#trigger warning vomiting

[pixlokita]

Started sketching the next page since we’re all sick so might as well take it out on Mike Lmao-

[sirfrogsworth]

Mounjaro's Revenge: The Inevitable Adventures of Froggie, Chapter Unknown

I keep saying I can't leave the house without having some kind of adventure. And I really thought I was going to have a quick, uneventful doctor's visit with my monthly checkup this past Wednesday. I'd go in, they'd check the box Medicare requires every month, and I'd come straight home.

But adventure seeks me out. I can't seem to escape its grasp. And, yes, sometimes I like having adventures. They give me something to write about. And sometimes they are fun memories. But sometimes adventures just make me tired. And not all adventures are positive.

For the past 3 weeks I have been on the second dosage amount of Mounjaro. Unlike the Ozempic, I have had a few issues with side effects. Roughly 48 hours after my injection, I get sick to my stomach and feel pukey. It lasts for about two hours. I either vomit and lose the urge or I hold it in and it fades. I am then compelled to take a nap.

Considering the weight loss and glucose control, getting sick for an hour or two per week isn't a huge deal. There is a good chance I will get used to the medication as time goes on, but even if I don't, I am okay with this consequence.

My injection day was Tuesday, and based on past experience, I figured I'd have until Thursday morning before I got sick. The past 2 episodes happened at almost identical times, so I figured Wednesday wouldn't be a problem.

But right before my doctor's appointment I started feeling extremely... rough.

Optimistic for no good reason, I was hopeful I could get through the appointment before the urge to vomit arrived.

I get to the office and there are 3 patients ahead of me. This was not a good sign. My doctor tends to overbook and I was probably going to have a bit of a wait. I arrived in the middle of a lively conversation about where to get a good steak in St. Louis. I'm used to waiting rooms being full of quiet and bored people staring at their phones so when I opened the door it felt like the conversation smacked me in the face.

The cast of characters were as follows...

There was an older black man who had the spirit of a kindly grandpa. He seemed nice and wise and was enjoying the steak conversation. Let's call him, Old Guy.

There was an older white fellow who was anxious about the wait time due to having another appointment soon. He was on hold with the other doctor's office trying to delay his appointment time. He was only mildly interested in steak due to that distraction. I already used Old Guy, so... Anxious Guy.

And then there was the steak expert who was leading the conversation. Actually, leading is not strong enough. He was *dominating* the conversation. As I sat down and his visage entered my field of view, I was a bit taken aback.

Do you know how in Star Trek everyone has a mirror universe doppelganger who may look the same, but they usually have personality traits that are reversed?

They are often identified by arch overacting or a change in facial hair.

The steak expert was my mirror universe counterpart. He was of similar age, height, and weight. Same color hair and eyes. He even wore similar clothing.

But he had a goatee instead of a beard. *gasp*

And he wore... sandals. *double gasp*

He had clearly been in a recent transporter mishap.

I mean, I could *never* wear sandals. The world is not ready to handle my nude foot and I find very few sandals have the load-bearing capacity necessary for people my size. You are asking for foot pain if you are over 300 pounds and wearing sandals.

Mirror Froggie was very outgoing and personable, but he had trouble filtering what he said and was often obliviously rude. He clearly thought himself to be hilarious but struggled to make even kindly Old Guy chuckle.

Old Guy said, "I think Longhorn makes a decent steak for the money."

And then Mirror Me's unfiltered response... "Longhorn is shit. You shouldn't eat there. You are wasting your money on shit steak."

"I don't know, I've always enjoyed..."

"I'm telling you, friend, it is shit steak. End of story."

You could tell that made Old Guy feel bad for suggesting what he liked. But he brushed it off and asked for a better suggestion. Mirror Froggie confidently told him of a restaurant called "Sam's" that had "the best steak in town."

Old Guy proceeded to ask Siri to look up Sam's and it took a few tries. He reminded me of my dad fighting with the iPhone and repeating things over and over with increasing volume. I think Old Guy wasn't specific enough as he got the wholesale club on the first few attempts. Finally he said, "SAMMM'S STEAKHOUSSSSE" and found success. Old Guy saw the reviews and some of them were... not great.

But Mirror Froggie was like, "You can't read reviews. They're all liars." And I was questioning why people would take the time to lie about a small St. Louis steakhouse, but whatever. He then said it was because the restaurant was in disrepair and needed new plumbing, but that's why they could sell such amazing steak at reasonable prices.

Theories are less logical in the Mirror Universe. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Anxious Guy got off his phone call and cursed into the void. He missed his other appointment. He interjected with, "Is that Sam's place expensive?" And that sent Mirror Froggie into a long diatribe about the price of meat at different places and his annoyance at steak-related inflation. Soon after, Anxious Guy finally got in to see the doctor. Old Guy was keeping Mirror Froggie busy with conversation, so I just closed my eyes and rested as they discussed the price of oversized shrimp "as big as your fist". I guess they ran out of things to say about steak.

As they were talking I started to get a spidey-sense about Mirror Froggie.

He *needed* conversation.

He *needed* distraction.

His boredom abhors a vacuum.

Whenever there was a lull or silent moment, I could see him getting very antsy. And if Old Guy got called in before Mirror Froggie... I was going to have a problem.

I was feeling sicker by the moment and did not have the bandwidth to help some stranger with his inability to accept boredom.

And... Old Guy was next.

Because, of course he was.

I feel like sitting there with my eyes closed and also not having said a word the entire time was a pretty decent social cue that I was not interested in talking. But Mirror Me decided to poke that notion with a stick in order to find a way in.

He speaks barely above a whisper, "I wish I could sleep in a public waiting room. Not sure how you do that."

"Yeah, I'm not feeling well. Nothing contagious, just very tired."

"Well, if you're sick, I guess you're in the right place, am I right? *long pause* Cuz we're next to a hospital. *short pause* Right?"

Oh great, he's a joke explainer.

Mirror Froggie did not care about my desire to sit in peace while I waited. His foot was anxiously a-tappin' and he was vibrating with energy that needed someplace to go. He tried standing up and walking in circles. And I guess because my eyes were shut he decided to narrate his walking and stretching to keep me informed. That satisfied him for roughly 20 seconds. He sat back down and was clearly struggling to be alone with his own thoughts.

"Hey, friend."

I open my eyes slowly.

"Do you see that magazine next to you? Would you mind handing that to me?"

I thought, "This is good. He's seeking out an alternate source of stimulation. He can read the magazine and I can rest until my turn."

Seriously, brain... where is this optimism coming from? I've been a cynical misanthrope for like 4 years now.

He flips through a few pages. "Look at this. It's got Oprah on the cover. It's got to be good, right? They don't put Oprah on the cover unless it is good, ya know? Though she doesn't look right after losing all that weight. You know what I mean, friend?"

Well, shit.

I didn't give him a distraction, I gave him a conversation starter. Still, I kept my eyes closed in the hopes he would give up.

"Hey, friend."

Crap.

"You want to hear a joke?"

I open my eyes. I'm not getting out of this.

"Sure." as unenthusiastically as I can manage.

He proceeds to tell three jokes all strung together. All of them terrible and none of them coherent enough for me to remember. I gave him complimentary singular chuckles even though two of the punchlines didn't make sense. I think one was about accidentally eating cat food.

"Hey, friend... how'd you like my jokes?"

I jokingly replied back, "Well, you said *a* joke and that was *three* jokes. That wasn't what I agreed to."

He chuckles and I close my eyes again.

"Hey, friend."

Jesus Christ, would someone jingle their keys for this dude?

"Do you want to hear a 'locker room' joke?"

Oh fuck me.

"I... guess?"

There was no way out of this aside from unpleasant confrontation and my energy calculation of that was much higher than just suffering through a dirty joke.

Here it is, as best as I can remember...

"So there is a pirate ship. And the captain has a beautiful daughter who has come aboard. He tells her that the crew hasn't seen a woman in a long time and they aren't safe to be around, so she should keep a razor blade 'down there.' After the voyage he assembles all of his men and instructs them to pull down their pants. Every one of them has had their dick cut off... except for one. The captain goes up to the only one with their dick intact and says, 'Thank you for not deflowering my only daughter. You should be commended for your restraint. And as a reward, I will make you my first mate.'"

I literally cannot type the punchline because it was an unintelligible noise. Basically, Mirror Froggie imitated someone without a tongue trying to speak.

Yeah. That happened.

I could not hide my disdain for this joke and I was feeling too awful to muster up any kind of response. He seemed confused by the absence of laughter from his wonderful rapey body mutilation joke.

"You get it, friend? He lost his tongue because he ate her pussy."

Yes, explaining the joke always helps... friend.

In whatever the opposite of the nick of time is, moments after this stranger said "ate her pussy"... the nurse calls Mirror Froggie in for his appointment.

I would feel relieved, but the Mounjaro side effects were getting worse and the urge to lose the remaining nutritional value from last night's dinner was increasing by the moment. I was next in line, so I was hoping Mirror Froggie didn't take up too much of the doctor's time with horrible "locker room" jokes and dubious steakhouse suggestions.

Roughly 5 minutes later the nurse calls me in to get my vitals. She weighs me and I am down another 3 pounds. That reminded me of why I was suffering this tummy tantrum. My blood pressure was perfect but my pulse was quite high. I was very anxious holding in my stomach contents and I tried to explain, but she asked me to try and relax to lower my heart rate. We compromised when I got it down to 107.

The nurse keeps forgetting that I don't really have a family anymore. And I know she has a lot of patients in and out and they probably all blend together. But she always ends up asking me questions that require me to remind her my parents are dead.

"Did your mom put up the Christmas tree yet?"

I went with, "No tree this year. Too much work."

"Aw, that's too bad. I actually got mine up early this year. You gotta put up a tree for Christmas."

Thankfully her job was done at this point and she abruptly ended the conversation.

Next up, the pee guy.

He has never actually told me what his name is so that is just what I call him in my head.

Every month I have to sacrifice my urine to the gods of Medicare so they know I am taking my meds and not selling them on the mean streets of Spanish Lake. And the pee guy always comes in to collect my sample. The little cup is kept in a white paper bag for discretion. He used to just give you a clear ziplock, and that was a little embarrassing, as everyone in the waiting room could see your pee. I definitely prefer the new white paper bag system.

It could be my lunch or some cookies or a bunch of peanuts.

Who is to know?

The pee guy is a bit of a talker as well. But the nice thing about his conversational style is that you can't get in a word edgewise. If he asks you a question, he'll even answer it for you. This requires very little effort on my part.

"Hey there, Mr. Benjermin!"

(I have noticed Ben-jer-min is a common pronunciation among Black folks in the area. Not sure if that is just a St. Louis thing or not. Perhaps I have a dialectologist follower who knows.)

I wave hello.

"How's it going, Mr. Benjermin!? Good? Good. Just gotta get your sample. Still taking the same meds? (I nod yes.) Okay, just need you to sign here. New Year's is coming up. Gotta be careful not to party too hard. You'll be regretting that. Though you don't look like a drinker to me. (I nod no.) Yeah, you're a good one. You keep it clean. Okay then, Mr. Benjermin. You're all set. Here is your new sample cup for next time."

