small appreciation post for collapsing while still conscious
ok as much as i love a good faint im also a huge sucker for when a character collapses but is still conscious, maybe just dizzy or weak
stumbling or tripping on something and falling to their knees, too weak to stand up again
weak from fever or low blood sugar and failing to get out of a chair, lying on their back or side while the dizziness subsides (i actually had a fic planned for this at one point)
slumping into a chair because they cant stand anymore
reaching out to a table or wall for support and sliding to the floor (!!!)
sitting on the floor already but they slump to the side out of exhaustion
that thing where they throw their arm across their eyes out of exhaustion or dizziness (honestly one of my favorites)
there are probably a lot more im missing rn so feel free to add on!!
character with a foot/ankle/leg/hip injury trying to take a step, only to discover the injured limb won't support their weight as it gives way beneath them
character who hasn't lost enough blood to lose consciousness, maybe not even enough for it to be really dangerous, but they overwork themselves and they're suddenly hit by a dizzy spell and wind up on the ground waiting for their vision to come back
exhausted, relieved collapse into a friend/teammate/loved one's arms when they realize they're finally safe and can stop running
He was on the couch when she came in through the front door, laid out like a man too weary to keep pretending anymore. He didn't turn his head when she entered. Didn't speak. Didn't acknowledge her presence with anything more than the slightest hitch in his breathing.
But his body told her everything that she needed to know......
His shirt was now hiked halfway up his torso, caught and crumpled just beneath his chest like he'd tried to tug it off before surrendering to exhaustion or discomfort. His navy sweatpants were unzipped and slightly parted at the waistband, the elastic pushed low over the sharp angles of his hip bones to make room for the swell of his aching belly. And it was swolle.....round, flushed a delicate pink, fully distended with discomfort and release that he'd finally stopped fighting against.
In the centre of his distended tummy his navel, usually an inward dip, had become shallow and widened from the internal pressure. His arms were thrown back behind his head against the arm of the couch, chest exposed, the defined lines of his collarbones visible beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, neck and back arched just slightly as though his whole body had gone slack with surrender.
She stopped in the doorway and simply looked at him for a long moment, her bag still slung over her shoulder, keys dangling, forgotten from her fingertips. Something low and hot unfurled in her belly..... desire, and heat that bloomed outward and made her skin prickle with awareness. Reverence. A recognition of the gift being offered in his unguarded state.
Because he'd let himself be like this.
No more holding it in with tense muscles and careful posture...
No more excusing himself to suffer alone in bathrooms or bedrooms. No more trying to be discreet or contained or acceptably masculine.
Just bare. Achey. Needy. Hers.
She moved toward him, slow and quiet, her movements deliberate as she set down her things and lowered herself beside the couch, kneeling on the soft area rug. The moment her presence fully registered in his consciousness, he exhaled a shaky breathand shifted his hips just slightly toward her, an unconscious seeking of comfort. His belly followed the movement, expanding out even further now that there was no waistband pressing in, no effort to contain its fullness. The change in position elicited a soft gurgle from somewhere deep within him.
His voice came low, half-whispered, hoarse like he hadn't spoken in hours.....
"Hurts"
Just one word, but full of vulnerability and trust that made her throat tighten. No pretense. No minimising. No deflection. Just the raw truth of his discomfort offered to her without reservation....
She reached for him gently, laying both hands over the curve of his stomach. It was warm beneath her palms, almost hot, gurgling faintly as his digestive system protested whatever had triggered this episode. The skin was stretched smooth like a drum, the roundness pressing up into her hands - desperately seeking some kind of counter-pressure
He moaned at the contact....a quiet, breathy sound that seemed to start deep in his abdomen and travel upward - and her breath caught audibly in the stillness of the room.
His belly contracted slightly with the effort of the sound, muscles tensing visibly beneath the surface, then swelled again as he relaxed under her touch, the movement subtle but unmistakable. A rhythm of tension and release, of holding and letting go, played out beneath her fingertips.
She watched it all with unwavering attention. The way his navel deepened momentarily when his stomach muscles contracted, then flattened when his belly bloated out again. The way the soft crease beneath it disappeared as his abdomen shifted and expanded. The way he sighed like her hands were the only thing tethering him to the earth in a storm of sensation.
And inside her, something deeper (& more primal), began to pulse and throb....
Arousal. The unmistakable warmth and tightening deep within her core. That sharp, engulfing ache of being let in to witness something so private, so unfiltered. The privilege of being trusted with his undoing....
"You're beautiful," she murmured, her voice almost breaking with the weight of emotion behind the words, her thumbs tracing delicate circles on either side of his navel.
He opened his eyes then, heavy-lidded and glassy with pain and exhaustion, the usual bright hazel dulled to something softer, more vulnerable. His gaze found hers, questioning and uncertain. "I look like a mess," he whispered, a hint of self-consciousness creeping into his voice despite his state.
She shook her head slowly, deliberately, her dark hair falling forward as she leaned closer, tracing the rim of his navel with her fingertip in a touch so light it made his stomach muscles quiver beneath the surface. "You look like trust," she replied softly.
He moaned again - longer this time, more abandone,nas if her permission had unlocked something within him. His head tipped back further into the cushions, exposing the column of his throat. She felt her thighs press together instinctively, pressure building in response to his uninhibited sound. His belly trembled and shifted beneath her hands, visibly moving with the force of the sound, internal gurgles punctuating his moans. Her breath hitched audibly at the sight, her pupils dilating in the dimming light....
The way he bloated and moaned and pressed into her hands like a man who had finally let go of how he was supposed to look or sound or be....only that she was there to witness his surrender.
Only that she stayed when others might have looked away.
And she did.
Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to the dome of his distended belly, a kiss against the taut, warm skin. She could feel his heartbeat through the thin barrier of flesh, rapid and strong. "Let it out," she whispered against him, her breath creating goosebumps in its wake. "I'm here. Let it all out."
Her hands moved slowly, methodically over the curve of his pain and his permission. One palm making wide, soothing circles over the upper quadrant where the worst of the bloating seemed concentrated, the other providing gentle counter-pressure at his lower back where tension often gathered in response.
A particularly loud gurgle rumbled beneath her right hand, and his whole abdomen shifted visibly with the force of it. He gasped, tensed, then consciously relaxed into the sensation as she maintained steady pressure.
"That's it," she murmured, voice thick with something that wasn't quite arousal - wasn't quite tenderness - but some combination of both. "Don't fight it."
His hand found hers where it rested on the crest of his belly, fingers intertwining, squeezing gently in wordless gratitude. The gestur was so simple, so intimate....it made her heart constrict in her chest.
And loving him for every inch of it - every moan, every gurgle, every unfiltered moment of need....she continued her careful ministrations as his body finally began to soften and relax under her tender, loving touch.
***************
Some more of my fictional writing. Unfortunately, I don't have an appropriate image to go with this!
i been meaning to do some tummyache prompts for dayssss tummyache prompts at last. nothing groundbreaking or original here im just havin fun [no emeto but it could be implied with some of em]
Your character's belly isn't feeling good. Whether they're trying to soothe it or power through it, they think they're finally starting to move past it, when a sudden case of hiccups attacks. Each unwelcome jolt knocks them further away from feeling okay, and draws attention to them as well. Does anybody notice how bad they're feeling? Do they want anybody to notice?
Your character has been feeling terribly nauseous all day. They can't stand it, and they're utterly miserable, on the verge of crying out of discomfort and frustration. How are they dealing with it? Do they have anybody to comfort them?
Your character is feeling bloated and queasy, but they're trying to hide it while spending time with some friends. Unfortunately, the friends are feeling much livelier than your character. They want nothing more than to lay down and take it easy, but their friends are dragging them around like Spongebob at the industrial park. How long do they last before they have to speak up--or before their belly speaks up for them?
Your character wakes up in the middle of the night with an awful tummyache. Maybe something they ate isn't sitting right, maybe they're coming down with something, but it quickly becomes clear that they're not getting back to sleep easily. Their partner is fast asleep beside them. Do they wake their partner, deliberately or accidentally?
Your character is always whining about not feeling good, and they're usually exaggerating or crying wolf, maybe for attention or to get out of something. This time, though, their belly really does feel awful. It's terribly sore, and they can barely move without being overcome with nausea. Does anybody believe them about how bad they feel? If not, what does it take for someone to buy it?
Your character is on an outing with friends/partner(s)/etc. At some point, their tummy started hurting, but, not wanting to spoil the fun for everybody else, they keep quiet about it. Does anybody notice? How long can they keep up the act?
Your character has been looking forward to a special meal all week, but when the day finally comes, they're feeling under the weather. Maybe they ate a little too much earlier in the day, or maybe they're just not feeling too good, but they aren't particularly hungry at all. How do they feel about the situation? Do they try to eat it anyway?
Your character is stuck at work with an upset tummy, and their boss won't let them leave. How does their bellyache affect their job--or how does their job affect their bellyache? Are their coworkers looking out for them, or getting annoyed that they're moving so slow?
