If you're still accepting prompts... Corvinus + Shivering?
⋆⁺₊⋆ twenty-minute word prompts ( now accepting )
forgive me, babe, i was inspired... it's been so long since i wrote a genuine sickfic!! laying corvinus low was just irresistible. content warnings for : nausea, vomiting (kinda?), burping, and fever.
The bed has never seemed wider; his spartan, airy bedchamber has never seemed so vast. Lonely. The word floats through Corvinus’s mind unbidden, and he forces it away with another fierce shudder. As they wrack his broad frame, the knight is forced to curl in on himself — guarding against fever chills like an ailing child.
He will not be pathetic, though. He will not plead for comfort. Corvinus refuses to beg.
“I don’t understand it.” Genuine worry laces The Lady’s voice. She breezes across the room in a flutter of lilac silk, her moon-spun hair pinned up in an elegant chignon. If Adeline is fretful, he really must be dying. The knight forces out a brittle chuckle.
“Not flu, then?”
“None that I’ve ever seen.” She pauses at his bedside, frowning down at him once more. Corvinus doesn’t like gazing up at her, as though worshipping at the altar of a fickle deity. He’s incapable of anything else right now — even sitting up leaves the room swaying, and the last time he tried to stand, he crumpled like a cardboard solder, legs turning to jelly beneath him. This illness has sapped all the strength in his body and lit a fire in his veins. His head pounds; his body aches; there’s an awful, liquid-thick heaviness in his chest, and no amount of heaving can satisfy his furious stomach.
“You’ve taken ill so suddenly,” Adeline says. “None of my remedies are working. I cannot say what ails you, or where it came from...”
“Children in the village are sick,” Corvinus responds, even as his belly gives a heavy flip. Sometimes, Adeline needs a bit of patience — letting the Lady get fretful is never a good idea. The weather turns strange. They almost had a hurricane, the time she couldn't find her favorite earrings. “Your exposure to human illnesses is very limited, remember. You’ve never been through a flu season. Little ones are… walking germ magnets.” He shudders again, and squeezes his eyes shut against a wave of wooziness. “I just… picked something up. At the festival.”
“I never should have permitted the festival,” Adeline mutters.
The Spring Fest was an opportunity for all the local folk — the dozens who live in the village, plus all of Willowlake’s residents — to come together to celebrate the changing seasons. Winter is mild in this pocket of the universe… but spring always brings lighter spirits and brighter surroundings. Flower beds are beginning to revive from their long sleep, brightening with new life; grass is turning verdant again, and there’s an optimistic lightness to the air. Spring, in all its glory. Everyone loved the festival. They had bright decorations and games; the Willowlake groomsmen allowed little children to ride ponies, while Luke struck up a merry tune in his violin. The feast table was bountiful, and wine flowed freely. By the end of the fest — as usual, in their world — people were indulged to excess. They all stumbled home with heavy bellies, spinning heads, and the fresh taste of spring on their lips.
Three days later, Corvinus aches too must to rise from bed. He has spent half the morning bent over a chamber pot, his stomach sloshing without mercy. He’s barely brought anything up… but cramps ripple through his frame, and wet belches periodically burst from his lips. He can’t tame the nausea — any more than he can control the fever raging through him.
Well, he’s not on his deathbed — Noor yet. And he’s definitely not helpless.
“I can do that,” he murmurs, taking the mug as Adeline tries to raise it. His hands feel weak; a fresh chill courses through him, and he must fight to keep his grip steady. When he tries to take a sip, his stomach clenches. Corvinus exhales shakily through his nose.
He ends up… drifting. Staring into the sloshing depths of the cup, transfixed by how the liquid quavers. He can’t stomach tea, but… somehow, it’s a comfort just holding it. Knowing someone has made this for him. Taken the time, taken the care… mixes a dose of honey and a drought of lemon until the liquid turns to gold.
Of all the places Lady Adeline could be, she’s looking after him. And he really must be sick, because he doesn’t even mind.
“I know illnesses,” the Lady protests, taking a seat beside him on the bed. (It doesn’t creak under her weight — she doesn’t even leave an imprint on the blankets.) “Typhoid. Tuberculosis. Streph throat. Creeping black-rot. The ailment which makes all your toes fall off as you heave up your own—“
“Okay,” he says shortly — because that’s the last image he needs in his bed right now. Raising a shaky fist to his mouth, Corvinus lingers there for a moment… before belching, a low, wet rumble. “Ugh.”
“Poor Cor,” Adeline murmurs, her voice satin-sweet. She curves towards him, drawing up her knees on the bed. For a moment, she just lingers beside him — and he is vividly, painfully aware of her presence — before her hand settles on his stomach.
“No, don’t—“ Corvinus cuts himself off with a forceful burp; it turns into a gag halfway. He’s left scrambling for a chamber pot… but Adeline is quicker, sliding it into his lap before he’s even sure he’s going to be sick.
When it hits, he’s left trembling. His stomach spasms, releasing an incensed growl; Corvinus echoes it with a groan, shoulders heaving in convulsive spasms. Yet nothing comes up. The more he gags, the more he chokes on it… his stomach seems to be completely empty. A few mouthfuls of thick saliva come up, along with something that looks like tobacco juice… but it does nothing to quell the storm raging inside him.
“Drink your tea,” Adeline insists during a lull. “You need something to bring up.”
Corvinus responds with a groan, and a muttered curse.
“Well, it’s better than this.”
“Debatable,” he retorts — and follows it up with a squelching burp.
He has no idea how it happens… how it comes about, in the haze of fever and nausea, that he’s no longer clinging to the chamber pot for dear life. Instead, he’s slumped against a warm, soft body. His head is pillowed on her chest. He draws short, panting breaths through his open mouth; anything stronger will anger his stomach, and he can’t bear another fit of heaving. This is bad enough — the constant dull churn, like a rippling ocean within him, swelling his belly taut yet consenting to release nothing.