He replaces my white paper bag with a new white paper bag and leaves the room without me saying a word. And I'm just realizing he asks me if I am a drinker quite a lot. He must sense my teetotaler spirit or something because he always assumes (correctly) that I don't drink. He's just really concerned about me partying too hard.

Finally the doctor comes in.

My doctor is kind, compassionate, and competent. The almost 3 Cs. But he's got a touch of what I call "Boomer-itis." He's on the progressive side of most things but there are a few ingrained sensibilities from that generation he didn't escape. It's mostly harmless. Though he said something sexist in front of a nurse practitioner student during my last visit that made her roll her eyes behind him.

He greets me and I tell him I'm not feeling well from the Mounjaro and that I am still recovering from my trip to Florida. He tells me that a lot of people can get sick for days from these new drugs, so getting sick for an hour or two isn't so bad. I agree, though I really wish I had not gotten sick at the exact time of this appointment. I keep eyeballing the trash can in the corner just in case things go sideways in my tummy.

He asks about my trip to Florida and I predicted that—as I already had photos ready to go on my phone. I scroll through them, showing off amazing cityscapes and mountainous clouds and an orange sunset over a lake—hoping to impress him with my photography skills to no avail. And then he sees Katrina. Now, I am not blind to her attractiveness, but I do sometimes forget how people respond when they see her next to me.

"Oh, wow. She's beautiful!" he exclaims.

I almost felt flattered on her behalf. But then his Boomer-itis starts to kick in. And he repeats, "Yeah, she's *really* beautiful. Just a friend, you said?" His facial expression and tone of voice are like, "You poor thing, you have been friendzone'd." And probably a touch of, "She's out of your league, buddy." I don't know exactly how to describe it, but it is this familiar look of pity and worry. This is usually followed up with a probing question trying to figure out what our "deal" is. Why is it so odd to that generation that a man and woman can earnestly be just friends and perfectly content with that arrangement?

It would be the easiest thing in the world to just say, "She's gay" and that she isn't "out of my league" as she plays an entirely different sport. (Competitive Subaru Ownership?) But my friendship with Katrina is not some consolation prize due to her queerness. I shouldn't have to explain or justify why I'm "just friends" or why I'm not "being led on."

In a worried tone, "So, umm, how'd you two meet?"

There it is.

"She is an artist. I posted some of her work on my website and it was very popular and helped people find her work. She messaged me to say thank you and we were instant friends. 10 years later she's my best friend and very much like family."

Thankfully his pity face evaporated and he finally saw how long-lasting and meaningful this friendship was. But it is a weirdly common obstacle I have noticed whenever people see a fat guy has a conventionally attractive friend.

Friends are great. Friends have been more supportive and beneficial to me than any romantic entanglement I've ever had.

All of my friends are hot and queer and that's awesome.

Note to self: Put that on a t-shirt.

Knowing how difficult it was, he congratulated me on surviving the trip and we wrapped up our appointment quickly. All I have left to do is check in with his assistant, get my prescriptions sent in, and make my next appointment. I can see the finish line, but my tummy is rumbling and I am making contingency plans for the Great Upchuck of 2023™. I'm clocking trashcans with plastic liners. I'm trying to remember where the nearest restroom is. And then I look down at the little white paper bag containing my urine sample cup and think, "Last resort."

Trinica (the competence ninja and my favorite person in the office) is processing my meds and searching the calendar for next month's visit. Shelly is keeping quiet and working on her computer. I start pacing back and forth. I'm not sure what I think that will do, but I think desperation is taking over at this point.

Shelly sees me and asks, "How's that whole disability situation going for you?" She is acting like my best friend now after cursing at me on the phone. I have a feeling she had an unpleasant conversation with my doctor after that episode because she isn't this sweet and nice to anyone.

I give her the update, "Everything is submitted. My lawyer is happy with all of the records we were able to find. It's just a waiting game now. It could be a couple of months but if I have to see a judge it could be over a year."

She commiserates with me about how slow the process can be.

Then, out of fucking nowhere, Mirror Froggie reappears in the little sliding reception window like a jumpscare in a horror movie.

Are you fucking kidding me with this guy?

"Hey Trinica, do you have a business card for the doctor? I want to recommend him to Doug."

Who the fuck is Doug? Are we supposed to know Doug? Is Doug the tongueless pussy-eating pirate who needs medical attention?

Trinica looks in her desk and is unable to find a spare card. So she stops processing my stuff and starts hunting around the office. She has a bad leg so she is slowly limping while searching every desk. I have never wanted to strangle anyone before, but my doppeldouche was really pushing his luck.

At this point I am just staring at the little trash can in the blood-draw room. I can feel the scrambled eggs reversing course through my digestive system.

Trinica finds a fucking card for fucking Doug and fucking Mirror Froggie finally fucks off to bother people that are not me.

Trinica gets me all sorted, I wish everyone a Merry Christmas, and make to the car.

I sit in the driver's seat, and with that unearned optimism, say to myself, "I made it."

For all of you who are squeamish about bodily fluids, you can just pretend this is where the story ends. Everything was fine. I made it home and was happy and comfortable and nothing gross happened. The nausea faded away and I lived happily ever after.

The End.

Thank you for reading this and have a lovely day.

Just scroll on by to the next post!

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Okay, so you all probably thought I was foreshadowing a monumental barf.

But foreshadowing is typically subtle. You don't want to give away the ending. Of course this was going to end in barf. The barfing was inevitable. The barf was not what I was *actually* foreshadowing at all.

Did anyone catch what it was?

You know that discrete white paper bag?

The one that could be for peanuts or maybe a sammich and definitely not my urine sample cup?

The last resort?

Look, it's all I had.

I was not going to make it home. I was not going to make it back into the bathroom. No trash bins on the horizon. Nothing in my car.

At first it was just an itty bitty baby barf. A perfect amount to be contained in a flimsy paper bag. I felt a relief wash over me.

"That's all?" still being stupidly optimistic.

But then I made that noise.

That... pre-retch noise.

That one where your head kinda juts forward and your lips make a giant O shape and you make a very specific grunting sound. That sound where if another person hears it, they involuntarily make the same specific grunting sound.

This was when I had one of those movie moments when a character knows they are about to die and they can't do anything about it. And I made this exact face as I waited for the impending doom of a vomitous explosion.

The Great Upchuck of 2023™ commenced.

And it was... intense.

Everything inside my stomach transferred rapidly, furiously, projectile-ly into the bag of foreshadowing.

I mean, I'm pretty much convinced my stomach is a TARDIS because I do not remember ingesting that much food. This sheer volume of barf had to be coming from another dimensional plane.

I could see it staining the sides of the bag as it was clearly not meant for this. When I finished it was barely intact—soggy, if you will. When I was absolutely sure I had ralph'd to completion, my only option was to gently place it on the passenger's side floor (sans floor mats). All I needed was for it to last 5 more minutes on the trip home and then I could dispose of it and pretend this never happened.

Physically I felt such a relief. Sometimes there is this post-puke euphoria where you just feel, well... lighter. Unburdened with no longer having that feeling. Happy it is over with.

I place the key in the ignition and head for home. As I'm driving I can't help but stare at the bag. I can see it mocking me as it changes colors. The exterior was getting... damp. If this were someone else's vomit, I would have been vomiting because of it. Just... so gross.

I get home and park the car. I walk around to the passenger side to begin the extraction process. I pull the trash can close and I have to psych myself up to deal with this horrible hurling happenstance.

And this next part, well... it would be hilarious if it weren't so damned disgusting.

I stare at the bag.

The bag stares back at me.

I take a deep breath and approach the bag.

The bag grins at me.

I gingerly grasp the very tippy-top in an effort to not touch any of the offending material.

I slowly lift up the bag.

And the very instant it reaches just enough height to do the most damage...

The bottom falls out.

If the bag had broken just as I was picking it up, the carnage would have been minimal. Only a small area to clean up. But clearly this bag read the Wikipedia page on air burst nuclear weapons. It knew you get a much more devastating blast radius if you detonate from an elevated position.

A TARDIS worth of partially digested scrambled eggs just pour and splatter and spray onto the floor of my car. It looked like the bag was puking out my puke.

The bag is now dead but I can feel its ghost laughing at me.

I stand there frozen holding the top of this evil deceased white paper bag trying and failing to process what just happened.

I realize I have no idea what to do with this situation. This is something that would usually be followed with, "MOoooOOOoooommmmm! How do I clean up vomit?"

And she would say, "You'll never do it right. I'll clean it up."

And I'd pretend to be like, "Oh no, it's my mess. I could never let you do that for me."

And she'd insist and break out her endless supply of very specific cleaning potions and magics and soon it would be as if the vomit didn't even exist.

So, I guess my question is... do I have to get my car detailed now?

The Actual End.

[thesewingmachine]

the combination of eating disorders and emetophobia (the fear of vomiting).

[idiot-mushroom]

was going through it last week

[1heartsickfics]

Tarlos (9-1-1 lonestar) Sickfic

First fic for Carlos and T.K. so let me know what you think. I just think that they're so adorable I knew I had to write for them.

TW: depictions of vomit

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When Carlos woke up he knew something was wrong. It took him a moment to wake up enough to figure out what it was though. He felt awful. As soon as he opened his eyes his head pounded, giving him vertigo. His stomach turned as the room did the same. He pushed himself up to sit against their headboard with shaking arms. With his eyes closed tightly against the spinning, he felt blinding to his left until his hand collided landed on T.K.'s back.

"T.K." he said quietly. Normally he would never want to wake T.K. up, especially after just coming off of a 24 hour shift, but he just felt so sick. He needed him.

"T.K.?" he said again, a little louder this time, pushing gently on his shoulder.

"Hmm, what?" T.K. mumbled sleepily, rolling over toward Carlos. "Carlos, what's wrong?" he asked, once he saw his boyfriend sitting up in bed, looking... unwell.

"I don't feel well," Carlos said softly, afraid something else would come out of his mouth if he raised his voice any. His stomach felt sour, like it was filled with acid, and the saliva flooding his mouth tasted about like it.

"Yeah I can tell, you don't look so good babe," T.K. said, sitting up and pressing the back of his hand to Carlos's cheek, then his forehead. "You've definitely got a fever, you're pretty warm," he added.

Carlos relaxed a little at his touch, but his stomach still churned. He wasn't sure he could move on his own even if he wanted to though.

"You gonna throw up?" T.K. asked, somehow able to read him without him saying another word. Carlos nodded. "You think you can make it to the bathroom?" T.K. asked, placing a hand on Carlos's arm. Carlos nodded again.

"Alright, let's go then. I've got you," T.K. moved to slide off the bed on Carlos's side, then grabbed him carefully by the elbow to help him up. He stumbled as soon as he was upright, but T.K.'s strong arm was around his waist supporting him immediately. He let himself be led to the bathroom, keeping his eyes shut until he felt T.K. lowering him down to the floor.

Carlos kneeled down in front of the toilet, leaning over the bowl in anticipation. T.K. crouched down behind his boyfriend, placing a hand on the center of his back while they waited.

A few minutes went by and nothing happened, so T.K. sat down, leaning back against the bathtub. He grabbed Carlos's waist to pull him down to sit with him but he resisted.

"Babe why don't you sit for a little bit? It doesn't seem like your body's ready yet," he said, rubbing a hand up and down his spine comfortingly.