Your character is stoic and stone-faced, never showing weakness or discomfort. Unfortunately, they've got an awful stomachache right now, and it may be starting to wear through their tough exterior. How do the people around them react when they notice? How does your character feel about them noticing?
God I thought not having any other whump/illness people into An/dor was bad at the time, but no one being into Far/scape is SO MUCH WORSE like I’ve been into this show for ages and every time I rewatch makes me love it EVEN MORE and I think I’m just gonna have to draw a bunch of it until ANYONE else is interested 😂😂
But then I’m faced with the dilemma of it being such a small fandom that I’m afraid I’d be the only one making anything for it and that would scare off people who are into it already bc I’d be getting freaky with it. There’s like. 15 piece of art for this show on here total, none of it from i&i blogs
I take so much comfort in the recovery arcs of whumpees who were victims of sexual violence of any kind. The common tropes are simply immaculate. They're all something I wish I had.
A caretaker who understands that certain actions, words, environments can be triggering. A caretaker who isn't upset at "random" outbursts or emotions. A caretaker who is committed to the whumpee's healing. A caretaker who is patient, who loves, who waits, who listens.
Whumpee doesn't have an obligation other than to heal. Whumpee is allowed to hurt, to grieve, to spend time physically and emotionally recovering. Everyone is concerned about them. Everyone knows that what they went through is unforgivable. Everyone despises whumper as a cruel, inhumane assailant. Everyone wants whumpee to win.
But that's not reality. Reality is cruel. In reality, "whumper" leaves the room or falls asleep next to "whumpee" without a word. "Whumpee" has to drag themselves to the bathroom, wash the blood off their thighs in silence, crying softly to themselves before slipping back between those fluid-stained sheets. "Whumpee" has work tomorrow, and no one can know what happened just hours earlier. "Whumpee" has nightmares every night, and no one is there to comfort them when they wake up sweating with a burning between their legs and the ache of bruises forming on their throat.
"Whumper" is a standup member of the community, their time and money is valuable, they help a lot of people. They are a pillar of virtue, and their handprint is still ringed in purple around "whumpee's" wrists. "Whumpee" can hardly sit down without wincing for days at a time, but they still go home and cook "whumper" dinner and smile to appease them. "Whumpee" can never tell another soul. If they do, "whumper" might do the one thing that's truly irreversible.
Of course "whumpee" wants their caretaker. Who wouldn't.
Vince was woken up by his stomach churning. He dizzily stirred around, in order to lie flat on his back and opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. His belly let out a gurgle, a wave of revulsion running up his spine and causing him to shiver, goosebumps to explode over his arms.
He glanced down, his belly was still sticking out, taut and warm, letting out a series of whines and growls. Vin planted his hand to the side of it, trying to rub it, but even the faintest pressure just caused the queasiness to increase.
Letting out a frustrated grunt, Vince pushed himself up the pillows in order to rest against the headboard, bringing the blankets with him, since he was freezing. Wendy, of course, didn't so much as stir, still heavily asleep, lying on her side and facing him, an arm under her pillow and the other curled on her side, hand resting on her cheek in an adorable way.
Vin pushed a strand of chocolate hair away from her face, running his finger over the slope of her nose, before retrieving his hand and curling up into himself, trying to breathe through the nausea. Although he had thrown up earlier, quite a significant amount, somehow his stomach was still lurching, sloshing and rocketing up to his throat whenever he dared to breathe in. How wasn't he empty yet?!
Besides that, there's another issue, which was the fact his brain might be fried for good. Whatever Max had done, he had flipped a switch that Vince didn't know how to turn off, because he had been sick before, around Wendy even, and they had fooled and played about it, but... But he had never been turned on about being sick, without the added fuel of Wendy's eyes raking over him like a famished wolf.
He had got no excuse for this bullshit, but when his stomach let out another sickening, wet squelch, and his mouth watered with nausea, his dick twitched and Vince felt like he was on fire.
"Wendy," Vince reached out, planting a hand on Wen's back and trying to wake her up softly. She was so warm, buried under blankets, his hand opened flat against her back covering most of it, "Wen, wake up."
What time was it? Was he waking up his girlfriend in the middle of the night for what exactly — cuddles and belly rubs, or a nasty sweaty fuck?
"Vin?" Wendy mumbled, her voice deeper and chesty due to sleep, scooting closer on the bed until her knee met his thigh and she could press against him, "you'kay?" she was still asleep, eyes closed as she threw an arm over him and pressed her forehead to his side, breathing out.
"Wen," Vin said with a little more force, muffling a burp against his fist and leaning his head back, breathing through the clammy feeling. His whole body felt conflicted, a vicious part wanting Wendy to be awake and comforting him — no, much more, so much more — the other, rational part, telling he should be heading to the bathroom, because his stomach was still beyond upset at him, "Wendy."
"I'm awake, I'm awake," Wendy essentially lied, given her eyes were still closed and she was slurring her words, "five more minutes..."
"No, honey," Vince whined, realizing she thought he was waking her up for work, "I still don't feel well..." his cheeks heated up at the childish sentence, which was equal parts truth and dirty talking. It seemed to do the trick, because Wendy's eyes snapped open, black pupils devouring the sea foamy-green in their barely lit bedroom.
"Vin?" She blinked several times, to situate herself, concern replacing the hunger he had seen, "hey-" Wendy moved up on the bed, cupping his face, "what's wrong?"
"Feel sick," he was such a baby, Vince mentally berated himself, scrunching up his nose. This was alien territory for him, to seek out this kinky side of her without Wendy initiating it.
"Well, you do have the flu, honey," Wendy rolled her eyes, moving her hands from his cheek to his forehead, "still feverish."
"Not that," Vin grumbled, grabbing her wrist and pulling her hand away from his face, lowering it to his naked stomach, "still nauseous."
Her cheeks turned pink and Wendy chewed on her lip, keeping her eyes down, "let me see if we got any meds-"
"No," he let out a frustrated sigh, "I don't want meds, I just want you."
Her head snapped up, "Vin..."
"Wendy."
"C'mere," she shuffled closer, any hesitation shedding away as she planted her hands to his stomach and started pressing around in a gentle manner, a kitten kneading at him, "you're bloated as hell, Vin..."
"I know..." He gulped down at the queasy sensation that her hands caused, "...I think I'm empty though..."
"Uhm," Wen was barely looking at him, mesmerized by his stomach as she continued to press. Thumbs rolling little circles near his navel, hands freezing as a sickening gurgle rolled through him, "maybe you just have to-" she pressed with the heel of her hand, right over his belly button and Vince barely had time to turn his head as a big burp rolled up, tasting like spoiled yoghurt and causing him to gag at the end of it.
"Eerk- Careful, honey..."
"I'm careful," Wendy said quietly, licking her lips, "you just have to burp..."
"No," Vin groaned, shaking his head, "too nauseous for that-"
He didn't quite finish the sentence as Wendy lurched up and crashed her mouth against his. Vin froze for a split second, before melting under her touch, opening his mouth to welcome her tongue, wrapping an arm around her back.
Wendy's fingers were in his nape, curling up at the roots of his hair, pulling him to her and kissing until they ran out of oxygen. She pulled back first, forehead pressed to his as she panted, then moved back in, lips meeting his with bruising force.
"Wen..." Vin whined as his stomach rolled over at the movement, the way she was pressed flush against him. He squirmed, turned his head to stop the next kiss, but that didn't derail his girlfriend, as her mouth met his cheek, pecks pressed against his skin and moving to his ear and neck, a hand sliding down to his belly. Vince muffled another burp against her shoulder, squeezing his eyes at the confusing sensation of nausea and arousal all mixed up.
Wendy's phone started to ring, causing his eyes to snap open.
"Honey, your phone-"
"Let it ring," his girlfriend scoffed, moving down in order to plant a bunch of kisses on his chest, "not important."
Vince let out a huff, heart fluttering at the way she sounded almost drunk with desire, and reached out blindly to grab the cell phone on the bedside table, hitting the mute button to shut it up.
"Oh, wow, Wendy," Vince groaned as she started leaving little bites all over his stomach, pinches of pain as Wen's hands moved down to his thighs, nails dragging down his skin, "don't- Don't press..."
"I'm not," she said cheekily, mouth pressed to his stomach and pink tongue darting out, licking the patch of dark, peachy fuzzy hair that circled his navel, "I'm being gentle..." her voice came out muffled, more kisses, "so gentle..."
Vince's hand darted up, muffling another burp at all the jostling. His stomach churned, uneasily, warm liquid sloshing inside of him, "I think- Wen, I think I'm gonna be sick."
"Not yet," her voice was soft, breathless, almost a whine, "just hold on-"
Vin gulped down, leaning back his head to stare at the ceiling, thumping his chest to work up another burp. He was no longer just a little queasy, but full blown nauseous now. Mouth watering and incessant gurgles crawling up his esophagus and fizzling out in the back of his throat... And throbbing hard, blood pumping in his ears as Wendy's chin brushed over his hard on.