“Shhh,” Adeline soothes, pressing his head against her shoulder… and it feels so good, Corvinus can only give in. Her hands are so cool. This fever is burning him up from the inside-out; he will be left a charred husk in its wake. He doesn’t want that — doesn’t want to burn on the pyre. Dying in battle is noble, but burning afterwards… leave men where they fell, let them rot, don’t take them away and dispose of their bodies like winter-wood…
“Shush,” Adeline urges again, her light fingers grazing her lips. Corvinus cuts off with a gasp. He’s been rambling. Gods, he didn’t even realize.
“Because you’re delirious,” Adeline soothes, rocking him like a child. “The fever has gone to your head.”
No, he cannot be insensible. That’s too dangerous. “I don’t— don’t want—“ His breath shudders. He chokes on a sob. “Make it end.”
A shadow crosses the Lady’s face… and he’s never seen such sincere care there, or so much grief.
“I cannot,” she murmurs, grazing her fingers through his thick black hair. “I am not a God, remember? You tell me all the time.”
A soft huff of laughter escapes the fallen knight. “Because ‘s true.”
She takes so much responsibility for this world, holds so many strings, and is constantly pulling them to her whims… but Adeline cannot change people, not really. She can conjure buildings with her mind, turn a rose garden into a vegetable patch with a wave of her hand… the world is hers to control, but they are not. She cannot change their minds, their bodies, or their natures. To give in to the Lady, they cannot be coerced; they must agree. Must want it. Giving themselves up is always a choice.
And he’s never been able to resist.
Corvinus groans, burying his face against her chest. “My stomach,” he rasps… and his swollen belly gives an answering rumble, like thunder on the horizon. The nausea, at least, she can do something about. Let the Lady try.
With a sigh, she lowers her hand to his middle once more… and Corvinus could practically cry as she begins to rub in slow, soothing circles. He’s never felt so tight, so heavy with pure sickness. His stomach is a cauldron, and the contents of his belly are broiling. Nothing can soothe it… except the lady’s hands, so blissfully cool. Except her soft murmurs, reverberating through him like a faint current of energy. Nothing can truly ease the nausea, but Adeline’s touch… quells. The broil turns into a simmer. The incessant groaning goes silent. A sick hiccup escapes him, but nothing more — no gags, no bile.
“Gods,” Corvinus moans. Another shiver runs through him; this time, it’s not borne from fever.
“I told you,” she teases. “Call me Adeline.”
The knight forces his eyes open… and despite the fever wracking him, despite the nausea being soothed by a steady hand, he can still manage a withering stare.
The Lady giggles. As her hand presses a little harder, Corvinus’s stomach answers with a gurgle — and he grunts involuntarily, teeth baring. For an instant, it hurts, but then… relief.
“We’ll try another potion later,” the Lady promises. Corvinus presses his heated face against her collarbone; his breaths are hot and shallow, his whimper downright needy. The sorceress’s pleasure radiates from her… but for once, he doesn’t care. “For now… I think we have this illness well in-hand.”
content warnings: intoxication, burping, nausea, vomiting... poison, maybe?
inspired by those asks about knights / tourney intoxication!! i had a lot of fun with this one...
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Sir Tristan Ryger certainly didn’t mean to get foxed before the tourney. His name is at the top of the lists; in the past three days of competition, he hasn’t lost a joust, hasn’t even splintered his shield. It’s the final day, the final match… and the betting pool leans strongly in Sir Tristan’s favor.
Lords, he should have been more cautious. Wary of the bottle of expensive wine left in his tent — a “gift from an admirer”. Usually, Tristan can hold his drink. Half a tankard of ale, and he won’t even wobble — a knight must have a strong constitution. So he thought nothing of pouring out a glass as he lazed about within his tent. The morning was a tedious parade of matches, less experienced (and frankly, less impressive) combatants running through the lists. Some were unhorsed; some were wounded; yet none of them proved interesting, or even particularly gifted. Sir Tristan sprawled in his chair, watching the matches with a dull-eyed gaze. How uninspiring, he mused. Where were the heroes? The true champions of the field, the ones everyone awaits with baited breath?
A tiny smile curved his lips. Soon enough. He took a sip of wine, savoring the sweetness, and tilted his head back to drink in the midsummer sun. It warmed his face, brought out his freckles, wove threads of gold through his tousled hair. After a few sips of wine, he was already feeling warm. Yes, Sir Tristan decided. This shall be my day.
What a bloody idiot he was.
“The wine,” he slurs, wobbling where he stands. Evrend, his squire, is busy affixing his breastplate. It’s quite a task, when his sire is struggling to stand upright. “I b’lieve… something’s wrong. In the bottle. Something— hIIC!!— quite nefarious.”
“Well, if you can pronounce that, sire, you’re not so bad-off,” the squire draws.
Sir Tristan shoots him a glare. His eyes are half-lidded, a livid flush upon his cheeks. His hair is more disheveled than normal, loose curls spilling across his brow. He sucks in heavy, unsteady breaths — panting like a dog in heat, the squire observes idly. When a soft burp rolls up, Tristan makes no attempt to stifle it.
“I am unwell,” the knight declares, pronouncing each word deliberately. “I have been poisoned, Evrend. Some— hiccuUrp, ugh— some villain—“
“Well, you shouldn’t have drank the wine,” Evrend drawls.
“It was only half a bottle!”
The squire arches a brow at the bottle of wine — lying sideways, not a drop left.
“Ah,” the knight amends, gripping a tentpost to steady himself. “Perhaps… more than… it was very good wine.” (It seems vain to point out that Evrend kept pouring.)
The squire discreetly rolls his eyes. His master has never been blessed with self-control. A handsome face, a fine figure, true skill on the jousting field… but good sense, a man has to be born with. Sir Tristan was not blessed in his cradle by that kind fairy.
“Well, sire,” Evrend declares, turning around with his master’s helm, “if you are too ill to ride…”
Sir Tristan stares at him with raw amazement. “Lords, man! What are you saying?”
“You are unwell,” Evrend echoes, voice artfully barbed. “Remember?”
