.

Once the nurse had left, silence (now a close acquaintance) was lingering.

“If I…-“ Sherlock finally broke the silence. For the past couple minutes it had appeared as if he had been mentally away. John couldn’t blame him, he desperately had wished to leave as well. Mentally at least.

“You don’t have to do this John. Marianna.” Hearing Sherlock use John’s name had him jolt. “We know that Sherlock.” Marianna said softly. A quick exchange of glances told John that she was as touched as he was for Sherlock to just use their names. Those few occasions were as precious as they were rare.

“But we want to.” John finished her sentence and Marianna nodded.

John was still holding Sherlock’s hand, as if he was scared to let go. Sherlock hummed.

“It will take a while…I might never…never be comfortable with food the way I used to.” Sherlock mumbled.

“Sherlock we’d stick around even if all you ever consumed from here on out was marshmallows and tea.”

Despite the tension and sadness in the room, none of them could hold the giggle bubbling up.

It was going to be a long road.

But John was sure that if anyone could get through this, it would be their little Baker Street family.

[diazmaximoff]

I made a Choose Your Own Adventure type survival game on Google Forms, featuring some familiar characters from the LIS franchise🐺🦋

You're basically making some really intense choices in a high-stakes situation that will determine whether people will die or live at the end of your story. Your choices will also determine how much of the mystery you'll be able to uncover by the end. The story's pretty... convoluted, you can take that as a good or a bad thing LOL. But it does all make sense if you pay close attention👀

I honestly forgot how many ending I had to add to my project but I can confidently say that there's over 20+ endings, most being surprisingly unique from each other. The game is quite short in length - it only has 3 short chapters - but there's a lot of reading, choice-making and scrolling regardless.

Sorry in advance if some of the plot points don't make much sense or if there are any inconsistencies within the plot. Creating ridiculous amount of outcomes for this was such a hassle, my focus started to lapse occasionally. I'd be happy to hear some constructive feedback.

If some peeps wanna take a peek, be my guest and experience as many endings as you'd like! Though — fair warning — the story gets pretty brutal at times. Had to add trigger warnings just in case.

Enjoy!🙏