"Fuck..."
"Your poor belly," she purred, fingers pushing on his lower stomach and Vince squirmed. Most of the nausea was up top, but the lower part was sore, aching as if he had done a series of abdominals, and an unwilling groan came out at the press.
Vince's breath hitched as he suddenly felt Wendy's feverish, warm mouth, close around his dick. He glanced down, sucked in a greedy breath as he caught her eyes, staring up at him, studying his every move-
"I'll throw up," he warned her, gulping down, but his hand found the back of Wen's head and he pulled her down, letting out a moan as his girlfriend didn't resist, tongue massaging the shaft of his cock- "Oh fuck, Wen-"
She raised an eyebrow at him, eyes dark with lust and mischief written on her face as she pulled back. Immediately he missed his mouth around him, a whine coming out as Wen took a breath and sucked on her fingers, eyes on his...
"How's your stomach?"
Instead of answering her, Vince patted his belly and let out a wet, rattling burp that turned into a retch. He clamped his mouth shut, gulping down the hot liquid that came up, then raised his own eyebrows at Wendy, meeting her challenge.
"Why'd you stop?"
A blush devoured her cheeks, all the way from her chest to her ears, and Wendy stared at him for a split second, as if she was afraid he was gonna vanish in front of her eyes, before diving back down.
Vince let out a happy huff at that, combing his fingers through her hair, down her nape and to her back, rubbing almost in a soothing manner, the same slow nerve wrecking speed she was blowing him with. His cock twitched, heat boiling in his groin, but Vin just bit his lower lip to keep himself from pushing further, fucking her mouth. He'd take it at her pace, body too achy and stomach too unsettled for much more anyway.
His thoughts drifted to his belly once more, which was past just the slow churning, and now letting out a series of audible gurgles and whines. Warm to the touch- "OW!" Vince exclaimed, as Wen reached up blindly, planting a sweaty hand to his stomach and pressing it in. She wasn't looking at him now, eyes squeezed shut and Vin pouted, moving his hand between them so he could grab her chin — pinky brushing against his balls and causing his hips to buckle — and force her to look at him.
"Eyes on me," Vince bossed, then raised his free hand into a fist and muffled a burp, "on me-"
"Fuck," she pulled back just enough to huff that out, breath tickling him and Vince cupped a hand to his mouth as a gag caused his whole stomach to constrict, humidity stinging his eyes- Wendy wrapping those pouty lips of hers around him once more, cheek bulging at just how much she took in, lashes crumpled together with tears of her own as he hit her gag reflex-
Her phone started to ring again, loudly.
"FOR FUCK'S SAKE," He exclaimed, temper getting the best of him. How fucking late it actually was?
"Give me-" Wendy scoffed, wiping the drool off her chin as she pulled back, "who the fuck is calling in the middle of the night-"
"Just fucking-pick-UURurp- Ugh, pick it up already," Vince pulled back on the bed, wrapping his arms around his stomach and trying to fight the annoyance blooming in his chest. Not Wendy's fault. She was a doctor, she got calls in the middle of the night, he knew that. It wasn't the first or last time they got interrupted, but it was the first time it was in the middle of this-
He swung his legs off the edge of the bed, shedding the boxers that had been pooling at his ankles and ignoring the hard on pulsing for attention. More pressing issues, the fact he was about to throw up...
"Someone better be fucking dying, Bella," Wendy's voice was bitter, her hand coming to rest on his back, soothing girlfriend, no longer the sex deviant he had in bed just twenty seconds before. Fingers carding through his curls, "Vince is sick, I don't have time- Are you crying?"
He shuffled on the bed, taking a second to open his eyes given they seemed glued shut, whole body sticky with sweat and his mouth tasting like something had crawled in there and died. Max let out a sigh, blinking several times to situate himself.
He was in lying in bed, on his back, staring at the ceiling. Wendy's ceiling fan had 5 paddles, forming sort of a flower from his point of view. The room was dipped in darkness and quiet and... When Max craned his stiff neck, he realized he was not alone.
The air stopped in his lungs, the small headache that had been simmering spiking up at the startle. Vince was lying right next to him, rolled on his side, one arm under a pillow, the other one stretched out over a blanket lump and limp right next to Max's hip... Had he been holding him?
Max stared at Vin's hand, the fact that his fingers were less than an inch away from his exposed midriff, then glanced up once more. His eyes were getting used to the dark and now he could tell that Wen was in the bed too. The lump between them, curled up against Vin's chest and under his outstretched arm, mostly covered by the blankets, only her face peeking out from the sheets.
She had her back turned to Max, given she was facing Vin. The simple thought that he was in their bed was enough to send a thrill down Max's spine. Not that he hadn't been there before, but last time he had been too sick to remember any of it and by the time he woke up, both Vin and Wen had been up and about.
He stood very still, not wanting to wake either of them up, gawking at the couple. Wendy's dark hair was swept back, tousled waves exposing her heart shaped face, lips parted slightly as she snored in a low volume, which reminded Max of a cat purring. Vin's curls were half falling over his face, concealing part of it, but Max could tell it was all relaxed, not a frown between his brows. He looked younger.
Max's stomach churned, reminding him of the illness that had landed him in this bed in the first place, and he paused, shifting his attention back to himself. Not only he was sweaty and gross and his head was throbbing, but his belly was bloated and grumbling, still upset. It wasn't quite nausea, anymore, but an uncomfortable squeeze in his middle and reflux licking at his throat.
Very slowly, Max pushed himself off the bed, bracing against the bedside table to keep himself from falling over. His feet met a fluffy rug and he nearly tripped over an abandoned trashcan, sporting a clean lining, easing some of the humiliation that caused his cheeks to heat up.
His toothbrush was in his bag. His bag which was in his car. Urgh. He stumbled into the suite's bathroom, then cringed at his reflection, glad that neither Wen nor Vin were awake to see him like this. Sunken in eyes, dark circles under them, his beard all spiky, face the color of spoiled milk.
He washed his face, then swished around some mouthwash in lieu of brushing his teeth, for now, and tiptoed back to the room, shivering violently as the cold morning air clung to his sweat covered body. He needed a shower. And his cigarettes too, in order to organize his thoughts.
Max opened the bedroom door, cursing silently as it creaked slightly, freezing on the spot when Vin stirred at the noise. He hadn't experienced in first hand, but he knew from talking with Wen that Vin was an incredibly light sleeper. Instead of waking up, though, all he did was let out a groan, arm curling around Wendy a little more.
The blonde tiptoed out of the room, letting out a sigh of relief when he successfully managed without waking Vin up, and then moving around in the dark. It was really late, or early depending on perspective, and the sun wasn't up yet, the whole apartment dipped into a grey-purplish color.
Max was familiar enough with the layout to find his way. He needed to get to his car to get his bag, but he couldn't leave the apartment in just his boxers — mortification washed over him as he realized either Wen or Vin had stripped him down. After the kitchen, Wendy had a teeny tiny laundry area. There were clothes in the dryer and he figured Vince wouldn't mind, besides, he just needed to borrow them for a split second.
A minute later he was shivering, now inside of a caramel oversized sweater and wearing sweatpants that he needed to pull the strings on in order for them not to slip down his hips... And Max was trying really hard not to dwell on the fact he was wearing Vin's clothes.
Moving through the building was a whole different thing from moving around the apartment. Not only he didn't know it well enough, but it was a bit spooky. Max hurried through the garage, getting to his car and grabbing his bag, as well as his cigarette pack and then rushing back to the elevator, not wanting to be out for a minute longer than necessary.
His stomach was complaining at him for jogging like that, body all but mocking Max for thinking he could just walk off a flu. He braced against his knees before the apartment door, staring at the doormat — oval, with a stripped border and a bunch of summer fruits drawn on — until his vision stopped fading in and out.
The hunched position ushered up a sickly burp and Max snapped his mouth closed, breathing through his nose and pushing himself up to rest against the door, now standing tall. He was not gonna throw up again, specially not at their fucking doorstep.
It took a minute for the nausea to lessen enough that Max could walk back in, although he still felt weak and sick. The headache was drumming away, an invisible hand squeezing his brain.
"Are those my clothes?"
Max nearly jumped out of his skin, letting out a startled shout, heart racing. Vince was standing near the couch, eyebrows raised at Max's squeal, a smile tugging at his lips, "sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."
"Fuuuck- fuck you..." Max whined, leaning against the shoe rack by the front door and breathing in and out of his mouth. Jumping like that had immediately brought the nausea back and he felt shaky all over, knees ready to collapse. Max let go of his bag, in order to fully brace against the wall and then there were hands on his back, his face, Vin pushing back his hair.
"Are you okay? I didn't mean to frighten you like that..."
"Gotta-gotta sit down," Max clumsily grabbed Vince's arm and the other man promptly dragged him back to the couch, before disappearing into the kitchen to get him a glass of water.