"Can't." Carlos shook his head. He was still leaning over the bowl, his mouth open and his eyes unfocused. He had never felt so nauseous in his life. His mouth kept filling with bitter tasting saliva, which he spit into the bowl. A few times he actually gagged but nothing came up.

After a few more minutes, Carlos did sit back on his heels, but only because his knees were starting to hurt.

"You want a towel or something under your knees?" T.K. asked.

Carlos nodded. He felt the warm hand leave his back as T.K. got up and walked to their hall closet.

"Here, lift them up for a second," T.K. said softly, kneeling down beside Carlos. T.K. slid the towel under his knees, which was a relief when he put them back down.

T.K. went back to his spot behind Carlos, trailing his fingers up and down his back, occasionally tracing circles or patterns.

"Are you sure you don't want to go back to bed to wait this out baby?" T.K. asked after a few more minutes passed.

Carlos shook his head. He couldn't explain it, but although the bed would be more comfortable, he just felt too nauseous. He had to stay here. "You can go back to bed," he added, realizing that T.K. must be exhausted. He hadn't gotten much sleep after his shift before being woken up.

"No, no it's okay. We'll stay here for as long as you need, babe" T.K. said, giving Carlos's shoulder a squeeze before resuming the back rub.

Just as Carlos was about to give up himself, his stomach suddenly lurched. He hardly had time to think before his stomach contents came pouring out of his mouth into the bowl. He rocked forward even more, bringing a hand up to grip the side of the toilet as his body contracted with another wave. His stomach clenched again, this time only bringing up bile and spit which burned his throat on the way up.

His stomach ached with the force of the contractions that continued to wreck his stomach, even though nothing was coming up anymore. He couldn't stop. He coughed, tears welling in his eyes from the exertion.

"Easy babe, take it easy, you're done. You're all done, just try to breathe," T.K. soothing voice materialized behind him. Carlos had almost forgotten he was there. He tried to focus on T.K.'s voice and the warmth from his hand resting on his back as he forced a deep breath in, and out.

He let himself collapse over the toilet, his head falling to rest on his arm which was draped over the seat. He was exhausted and he felt absolutely disgusting. His stomach still hurt.

T.K. kept rubbing his back for a moment, letting Carlos catch his breath before he asked, "You think you're ready to go back to bed?"

Carlos shook his head, an involuntary groan escaping his lips.

"Still feeling nauseous?" T.K. asked sadly.

"Mmhmm," Carlos hummed, afraid of opening his mouth.

"Alright, I'm gonna go grab you're pillow and a blanket then so you can at least lay down," T.K. said. He stood up, bending down to give Carlos a kiss on the forehead before he left the bathroom again. He returned a moment later, sitting down against the side of the bathtub with his legs crossed and set the pillow down in his lap.

"Come here baby," T.K. said, pulling Carlos's limp body away from the toilet and maneuvering him to lay down on their rug with his head in T.K.'s lap with a blanket draped over him. "Just try to relax for a while okay?" T.K. said, running his fingers through Carlos's messy hair. That always calmed him down.

Unfortunately, Carlos only had about 15 minutes of reprieve laying in T.K.'s lap before he lurched back over the toilet to be sick again.

"Aw baby," T.K. sighed, feeling awful watching his boyfriend be so sick. Thankfully this round didn't last as long, since he didn't have anything left to bring up anyway. After a few moments of dry heaving over the bowl he was finally able to breathe again.

"Fuck-" he breathed out, spitting into the bowl. His legs trembled from holding him up, hunched over.

"Come here love, I've got you," T.K. said from behind him, as if he'd read his mind again. T.K. gently pulled him back with a hand on his hip, moving him to sit in between T.K.'s legs and lean back against his chest. Carlos leaned his head back against his boyfriend's shoulder, taking slow deep breaths to make sure his stomach was going to behave.

"That's it, just breathe," T.K. encouraged, taking some slow deep breaths of his own for Carlos to model after.

"Let's go back to bed," T.K. said after Carlos seemed to have settled finally. "I'll bring the trash can in case you feel sick again later," he added, knowing Carlos might still be hesitant to leave the bathroom.

"Okay," Carlos agreed. He was exhausted.

T.K. slid out from behind Carlos and stood up, then leaned down to offer him both hands. Carlos took them, feeling like his limbs were made out of lead, and let T.K. pull him to his feet. T.K. led him back to bed, and helped him climb under the covers.

T.K. turned to head back into the bathroom and grab some stuff, but Carlos grabbed his wrist. "Hey," he said, turning back around, "what's wrong?" he asked. Carlos looked like he was about to cry.

"Where are you going?" Carlos asked shakily.

"I'm just gonna go grab your pillow and stuff, I'll be right back, okay?" T.K. said, reaching up to brush Carlos's curls out of his eyes. Carlos nodded and let go of his wrist.

T.K. gave him a soft smile before heading back to the bathroom. He quickly grabbed the pillow and blanket from the floor, as well as the trash can and towel, just in case. He set up the trash can on top of the towel on the floor next to Carlos's side of the bed, then helped him get situated with his pillow and draped the blanket over their comforter.

"You think you could drink a little bit of water if I brought you some?" T.K. asked.

Carlos immediately shook his head. That was what he expected, but he still sighed.

"What about one sip? I don't want you to get dehydrated," T.K. tried to bargain with him. "You need to take some medicine anyway," he added.

"I'll just throw it up," Carlos shook his head again.

"Well then at least you'd have something to throw up," T.K. reasoned. Carlos hesitated, but didn't say anything. "Just one sip okay? I'm gonna go get it," T.K. said, figuring that the absence of a no was the closest he was going to get to a yes. He walked out to their kitchen to grab a glass of water and two ibuprofen for the fever.

"Here, all you gotta do is take one sip to take the meds and then we'll go to sleep," T.K. said, holding both out to Carlos.

Carlos chewed on his lip like he always did when he was nervous. T.K. didn't blame him. He was sure that he wouldn't want to put anything in his stomach if the roles were reversed either. But his paramedic brain knew that he needed water and medicine.

After a moment of hesitation, Carlos accepted the pills, popping them into his mouth before grabbing the glass and taking a very small sip. He really would've liked for him to drink a little more, but he didn't want to push it, so T.K. took the glass back and set it on the nightstand before crawling into bed next to Carlos.

He scooted up behind Carlos as they both laid down, pulling Carlos toward him until his back rested against T.K.'s chest. He slid one arm under his head and draped the other over his waist, holding him close.

"Wake me up again if you need me okay?" T.K. whispered.

Carlos hummed in reply, snuggling back closer against his boyfriend. He almost always wanted to be the big spoon, but right now he was so grateful to have T.K.'s arms wrapped around him.

To be continued...

[slashify]

Billy is a bad person and if reading about that is going to drive you to be a jerk to a stranger on the internet you should skip this one.

This one requires a suspension of disbelief, but one time I was watching a show with my dad and he started questioning that school wasn’t cancelled when a corpse was found in the locker room and I said Dad, we’re watching BUFFY the VAMPIRE SLAYER and you’re concerned with realism? And I figure Stranger Things is the same. So.

**

I have a headcanon that in between seasons 2 and 3, Tommy H. and Billy cornered Eddie in the bathroom and literally drowned him in a toilet. Steve entered the bathroom just in time to see Eddie stop thrashing, and he pulled him out and gave him CPR.

Tommy ran off, terrified he’d killed someone, but Billy stared with an unsettling grin on his face until Steve screamed at him to get out when Eddie started coughing up water.

Munson isn’t one of Max’s friends, but Harrington certainly is, and Billy remembers what Max said, remembers the needle in his neck and the helplessness when she slammed that damn bat down between his legs. So he spits on the tile beneath him and leaves Harrington with a smirk.

Steve had wanted to tell Hopper, but Eddie asked him not to.

‘Believe it or not,’ Eddie coughs out, ‘I’m not on the best terms with the chief, man. Not surprised you don’t remember I got busted at one of your stupid parties. It’s their word against mine. Hagan’s parents paid for the new basketball court. Hargrove is a piece of shit, but he is the new king. And I think we both know what they say about me.’

Steve realizes he’s got his arms wrapped around Munson, from when he helped him sit up. Their faces are so close together. Eddie had tasted like peanut butter when Steve had given him mouth to mouth. He tries not to think about the toilet water of it all. The janitor’s name is Mr. Pasco. Steve had apologized to him for the sawdust he’d had to spread out when Steve had come back to school with the nausea of a concussion. He had been nice, and showed a certain pride in his job. He hopes Mr. Pasco had cleaned these toilets thoroughly.

‘Your word and mine.’ He says quietly. He doesn’t know why he’s being quiet.

Eddie scoffs. Coughs twice.

‘You’re gonna go to court for me? King Steve?’ He flops the back of his hand against his forehead, nearly taking Steve out in the process, ‘What WILL the neighbors think?!’ He sags in Steve’s arms. Steve holds him tighter. Eddie coughs a little more.

‘They’ll think that Billy’s a homicidal asshole and that Tommy will go along with anybody who’s popular enough to make up for his dogshit personality.’

Eddie breathes in sharply, then leans down to cough over the bend in Steve’s elbow. Steve rubs circles into the patch on the back of his denim vest.

***

Okay, so this turned into a whole fic, and there’s more! Let me know if you’re interested in reading more of this, please!

[redvelvetwishtree]

TW Rape, Sodomy, Torture.

TW Israel but no trigger warning for israel supporters who conveniently ignore evidence

[montywithchildhoodtrauma]

Lucifer short!

Warning! This short has self harm, vomiting, suicidal thoughts, intrusive thoughts, hunger, purging, vomiting, depression, and implied self harm. If any of this triggers you in anyway shape or from, please, for your safety, don't read!

tic tok, tic tok tic...

Lucifer was beginning to regret getting a clock.

tic tok, tic tok, tic tok...

He lifted his head, bleary eyes trying to focus on the round little clock on his bedside table. 4:23... It was if it was taunting him...

tic tok, tic tok, tic tok...

He could easily break the dam thing, but then there would be glass and metal all over the floor, and he didn't want to deal with that at the moment. Well there was one thing he could do.... The scratches on his thighs and upper arms throbbed for a moment and the idea of adding more cuts to himself at the moment made him feel queasy and sick. (Even if he did deserve it.)

tic tok, tic tok, tic...

Lucifer groaned as he forced himself to sit up slowly, his mouth was dry and it felt like someone shoved sandpaper down his throat. He wasn't sick, he knew that. Something else was wrong (Stop being such a whiny bitch, nothings wrong you're just being stupid.) but what?

tic tok, tic tok, tic...

Well, besides the fact that it was 4 in the morning and he hadn't slept at all in the last 38 hours. Had he forgotten to do something? Something that Charlie or Vaggie had asked him to do?

tic tok, tic tok, tic...

Lucifer winced as his stomach curled in on itself tightly, riiight, food. Wasn't that some sort of necessity? Lucifer laughed dryly at his unspoken joke, then winced as his stomach tied itself into a bunch of knots. It wouldn't hurt to get a small snack... it was almost morning anyway. (You know you don't deserve it, why go through all the trouble of getting food just to get rid of it again?)

tic tok, tic tok, tic tok...