Of course, Tristan knows that… but the very thought of dropping out makes him cringe. How could he? No true knight would abandon the match moments before it begins. With all the bets riding on him, all the weight of his reputation… groggily, the knight shakes his head. “No, no. Certainly not. ‘M just…“
His stomach gives a sudden, loud gurgle. The knight tenses, breathing hard. He’s certainly not fine.
Across the tent, Evrend arches a brow. Scowling, Tristan gestures him forward, a growl rumbling in his throat.
“I will ride,” he declares doggedly. “And I shall not— huURrp— disgrace myself!”
A hiccup punctuates his sentence. As his helm is lowered, his visor raised, Sir Tristan looks nobly woozy.
“It is your race to win, sire,” Evrend declares — in the same tone one might say, it’s your funeral.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Summer sunlight spills over the field, painting the lists in vivid color. Bright pennons snap in the wind; competitors raise their lances high, striking proud figures in their personalized armor. The Lord of Cups wears a carved grapevine on his breastplate; Lancel Lionheart’s helm is styled to reflect his nickname, like a predator cat. The tourney field thrums with noise — merchants bellow, armor clatters, horses snort and stamp their heels. As Sir Tristan drinks it all in, he feels a woozy wave of calm. This is where he’s meant to be.
The herald’s trumpet cuts through the din.
“Sir Tristan Ryger!”
A rowdy chorus of cheers rises from the crowd. Ladies wave their handkerchiefs; men spring to their feet, eager for the first glimpse of the famous knight.
Sir Tristan rides out to this wave of acclaim. Usually, he would acknowledge the crowd, waving and flaunting like an armor-clad peacock. Right now, though… he can barely stay on his horse. The world is spinning, and his head feels as though it’s doing cartwheels. He grips the reins of his horse like a lifeline. Rommell, his proud white destrier, carries him past the stands. Tristan raises a hand to the crowd, struggling to smile. He hiccups between his teeth.
Old Rommell trots towards the west gate, knowing from experience where he’s supposed to go. The knight sighs in relief, gripping the reins tighter. He’s managing not to sway in the saddle, though his vision swims and his stomach sloshes. Something gurgles deep within him; a queasy grunt echoes within his helmet. No, Sir Tristan is not well… but he cannot let the world see.
After all, he is favored to win the entire day... and the knight cuts a striking figure. His armor is immaculate, embossed with elegant vine patterns along the shoulders and breastplate. Over it, he wears a surcoat striped with black and green — the colors of House Ryger. His shield bears their signature device: a green river eel twisting through an oily black sea.
By now, the audience knows those colors. They’d recognize him anywhere… and they’ve been waiting for him.
Across the field stands his opponent, a man Tristan has never even heard of before... though he has apparently acquitted himself well in the last day of competition. He's quite heavyset for a knight, wearing a heavy breastplate and blue-enameled armor; the plume atop his helm helm sways lazily in the breeze. As Sir Tristan approaches, his opponent offers a salute with his lance. Tristan returns it shakily.
Again, the herald’s voice rings. “Sir Tristan Ryger rides against Sir Adelard Coine! Three passes!”
A hush settles over the crowd, weighted and heavy. The air turns dense, like the heat before a summer storm. Sir Tristan inhales; his stomach flips, an awful gurgle rippling from his middle. His hand trembles as he lowers his visor.
Within the helm, the world suddenly becomes very small. Nothing exists beyond the stench of leather and oil, the echo of his breaths, the rhythmic shift of the horse beneath him. Tristan adjusts his grip on the lance. Its weight settles in the crook of his arm, heavy and familiar, like an old song remembered. Yes, he knows this melody — he could play it in his sleep. A dozen bouts, and he hasn't lost one yet. Sir Tristan, hero of Lansford Meadow and The Downs, victor of tourneys from Devonsfield to Highhope... Sir Tristan does not lose, and he does not falter.
The knight inhales a deep breath. His stomach gives a slosh, sour and agitated. Unwillingly, a hiccup escapes him; he tastes a splash of wine. Lords, if only he could lie down, for just a moment—
No time. No chance. Just like that, the marshal’s banner drops.
And then they’re off, in a thunder of hooves heavy enough to rattle the earth. Their lances stand leveled, shields raised… and the two knights barrel towards one another down the narrow tilt.
The impact hits them both hard. Sir Tristan jolts back as Sir Adelard’s lance shatters against his shield, splinters exploding around them. Sir Tristan’s own lance strikes home, reverberating off the other knight’s breastplate. It clangs brutally, no doubt rattling Sir Adelard's teeth… but his opponent stays mounted.
Damn, thinks Tristan, another bout. He’d hoped to end this quickly. In the stands, he can see the crowd on their feet, their roars like distant thunder… but his own harsh breathing drowns them out. As he gallops to the end of the tilt, a wet hiccup jolts him. He slumps forward, bracing himself against his roiling stomach. All this motion… he can scarce stand it. Sir Tristan’s head lolls forward; he squeezes his eyes shut as the world spins around him. A mistake. All a foolish mistake. No, worse than that — treachery. He should not be feeling like this...
“I…” He has half a moment before the second pass to call out to the marshal. I am unwell, he wants to slur. My stomach… please, my stomach. It feels so heavy, bloating against the confines of his armor. He may well have drank an entire keg of wine, not a single bottle. His grip is weak around his shield, and for a moment, he sways. Tristan has to stay on the horse; that’s his only task right now, his sole duty. Stay on the horse. Even as the world spins, even as he feels like he’s swimming through the air… and the air, somehow, has turned to molten lead. No, he must stay in the game. He has never forfeited a match — through injuries, through fever, through the smothering fog of a hangover, he still rode. Today is no different.
Something heavy sloshes in his stomach. Tristan swallows a belch and forces his bleary eyes to focus. Suddenly, his squire is beside him, pressing a fresh lance into his hands… and something in Evrend’s face makes his stomach turn over. It’s as if the man can see exactly what he’s feeling — and finds it funny. If Evrend can tell, can the crowds? Can his opponent? Do they all see how painfully off-balance Tristan is?