His heartrate was back to normal by the time Vin got back a minute later, but still Max took the glass, obediently drinking under Vince's worried gaze. It felt amazing against his throat and how warm he felt, but his stomach churned harder at the liquid, letting out an audible whine.
"Easy," Vince gently lowered the glass away from Max's mouth, "you can drink more in a minute, Max."
"Uhm," Max nodded, pressing the half full glass to his throbbing forehead and only then getting a good look at Vince. Vin, in just his sweatpants and with his hair falling like a dark mane around his face, curls all voluminous due to sleeping on them. Max openly stared, unable to look away, blushing profusely as Vin crouched down next to him in order for their eyes to meet.
"Where the hell were you going in the middle of the night?" Vince reached in, pushing a strand of Max's hair behind his ear, "scared the shit out of me, I couldn't find you."
"Wanted to-" he burped under his breath, "Wanted to smoke," it was just part true, but now that Max said it, the desire assaulted him once more. He was dying for just one cigarette, outside in the balcony, get his thoughts straight and rid of the low level anxiety.
"Ah figlio di puttana, spero tu stia scherzando," Vince swore and Max frowned at him. He might not know a drop of Italian, but he was pretty sure he had just been cussed at.
"Kick me while I'm down, why don't you?" Max leaned back on the couch, eyes closed, planting a hand on his unsettled stomach and rubbing it slightly, "I want to take a shower, I'm all sticky."
He vaguely heard Vin moving around, "I'll help you to one in the morning, let's go back to bed," his voice was closer than Max expected, coming from behind him. Hands resting on Max's shoulders and squeezing enough to elicit a groan out of him as the stiff muscles complained, "c'mon, baby."
Vaguely, Max could remember Vince calling him baby, but he had thought it was a figment of his fever melted brain. He opened a lazy smile at the thought, but didn't move or comment on it, lest Vince take it back. Vin squeezed his nape, "don't make me drag you, it's freezing in the living room."
"You'd know, dressed like that," Max teased, turning his head in time to see Vin's face turn crimson and him cross his arms to his naked chest in a self conscious way, "no, don't cover up on my account."
Vince glared at him, "get moving, Daniels," he scoffed, gesturing to the bedroom with his head and Max let out a long suffering sigh, using the couch to push himself up.
The nausea returned, made him pause and swallow in thickly, only for Vin to wrap an arm around his back. Max slumped against him, instinctively seeking out his warmth, turning his head and hiding it against Vin's neck, breathing in and through the queasiness.
Vince smelt like lavender and cotton, hair tickling Max's nose as they were pressed so closely, turning off the hallway light as they made their way back to the bedroom and pulled apart. Wendy was still sound asleep, buried under the covers and Max circled the bed, slipping back into his spot, only for Vin to follow.
"Hold on," the other man whispered, opening the drawer next to Max and searching through it. He sat on the edge of the mattress and the blonde curled up his legs, trying not to think of how warm Wendy was, how she had shifted on the bed and now in order for him to lie down, he had to move her arm and it was currently resting against his side, her leg curling around his calf under the blankets. She was so soft.
"Here," Vince pushed the thermometer into his mouth, before Max could protest it.
"I'm'ine" Max grumbled, words muffled by the device in his mouth and Vin shrugged.
"For my peace of mind."
He let out a huff through his nose, sliding down on the bed, just so Wendy could sleepily wrap up around him. It made Max's heart race, as the brunette pressed her cheek against his bicep, and he pointedly avoided Vince's gaze. Would he be jealous? Kick Max back to the couch? Or should Max trust the nagging feeling that they were way more in sync than anyone would expect?
Wen let out a snore, louder than he expected and Max chuckled, catching Vin's eyes, amusement dancing on his face.
"She talks in her sleep too," Vin warned, taking the thermometer back and squinting at it, "you're still pretty warm...Uh, hold on, let me see what we got-" he turned slightly, continuing to go through the pill bottles and Max focused his attention back on Wendy.
Wen, pressed against him, snoring, lips slightly parted and pressed to his arm. He moved his arm, sliding it under her, since it was starting to prickle with pain at the stiff position, and all she did was obediently shuffle in order to accept him holding her.
"We have aspirin-"
"...enol..." Wendy grumbled, sleepily, not opening her eyes or moving an inch, "give him tylenol."
Max grinned at that, while Vince only shook his head in a fond way, letting out a hard breath through his nose, "okay, honey, tylenol it is..." he fished out a packet, popping out a pill and passing it to the blonde.
As soon as he took it, Vin was circling the bed once more to fall into the opposite vacant spot, tugging on the blankets slightly and turning on his side, curling up around Wendy.
Max rolled around, his chin pressing to the top of Wen's head and he forced his eyes to look at Vin in the dark room, meeting the other man's dark gaze. There were butterflies in his already unsettled stomach, his whole body seemed to be on manual mode, where he had to remember how to breathe correctly, to blink, not to move a muscle that would put him in a compromising position when Wendy was pressed so close.
"Shhh," Vin reached in, an arm over Wendy, touching Max's arm with his knuckles, up and down in a soothing manner, "I can hear you thinking, calm down."
"How are you so calm?" Max whispered, "this is anything but normal."
"I know," Vince agreed, "but it's not bad, is it?"
Bad? He would happily be sick for the rest of his days if it meant being bed with them.
When Max didn't immediately answer, Vince let out a sigh, "if you don't like this, we can stop..."
We, as if it was a decision between him and Wendy. What had Max missed during those couple of hours unconscious? He felt out of the loop and dizzy.
"I do like this," Max admitted, quietly, "I'm just confused... Lost. What are you doing?" What are we doing?
"I don't know," Vin answered, sounding very serious, "but it's nice."
It was nice. Hell, it could be nicer, all Max needed was to not be sick and get back on top of game. His heart sped up with the thrill, all fantasies he had never thought would be more than that, flooding his mind. He felt almost giddy, energized-
"Stop. Talking," Wendy scoffed, shifting in his arms and turning around with a groan, so she could press her face to Vince's chest. Max followed, as if they were tied by the hip, pressed against her back and throwing an arm around the woman, his fingertips brushing Vin's arm.
Vince moved his arm back, out of his reach, only for his fingers to intertwine with Max, hands clasped over Wendy. Max smiled at him, receiving a hand squeeze in response and a smile so bright that he could see it even in the dark.
Then exhaustion won the fight and Max went out like a lamp.
SO, this fic is an absolute monster (~9000 words if you can believe it) which will be posted in 3 parts. Ft Ryosuke regretting his life choices and Sasha not quite being sure why he cares...
tw vomit. so much vomit.
written, as always, with @lickstynine
Sasha wasn't the type to be kept waiting. He had been sitting in the living room of his flat, reading a cheap novel and glancing at his obscenely expensive watch, for far longer than he would've allowed anyone else to keep him. His patience had thoroughly run out, and he was just opening his phone to send an angry message when a notification popped up on his screen. Ryosuke. Finally.
Not gonna make it, said the first message, followed by a second bubble that simply read, dying.
Sasha’s brow furrowed in confusion, and he set his book aside. Who do I need to kill? He sent back, tapping his foot impatiently against the floor as he awaited a response.
Me, came Ryosuke's reply, with the added explanation of ate something bad.
Sasha's frown deepened, and he unfolded himself from the couch. How bad? he asked, as he reached for his coat and his car keys.
Three little dots appeared on the screen, then disappeared. He scowled deeply. He was halfway down the stairs by the time his phone pinged again, but there was no message, just a picture. The angle was haphazard, showing Ryosuke sprawled on the bathroom floor. Even accounting for crappy lighting, he looked ghastly, pale and greenish-grey, which just made the reddish tinge of his eyes more striking. Despite his pitiful state, he was grinning, flashing a peace sign at the camera.
Having a great night, he followed up eventually. Go have fun. See you another time.
Sasha grit his teeth, indulging himself in a low growl in his throat. The man was infuriating. What bothered him more was that he cared. He didn't bother to respond, knowing Ryosuke would just say something annoying. Instead, he stalked down to the parking garage, practically slamming open the door of his sleek sports car. He had things to pick up.
***
Ryosuke let his phone fall to the floor with a clatter. Another cramp was building in his belly, and he blew out a heavy breath hoping he wasn't about to throw up again. He'd put on a brave face for his …not-boyfriend?... but he really truly did feel like he was dying. He'd been teaching when it had started - online, thank God - and in the hours since he'd torn himself away from the computer, he hadn't been able to pry himself away from the toilet.
The tile was cold, and it had initially been soothing against his fever-flushed skin, but the longer he laid there, the more chilled he began to feel. His stomach churned, a painful spasm deep in his guts that threatened to wring out contents he barely had left. Blood rushed in his ears, to the point he could hardly hear himself think, but in the distance, he thought he heard a banging on the door.
It didn't matter. Even if he thought he could keep himself from spewing all over the apartment, he wasn't about to drag himself to the door. And he definitely would spew, if he moved now. And it definitely would go everywhere.