Well, it wasn't like he was gonna fall asleep anytime soon, he might as well go get a snack. Lucifer flung the thick blanket off of his legs, he didn't move for a moment, he just stared at the floor. It wasn't that far down, but his legs trembled at the idea of actually getting up out of bed. (Its funny to think about how you're the king of hell when you can't even do something as simple as getting out of bed)

tic tok, tic tok, tic tok...

Lucifer whined and pressed his hands over his ears, his legs curled up against his chest.

tic tok, tic tok, tic tok...

He was vaguely aware that he reeked of sweat and musk, probably from being in this warm as fuck room. Sweet Caroline, he needed a shower.

tic tok, tic tok, tic tok...

"Shut up, shut up, shut up-" His stomach twisted tighter and the fresher cuts threatened to open up again at the new friction they were put under.

tic tok, tic tok, tic tok...

Lucifer screamed in frustration and hurled the clock across the room, it hit the wall with a loud crack. (Great, you broke something else. Can't you do anything without hurting something? Maybe Lilith would have stayed if you weren't such a fuck up.)

tic tok, tic tooooo-

The clock sprung apart pathetically, spraying that part of the room in mechanical gears, metal, and glass. Lucifer stared at the mess numbly, not quite registering what just happened. His throat hurts worse now and he was no closer to getting out of bed than before. (You can't even handle having a clock! What are you going to hurt the next person who talks to you? Maybe thats why Charlie didn't call you for years)

Well, he was already in bed, why not stay there for a few more minutes? He could get something to eat later...

Pulling the blanket back over him, Lucifer nestled himself back into the too warm bed and forced his eyes shut.

Knock knock knock

"Dad?" Lucifer groaned and tugged the blanket tightly over his head, how could he be so stupid? He lived with people now! He can't afford to throw things around all willy nilly!

"Dad? Are you okay? Vaggie said she heard something break" Charlie's voice careened through the door and hit the side of Lucifer's already throbbing head.

Fuck if Charlie saw him now, what would she think? "Oh yeah! I just thought I uh... saw something" Oh yeah totally nailed that one. Lucifer winced and gripped his throat, it was the first time he really used it in the past two days and fuck, it stung.

"Uh, well can I come in? I know its late but, no one has seen you in days..." Lucifer flicked on a light and cringed at the state of his room, then looked down at himself.

"W-well I- I'm not exactly dressed?" That was somewhat true, he was wearing his binder, (That counted as sleep clothes, right?) and a pair of shorts, almost every weak point on him was exposed and practically glowed in the dim lamp light. "It is 4 in the mor-" Lucifer broke off with a cough and dimly wondered when the last time he drank water was.

"Are you alright?" The doorknob rattled and Lucifer froze. Fuuuck he remembered to lock the door right? Right?

"Yeah! I'm fine! I've just been doing- things" he dragged his blanket up to his chest and broke into a coughing fit, his headache pounding with each cough. This was fine! He was fine-

"Dad," The doorknob turned slowly and Lucifer swore he could feel his heart stop, "I'm sorry, I'm coming in."

"NO! DON'T! I'm FINE!" Lucifer scrambled out of bed and managed to slam the door shut before he slid down it and clutched his head tightly, "J- just leave me alone for a bit, yeah? I'll be down later today" He could hear Charlie yelp and shuffle away from the door. Fuck! Did he hurt her? It was silent for a moment before he could hear Charlie slowly start to walk away.

"Alright, I'll see you later then..." Fuck, Charlie sounded so sad... Lucifer glanced at his day outfit and looked down at himself. He snapped himself 'clean' and made himself look presentable before he pushed the door open and quickly grabbed Charlie's wrist. The taller glanced down at him, surprised.

"Hey-" don't throw up, don't throw up, holy shit- don't throw up- "I'm sorry, I'm just a little... stressed at the moment"

Charlie looked him up and down for a moment and Lucifer was promptly reminded of her mother, she wore the same calculating gaze as Lilith did. It was almost uncanny.... "Not that I don't believe that but uh, what have you been doing for the past two days?" Charlie tilted her head to the side, her disheveled hair falling over her shoulder.

"Just uh, king stuff" Lucifer choked back a cough, "You know, its not easy running hell!" Lucifer puffed his chest up proudly, it really wasn't! Charlie looked unconvinced, but what was he supposed to tell her? That he had been stuck in bed for the past few days, unable to sleep? That he had been hurting himself? That he had been breaking shit in his room because of a stupid headache?

She would hate him.

"Alright" Charlie said slowly, still unconvinced. She shifted her captured wrist to gently hold Lucifer's trembling hands. Her face lit up and Lucifer then knew she came up with another grand plan, "Well, it's not good to work nonstop! Sooo~" She bounced on her feet, Lucifer watched her, vaguely wondering where all her energy was coming from.

"I'm making today a mandatory relaxation day!" Charlie grinned at her father, "Not just for you but for everybody! We can drink hot chocolate, read, watch tv~! OOOH! Do each other's nails! I know Angel and Nifty would love that!"

Lucifer swallowed thickly "Yeah, I'm sure they would!" Charlie glanced down at her father as if just remembering that he was there.

She frowned and took his other hand, "are you sure, you're alright?" Holy hell why did she have to have such a big heart?

Lucifer tried to give her a convincing smile, "I promise I'll let you know when I'm not" Charlie heaved a sigh of relief and let go of his hands. The lie felt sour in his mouth but it was fine. He could handle himself!

"Alright, be downstairs in the lobby at breakfast time, kay?" Before he could answer she was already bounding down the hallway and slamming her door shut.

Lucifer stood there for a moment, wondering what in the nine rings of hell he had gotten himself into.

...

Breakfast... was loud. At some point Angel had gone from very loudly hitting on him and practically sitting on his lap to helping Husker at the bar once the grumpy bartender made his existence known. Alastor was, thankfully, not anywhere to be found, but he had learned that was often the Radio demons way. He didn't show up unless something particularly interesting was happening. Beside Lucifer was Charlie who was excitedly talking to Vaggie about her plans for the day.

Lucifer dimly wondered if Charlie had a plan for everything she was doing. He pushed around his food for a bit, trying to keep his pounding headache at bay as he tried to follow what Fran? Fred? Frannie? The egg thing, was saying.

Though he had been told that most of what they said was complete and utter nonsense. (Much like the things you make. No one really cares about your creations, or about you) Lucifer stabbed his hash browns and pushed them around, not really feeling like eating despite how his mouth was watering at the smell and his stomach curled with hunger at the food in front of him.

"-d"

He really didn't deserve it anyway. (Why should anyone waste food on someone like you? It's only a matter of time before someone kicks you out of here)

"ad!"

Perhaps he could get away with eating a little and then claim he was full? Would that work?

"DAD!" Lucifer winced and looked up from his plate and stared at Charlie.

"Y-eah?" Lucifer stammered looking up from his plate, Charlie looked at Lucifer, concern riddled all over her face, oh boy she would never win a card game ever.

"I asked if you were okay, you've hardly touched your food" Oh... shit.

Lucifer chuckled dryly, "Yeah, I'm just not feelin' too hungry this morning." Why did it feel like someone was staring at him? Lucifer glanced behind him to look at the bar where Husker was staring at him, one eyebrow arched. Lucifer bit his bottom lip and decided to just ignore the demon, slowly turning his attention back to Charlie, who was still staring at him with her doe like eyes.

"Well, can you eat like... half of your food? You haven't come out to eat in days"

"Charlie... I'm really not hungry" Was it just him, or did the invisible gaze of Husk get sharper?

"Please?" Charlie begged and Lucifer swore he could see stars in her eyes, "For me?"

Oh fuck him. His inability to say no to Charlie would lead to his second fall. Lucifer sighed and twirled his fork in his hand for a moment before he stabbed his hash browns again and chewed on it slowly. Holy fuck- when was the last time he actually ate? Oh fuuuck this was so god dammed good-

Lucifer didn't notice Charlie and Vaggie fist bump in a small celebration as he began to stuff his face full, finishing off half his plate in a matter of seconds. A hand rested on Lucifer's shoulder and the shorter man went stiff, a piece of meat hanging from his mouth as his pupils shrank to the size of pins "Daaam, its not like it's gonna get up and walk away from ya', yer eatin' like its your last meal" did Lucifer ever mention he didn't like being touched while eating? He snapped and growled at Angel, pulling his plate closer to his chest.

It was his. All his. Don't fucking take it- Angel put up one set of hands in mock arrest, a look of surprise covering his face for a moment. "Je-sus- he almost bit my hand off!" Angel whined, heels clicking as he stepped back from Lucifer as the shorter snapped at him again before he returned back to his plate, eating faster this time while also glancing at the spider warily.

"This may come as a surprise to you Angel, but not everyone likes being touched" Vaggie said, hand resting on Charlies as if she needed to pull her girlfriend away from the king at a moments notice.

"Uh, dad?" Charlie leaned her head down to look at Lucifer, who at some point, dropped his fork in favor of just stuffing his face with his hands. He glanced up at her, eyes still wide and pupils small.

"You're ok, no one's gonna take your food, it's yours. We have more if you want more, ok?" She outstretched her hand, palm up, Lucifer froze again, a low growl coming from the back of his throat. It was his-

"Uh, princess, I think it might be best if we leave the short feral man alone" Angel said, walking swiftly behind the two as Vaggie nodded in agreement.

"Yeaaah, he doesn't seem too... stable, at the moment" Husker gruffed and Lucifer's gaze snapped to where the winged cat now stood. Charlie shushed the three and let her head rest on the table, hand still as she locked eyes with her father.

"Its okay. He won't hurt me. He never has, and he never will" Charlie's voice was soft and gentle, Lucifer glanced at her hand again leaning forward slowly to sniff at it. His eyes darted up at her again befo- what in the ever loving hell was he doing?! Lucifer sat up, trying to shake off the weird daze he had settled in as he glanced around at the group and then at his gloved hands. Dammit, he really liked these gloves...

"Dad? Are you al-"

"PEACHY!" Lucifer grinned (God, his head hurt), "Apologies for..." Lucifer looked down at his plate, food was splattered on the table next to it "The... mess, BUUT!" He quickly stood up and picked up his plate, (More- he needed more- it wasn't enough- fuck, he was so god damn hungry-) "I need to go clean myself up for the rest of the days activity's!" He quickly exited the room before anyone could stop him.

...

The food felt heavy in his stomach, (Nasty bitch, stuffing your face like the rat you are) Lucifer quickly walked past his covered mirror and made a beeline for the toilet. He ripped his gloves off and stuffed his fingers down his throat.

...

Thankfully, no one talked about what had happened during breakfast or asked about what he was doing during the hour he was gone, much to his relief. He couldn't stop himself from squirming in his seat as Husker grumpily painted his nails. It was very clear the taller demon hadn't liked Lucifer snapping at his friend, not that Lucifer didn't feel bad. He very much did feel bad!

But- Huskers own claws were digging into Lucifer's skin and fuck, it hurt! (You hurt yourself all of the time, why can't you take someone else doing it? Pathetic little shit.) But he didn't say anything, instead he glanced over at Angel, Charlie, Vaggie, and Nifty. Angel was gently combing through Charlies large mass of hair and was braiding it carefully while Charlie struggled to paint the constantly moving Nifty who, at several points in time, tried drinking the nail polish. Vaggie had already gotten her nails done and was just watching the movie quietly.