“Good luck, sire,” his squire drawls… and Tristan is left to brace himself.
One more bout. This will end it, he silently promises himself, fingers flexing around the shaft. Again, the signal comes… and again, they charge.
This time, the strike lands even harder. Sir Adelard’s lance smashes against Tristan’s shield… and he thinks he’s prepared, but the shock reverberates through him anyways. It shoots up his arm, rattling his shoulder, his spine… his belly. Oh, Lords, his belly. Tristan slumps forward as his horse continues to trot on… but he doesn’t fall.
Sir Adelard, too, keeps to his horse. They make their way towards the ends of the tilt again, reeling around for a third pass.
Mercy, let this end. By now, Sir Tristan’s pride has taken a backseat to his creeping nausea. He no longer cares about the bets, about the boon to his reputation, about the cheering crowd… he only cares about the wine, that damned wine, sloshing heavy in his stomach. He’s so bloated, it hurts to move within his armor. He feels heavy enough to break his horse’s back. The air is thick, coating his throat like honey with each breath… and he is scared to speak, scared to even sit upright, in fear of disgracing himself.
His greatest fear is no longer falling from his horse. It’s his stomach contents surging up while he’s trapped within this accursed helm.
The knights square up, staring each other down. Tristan cannot even see his opponent now; everything is spinning. A wet belch echoes inside his helm, and he can’t help moaning.
Their lances are changed once more. Evrend smirks up at him. At the end of the tilt, Sir Adelard tilts his lance in a salute; this time, Tristan is too dizzy to return the gesture. He knows, he thinks — suddenly, irrationally. Everyone knows.
The wine in his stomach bubbles. On instinct, he tries to cover his mouth… but he’s still holding the lance, the shield. Oh, I cannot—
The marshal drops his banner, and the horses charge.
This time, Tristan is off-balance. He barely has time to steady himself as his opponent closes in on him rapidly. The world narrows to the point of their lances, the glint of sunlight off steel, the taste of sour wine in his mouth—
The impact.
Tristan barely has time to register it. Adelard’s strike catches him high on the shield, glancing upward to strike his shoulder. At the same instant, Tristan’s lance smashes squarely into Adelard’s chest… but the angle is all wrong.
The blow wrenches him sideways. For a moment, the world spins off its axis — upside down, flipping and roiling. Tristan doesn’t feel himself hit the ground… but the next thing he knows, he’s laying flat, gazing up at a clear white sky. Clouds, he thinks senselessly. Where have all the clouds gone?
Something bubbles in his throat.
Sir Tristan, fallen hero of the Dowerton Tourney, is hardly able to flip onto his side before his stomach rebels. Frantically, he fumbles with his helm — he cannot be sick in these close confines, Lords spare him, he will not—
“Aid for Sir Tristan!” someone calls.
“Where is his squire?” bellows another.
Suddenly, there’s a hand on his back. Someone steady, anchoring him to the reeling earth. Sir Tristan gives an incoherent mumble… but the unseen hand is already there, pulling off his helm.
Set free! The young knight gasps — and immediately regrets it when nausea hits him like a punch to the gut. There’s no time to turn away. His stomach gives a deep gurgle, clenching, then rolling up his gullet. He doubles forward, panting shallowly; drool drips from his lips in glistening rivulets. A thick gorge has risen in his throat, and every second makes the nausea worse.
A hand settles on his back, and Tristan cannot restrain himself anymore.
His stomach contents surge up in a sour wave. Crimson bubbles past his lips, splashing in the grass; he clutches his middle, but can do nothing but let it flow. Wave after wave, mouthfuls of foul wine… the remnants of breakfast, half-digested bread and cheese. Then, his own stomach acid. Tristan’s nostrils burn; tears stream down his cheeks, unwanted, unbidden. Alas, he is no longer in control of his own body. His stomach convulses again, giving a fierce gurgle, and the knight retches.
“Aye, there’s the rub… let it up, Sire…”
He’s already let up all he has within him. There’s simply nothing more to give. Trembling, Tristan pushes himself upright. The world swims around him, a confusing blue of colors and sound. He can’t be sure he’s actually holding his head up, but he thinks so. Lords, he’s so dizzy… a thick belch rolls past his lips, and Tristan doesn’t bother to stifle it.
“That’s the medicine,” exclaims the man above him. Despite the booming quality of his voice, it’s still somehow gentle — sympathetic to his plight. He’s the only one comforting Tristan, so that’s worth something. “Well done, Sire!”
Tristan presses the back of his hand to his mouth. After a shaky minute, he burps again — a thick bubble of trapped, sick air. It rolls up his throat, and he’s left panting shallowly. His breastplate prevents him from clutching his stomach; Tristan claws at it woozily. He feels like a shelled beetle in all this heavy armor.
“Shush, we’ll get it off you. Once you’re able to stand. Slowly there, Sire… ease yourself back. That’s right.”
When Tristan blinks, he finds himself staring up at an unfamiliar face. The armor, though, he recognizes — that sigil of a swooping hawk, the bright blue-and-silver breastplate. He is not wearing his helm now, but Tristan can imagine a brilliant blue feather.
“Sir… Adelard?” he asks woozily. It’s a strange thing. He heard Sir Adelard was middle-aged, a rather world-weary fellow… but this knight is hardly older than himself. He has scruffy brown hair, dark stubble, and eyes the bright blue of the Gavrallan Sea.
A ruddy flush colors the knight’s cheeks, but he nods. “Aye. That’s me.”
He’s not sure the noble Sir Adelard would say “aye,” either — but before Tristan can pursue an interrogation, his stomach interrupts him. He lurches forward with a wet gag. The motion throws his balance into a reel; he slumps sideways, dizziness crashing over him like a wave.
Sir Adelard is right there to catch him. His strong, calloused hands ease him back, preventing him from hitting the ground. The next thing Tristan knows, his head is resting on something hefty and solid.