He'd made that mistake earlier. Trying to finish off his lesson in a professional manner had left him hanging on just a touch too long to make it to the bathroom. The ensuing episode had been the definition of projectile vomiting, violent and mortifying and very much still sprayed across his rug and coffee table.
The banging on the door repeated, more distinct and aggressive this time. Ryosuke was baffled to see Kuro leap from the counter, going to yowl at the front door. He groaned. “Shut up, cat.”
The cat, as always, paid absolutely no attention to him. He scowled, then was immediately distracted by a very wet hiccup. Hovering anxiously over the bowl, he swallowed thickly, spitting out a mouthful of foul metallic saliva.
A loud slam behind him nearly stopped Ryosuke’s heart, and the fear cramped his stomach too hard for him to dare look up. To his great confusion, Kuro had stopped yowling, and instead let out a happy chirp, purring and rubbing around the legs of the intruder.
“God, you weren't joking,” Sasha drawled from behind him. “This is like that scene from - what's that American film? Valentina loves it.”
Ryosuke let out a shuddering sigh of relief and threw up. Hard. The ringing in his ears swelled and black spots danced across his vision. He retched again, panting for breath before finally rasping, “...the Exorcist.”
“Yes,” Sasha agreed. He inspected the floor, wrinkling his nose at the trail of dried vomit leading through from the main space of the apartment. “The Exorcist. How long have you been sick? What did you eat?”
“Started this afternoon,” Ryosuke sighed, letting his head fall limply against the toilet seat. “Probably the stupid - urp - sushi from last night…”
“Where was it from?” Sasha frowned, coming to lean against the door frame. “You should get a refund. Have you kept anything down since it started?”
Ryosuke groaned. “Ugh… not really. S’not worth the trouble for a refund, though. S’only like, five bucks…”
Sasha narrowed his eyes. “Where did you get sushi for five dollars?”
“The gas station,” Ryosuke replied petulantly. “It's usually fine.”
“For what, poisoning your enemies? Idiot.” Sasha scoffed.
Despite his harsh words, Sasha was careful to close the door behind him - he'd broken the deadbolt when he kicked the door in, but the regular latch still locked at least. He had no intention of leaving Ryosuke in such a state, stepping gingerly over the sick-splattered floor to crouch down beside the toilet.
“You look fucking terrible…”
“Thanks,” Ryosuke muttered. His eyes had fluttered shut, and he didn't bother forcing them open. His head was pounding badly enough without the addition of artificial light and Sasha's grumpy snark.
“You done puking? You should lie down.” Sasha said, reaching down to feel Ryosuke's forehead. “You've got a fever.”
“Oh, yippee,” Ryosuke replied, batting Sasha's hand away. “I'm not done. Thought I was earlier, but…” He waved his hand vaguely.
Sasha nodded gruffly. “Stay here, then. If you're not keeping water down in an hour, I'll give you an IV.”
“No you won't,” Ryosuke said, startling and cracking one eye open. “You stay away from me with that thing. Where did you even learn to put in an IV?”
“Studied abroad,” Sasha answered flatly. He stood up, attempting to go gather the bags he'd brought in, only to nearly trip on Kuro. “Fucking cat…”
“‘s her house,” Ryosuke snapped, at the very edge of his frayed patience. As much as Sasha had provided a welcome distraction, the pain was building again. His stomach was a molten pit, grinding and gurgling and threatening volcanic eruption.
Sasha ignored him, lining up the medicine and Gatorade he'd bought on the counter before turning his attention to the mess of the living room. “Where's your cleaning stuff?”
Ryosuke swallowed clumsily, a wretched expression on his face. “Under the - urrp - the sink. But don't - you don't…”
“I don't want to step in it. Or keep looking at it, for that matter. You be quiet and throw up. I'll take care of the mess,” Sasha said, already rifling through the cabinet beneath the sink. Once he'd found suitable cleaning supplies, he rolled up his sleeves, snapping a pair of plastic gloves onto his hands and getting to work scrubbing the living room.
It wasn't what he'd expected to do with his evening, but the thought of the activities he had planned were so far from his mind right now it was like they'd never been there. Ryosuke was a good enough lay that he'd prefer to keep him around at least a little longer. One night of disruption hadn't changed that. He reached for the anti bac spray, thinking of how Ryosuke had stayed the last time he'd been unwell, the way he'd coaxed food and tea into him, the feeling of his cool fingers against his jaw. He owed the man, and Sasha hated to be in debt. Besides, he'd cleaned up far worse.
He cleaned in silence, not out of necessity but habit. Kuro twisted around his legs as he worked, purring and rubbing up against him. Though he scowled and grumbled, Sasha made no effort to actually shoo the cat away, and even scratched between her ears once he'd taken his gloves off. As he put away the cleaning supplies, Sasha glanced into the bathroom, which had been uncharacteristically quiet. Ryosuke was still there, lying limp against the toilet, thick drool dripping from his lips.
Shaking his head, Sasha turned back to the sink, washing his hands and going to straighten the disheveled living room. He was in the middle of fluffing the pitiful couch cushions when the silence finally broke, a deep guttural heave echoing off the porcelain as chunky sick splattered the bowl. He winced, turning towards the bathroom before stopping short.
He wasn't sure what the protocol was now. If it was his sister in there, he'd sit with her until it was over. If it was a friend…well, he didn't have enough of those to say. And for any of his previous flings, he simply wouldn't have been here in the first place.
His thoughts were interrupted by another gurgling heave, the sound of vomit hitting the water so forceful that Sasha winced. He set down the cushion, grabbing a blanket off the bed before wrapping back around to check on Ryosuke.
The other man barely acknowledged his presence when he padded into the bathroom. His face was screwed up tight, clammy sweat beading on his forehead. He let out a little gasp of discomfort. Without warning, a gentle touch reached around to cup his cheek. Ryosuke startled for half a second before leaning into Sasha's cupped palm.
“What do you need?” Sasha asked. His thumb stroked lightly over Ryosuke's too-hot cheek. “What will make this better?”
“Kill me,” Ryosuke groaned.
“I just cleaned the floor.”
The corner of Ryosuke's mouth twitched up for a moment. “Doesn't have to be messy.”
A flicker of mischief danced in Sasha's eyes. “Guess you're drowning, then,” he said, grabbing the back of Ryosuke's hair as if he might shove him forward into the water.
Ryosuke let out a startled squawk, before groaning and curling around his middle. “Oh… Oh God, at least let me flush first…,” he said with a hiccupping laugh.
“Hm… maybe.” Sasha kept his voice stern, but he was unable to hide a smirk.
Ryosuke continued to chuckle, but the next hiccup made his stomach jerk, and he leaned back into the bowl with a groan.
“Jesus,” Sasha sighed, relaxing his grip on Ryosuke's hair but leaving his touch to linger. “I guess we can strike off tonight as a lesson learned, at least.”
“Uhhh…. Yeah,” Ryosuke nodded lamely, clutching at the edge of the toilet seat as his stomach cramped again. He gagged, once, twice, three times, but nothing came up.
Sasha winced as Ryosuke's shoulders shuddered under his hands.
“Okay, come on. I brought you a blanket, you should lie down at least.”
“Still feel sick,” Ryosuke protested.
“You'll still be right here,” Sasha countered, wrapping the blanket around Ryosuke like a cloak. “Just lie down for a minute. Get some rest while you can.”
Ryosuke obliged, moving gingerly to curl up on the floor. It was obvious that the movement hurt him, made him dizzy. Sasha stroked his sweaty hair back, feeling a strange pang of…not pain, but something like it.
Although he knew it was far from true, Sasha often thought of Ryosuke as fragile. That perceived frailty wormed its way into his worse dreams, images of his father snapping him like a twig, or of some other enemy leaving him for dead in a gutter. It was there in the way Sasha handled him sometimes too, delicate, like a porcelain doll or a champagne flute, as if one wrong move might break him beyond repair. He'd never been so sure of it as he was now, looking down at his pale, creased face. So vulnerable. So trusting.
Sasha wasn't sure he deserved that trust.
Even now, sitting on the bathroom floor, absently petting Ryosuke’s hair, he thought back to the first time Ryosuke had stayed over. It hadn’t been intentional - Sasha never would have let him stay over, but he’d simply been too ill and exhausted to even think of kicking him out.
That was when Ryosuke learned about the nightmares.
Sasha had been so sure it would be over then. Who in their right mind would want to stay with someone who wakes up thrashing and screaming in the dead of night, more nights than not? Who would want to stay with someone who had the sort of baggage that led to nightmares like that? Sasha knew he wouldn’t, if the roles were reversed.
But Ryosuke hadn't left, hadn't run screaming. Not even when Sasha, in his just-woken haze, had wrapped one big hand around his throat and slammed him into the floor. That was the kind of thing that was supposed to make people leave. Sasha was the kind of monster that deserved to be left.
He was sitting, quiet, discontented, scowling at the wall, when Ryosuke stirred. It was just a slight shift at first, whimpering and squirming to get more comfortable. Then the movement began to escalate, whines turning to groans as Ryosuke folded in on himself. Instinctively, Sasha reached down, rubbing circles over the taut muscle in Ryosuke’s back.