He scratched his leg, picking at a healing cut that itched like nobody's business. "Stop movin' yer makin' me miss." Husker growled, Lucifer wanted to point out that he would miss no matter what with how tightly he was holding the nail polish cap. He thought better of it and stilled himself, forcing his other hand into his pocket.

He managed to stay still for about... five seconds before his leg started bouncing and he pulled his hand back out of his pocket to fiddle with his pants again. Husker growled and shoved the nail polish back into the container and tossed it onto the couch, deeming his work done. He huffed and leaned into Angel's side, choosing to watch the movie rather than finish Lucifer's hand. Lucifer didn't blame him, he wouldn't want to work with himself either. He HAD to live with himself and he hated it.

Lucifer glanced at his nails, the polish hit some of his skin but he didn't mind, he kinda liked it. It was imperfect, and that's what made it beautiful. "Thank you" He whispered, not really caring if Husker heard or not as he turned his attention to the tv. Missing the small twitch of Husker's ear.

...

Whoever told Charlie that Uno is a fun and relaxing game should die, twice. And then they should get cooked over an open flame before they die a third time. The game had started simple enough, be the first one to lose all their cards. Simple, friendly and shouldn't have made much of a fuss. That was until Husker had started treating it like a poker game and then suddenly bets were involved, rules changed constantly, and they caught Nifty trying to use the cards to kill bugs.

One thing led to another and suddenly there were teams, fire, and many many thrown pillows. Lucifer found himself using a metal pan to wack away a bunch of softball gun pellets Angel had pulled from who knows where. He found himself grinning wildly trying to aim his hits at Husker and the Egg as Vaggie launched a 'bomb' (To be honest, Nifty had gotten wrapped up in it as a little surprise for the other team)

So wrapped up in the mock war with the other team, Lucifer didn't notice Charlie smiling softly at him, an almost relieved look in her eyes.

...

Lucifer panted, his headache had come back full force and his stomach was in knots again but holy fuck- was that fun.

"We totally won that" Lucifer wheezed, lifting up a fist to fist bump Vaggie, who was also laying on the floor with Charlie draped atop of her.

"Oh yeah, absolutely" She agreed, knocking their knuckles together.

"What- No! We obviously won!" Angel countered, lifting his head up from where he was bent over the top of the couch.

"Then why do you look like you lost?" Lucifer asked, lifting his head up to look at Angel, (Wrong move, god- wrong move- holy shit his head hurt!)

"I" Angel proclaimed, pointing one arm up into the air, "Am taking a victorious breather" He huffed and put his arm back down, letting his head dangle.

"Yep, keep tellin' yourself that"

"Yer doin the same thing I'm doing!" Lucifer laughed and glanced at Husker.

"Am I? Somethin' tells me Husk doesn't want a piece of this~" He wasn't sure if the pillow to his face was worth it or not.

...

Lucifer leaned against the door, listening to it click shut. To say he was exhausted would be an understatement. Lucifer stripped off his clothes and tossed them onto the floor, leaving his binder and shorts on. He stumbled into bed, the edges of his brain fuzzy from the wine he drank at dinner. (He mostly just had wine for dinner but, ya know, no one wanted a repeat of breakfast so they just let him get tipsy while Charlie tried sneaking bits of food onto his already small plate.) Lucifer sighed, face flushed and warm with alcohol, no doubt he would be paying for drinking non water and eating hardly any food later, but for now, he snuggled into his bed, waiting for the call of sleep to drag his head further into his pillow.

It never really came.

...

Lucifer whined as his body trembled with exhaustion, his head hurt and his mouth tasted like acid and regurgitated wine. He winced as his stomach twisted again and he stuck his head deeper into the toilet. God, this was so pathetic.

Lucifer panted as sweat dripped down his face and into the bowl. Suddenly the world tilted violently and then went black.

...

"-ound.... in the bathroom I d..."

"Toilet...."

Something was stroking the side of his head, their hand was so cold compared to how warm he felt. He winced and leaned into the hand.

Was someone crying? Someone sounded like they were crying... was it him? Was he crying? He didn't think so... the voice was too high pitched to be his...

His stomach lurched again and he turned his head away from the hand as he spit up, pain wracking his body.

"-HIT!" There were sounds of general commotion and suddenly he was weightless. His head lolled back and the rest of him went limp. And suddenly, it was quiet once more.

...

Bright- too bright- Lucifer groaned as he forced himself to sit up again, he open hi- This was not his room.

He was fairly certain that he didn't fall asleep in the lobby. Very certain actually. From what he could tell he was alone at the moment, he glanced to the side and found a glass of water and two little pills. With trembling hands he pushed the pills into his mouth and took several greedy gulps of water, it wasn't long until the water was spilling out of the sides and dribbling down his chin as he gasped between gulps.

"My, my you're going to choke if you drink your water like that~" Alastor's voice crooned.

Lucifer gagged in surprise and choked on his water.

"Told you~"

"Wh-" Lucifer coughed again, "What the hell are you doing here?" Lucifer glared up at Alastor, the radio demons grin didn't waver as he sat up straight.

"Believe it or not, I~ live here! That, and Charlie asked me to keep an eye on you and if you needed anything, other than me leaving you alone, that all you have to do is ask!" Lucifer groaned and set the cup down, just short of dropping it on the table. Alastor inspected his claws as if there were better things he could be doing, there probably was (No one actually wants to make sure your sorry ass is ok).

Lucifer grumbled and fiddled with the thin blanket on his lap, doing his best to ignore the radio demon, who also seemed content with the deadly silence.

"You know-" or not. Lucifer glanced up at the taller.

"Charlie's well being is important to me, to us, right?" Alastor arched an eyebrow as he waited for Lucifer to answer.

"O-of course, I do care about her" he croaked in response. He squeaked as Alastor moved toward him quickly, their faces inches apart.

"Then why did you hurt her?" His head cocked in a very uncomfortable looking way.

Lucifer blinked in surprise, "I- I didn't" He didn't think he did anyway...

"Oh not physically!" He moved away again, "For some unfathomable reason she cares for you, and to see you in any sort of pain harms her, hurts her" That- couldn't be true...

"SO!" Alastor clapped his hands and stopped his pacing to stare down at Lucifer. "If I catch you, if any of us catch you, harming yourself, starving yourself or anything of that sort, we will tell our beloved Charlie"

Lucifer hardly believed that, they hadn't really spoken in years, and while Lucifer was fairly certain that the only reason he hadn't killed himself was because of Charlie, he never really saw her really caring about him.

"You know, you should have seen her face when she found you! I've never seen her so terrified before! I swear you could see her little heart shatter into ittsy-bittsy pieces" Alastor trailed off, his eyebrows furrowing, a more painful looking smile etched in his face. Lucifer's heart clenched at the thought of Charlie being upset and him not being awake to tell her it was going to be alright.

But the idea of this little shit trying to intervene on what he was going with his alone time, he was about to tell the dick-shit just as much before the door slammed open and Charlie came rushing in. He didn't have time to say anything before he was wrapped tightly in her arms and she was a blubbering mess. Lucifer didn't hesitate wrapping his arms around her as tightly as he could, which wasn't very tight due to his small stature and he really hadn't been doing anything healthy for the past few days...

Something hot and wet slipped down his cheek and dripped onto Charlie's outfit.

"I'm sorry" He croaked, his breath hitched as he clung to Charlie for dear life, "I'm sorry, Msorry" He kept repeating the words as he rocked back and forth, tears falling down his own face and sobs wracking his own body uncontrollably. He glanced at Alastor and nodded, a silent agreement to the younger man's previous terms.

Alastor nodded and promptly left the room.

...

Lucifer sat there, stroking Charlie's tangled hair gently as she sniffled in her sleep.

His own eyes felt like they had weights attached to them, he knew despite his best efforts he wouldn't get any sleep. At least he could watch over his little girl while she rested.

...............................................

That was.... much longer than i thought it was going to be.

@yes-that-is-very-you

[yumoemochi]

take away his dress, extensions and makeup. he is not ready to see

[anybody-999]

Que asco, ni siquiera es medio día y ya estas teniendo un atracón.

[wow-an-unfunny-joke]

Sometimes when I think about going back on my disordered habits (specifically purging) I think “oh but Senshi would be so disappointed ):”

[1heartsickfics]

could you do one of Peter being sick at the tower (nauseous and throwing up, fever etc) and Tony goes all Dad ModeTM, and all the Avengers are like damn, Tony is being so fatherly; when did he get so soft? later tony still showing how great of a dad he is peter falls asleep on him during a movie and the avengers are like bro? ur a dad to this kid now? and tony is all defensive like no-no hes-ok maybe kind of, now stop talking you're gonna wake my kid and he smiles down like *my* kid, I like that

Apparently I'm only in the mood for writing fandom fics rn cause I am just not feeling motivated to write for my oc's lately. Anyway here's a short one.

-- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"You alright there kid?" Steve asked Peter, noticing how unusually quiet he'd been tonight.

"M'okay," Peter shrugged, not sounding very convincing.

"He's definitely not okay," Clint said, "That is the face of someone who is going to puke soon."

"You gonna be sick Peter?" Steve asked, moving to sit beside Peter on the couch.

Peter swallowed hard, his face suddenly a pale green. "M-maybe," he struggled to get out.

"Clint can you-?" Steve stopped as Clint handed him the trash can, already one step ahead of him. Steve was grateful that Clint moved to sit on Peter's other side, placing a hand on the kids back as he leaned over the can. Clint had kids of his own, he knew how to do this. Steve on the other hand, felt pretty out of his element.

Peter groaned, wrapping his arms around his stomach. His mouth hung open limply and his eyes were unfocused as waves of nausea rushed over him. Normally he would be embarrassed that Hawkeye and Captain America were about to see him barf, but he felt too sick to even care.

"That's it kiddo, just keep breathing," Clint said, gently rubbing Peter's back.

"Does anybody know where Tony is?" Steve asked, looking around at the others. Tony was probably the one that Peter wanted right now. But he was met with clueless stares and blank faces.

"I'll go find him," Bruce said, standing up and heading out of the room.

Then Peter gagged harshly, his body convulsing as he threw up into the trash can. Steve brought his hand up to the kids forehead to help support him and keep his hair out of his eyes. He could feel that Peter was burning up with a fever.

"Jesus Pete what happened!?" Tony cried as he walked into the room, followed by Bruce, who had apparently found Tony rather quickly. Steve stood to let Tony take his spot next to Peter, who immediately wrapped an arm around the kids shoulders.

"I don't feel good," Peter moaned, slumping against his mentor.

"I know kid, but I've got you, you're gonna be alright," Tony said, rubbing his hand up and down Peter's arm. "Can someone go get us some water?" he asked, glancing up at the others.

Clint nodded, "I'll get it. You done for now Peter?" he asked, gesturing toward the trash.

Peter groaned, but nodded his head. Clint picked up the can and took it with him as he headed for the kitchen, presumably to clean it out and get Peter something else to be sick in for the inevitable round 2. Seems like the poor kid had caught a stomach bug.

Clint returned a moment later with a fresh bin lined with a plastic bag, and a glass of water. He set the trash can down in front of Peter again and handed Tony the water.

"Here Pete, you think you can take a drink for me?" he asked quietly.