Thighs, he thinks hazily, recognizing the clink of chain mail. I am on Sir Adelard’s thighs, being cradled like a swooning maiden. Lords preserve me.
He makes an effort to get up — but is at once eased back down by Sir Adelard’s firm hands. “At ease, Sir Tristan. You are unwell.”
“I am… poisoned,” Tristan croaks.
Even as the crowd surrounding them gasps and cries out, watching the scene enraptured — there is nothing so interesting as a knight who has fallen on the field, and Tristan has a knack for drama — Sir Adelard hesitates. Something cool presses to Tristan’s brow; his eyes flutter shut, a tiny moan escaping him.
“You haven’t got fever,” the knight reports. “No rash, either. A good sign, Sire.” After a moment of exaggerated thought, he declares, “I suspect we may blame the wine for this ailment.”
The wine. That thrice-damned, double-cursed, fucking wine. He’s going to— murder whoever gave it to him, as soon as— as soon as he—
Tristan lurches sideways, heaving over Sir Adelard’s legs. Nothing comes up but a few foul burps, and a tiny splash of wine.
“Scared us all something awful,” his opponent-turned-savior informs him. “Thought you were vomiting blood after the bout. We’ve summoned the chirurgeon, but the old fellow’s damned slow. Aye, take your time heaving— there's no hurry.”
Why is Adelard sitting by him? Of the hundreds of people at this cursed tourney, why has he fallen into the arms of his opponent?
No, Tristan realizes, there are other people around. Someone has led his horse off the field; others are running around like headless chickens, blind and deaf to all sense. It’s a scene Tristan would snicker at… if he weren’t the fallen hero at the center of it.
“Not hurt,” he says, as forcefully as he’s able. He blinks up at Adelard blearily. “The wine… that’s all.”
“Aye,” agrees Adelard.
“I can take a fall,” Tristan insists. “It is of no object to me. I’m— hhhaaOUURP— fuck me—" He has to pause, holding a hand over his mouth, his eyes huge. A moment passes, and so does the queasiness. No fresh bout of vomiting comes. Lowering his hand with all the dignity he can muster, Tristan grits out, "I’m fine.”
“No doubt, Sire,” his opponent agrees, stroking his back with one large hand.
To perdition with dignity. Tristan ends up slumped against the other man’s chest, just focusing on each breath. His head spins, and the world around him is bleary. It’s impossible to glean the shape of another man through his armor, but he can feel Sir Adelard’s heft; he’s all muscles and meat, a beefy chest and firm gut bulging against his chainmail. This is a fellow who enjoys a good meal — likely a cup of mead, as well. Lords, what a man, Tristan thinks, and can’t help sighing.
He submits to the chirurgeon’s examination, slurring out answers to each question. Ultimately, he is diagnosed with nothing but bruises, a light bump to the head… and the detrimental effects of the bottle.
“Really,” he hears someone huff as the audience begins to file away. “I never would have thought! Sir Tristan, a noble drunkard!”
“What a disappointment,” his companion agrees.
Tristan groans, burying his face in his opponent's chest.
“There, there.” With more tenderness than awkwardness, the other knight strokes his back. “You... shall recover from this. Eventually.”
Tristan hiccups, and for the forty-fifth time, damns that bottle of wine to hell.
How on earth did it get into his tent? What on earth was in it? How did he end up drinking the entire bottle? He can’t even recall… he was bored, that was all, and Evrend kept pouring…
Come to think of it. “Where is my squire?”
Sir Adelard looks momentarily baffled. He tries to hide it, but… there is Tristan’s answer. “He, ah. Has not made an appearance, Sire."
Tristan’s heart sinks. His stomach gives a loud, squelching moan.
“That’s alright,” Adelard murmurs, and begins — of all things — to gently undo Tristan’s breastplate. Oh, to be free of this cursed armor. He has never loved a pair of hands more… even as they run over his trembling shoulders.
Sir Tristan Ryger has never felt quite like this… but his sole consolation is, he is not alone. His reputation is in tatters; he has lost the tourney and made a fool of himself. Perhaps, though…
Perhaps he has won something from this ordeal after all.
sick character shivering in bed as they're overcome with a fever. delirious enough to start mumbling panicked words in a foreign language they dont usually speak. the only teammate who can understand them hears it, and replies softly in the same language. repeating gentle reassurance as they stroke their hair.
whumpee propped up against caretaker’s chest when the fever takes away all of their strength, lucid enough to enjoy some company
whumpee propped up against the pillows, eager to be active but unable to move around all that much; perhaps tomorrow they’ll be able to sit properly, at least
whumpee leaning on caretaker’s shoulder when they try to get up and walk for the first time since the injury
whumpee held up in a saddle, caretaker sitting behind them with their arm wrapped protectively around whumpee’s chest
whumpee sitting at the backseat of a car, their head pressed to the cool glass; they’re still shivering but caretaker’s coat’s warm and cozy, it feels like home, and they can’t help but relax
whumpee leaning on the table, eyes closed and breaths shaky, when a sudden fainting spell washes over them
whumpee sitting on the ground with their back against the wall, too weak to get up while the adrenaline wears off
While a pair of travelers are making their way through a large, living garden, Alfred gets scratched by a thorn. It’s fine, really… until it isn’t. Suddenly, he’s starving, unable to eat enough — and he’s putting on weight in a way he never has before. At this rate, he’s going to burst out of his trousers… but is it truly hunger, or is something more insidious going on?
content warnings: stuffing, weight gain (via otherworldly gluttony disease) ; 5.3k words
They’ve been in this world for ten minutes — not even enough time to look around! — and already, Alfred’s managed to hurt himself.
“Bloody— ow!”
The reality jumper lets out a howl as a large bramble is extracted from his arm. Dinah glances up at him, pulling a sour face. She’s doing her best here, working with care; the thorns have pierced the skin of his forearm, but they’re not deep. She just has to pull it out…
“Gods, who died and made you nurse? Give me names. I’m going to sue.”