“Easy,” he murmured, almost too soft to hear.
“Stomach's fucking killing me,” Ryosuke moaned. Any earlier snark had gone, along with the pretense that he didn't care whether Sasha stayed or went. He didn't have the energy for it, not when his guts were knitting themselves in knots and Sasha's presence, despite his cold demeanor, felt like safety. “Like I'm being eaten from the inside out.”
Sasha grimaced, giving Ryosuke’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “Sounds like hell. Do you want to try some medicine? I’ve got a couple different painkillers.”
“No point,” Ryosuke grumbled. “Won’t stay down.”
“You're sure?”
“Yes, I'm fucking sure.”
There was no heat in Ryosuke's tone, just a weary resignation. Sasha's lips tightened in frustration. “And the IV is still a no?”
“IV is definitely a no,” Ryosuke said sharply.
Sasha felt that odd pang in his stomach again. He wanted to ask why. He wanted to pin Ryosuke down and insert the damn thing anyway. A low growl started to rise in his throat, but he swallowed it. “Okay,” he grumbled, instead running his hand rhythmically up and down the length of Ryosuke’s back. The muscles were so tense, it was as if Sasha could feel the pain himself. It filled him with a renewed helplessness that went straight past concern to make him angry.
“You can just…stay,” Ryosuke said. It was slightly awkward, like he was learning lines to a play he'd never read. “If you want.”
“I’m not going to leave you like this,” Sasha muttered. “I’m not that much of a monster.”
“You're not a monster at all.” Ryosuke squirmed again, gritting his teeth as his upset stomach growled loudly. “Ohh… Plenty of people would. I'm not m -hck- much fun.”
“Those people are scum,” Sasha glowered, his fingers briefly gripping Ryosuke’s shoulder like a child claiming a toy. “You clearly can’t be left alone in this state.”
“I can -”
The look after myself was swallowed by an ungodly groan from his stomach. He held up a finger, signalling that he'd finish his thought later, as he heaved his trembling body back up to slump over the toilet.
The feeling in Sasha's stomach swelled. It had barely been fifteen minutes since he'd managed to coax Ryosuke away to rest. Had he been this sick the whole afternoon? Or was it getting worse? Why had he not said something sooner? He scooted closer, his body strong and reassuring against Ryosuke’s limp form. Reaching around, he tenderly swept the loose strands of hair from Ryosuke’s face, tucking them behind his ear. Sasha’s hand lingered there, gently cupping Ryosuke’s forehead, providing some support for his otherwise boneless neck.
“Fucking hell,” Ryosuke mumbled, blowing out a shaky breath and dragging a hand down his face.
“I know,” Sasha murmured. He tried to remember what his mother might have done when he was sick. If she ever had cared for him in those moments, it was so long ago he could barely conjure up the memories. There was something, brushing at the edges of his consciousness, lying in his parents' big wide bed as a small boy, sobbing with fever, and the sweet scent of her perfume as she stroked his hair. But he wasn't sure that was even real. Maybe just some figment of his imagination that he'd invented in a desperate attempt to feel less fucking lonely.
Ryosuke gagged, muscles rolling in his shoulders as he hunched forward. A sick belch made the water below ripple, but he had yet to bring anything up. The tight pain in his belly drained the color from his face, and he gagged again, painful but unproductive spasms.
“After this you need to drink something,” Sasha muttered. His skin felt tight and itchy, his muscles aching to move. He felt so useless. He wanted to punch something.
Ryosuke groaned. “Jus’ gonna make me puke again.”
“You’re doing that anyway,” Sasha countered. “You at least need to try. You’re definitely getting dehydrated.”
Ryosuke tilted his head to fix Sasha with a baleful glare. “Y’re not a doctor.”
Sasha stared unflinchingly back. “I’m not stupid either. You need to stay hydrated. I brought gatorade if you don’t want water.”
Ryosuke dropped his head back down, belching thickly. “Want…orange juice.”
“Do you have any?” Sasha asked, already standing up to go check the fridge.
Ryosuke sighed. “No.”
Sasha glanced at the door, contemplating whether it would be faster to order a courier or run down to the nearest corner store himself. He was, however, grateful to have something concrete to do. Buying things was something he was much better at than this…whatever this was. He sighed, straightening up to his full height and cracking his neck.
“I’m going to get orange juice,” he said, the solemnity of his tone at odds with the mundanity of his words. “Don’t die while I’m gone.”
He was about halfway to the shops when the itching, tugging sensation in his stomach came back. He blinked, and saw Ryosuke passed out on his back, vomit trickling out of the corner of his mouth. Glancing back the way he came, he gnawed at his lip, reaching into his pocket for his phone.
You still alive?
Ryosuke’s phone buzzed loudly against the tile floor, and he fumbled to check his messages. Unable to compose a proper reply, he simply sent a thumbs-up. Shivering miserably, he dropped it back to the floor, tugging the blanket around his shoulders as he gagged weakly over the bowl. He wished he hadn't sent Sasha away - he missed the heat of his body, the solid surety of his bulk as he'd sat behind him. He felt so weak now, by himself, so dizzy and tired. His head hung limply over the toilet, without even the energy to sit back between rounds of heaving. The water seemed to swirl beneath him, and he lost track of how long it had been since Sasha left.
Down at the corner store, Sasha slammed a jug of orange juice onto the counter like it owed him money. The clerk was slightly off-put, but had no desire to confront a giant man with such a powerfully menacing aura. Instead, Sasha was rung up with a swiftness, free to stomp, or really jog, all the way back to Ryosuke’s apartment.
The elevator was out of order, and Sasha felt glad of his training as he raced up the stairs to the fourth floor. It was good to work out a bit of his agitation, to feel the tight band of pain around his chest from exertion and nothing to do with the ghastly image of Ryosuke that was burned into his retinas. He practically broke the door off its hinges bursting back inside, and the lack of a response from the bathroom gripped his chest in a cold vice of worry.
Ryosuke was draped limply over the toilet, not even seeming to notice Sasha’s return. Kuro had returned to the door, meowing loudly in greeting and looping around Sasha’s legs. Sasha's breath stuttered in his chest, the energy draining out of him. Suddenly, he was in no rush to get any closer. It felt as though his feet had rooted in the ground.
“Ryo?” He said, his voice cracking. The silence that followed was like a stab to the gut. He wanted to run and check. He wanted to run away. He wanted to disappear.
Those people are scum, his own voice taunted in his head. He couldn't run away. He took a step forwards.
Ryosuke's skin was warm to the touch when Sasha crouched next to him, and he heaved a sigh of relief. Without thinking, he wrapped his arms around Ryosuke, holding him tightly. No one could take him away now.
Ryosuke's head lolled bonelessly into the crook of Sasha's neck. After a few moments, he shifted. A small groan tumbled from his lips.
“What time's it?"
Sasha choked out a wet laugh. “You fucking idiot “
Because so many people liked the gif set of this scene I thought I can’t keep the whole thing from you. :-P It’s in French… but I hope it doesn’t matter in this context. ^^
this is part one of the fic i'm writing to introduce my current main ocs, jack and harvey. honestly, i'm really not a fan of my own writing, and i have tons to learn, but i hope some people are interested enough to follow along with my boys! they're very dear to me. if you have any questions about them feel free to throw them in my inbox! andddd dont mind any mistakes. i did plan to proofread more in depth before posting but I'm trying not to chicken out, lol. enjoy!
"I need you to come pick me up," the voice over the phone is rough and strained and the air seems to rapidly thin. A breath punches out of him, quick and afraid. Jack was never supposed to sound like this , low and pained.
He forces his chest to rise and fall with a deep, calming breath. "Where are you? What's going on?" Harvey manages to keep his voice from shaking, thanking his time spent working in the emergency room for his practiced calm, the ability to lock down his anxiety until after the emergency has passed.
A heavy, keening breath sounds over the phone before the other man answers, "I'm- I'm sick. Real sick. It hurts Harvey. I don't know—I don't understand what's happening."
Harvey slips easily into what his friends often call "doctor mode", calm, comforting, immune to panic. This he is used to, this he can handle. Even if he has never heard his friend, though Jack may not call them that, sound this horrible. He knows what to do in these situations, and that is deeply reassuring.
"Okay, I hear you. I need to know where you are, okay, Jack?" His level voice comes on autopilot as he hastily packs his bag and leaves his office, passing the front desk. "Hey, Marrie? I have a family emergency. I won't be back today. Please let everyone know I apologize for leaving like this. I'll call later to let you know when I may be back."
Marrie smiles sweetly, "Oh, darling . Don't you worry, you and all of your PTO! We can hold down the fort without you. Please, take care of yourself, but do keep me updated!"
Gratefulness swells warm in Harvey's chest, forever appreciative of the kindness his coworkers hold. "Thank you Marrie." He yells back, at the same time Jack manages to answer.