Peter said nothing, but straightened up enough to take the glass from Tony. He took a small sip, wincing as he swallowed, then handed the glass back. Tony frowned, clearly not satisfied.

"Alright, we'll try some more later," he said, knowing that he shouldn't press too much or he'd risk making the kid sick again. "You want to go up to bed or stay down here?" he asked.

"Too tired," Peter shook his head, eyelids drooping heavily as if to prove his point.

"Okay, come here then, lay down," Tony said, placing a pillow in his lap for Peter to lay on, then helping maneuver the kid so that he was laying down.

Tony could have easily carried the kid to bed, but decided that it might be best to have him out here where he could keep an eye on him for a while anyway. He brushed the kids hair out of his eyes then grabbed the blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over him as best he could.

That was when he felt the eyes on him. All of the others had been silently watching the exchange. They'd never seen Tony so... soft.

"What?" he asked, rolling his eyes at the looks on their faces.

"You the kids dad now huh?" Nat asked, smirking playfully, although there was fondness in her eyes.

"Well, no. Obviously not. I mean, he's just-" Tony fumbled over his words, caught off guard by the word 'dad'. Was he? Is that how Peter thought of him? He hated to admit that the thought made his heart swell a little. Maybe this really was his kid.

[milky-fixx]

gnaw

bleach | izuru kira x reader 

prompt: ghoul + restraints (monsterfucker kinktober 2022) 

summary: post-accident, izuru struggles to keep both his hunger under wraps, and his relationship intact. but as he finds the frayed edges of his control slipping, so does your presence in his life. 

word count: 6.3k omg

cw: 18+, afab reader, ghoul!au, monsters that eat humans, reader is not eaten (other people are though), mentions of starvation, suicidal ideation, blood, vomiting, forced feeding, muzzles, handcuffs, last 2k is where all the smut is tbqh—the rest is angst

—

Hunger, Izuru thinks, is a sensation worse than death.

He’s tasted death on his tongue–a sharp, metallic tang. Pain that swallowed him whole, that spit him back out into this world, starving. Hungering.

(He’s tasted death in another way, as well.)

But hunger is all-encompassing. All he can think about lately.

He eyes the katsu curry dish you’ve made before him. The rich brown of the curry, the crispness of the pork, the warmth of the rice–these are all things that should appeal to him. You at the very least, seem to be enjoying yourself, chattering away, spooning the curry and rice mixture into your mouth. Izuru lets a ghost of a smile grace his face. He doesn’t breathe, but the overwhelming stench of food still churns his gut. His plate remains untouched.

“Are you sure you don’t want to eat something, Izuru?” you ask again suddenly, and he’s snapped out of his daze.

“No, I’m fine. Thank you.” His smile tightens. The gnawing, expanding feeling in his stomach seems to worsen. He places a hand over his mouth, hoping to feign the illness he’d told you has been afflicting him since his hospital stay months back.

Loss of appetite. Nausea at the smell of food.

Well, one type of food.

There is another thought that occurs to him, one that he can’t voice. One that seems to increasingly haunt his day-to-day life, threatens to break the quaint domesticity the two of you have.

He could bite you. That would certainly fill his appetite.

He digs his fingernails into his palms, feeling crescents dig into his palm.

God, he could never tell you.

How could you look at him the same?

—

“Moved in with ‘em?” Gin drawls, his ever-present smirk on his face. Izuru hates the amusement his mentor drives from this particular situation, hates the truth of him. (The man he looked up to the most, who turned out to be nothing but a monster, who’s cursed him to this same fate.)

But why wouldn’t Gin find this funny?

Izuru is playing with fire.

“Yer’ somethin,’ aren’t’cha? Didn’t know you liked ta’ play with yer food before ya ate it~”

“They’re not food,” he says tersely, eyes trained on the way the flesh gives in beneath Gin’s hands. Gin used to mock him, say that he should be hunting for his own food, that their kind was known to get territorial. But that was before he found out the most amusing news:

That Izuru Kira post-accident is still trying to make things work with his human partner. That even more than that, he’s now living with them. The very thought seemed to be enough for him to dangle this lifeline in front of Izuru.

Izuru doesn’t even flinch as blood splatters across his face.

—

Izuru has always been into tragedies.

Ever since he was a kid. Ever since he’s been aware enough of his wretched existence. And if his life before the accident was act one, this was certainly the second half leading up to a tragic finale.

His hand grips the bathroom sink, leaning over it. His saliva feels stuck to the roof of his mouth, his tongue unbearably dry.

He can smell you, just beyond the shower curtain. Water slicking down your body, rivulets dipping beneath your flesh, the warm, wet musk of sweat. Izuru is so hungry, he’s starting to think his appetite pulling the strings here, and he’s a mindless puppet agreeing to its whims.

How long has it been? Two weeks, maybe three since he last saw Ichimaru? With the lockdowns in the city, it had been hard, so hard to get any source of sustenance.

Gin has his ways of course. Ways that Izuru wishes he could turn a blind eye to. He’s not completely a monster. No matter how much Gin insists they are.

Didn’t know you liked ta’ play with yer food before ya ate it, his words replay in Izuru’s mind.

When you come out of the shower, nuzzling up to him, it takes everything in him to appear relaxed. But then his gaze dips to the curve of your collarbone, the smooth softness of your skin. He’s horrified to find he has to swallow down the saliva accumulating in his mouth.

You’re not food.

You’re not food–

“You should get dressed,” he says suddenly, swallowing down the gnawing hunger inside him, threatening to take shape. He can’t. He can’t–

“Please,” he adds, shaking you off of him. You give him a hurt look, and Izuru squeezes his eyes shut. He can deal with you upset; anything is better than you knowing the truth.

And when he falls into bed with you, it takes everything in him to not lean over and bare his teeth. He lies stiffly on his side, praying to the powers above that you don’t press him.

You two haven’t been intimate in awhile, not since before the accident. He can’t trust himself, his hunger, to not act. Just the thought of your bare flesh, the faint taste of your body wash, has him near delirious.

You’re not food. You’re not food at all.

He loves you. He loves you so much he’s willing to bear the pangs of hunger just to be this close to you.

Oh, he’s such a fool.

—

Cohabitation tests the very limits of his control. If it’s not the shower, it’s you curled up next to him in bed, your shirt riding up, displaying a delicious sliver of your skin.

If it’s not that, it’s you kissing him, the taste of your lips on his nearly high enough to get him drunk. He has to control himself, the part of him that wants so desperately to turn his lips on your neck, into his teeth, into a bite, into gnawing—

He’s distant.

He doesn’t mean to be, but it’s tearing up at him. He downs endless amounts of coffee a day, only leaves the house to get that. At some point, even you’ve noticed his consumption, expressed concern over his increasingly gaunt visage.

You’ve noticed by now, surely you’ve noticed something is off.

Izuru eats it all. Your curry, your udon, your fried rice, anything to keep you happy. And then, when you’re busy washing dishes, he does his best to vomit it all up, the taste of bile in his throat somehow making his hunger even more pronounced.

—

Gin’s words reverberate in his head.

“How’s yer cute lil’ human gonna react when they find out what ya’ gotta eat to stay alive? When you take a lil nibble out of ‘em?”

“It’s a mistake, ya’ know? Humans don’t like us; they’re terrified of us, even.” He grins, a spot of blood on his chin shining in the sun.

“Is’not gonna end well.”

—

No. Izuru isn’t the main character of a tragedy. He’s not some forlorn Romeo, sworn to kill you by his own hand. He can overcome this, this gnawing hunger to be by you, one step at a time.

He bites down on his hand until he feels the skin tear. The way it doesn’t even null the hunger in the slightest sends him spiraling.

—

“W-We’re doing this now?”

Izuru hadn’t considered that you would take action. That you are just as much of a character in this play as he is. That you want something.

Him. His body. The proof that you two, your relationship, is fine. Surely you’ve noticed his distance.

Foolishly, he lets you.

He’s been so hungry. He hasn’t fed in weeks.

He would hate himself if he did something to you.

(At the same time, part of him craves this. The intimacy or your flesh–he’s not sure. He doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t want to think about how much of a monster he’s become–)

He overestimates his control.

Your neck bared before him. He can’t resist. His teeth dig into the flesh of your neck. He moans as your blood rushes hot and warm into his mouth.

You scream.

—

He fucked up.

Hefuckedup, hefuckedup, hefuckedup.

Izuru stares mournfully at the scene. Momo treats your wound as you sit, dazed. Your scream snapped him out of his frenzy. In a daze, he called her–thankfully, he had enough sense to. He’s not even sure how she understood his frantic voice over the phone.

There was blood, so much blood. Your blood. Everywhere. On the floor. In his mouth.

You’re shaking, gone pale. You passed out once already. From the pain? Shock? Izuru can only imagine.

He’s backed into the corner of a wall, biting down on his palm. He’s sure he must make a ghastly sight; his eyes must be pitch black, with red sclera. His mouth painted red with your blood. The look of a monster.

You’re trying your best not to stare at him. The one time you do glance over, you flinch.

Monster.

He is a monster.

He hurt you.

He tried to eat you.

He wanted to eat you, and he would have.

Momo is calmly trying to explain what’s happened to him, the accident, what he’s become. Their lifestyle. Their diet. And from the way you momentarily give her a look of fear, Izuru knows that you know she’s the same kind of monster he is.

Izuru knows he should be by your side, he should be there for you. But he’s the one who hurt you in the first place. And that very knowledge makes him want to run. Run far away, run from himself.

So he does.

—

When Gin finds him, bloodied and blank-stared, of course he knows what happens. It’s written all over Izuru’s face.

“Maybe it’ll be a good lesson for ya.’ Bet you were tryna create one of those tragic endings ya’ like readin’ about so much.”

Izuru says nothing, even as his mentor drags him back to his apartment. Shoves him onto the floor. Throws a slab of something in front of him.

His mouth stays shut.

The taste of you lingers on his tongue.

—

“Izuru? Can we… talk? You left without saying anything…”

“Izuru, I’m sorry. Momo kind of explained to me… I don’t blame you. I’m sorry for not realizing you’ve been struggling this badly with your… appetite.”

“I don’t think you’re a monster.”

“I do think I deserve some kind of closure, though.”

“Izuru, I’m getting worried. It’s been almost two weeks. The bite’s almost healed. Are you even…”

“Izuru, where are you?”

Voicemail box full. Message cannot be saved.

—

Izuru wants to waste away.

He doesn’t deserve to exist.

Not in this form, not if all he can do is bring harm to others.

He tries to starve. Wants to see how long his kind can survive without human flesh before wasting away. He’s scornful. He hates this life, hates his new diet.

But fate is cruel. His mentor is cruel. Gin forces bits of flesh into his mouth that keep him alive. No matter how much Izuru tries to retch it back up, to reject it… his body craves it. The satiation that floods through him after every bite disgusts him.

He’s truly a monster.

Gin is definitely amused by his predicament.

He’s so weak, he slips in and out of consciousness. Gin feeds him just enough to stay alive, but not enough to stay awake. There are images, memories that play in his mind. His subconscious cruelly reminding him of what he’d lost.

The first time you met.

(“Um, excuse me? Is this the Intro to Poetry class with Dr. Tosen?”