Dinah yanks the final thorn out with more roughness than necessary; she relishes his sharp yelp. Alfred is always a pain in the ass, but ever since they survived that encounter with the bridge troll — the one who called him ugly, which, from a troll, is downright brutal — he’s been unbearable. Cranky as an old barn cat… or like Dinah’s brothers on Monday morning. She tried her best to tease him out of his bad mood. When that didn’t work, she played nice, soothing his hurt ego. When that was a bust, she told him he was being an idiot, and will you get over it already? For some reason, he didn’t take that well.
So, they’re already not speaking. Now she has to play nurse while her companion is being as whiny as possible. Fantastic.
“I’m bleeding,” Alfred hisses, gazing down at his arm in disgust. Now that the bramble is out, it doesn’t even hurt; that’s odd, but he’s more concerned about the puncture wounds. The thorns pierced his flesh in at least three places; now, the skin blossoms crimson. Pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat, Alfred dabs at the cuts…
And frowns. His blood doesn’t look normal. It has an odd, oily sheen. Cautiously, he presses down harder on the cuts, determined to stop the bleeding. The handkerchief is stained, too — with bright red blood, but also a darker substance. Sticky, like sap, with a cloyingly sweet odor.
“Is there something—“ He starts — and Dinah looks up sharply, like a startled rabbit. She’s already tossed the bramble away. Of course, why would she keep it? It belongs to nature, and back to nature it goes.
“Nevermind,” he sighs, and goes back to tending his wound.
Must be part of the plant, Alfred muses. He wipes the substance off his arm with care, trying to avoid the wounds… but whatever it is, it’s contaminated his arm already. Alfred can only guess what that will lead to. He’s flirted with infection plenty of times during his world-hopping adventures — that time he got stabbed by a gorgon, that time he cut his leg and it started turning bright blue, the time he accidentally landed in the middle of a universe-wide plague…
Yet somehow, he’s still alive. If Alfred has a shred of talent (besides the ability to create portals into other worlds) it’s his resilience. It takes a lot to kill him. He bounces back quickly.
Should his wounds get infected, and should it become a problem… the reality-jumper purses his lips, considering. He’ll just… create a portal to a super-advanced, futuristic society where they’ll have the medical skills to treat him. Sure! That works.
(Of course, he’d prefer to tough out a nasty infection than go to the doctor. Medical help is only a last resort. Alfred’s idea of a problem is “spewing blood, organs falling out, may be actually, enthusiastically dying”.)
So, he tucks his handkerchief away, and just… doesn’t give it another thought. His arm doesn’t hurt. The bleeding’s stopped. A faint sense of stickiness lingers from the sap, but that will wash away eventually. Alfred glances back at Dinah, and rolls his eyes at the sight of her, stroking a tree as though it’s an old friend. She’s a strange one. Too trusting, too caring, too… sincere. Dinah is always authentically herself.
(He doesn’t know what to do with how much he cares about her.)
“Oi,” he barks, and lobs a pinecone at her. It bounces off her shoulder, and Dinah rounds on him like a pissed-off squirrel.
“The hell?”
“Don’t pet the trees, love. Have a little dignity,” Alfred retorts… and grins, dodging as Dinah begins lobbing projectiles back. Sticks, stones, a large beetle that’s just scuttling by… he can’t say the girl isn’t resourceful.
By the time they settle down for the night, they’ve gotten the lay of this land. It’s a dense, overgrown forest; luminescent pink wisteria tangles along the ground, and the leathery, thick-trunked trees seem to breathe in the night air. It unnerves Alfred to his core. He’s been wary of flowers since their nasty encounter with the poppy grove — which looked so idyllic at first glance, coaxing its victims into a sleepy stupor they’d never wake from. Turns out, the blossoms were growing over rotting corpses; that soft facade was just an illusion, obscuring the monster underneath. If it weren’t for Dinah, he’d have been fertilizer.
Now, she giggles as he eyes the vibrant forest distrustfully. “Nothing’s going to pop out and bite you.”
“Don’t know that.”
“I do,” she retorts, leaning back against the plush ground. The dirt is softer than a feather bed; this, too, is unnerving, but Alfred’s slept in so many unpleasant places, he’s not going to complain. For once. The next time he conjures a portal, they’re going to a damned spa resort, and staying there a while.
(Alfred wishes it were that easy. He rarely knows which world he’s stepping into. He tends to just… have an idea. A desert planet, or a universe where the moon is cheese. He doesn’t always get it right — but if trying for someplace in particular, he’s bound to get it wrong. World-jumping is a guessing game, not a science.)
Maybe it’s the soft ground and humid atmosphere. Maybe it’s the faint ache in his limbs, seeming to radiate from his injured arm. Whatever the case, he settles into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Fatigue lingers over him throughout the next day. They walk a little; Alfred grouses a lot. By the time they’ve traversed another mile, he’s come to the conclusion that this world is all forest. He sure knows how to pick ‘em.
“That’s enough,” he finally mutters, and slumps down on a fallen log. Digging through his pack, he emerges with three futuristic meal bars — and devours them. One after the other, down to the last crumb. A single bar is enough to support someone all day, rich and calorie-dense, designed to fill your stomach… but Alfred’s appetite is suddenly louder than his common sense. Galloping gods, he’s hungry.
When he sets the last wrapper aside, Dinah is staring at him like he’s grown a second head.
“Are… you good?”
Alfred hums in agreement — then unleashes a cavernous belch. Hastily, he presses a fist to his mouth; he needs some dignity. “Just fine, love,” he manages, though he’s breathing heavily. “Hungry. All this walking works up an appetite.”
Except Dinah isn’t scrambling for her meal bars like a ravenous cavewoman. Somehow, this is an insult to Alfred’s pride. Narrowing his eyes, he visibly challenges her… and, after a moment, his friend huffs.
“Sure, I guess.” Reaching into her own bag, she pulls out a water flask and takes a long sip. She doesn’t reach for any food, though, and Alfred is… more aware of it than he’d like to be.