"I'm outside my building," a pause, bated breath, "in the- the alley."
Harvey's heart shatters in his chest, imagining Jack huddled in the damp alley, alone. "I'm on my way, okay? I'll be there soon. Tell me your symptoms."
"My head is—it's pounding, and I'm so nauseous and my stomach hurts so bad Harvey. Everything hurts." Harvey could swear he heard a chocked back sob follow the last word, and he speeds up. Jack's pain is so clear, even through the phone, and it feels like Harvey's chest is collapsing on itself.
"I'll be there soon, okay? Just breathe, Jay, and try to keep talking to me. How long have you been sick for?"
"Uhm," Jack is interrupted my a queasy burp rolling out of him, "eugh, uh, I dunno, couple days? Got bad yesterday. Really bad today."
'Why did you go to work sick? Why didn't you call me sooner?' Harvey scolds mentally, but saying anything like that to Jack right now would just make him retreat, revert back to his normal icy self. Instead of scolding, he sticks to comfort. "Okay, thank you for telling me," he soothes," I'm only a minute out. Almost there."
Harvey is only graced with a small hum in response, and he's quickly turning into the alley. As soon as he sees Jack, prone, sitting heavily against the wall, he throws the car in park and rushes out. his hand reaches Jack's head before he is even fully knelt down, his skin hot and wet with fever sweat.
"God, you're burning up," he mumbles more to himself than anything. "Can you look at me, Jack?"
Jack's eyes focus on Harvey's, clouded with fever but present.
"Hi there," Harvey's voice is soft, comforting. Not quite what he would use with his patients, but close, "How're you doing?"
"I don' feel good. Hurts."
Jack's whimper yanks at Harvey's heartstrings, so far removed from Jack's normally cold, put together demeanor.
"I need you to be honest with me, okay? Do you think you need to go to the hospital or do you think I can take you to my place?" He wants to take Jack to the ER, get him taken care of quickly, efficiently, monitored by people he trusts. But he respects Jack, and if he doesn't think he needs the hospital, he won't take him unless it becomes abundantly clear he needs it.
"Don' need the hospital. Just- just sick. 'll be okay."
"Alright, okay. Lets get you to my car, okay? Can you walk?" Harvey is sure he can't, not alone, but he wants to give Jack all the agency he can.
"I can walk. Just- jus' help."
With an arm wrapped around his waist Jack manages to stand, not quite steady, but not collapsing. The few steps back to the car take longer than they should, but they make it.
"Do you want me to lay the seat back?" Harvey tucks a stray strand of hair behind Jack's ear as he asks. Jack hums in agreement, the idea of nodding his head or opening his mouth too much to bear. Harvey pulls the lever on the side of the seat and slowly lays the back of the car seat down, careful not to jostle the other man as he does. Once Jack is as settled as he can be, Harvey hurries to the driver's seat and starts the car, turning the heat up to try to ward off Jack's shivering. The engine rumbles to life and Harvey begins the drive home in silence, save for the rolling gurgles and heavy breathes from Jack. Any bump or too-sharp stops elicit heartbreaking pained whines from the sick man, and its all Harvey can do not to pull over right then and pull Jack into his lap.
"How're you doing over there?"
"Tryin' not to vomit all over your upholstery," comes the grumbled reply, sounding more like the snark he's used to hearing from Jack.
"If you need to throw up, I've got bags. I know the leathers ugly but I'd prefer not to have to get it cleaned," Harvey jokes back, wanting to keep the mood light.
"Not yet. But I dunno if," a sick burp bubbles up and out of his throat, "'scuse me. I dunno if I'll make it to your place. Really don't- don't feel good," the last part is quieter, tinged with something resembling shame or fear.
"It's alright if you get sick before we get there, I've got bags for a reason. You're not feeling well, you can't control it," Harvey tries not to go fully soft on him, knowing Jack's tendency to respond to kindness akin to a feral dog, but the need to comfort him is so strong its nearly overwhelming. There's no verbal response, but the quiet hum of acknowledgement is enough for now.
They reach Harvey's house without needing the sick bags, and despite how difficult and slow-going the walk into the house is, they manage. Jack is bundled in a cozy knit blanket, a trashcan-turned-puke-bucket by his head. A shrill beep rings out, a stark hundred and two flashing on the thermometer. Fever flushed and frustrated, Jack buries further into the blanket and away from the noise.
"Christ, Jack. Why were you working like this? How were you working like this?"
"Didn't feel that bad when I went in. Got worse after."
Harvey sighs, more worry than annoyance, "Well, your fever is pretty high. Can you tell me all of your symptoms?"
Luckily, despite the fever, Jack's reply is mostly coherent, "Started with a headache, couple days ago. Wasn't bad, jus' uncomfortable. Then started feeling queasy uh… yesterday? Day before? Not sure. Then dizzy 'nd nauseous 'nd my head was pounding 'nd I felt so sick. Almost threw up all of the desk during the board meeting."
"Okay, and why, pray tell, were you in the alley? I could've gotten you from— you know—your office?"
"Didn't want anyone to see me."
Dragging a hand down his face, exasperated, Harvey stands. "You need medicine and water. When was the last time you ate?"
Jack moans at the mention of food, mumbling hoarsely, "Don't even make me think about it, I'll puke all over you."
"There's a bucket right there. If you're going to puke do it in that. I'll be right back."
A portion of homemade chicken broth pulled from the freezer heats slowly on the stove top as Harvey patters around his kitchen for a glass of water and a bottle of fever reducers. Its exceptionally easy to slip into this role, the care so natural it feels automatic. There is a small tray laid out where he places the pills and water before slipping back to the stove. The frozen chunk of broth is melted down now, taking only a few more minutes to fully warm up. When it does, Harvey pours it into a thermos and treks back to the living room.
Jack hasn't moved from his fetal position on the couch, cracking open bleary eyes as Harvey sets the tray down on the coffee table. Steam curls up from the warm broth and his belly churns audibly at the smell.
"'M not eating that. Stomach hurts."
"You don't have to eat it yet, but you are taking meds and drinking some water. We've gotta get that fever down." Harvey replies while screwing the lid onto the thermos. "Here, take these and sip on the water. Go slow."
Jack doesn't fight it, his shaky hand grabs the pills and they're quickly swallowed with a small sip of water, but his stomach rumbles unhappily as soon as they pass his esophagus.
"Mph," he swallows thickly, "Dunno if that's staying down."
"Okay, breathe. Try to breathe through it. If you can't I'll give you some of my Zofran."
"Mmph, naughty naughty," Jack giggles, "giving prescription pills to someone they're not prescribed to? Such a—" A sick, wet burp cuts him off harshly. The gag that pushes out of him is guttural but unproductive. "Fuck…"
"Oh my god, its Zofran, not like I'm dosing you with morphine." Harvey wipes away the strings of drool dangling from the sick man's mouth. "How're you feeling?"
"Great, Harvey. Clearly I'm feeling fucking- fucking fantastic," Jack snaps, voice heavy with pain.
"Hey, I know you're not feeling well, but don't be a dick. Are you feeling worse than earlier?"
Jack drags a hand down his face, exhausted. "'Bout the same. Really nauseous. Can I take you up on that Zofran now?"
Harvey pats his shoulder and stands. "Yeah. Try to relax, I'll be right back."
Jack sinks back into the couch as the other man walks away, shivering as he curls up under the blankets again. He's cold and he aches and he just wants to sleep, but the nausea and pain churning in his belly is pressing and distracting. It's too easy to focus on, and to hard to focus on anything else. He feels sick, truly and thoroughly ill, and he just cannot get comfortable.
"Do you want to take this with water or soup?"
Jack's form jolts on the couch, his head whipping to the source of the voice. Harvey cocks a brow and holds out the pills.
"Water. Already said 'm not eating that right now. Maybe after the meds kick in."
The water is still chilly and slick with condensation, nearly slipping from his unsteady grasp. Jack would have ended up soaked in the cold water had Harvey not grabbed the class from him.
"Careful there," its soft, murmured, "Let me help."
Its hard to be embarrassed when his friend is talking to him so kindly, one warm hand on the back of his head, the other helping him sip the water. Despite that, a pinprick of cold shame works its way into his throat, choking him up. Sure, he should thank Harvey—should thank him a thousand times over—for everything he does, but its impossible through the embarrassment clogging his throat. All he can do is hope a nod conveys even a modicum of his gratefulness.
"Give that a bit to work, shouldn't take more than thirty minutes to start feeling it, then we'll try the soup. Sound reasonable?"
Jack nods again, exhausted. The ache nestled deep in his bones and the pounding in his head are ever present. His surroundings are swimming dangerously. All in all, he does not feel well in the slightest. And God, his stomach hurts. Whining gurgles echo out as the water and medication settle heavy in his stomach, the churning kicking back into full drive.
"Uhm, thirty minutes?" His hand clutches his swirling belly. "I dunno if I can—urp—if I can keep it down that long."