The two of you became class partners, sharing poetry with one another. Izuru fell in love with you from the words on the page you breathed life into. He could only hope that you felt the same, that his artistic sensitivity spoke to you.

He confessed to you with a haiku, comparing his love to a new spring day.

You were smart enough to realize that he was talking about you.)

The accident.

(Walking down the street in the dead of the night, Izuru had stayed late in the library to work on his dissertation. He’d made a breakthrough that he was excited to share with you once he got home. He didn’t see the car swerving towards him. The car clearly didn’t make out his figure in the dim streetlight.

The crash was instantaneous. The pain everywhere. Izuru’s head hit the pavement, his vision blacked out.

“Well, well, yer’ in pretty bad shape. I’d even say yer a dead man.”

The familiar voice of his advisor. He tried to open his eyes. Everything was a blur. Before he lost consciousness, the last thing he saw were Gin’s eyes. Open, for the first time. Black with red sclera.

Gin leaned down.

Pain tore into Izuru’s shoulder, ripped him anew.)

The day after.

When he awoke, all he felt was the burning pang of hunger.

It hasn’t stopped since.

—

“Izuru?”

A familiar voice. Smell.

A gentle nudge to his shoulder.

“Are you awake?”

Definitely familiar.

His hunger must truly be getting to him, if now he’s hallucinating about you.

“Izuru? Can you hear me?”

After all, why would you be in front of him? How would you know where he even is?

Nonetheless, a part of him wants to linger in this fantasy. One where you care enough to look for him. Where nothing bad happened. Where the two of you could still be together.

“Is he okay?”

A small furrow forms between his brows. Is someone else here? Who else would be in this fantasy–

A sharp blow to the back of his head, right above his neck. Izuru lurches forward, coughing.

“Yah, he’s fine. Just a lil’ slow is all. Lack of food, y’know? Too busy mopin’ ‘bout his own life.”

Ichimaru? Why would you and Ichimaru be in the same hallucination?

Then Izuru’s eyes snap open. Why would you and Ichimaru be in the same room? Only if you were dinner–

He swivels his head upwards, calling out your name in a panic. Only to meet your surprised face, inches from his, from where you’re kneeling in front of him.  

“Ah–” The two of you stare at each other for a beat.

Izuru calls out your name, and that breaks the moment. He’s taken aback when you wrap your arms around him. Blinking several times, he realizes that no, this isn’t a dream. The thrum of your heart next to his ear, the soft give of your body. It’s all real.

He murmurs your name. His eyes slip shut as he returns your hug, slumping against you.

The illusion of normalcy. He may as well enjoy it while it lasts.

It takes a moment for him to realize you’re talking to him.

“...I was so worried you had died or–or something worse. Do you have any idea how stressful the past few weeks have been?” you ask, pushing back from him to give him a stern look.

Izuru’s mouth feels dry now for another reason.

“I… I’m sorry,” he says weakly.

“You better be sorry, Izuru. It’s one thing to find out that you’re a… you know, but then to go weeks without hearing from you? What the hell?”

“I…” His brow furrows. This is not at all the response he expected. “I didn’t… I thought it would be better if I had…”

“What? Disappeared?” You scrutinize him, before sighing. Reaching towards him to ruffle his hair. “Look, it’s not okay to just disappear when problems occur, Izu. Haven’t we talked about this before? It makes me worry…”

“I’m sorry,” Izuru says again, because at this point that’s all he thinks he can say. He’s sorry he’s a monster. He’s sorry he’s like this. He’s sorry that he’s showing such a pitiful display in front of you. He’s sorry, he’s sorry, he’s sorry.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I didn’t know if you still wanted to… be around me. After… well…”

His gaze darts to your shoulder, which you’ve mostly covered up. A sliver of gauze peeks through, and his visage darkens. You catch his eye, shifting your shirt to better cover the wound.

“Well,” Gin says suddenly, clapping his hands. It startles you both; neither of you seem to have remembered your audience. “‘M glad yer here to get this moper outta here. Much as it was fun ta’ watch, he’s really been dampenin’ the mood all ‘round.”

Izuru jolts. “What? N-No, I can’t go back. I can’t!”

“Ya’ gotta learn how to live with humans, ya’ know? It helps ta’ stay full.” Gin gives him a sharp look.

Izuru stares at him, aghast. “What if something happens? If I… if I lose control again…” He glances towards you helplessly. “I don’t think I could live with myself,” he says lowly.

“If you get hungry,” you offer, hesitantly. “Momo left a few things you can eat. In the fridge. B-Back at my place.”

His stomach churns. He can’t imagine how awful it is for you to know what he subsists on. His diet. You must be disgusted with him. Surely.

“Well, ya’ two lovebirds, I’mma have to kick you out,” Gin interrupts. “Rangiku’s comin’ over in a few. I ain’t got all day. Kira, do yer best not to eat yer cute lil’ human this time~”

Before Izuru knows it, Ichimaru is slamming the door in both of your faces.

He worries his bottom lip with his teeth, hard enough that he can taste blood. His own. When he speaks, his voice is shaky. 

“If… if you want, I can find another friend to stay with. Momo, maybe. I understand if you don’t feel safe around me–”

You cough meaningfully. He stops, shifting awkwardly in place. 

You sigh. “Izuru… what part of ‘I’m not afraid of you’ do you not get?”

“Truthfully? All of it,” he says blandly. “I think you’re insane.” You jab him in the ribs, and he inhales sharply. “Ow. Okay, sorry. But really... why aren’t you afraid of me?” He rubs his side, a frown etched into his features. “I would be.”

“Well, I’m not.”

His look is disbelieving, and you elaborate. “I… I mean like, I kind of get it. If I was starving and had only like… almonds to eat, I would also probably chow down on the closest burger when presented before me.”

He looks horrified. You have to bite down on your lip to hold your laugh. “Sorry! That’s kind of how Momo described it to me.”

“You’re not a… burger. Or food.” He frowns. “I need to talk to Momo about her analogies…” he mutters dismally.

You laugh this time, and Izuru, despite the stress of the situation, relaxes slightly at the familiar sound. God, he’s missed it. 

“I may have taken liberties with her explanation,” you admit. Your mirth trails off as you clear your throat. “So, are you finally going to believe me when I say I want to be around you still?”

Izuru surveys you cautiously. Not to determine his answer, but to gauge your reaction.

“No.”

“That’s… very characteristic of you. I guess you won’t believe me until we’re back home and I haven’t locked you out.”

He musters up a hint of a smile to give you.

As the two of you walk home, your hand nudges his. Once. Then twice. By the third time, Izuru grasps it.

He doesn’t understand it, but you still want him.

And for now, that’s all he needs to know. 

—

Once the two of you are outside the door to your apartment, he tugs on your wrist.

“Look I… I can’t promise I won’t…” Izuru frowns, trying to find the words. The past few weeks have taken their toll on him mentally. “That it won’t happen again. I’m not… who you think I am. Not anymore.”

You tilt your head to the side. The action is so endearing that despite himself, Izuru reaches out, cupping your cheek with his thin fingers. He leans down, eyes dark, close enough until your noses brush against each other. 

He wants to kiss you.

He wants so badly to taste you.

But a glance at your bandaged shoulder reminds him of what he needs to do first, and he pulls back, steeling himself. 

“I couldn’t live with myself if I did something bad to you again. I don’t…” He inhales sharply. “I don’t deserve the second chance you’re giving me. But if something were to happen, please. Stop me. Do whatever it takes.” 

“Don’t show me mercy, no matter what.”

You glance askew, seeming to ponder the weight of his words. While Izuru feels relief, it’s tinged with anxiety. Maybe he’s finally finally gotten through to you. Maybe you’re regretting the decision to seek him out. 

But he’s giving you an out. A chance to turn him down. 

You don’t have to doom yourself to a fate with him. He’ll understand if you’d rather break things off here and now. Despite how much something in his gut seems to churn at the very thought. 

You can go back to your normal life, and pretend he never happened. And he can go back to trying to adjust to his new life, all while ignoring the pang in his chest whenever the thought of you crosses his mind....

“Ah!” you exclaim suddenly. Izuru looks at you curiously. “That must be why he gave me this... One second.” You rummage through your bag. “Your advisor--Ichimaru, is it?--handed this to me before we left.” You pull out the object. Izuru stares.

And stares.

It’s a muzzle.

A leather muzzle, with an intricate layout of straps and buckles. Certainly too big to fit a dog’s mouth. Perhaps meant to fit a human.

Izuru pales at the implication. “Ichimaru… gave this to you?”

“Yeah! He said he, uh...” Your voice lowers as you glance around conspiratorially. “He said he found it in a sex shop. He thought you might need it...”

Izuru suddenly feels ill. He’s certain he turns a shade of green. You catch sight of his expression and quickly clarify.

“Don’t worry! It should be unused.”

“That… that’s not the problem!” he whispers back furiously, glancing around before quickly unlocking your door. He ushers the two of you inside, hoping to the powers above that no has caught sight of or heard your indecency. 

If one of your neighbors saw you brandishing a muzzle before him… and admitting it’s from a sex shop… he doesn’t think he would ever be able to live it down.

That damn Ichimaru.

—

He dons it. 

Because he doesn’t trust himself, because he still can’t determine if he’s staring at you with hunger in the literal sense or hunger in the sense of wanting you close to him…. Izuru dons the muzzle.

It’s dehumanizing, but surprisingly not nearly as uncomfortable as he assumed it would be. The leather is thick, sturdily made. He can talk through it, but it’s muffled. He certainly can’t open his mouth at all to bite.

In some ways, it’s an ideal solution, he begrudgingly admits.

Before he puts it on, he does sneak some of the food Momo had left in the fridge for him, in an inconspicuous brown bag labeled with his name. He’s decided if he’s going to be around you, Ichimaru is right. He needs to make sure he’s not starving. You keep your gaze trained on the wall behind you as he eats. Izuru suggests you leave the room, not wanting you to see the ghastly sight of him, but you stay. He tries to eat quickly, discreetly. 

He leaves the room only to brush his teeth, to rid himself of the taste of blood on his mouth. For your sake. In case... he flushes at the thought. 

In case you feel like kissing him, at all.

The stress of the day seems to have gotten to you both, though, and you decide to retire early for the night. Izuru follows you to the bedroom, feeling weary from his own several weeks of psychological torment. 

Which leads to his current predicament. 

Izuru lies stiff next to you in bed. He’s turned to one side, his back to you.

You’re so warm, so soft. He can practically feel the thrum of your blood with his heightened senses.

Izuru turns towards you. You’re sleeping peacefully, your hand outstretched towards him. Your hair is in disarray, and as he watches, a bit of drool escapes your mouth.

He cracks a smile, brushing some of the hair from your face.

Izuru’s hand trails down to the shoulder he bit, and lightly skims the bandage covering your wound. Then, before he can stop himself, his hand strays even lower, until it’s hovering right above your heart. He’s never found the steady beat of your heart more comforting than he does now. It’s a sign that you’re alive. That his hunger hadn’t consumed him completely.

His eyes flutter shut as he presses his palm against your chest.

He realizes too late just what part of you he’s touching when his finger brushes against a nipple, hardened and poking through your shirt. He freezes, his hand stilling.

How long has it been since he’s felt your body against his–bared, nothing but skin against skin?