He slumps back against the log, nursing his overfed stomach. Within moments, he has to unbutton his trousers… and then every last button on his waistcoat, because when he breathes, he feels like they’ll pop. Soft burps rumble out of him unbidden; he has to pretend Dinah can’t hear them, or his ego will shrivel up and die.
Too much, he thinks groggily. Much too much. Won’t be doing this again.
That night, he eats another two meal bars.
The next day, it’s more meal bars, plus the fat, vivid pink figs growing on the leather trees. As they walk, Alfred snacks… and he must consume a dozen gooey fruits before finally feeling satiated. He chugs three flasks of water, finds some stale raisin cake in his bag, and gobbles that up too.
“Seriously,” Dinah blurts out, “do you have a tapeworm?”
“Nope,” Alfred responds, voice thick around his too-full stomach. “A leech. Clinging to my back, following me around and — ruUUurp — making obnoxious noises. It wears pigtails, like a toddler. Seen it anywhere?”
Dinah raises a hand to her hair, as if cringing from a scissor-wielding villain. “They’re braids,” she snaps, “and it’s a protective hairstyle, asshole! If you can portal us to an alien forest, I’m sure you could find a black hair salon—“
“Have anywhere in mind?”
“Lots of places, but your aim sucks!”
“My aim?” Sputtering with fury, he whips an ornate golden pocket watch from his waistcoat and tosses it to her. “Well, if it’s so easy—“
Dinah fumbles. She doesn’t catch it. The watch goes rolling off into the underbrush, and Alfred yelps. His first reflex is to leap to his feet — but a cramp ripples through his overfull stomach, sending him sprawling back with a groan. He can barely move, let alone go chasing after the watch.
His watch. That treasured dying gift from his father. The key to his powers — without the watch, he can’t conjure portals. Alfred’s treasured the old device for over a century, keeping it tucked close to his chest. He only ever parts from it when someone pisses him off.
Someone like— “Dinah!”
She's already on it, scrambling after the trinket deep into the foliage. It takes a moment but… the girl emerges, fuschia leaves tangled in her curls, brandishing the watch in triumph.
“Oh, thank gods.” Alfred buries his head in his hands. His heart is pounding in his throat, a nauseating rhythm.
“Don’t throw it at me next time.”
There’s a long silence. Too long. Alfred doesn’t look up, even when he feels the girl shuffle up beside him. Even when the watch is slipped into his pocket. Dinah knows exactly where he stores it, dipping her hand into the collar of his vest to reach the interior pocket. As she withdraws, she brushes the bare skin of his collarbone… and pauses.
“Alfred, you’re hot.”
She picks a strange time for flattery. “I’m ravishing.”
“No, you’re…” And suddenly, there’s another pair of hands on his face. Dinah’s tiny ones, smoothing the hair back from his brow, feeling him with the back of her hand like a fretful nanny. She lingers there for a moment, her touch so gentle… it leaves Alfred dizzy. He doesn’t realize his head is lolling until she makes a tiny, soothing noise.
Christ, she’s treating him like one of her hurt animals — a wounded thing, in need of care. “I’m alright,” he murmurs. “Just ate too much.”
“You have a fever,” she counters.
That… doesn’t make sense. By Jupiter, why would he be ill? Alfred never gets sick. His first instinct is to argue…
But Dinah’s voice has gone soft, and he doesn’t have the heart. Alfred’s had enough arguing today — he just wants to rest.
They end up sprawled in a dry patch of forest, curled up on moss as cushy as any mattress. The stars are brilliant tonight — an entire sky full of them, twinkling in shades of bright lavender. Alfred’s visited countless worlds, but he’s never seen pink trees and purple stars before. There are still surprises out there, even for him.
“What’s that thing Shakespeare said?” he murmurs. His head is pillowed against Dinah’s soft chest. She’s got her arms wrapped around him while Alfred idly strokes his stomach. His trousers hang open; his belly is so full, it’s grown taut, a swollen dome on his lean frame. Every so often, he hiccups. Dinah just shushes him.
“He said a lot of things. Lots of plays.”
“No. The famous one.” He has to think hard, fumbling around in the dark for the quote. It only comes to him in fragments. “More things in heaven and earth… than your philosophy can dream of.”
Though she doesn’t reply, he can feel Dinah’s gaze resting heavily upon him. She’s worried, and doesn’t bother hiding it. After a moment, she sighs; her hand trails down his hip until settling upon his tummy. She begins to rub in slow, steady circles.
Alfred can’t help a groan. “Ohh… that’s the stuff, love. Right there.”
“Shush,” she retorts, but there’s fondness in her low tone. Alfred’s like a beached whale, weighed down by his own stomach. He ate four more protein bars tonight; they’re rapidly running out of food rations. Dinah doesn’t want to say anything, but… his stomach feels strange beneath her palm. There’s a density to its swell, a new layer of softness that wasn’t there before.
That’s not possible, though. It’s only been a few days. There’s no way he’s gained weight in days.
When she presses into the tender spot just below his belly-button, a deep gurgle ripples through him. Alfred gasps, pressing up into her palm. Undeterred, Dinah continues to rub.
“You want to know… the really strange thing?” He swallows hard, then chuckles, blinking shadowed eyes up at her. “I’m still hungry.”
Dinah swallows too, and ignores her sinking stomach.
Sure enough… come morning, Alfred is unsteady on his feet. He slept the whole night through, but still looks exhausted; his eyes are hooded and dull, skin overheating. As he tries to button up his trousers, they simply refuse. He can’t get them closed over the rotund swell of his tummy.
“Blasted— things!” Alfred hops up and down, trying to bully the pants into submission. All he manages to do is dislodge a thick belch. “Damn it!”
Dinah watches from the other side of the campground. Her brown eyes are calm, unsurprised… though tension betrays itself in the subtle clenching of her fists.
“Alfie,” she says — and, when that fails to get his attention, “Alfred! Hey!”