Its clear to Harvey now that Jack is feeling significantly worse than he's been letting on. The paleness of his face, the audible churning of his belly, just from water and medication? Anxiety settles firmly in his gut.
"Try, alright? We've really gotta get you hydrated." His hand settles on Jack's jaw almost instinctively, its easy and automatic. His— Jack looks so ill and its tugging at his heartstrings in a way he is completely unfamiliar with. It… hurts something deep and carnal within him to watch Jack hurt like this. "You're really not looking well, love."
"I- I really don't feel good, Harvey. I really, really don't feel good."
10 Non-Lethal Injuries to Add Pain to Your Writing
New Part: 10 Lethal Injury Ideas
If you need a simple way to make your characters feel pain, here are some ideas:
1. Sprained Ankle
A common injury that can severely limit mobility. This is useful because your characters will have to experience a mild struggle and adapt their plans to their new lack of mobiliy. Perfect to add tension to a chase scene.
2. Rib Contusion
A painful bruise on the ribs can make breathing difficult, helping you sneak in those ragged wheezes during a fight scene. Could also be used for something sport-related! It's impactful enough to leave a lingering pain but not enough to hinder their overall movement.
3. Concussions
This common brain injury can lead to confusion, dizziness, and mood swings, affecting a character’s judgment heavily. It can also cause mild amnesia.
I enjoy using concussions when you need another character to subtly take over the fight/scene, it's an easy way to switch POVs. You could also use it if you need a 'cute' recovery moment with A and B.
4. Fractured Finger
A broken finger can complicate tasks that require fine motor skills. This would be perfect for characters like artists, writers, etc. Or, a fighter who brushes it off as nothing till they try to throw a punch and are hit with pain.
5. Road Rash
Road rash is an abrasion caused by friction. Aka scraping skin. The raw, painful sting resulting from a fall can be a quick but effective way to add pain to your writing. Tip: it's great if you need a mild injury for a child.
6. Shoulder Dislocation
This injury can be excruciating and often leads to an inability to use one arm, forcing characters to confront their limitations while adding urgency to their situation. Good for torture scenes.
7. Deep Laceration
A deep laceration is a cut that requires stitches. As someone who got stitches as a kid, they really aren't that bad! A 2-3 inch wound (in length) provides just enough pain and blood to add that dramatic flair to your writing while not severely deterring your character.
This is also a great wound to look back on since it often scars. Note: the deeper and wider the cut the worse your character's condition. Don't give them a 5 inch deep gash and call that mild.
8. Burns
Whether from fire, chemicals, or hot surfaces, burns can cause intense suffering and lingering trauma. Like the previous injury, the lasting physical and emotional trauma of a burn is a great wound for characters to look back on.
If you want to explore writing burns, read here.
9. Pulled Muscle
This can create ongoing pain and restrict movement, offering a window to force your character to lean on another. Note: I personally use muscle related injuries when I want to focus more on the pain and sprains to focus on a lack of mobility.
10. Tendonitis
Inflammation of a tendon can cause chronic pain and limit a character's ability to perform tasks they usually take for granted. When exploring tendonitis make sure you research well as this can easily turn into a more severe injury.
This is a quick, brief list of ideas to provide writers inspiration. Since it is a shorter blog, I have not covered the injuries in detail. This is inspiration, not a thorough guide. Happy writing! :)
Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks?
Check out the rest of Quillology with Haya; a blog dedicated to writing and publishing tips for authors!
with plenty of whump events going on and coming up, I’m encouraging friends to join Whump it Forward! It’s a community rooted in reciprocity, for posting your works and commenting on others’ works.
I’m gearing up for ailesswhumptober, so I think I might post some brainstorms for prompts, maybe early drafts?
Can we get a little snippet where Wendy has a kinky dream about Max? Similar to Vince, but more up her alley.
I'm sorry to hear you're having a rough week. Hang in there.
-🧸
thank you, 🧸!
Soooo, this is P*RN. 🙈 No one look at me.
----------------
"C'mere," Max groaned, as he curled up into bed, a hand darting out to wrap around her wrist and bringing Wendy closer to him. She sat in the small space he left, opening a bright smile as she easy freed her wrist and ran her hand through his hair.
Max's face scrunched up, queasily, and he muffled a burp against her palm as she attempted to pull back her hand, "ugh... My stomach's killing me."
"What did you eat?" She squirmed slightly on the bed, in order to pull up his t-shirt and place her fingers against the blonde's stomach. It was warm to the touch, pudgy, the faint abs that used to be there all but gone. She pressed her fingers in, causing Max to squirm and scowl at her.
"You'll make me puke..." he groaned, gulping down, "just mac n' cheese-"
Whatever he was going to say, Wendy never heard as the bedroom door opened and Vince dropped his backpack near it, already stripping off his leather biker jacket.
"Oh, hi," her boyfriend's face lit up, "you guys started without me?"
Uh?
Wendy turned around, slightly confused, only to watch as Vin kicked off his boots and crossed the space between them. He planted one of those huge hands of his on the back of her neck, tilting her back so he could steal a kiss and only pulled back when she started to run out of oxygen- Then he leaned over the bed and kissed Max.
For a flat minute, no thoughts ran through Wendy's mind. All she could do was stare, mouth open and eyes wide. It wasn't just a mild kiss, Vince's fingers were curling at the root of Max's hair, lips rubbing over his and smiling into his mouth, tongue running over his bottom lip, teeth grazing it-
"Ugh, no, stop," Max shoved Vince's chest back, so he could curl up slightly, "I'm sick."
Wendy wasn't sure if her heart could go any faster than it already was, but apparently it could, as Vin pulled back and slowly moved his hand down Max's chest, until it rested against his stomach, fingers fiddling with his jeans' buttons.
"Sick?"
"So queasy-"
Her head was spinning.
Wendy gulped down, face prickling with how aroused she was, and she tried to hide it, because Max didn't know, did he? He didn't. He couldn't have-
"Wendy will give you a belly rub," Vince chuckled, patting Max's shoulder, "scoot, baby."
Baby?
Max obeyed, moving so he was on the middle of the bed instead of the corner and letting out a happy sigh as Vince fell by his side, sliding an arm under Max's pillow and planting his lips to his temple, tracing it down his jaw, to his ear...
"Wen?" Max squirmed, gesturing for her to come closer, "belly rub?"
She blinked, owlishly, at him, before wordlessly moving closer and putting her hand on his exposed stomach. Her pinky brushed over Vin's knuckles, hand still right under Max's navel and fiddling with his jeans-
Vince undid Max's fly and Wendy's mouth dried, her sight nearly vanishing as all blood rushed down. Max's belly was so damn upset, gurgling angrily under her hand and he let out a groan as she gently pressed it around, her fingers ghosting around- His groan turned into a moan as Vin's hand slid inside his boxes-
"Morning," Vince's voice cut through Wendy's dream, wiping the whole scenario. She let out a groan, squeezing her eyes shut, wanting to grasp at the dream vanishing quickly.
Wendy whined, truly making grabby hands as she could feel it all disappear around her, replaced by reality. She was in bed and Vince was pressed up against her back, lips pressed to her shoulder, a hand resting on her hip, "good dream?" his voice rumbling in his chest, deep from sleep.
Good dream? It didn't even begin to cover it.
Wendy squirmed, refusing to open her eyes, and rubbed her ass against Vin's morning wood, letting out a moan at the friction. She reached out blindly, squeezing his wrist and sliding his hand further in, from her hip to in between her legs-
Kissing Max, her hands pressed to his upset stomach and Vince all over them, him — real Vince — tilting her slightly back so he could kiss her — Max groaning, muffling a sick belch in his hand and tilting his hip up as Vince stroked him, Wendy's hand pressing further in — Vince chuckling against her ear, biting her earlobe and his erection pressing to her ass — Max, Max, Max, gasping out both their names-
"Oh fuck," Wendy cried out, as her toes curled and her whole body seized with an orgasm, coming all over Vin's hand. She shuddered, violently, squeezing her legs shut and wanting to melt into the mattress, leaning her head back against Vin's chest and hitting it there as the waves of pleasure clashed on her, "fuck, fuck, fuck- Vin..."
He chuckled, lips brushing over hers, "good morning, honey."
Wendy finally opened her eyes, surprised by how bright their room was, Vin's happy, flushed face over hers, a boyish smile on his face. She melted under his touch, squirming and stretching, "good morning, Vin."
"Happy dream?" He bumped his nose against hers and Wendy's face burned, the hazy memories slipping out of her reach, leaving behind just her, sweaty, heart racing, bangs sticking to her forehead and body vibrating.
living weapon whumpee—once a myth, that used to scale battlefields, and used to strike fear into their enemies.
Is now sealed away, left to rot in a forgotten cave.
Leader hears about a legendary weapon—-perhaps from Whumper or some other source—-and sets off with team to retrieve it, expecting to uncover an ancient weapon.
Once they find the cave, leader is mortified when they discover a malnourish child wrapped in chains, bearing the scars of the past.