Images flash through his mind, and despite himself, Izuru’s body feels hot. His gaze trails back up to your injured shoulder, and the thought–awful as it is–occurs to him.

What if he gave you a matching bite on the other side?

Izuru shakes his head to rid himself of the thought. He shifts uncomfortably. Heat pools down to below his gut, where it simmers.  

Of all the times to get an erection, certainly the worst was while trying not to devour your loved one.

Izuru signs through the muzzle, adjusting himself once more. He wills himself to think of the most painful things he can–his accident, Gin’s shopping escapades, that time Momo dropped a bowling ball on his foot.

Maybe it’s his proximity to you. Maybe it’s the inherent deviancy of needing restraints to not ravish you–in which way, he wasn’t sure. 

But Izuru revisits the thought of biting you, one that disturbed him only a few moments ago. Yet now… it seems different. Rather than his literal desire for your flesh Izuru realizes the appeal of the idea of biting you can be sexual. 

Marking you. Letting everyone know that you’re his. Leaving physical proof of his love on your flesh.

His.

His lover.

Offering themselves up to him. 

Letting him back into their life, even knowing of his monstrous nature.

Allowing him to feast on them, both literally and carnally.

Izuru inhales sharply. He flexes his thighs, pressing his hips against the band of his boxers. He’s so turned on, it’s starting to hurt. He briefly considers taking care of himself in the bathroom, in privacy. Where he can’t disturb you.

You’re so tired. He’s already inconvenienced you this far. He can’t bother you with something as trivial as this. 

Izuru tries his best to escape the bed quietly, but it creaks under his weight. You’ve never been a light sleeper, but suddenly you’re awake, your voice cutting through the fog of his desire. 

“Izuru? You okay?”

“Mmf.” He tries to say yes, but it’s muffled through the muzzle. It’s too late. You’re already turning on the lights. You give him a once-over, and Izuru’s whole body flushes once your eyes are drawn to his groin. He glances down, and his worst fears are realized. A wet patch stains the front of his boxers. Mortification washes through him.

“Oh. Um…”

He shakes his head furiously, grabbing a pillow to hide his shame. This isn’t what it looks like! He isn’t some pervert that gets off to being bound! But his own body betrays him.

“I didn’t know these kinds of things turned you on, Izuru,” you finally say.

He wants to die of embarrassment. Is it too late to go back to Gin’s place?

Scratch that. Ichimaru was the one who bought this damn muzzle in the first place.

“It’s… it’s okay. It’s been awhile since we’ve done anything. Plus with what’s happened lately… it makes sense that you’re… you know. Pent-up?”

Nope, nope it doesn’t. Izuru doesn’t want to discuss his bodily functions right now. Not when he’s still stiff, not when he was about to take care of it himself, without burdening you. 

He jerks his head towards the bathroom door, resolutely refusing to glance at you. 

But you reach out, before pausing. Your hand brushes his wrist holding the pillow to himself. You tilt your head. “Can I help?”

Izuru stares at you, uncomprehending. 

“Like… I mean. I wouldn’t mind helping you out there,” you say, your gaze darting to the pillow before back up at him. Seeking permission. 

Izuru weighs his options. 

Is it more pitiful to bother you with his bodily needs? Or to be jerking off in the bathroom alone after declining his lover’s offer to help?

He can’t decide. But eventually he nods. 

After you stare at him expectantly for several seconds, he realizes that he needs to uncover himself. Right.

He drops the pillow uncertainly, and to your credit, you don’t look down. His hands fumble with the sides his boxers, before tugging them down. He doesn’t know why—you two have definitely seen each other naked before, a few times, in fact—but something about this feels like new territory. 

He finally yanks them down completely. His cock springs up, a trail of precome sticking to his underwear. He grimaces, but your eyes seem drawn to the sight. Izuru shuffles towards the bed, nearly tripping over his boxers. He stumbles, face turning red beneath the mask as he kicks them off the rest of the way. Unsure of how to position himself, he settles for half-kneeling on the bed with one leg, standing with the other. 

Your hand on his cock is sudden, and nearly has him toppling over. It’s been so long, and your hand is so soft, your grip so sure. Izuru hisses through the muzzle, bucking his hips into your touch. You stroke him, tugging his foreskin over the weeping head of his cock, and Izuru’s eyes near roll into the back of his head. 

As you pump him, he realizes belatedly that the soft, keening sounds are coming from him, which he soon silences.

“Aw~ I liked hearing you,” you tease. He flushes.

Your mouth lapping at the tip of his cock nearly has him cumming right then and there. As it is, his balls clench, and he doubles over, grasping your hand. 

“Hm?” you ask. He shakes his head rapidly. “Oh, close?”

He nods.

“Want me to stop?”

“Mnn,” he says. Yes. He doesn’t want to finish so soon when it’s your first time together in awhile. He tugs at the strap of your shirt, and you get the hint. After you discard the shirt, he gestures at your panties.

“Wanna be inside?”

He nods tersely, his eyes trained keenly on the sight of your pussy being revealed to him. Your folds glisten as you remove your panties, strings of your arousal sticking to the fabric. Even through the leather muzzle, he can smell you, needy and wet for him. It makes his cock throb.

Izuru wastes little time in mounting you, his hands digging into the bedsheets as he positions himself over you. He thrusts, and your combined juices make him glide right past your entrance. He huffs in annoyance, and your hand comes down to grasp his length. Carefully you guide him into you, the both of you inhaling sharply once he thrusts all the way, until his hips meet yours. 

This time Izuru’s eyes do roll to the back of his head. Fuck. Has he felt anything more divine? He’d write odes to how good you feel around him.

Izuru thrusts slowly, dragging his cock along your entrance before sinking back in. He’s breathing harshly through his mask. Your walls clench tight around him, drawing him in, refusing to let go. 

He’d be a fool if he did. 

His cock rubs against a certain spot inside you, and you clench around him particularly tight. He grunts, pleasure building in his balls. Fuck, he’s close. 

His hands grip your sheets tightly, balling them into fists.

Not mindful of his newfound strength from feeding so recently.

Riiiip.

Fabric tears beneath you. 

The both of you still at the sound. Izuru releases his fists, and torn shreds of your bedsheets flutter onto the bed.

Your jaw drops.

He looks mortified. He slips out of you.

You turn around to survey the damage. While your bedsheet is mostly intact, there are two giant, jagged tears ripped across it. 

“Did you…”

Izuru hangs his head. He is truly a beast now. 

“Hey, i-it’s okay! Um, he said this also might happen... Can you pass me my bag?” Izuru reaches down to grab it, handing it to you. You rummage through it. “It’s a good thing your advisor also gave me these,” you say, before pulling out a pair of--a pair of--

Izuru stares blankly at the item in your hand.

First the muzzle. Now handcuffs.

Steel handcuffs.

Surely, Ichimaru knew these wouldn’t be used for innocent reasons only. The fact that he knows about his sex life--knows enough that he figured Izuru would lose control and would need these things--makes him want to perish. 

His cock flags a bit, truthfully.

You notice Izuru’s despair, and shrug, attempting to brighten the mood. 

“I mean, if it comes in handy...”

Dully, he reaches his hands out to you, allows you to cuff him. He’ll try his best to will the thought of Ichimaru out of the bedroom. Even if the thought of his advisor knowing the intimate details of his sex life threatens to ruin the mood.

Izuru shakes his head to rid himself of the thoughts. Once he’s bound, you have him lie on his back. Ah. It is harder for him to be on top now, he supposes.

“Everything good?”

He nods stiffly, still not quite over his mortification. You seem to realize that you’ll have to get him back into the mood, and you settle between his legs, spreading his thighs apart. 

“Relax, Izu. Keep your focus on me, okay?”

Your mouth descends on him again. He attempts to do as you instruct, but finds it difficult. With how skilled you are--lapping at the tip of his cock, hands pumping him at the base, stroking him to full hardness again--he finds pressure building once again at the base of his cock. He adjusts his hips, accidentally thrusting deeper into your throat. His toes curl into the now-ruined bedsheets as you choke.

He’s frantically offering muffled apologies through the muzzle, but you wave them off, wiping spit from your chin. You straddle his hips, sliding your slick against his cock. He struggles against the handcuffs, wanting desperately to guide himself back into you. 

Izuru leans his head back once he finally feels your wet, hot pussy engulf his stiff cock, the muscles in his neck straining. 

He shudders, jerking his hips up into you. Your hands find purchase on his thighs as you push yourself up, before dropping yourself onto his cock. Grinding your hips against his, you lean down. He lifts his cuffed hands up, and you slip under them, burying your face into his neck. Izuru can’t kiss you, but he nudges his muzzle against your head, dropping his hands to hold you to him. 

He rolls his hips against yours, inching in deeper. Your mewls and soft moans are ambrosia he would gladly get drunk on.

“Oh god, Izu… you feel so good.”

Is he making you feel good? He bets he could make you feel better. He digs his heels into the bed, flexing his hips, his cock aiming for that spot inside you that has you moaning loud, clenching tight around him. “Fuck!” you exclaim.

You hump him, working yourself towards your own orgasm. Izuru’s eyes flutter shut, his brow tensing. He’s breathing hard again. His hands flex against the cuffs, wanting desperately to remove them; his teeth dig into the muzzle, wishing it was off.There are so many things he wants to do to you that he can’t. 

Grasp your hips, make you ride him harder. Cup your face, kiss you deeply, whisper praises of how beautiful you look above him. Wrap you in his arms, and thrust into you, deeply enough that your bodies meld together.

But there’s time for that. Practice. Patience. He yearns for the day he can be with you, like this, without these kinds of barriers. 

For now though, he’ll try to make the most of them. 

You’re gasping and moaning his name, and you press your lips to his forehead, the one part of his face that you can access. The muzzle digs uncomfortably into your neck, but Izuru keeps you to him, his hips moving more fervently now. They’re bucking up into you, aiming with deadly precision at the spot that has you spiraling. 

When you cum, it’s with a stuttering cry of his name. 

“Izuru! Fuck. I love you.”

“Mmph!” Your pussy clenches hard around him, and Izuru loses it. His vision goes white from the intensity of his orgasm. He thrusts into you as deeply as he can. Spilling himself into you in spurts, until you’re overflowing with him, until it’s dribbling out and back onto him in milky trails.

Tiredly, he clutches you to him. He’s more exhausted now than he’s been in the past two weeks. The cuffs dig into his wrists, and he has to adjust them.

You shift until your face is level with his. Izuru flinches as the movement causes his softening cock to slip out from inside you. 

Your fingers card through his sweaty locks, brushing the hair from his face. 

“I do love you,” you tell him earnestly. “Human or not.”

Izuru tries to draw you closer to him. You notice the awkward movements from his cuffed hands, and unlock them. Now freed, he holds you to him closely, his chin resting on your head. 

You don’t need to hear him to tell what he’s thinking. 

I feel the same. 

[camp-lad-david]

[somelazyassartist]

Why can't medicine kick in immediately I gotta go to the doctor and I would like it if I could not feel like I'm gonna die the whole time I'm out

[vulcanette]

my mom had such a bad hemiplegic migraine today that it really scared me :( it sucks that we are so ‘used to’ the migraines that it took such a bad one to really scare me this time.

love to all my fellow migraine sufferers out there :( ♥️