The boy’s head jerks up. His brown hair is wilder than usual, eyes too bright. Are his pupils blown, or is that her imagination? Does he look paler than he should, or is it a trick of the light?
“What?” he snaps, then glowers down at his own middle. “Cripes, these won’t close. They’ve shrunk somehow. Must’ve gotten damp on the ground... I’m starving, damn it.” Even as he speaks, his stomach gives a noisy grumble. Alfred tries fruitlessly to suck it in. “Dinah, will you mix a package of that instant oatmeal? We could mix some of these figs in, really make ourselves a treat…”
How can he be talking about food when he’s literally outgrown his clothes? To see Alfred, always so neat and meticulous with his wardrobe — aside from that tatty old coat, which she begs him daily to burn — fighting to fit in his closely-tailored garments… it’s jarring. Why isn’t he losing his shit over this?
“Alfred, this isn’t normal,” Dinah insists, gripping his elbow. It takes too long to draw his gaze back to her, to snare his attention. Her expression is soft, intent. “You shouldn’t be eating this much! And your body’s getting softer, that doesn’t just happen—“
“Softer?” He looks scandalized. “The hell do you mean?”
“Your pants don’t fit, moron!”
“They got smaller!”
“That’s your excuse?”
Even through the fabric of his shirt, he’s radiating heat. Alfred tries to jerk away from her, and nearly topples like a block tower. He has to brace himself against the nearest tree, one arm wrapped around his belly.
“‘M fine,” he mutters, breathing hard. “Just… it’s not… I don’t know. Just need to fill my stomach.” He swallows hard, a pained expression on his face. “Can’t think straight when I’m this hungry.”
“How can you be—“
Dinah cuts herself, swallowing her words with painful effort. Arguing with Alfred is always the easy option… but she knows from experience, it’s not helpful. Like trying to convince a dog to go to the vet when it’s sick — all the common sense in the world isn’t going to make a difference. As she watches him rummage in his bag for the instant oatmeal, Dinah’s own stomach boils. There’s only one thing to do. The sane, sensible thing.
“Alfred,” she says, “you need to make a portal.”
Her companion blinks up at her, feverish and uncomprehending.
“We need to go,” she insists, kneeling by his side. When she lays a hand on his shoulder, Alfred shivers. “Leave this world behind, and let’s jump to another. Someplace with— with medicine, and doctors.” Whatever’s going on with Alfred, Dinah’s sure he needs one.
The stubborn bastard doesn’t agree. Of course not. He recoils like she’s just puked on his shoes. “Like hell!”
Dinah hisses through her teeth. Why does he have to be so goddamn stubborn?
“Alfie, you’re sick, you—“
“I’m not!” he snaps — and, in his vehemence to get the oatmeal warmed up, nearly elbows her in the stomach. Alfred doesn’t even notice. His mind is on food, food, food. No space for anything else… or anyone.
Shrinking back, Dinah settles down in the grass and waits. There’s nothing more to do. That’s the one big downside to traveling with Alfred; sure, they’re having all sorts of adventures, but it’s at his discretion. Dinah can’t make the portals; she doesn’t get to say where they go, or when. Alfred’s the driver, she’s just along for the ride.
Her fear is he’s going to eat himself into such a stupor, he won’t be able to make a portal. If he’s too sick, or too swollen — to the point he can’t even stand on his own, lost in a haze of his own gluttony —
No. Dinah swallows the anxiety down and resolves to wait. Something’s got to give.
Just to hurry that breaking point alone, she eats the last of their meal bars. Like hell is she going to let Mr. Bottomless Pit hog all their food.
Their rations are deteriorating quickly, and it’s only a matter of time before Alfred notices. He spends the day shoveling thick oatmeal into his mouth, barely stopping to chew before gulping it down. They don’t wander, don’t stray more than a few feet from their campsite. Alfred simply isn’t able. He’s obsessed with the food. The more he eats, the more he swells; Dinah watches on, wide-eyed, mute in her awe and horror. By mid-afternoon, his belly is a packed dome, resting heavily in his lap. He slumps against a broad-based tree, unable to move an inch. His head lolls; periodic hiccups jolt him. Sometimes, he opens his mouth and a high-pitched gurgle slips out — a sure sign of a stomach taxed to its limit.
Still, the blissed-out expression on his face never wavers. All he wants to do is eat.
The friend Dinah knows is constantly in motion; Alfred hates staying in one place for too long. He’s terrified of putting down roots, as though the second he cares about a place, he’ll be bound there for good. It seems like… an exhausting existence. Fun for a while, but how long has Alfred been wandering? Dinah’s only known him for six months… and despite his youthful appearance, Alfred speaks sometimes as if he’s lived centuries.
He slips into an overfed doze. Dinah glances up from her journal occasionally to see him breathing heavily, hand resting on his stomach. A sheen of sweat lingers on his face, glistening like oil in the dim light. The seams of his waistcoat have begun to strain. His face is fuller, his trousers long past the point of protest. In twenty-four hours, the boy has gained… thirty pounds. And that number keeps ticking up.
A thunderous rumble resounds through his stomach, loud enough to awaken him. He rouses with a snort, and then a groan. As he curls in on himself, one arm wraps around his belly. The other stretches out for food.
“Cripes, Dinah, I’m starved.” A whine bleeds into his voice. As soon as he grasps one of the juicy pink figs, he slumps in relief.
“You’re not,” she insists. There’s no anger in her tone now, only sympathy. Alfred scarfs down the fruit before she can stop him; as she crawls over, her friend glances up with pathetic hope.
“Bring me those peanuts? We had the whole bag...”
“Not anymore. You ate them.”
Alfred’s face falls. “Wh-what?” He glances between his companion and their depleted food rations, helpless, like he’s hoping a new bag will materialize out of the ether. “No. I— I couldn’t have. I feel so empty.” He clutches his taut belly, so full it looks like he swallowed a watermelon. Definitely not empty.
Dinah lays a hand on his arm, and grimaces at the heat radiating from him. The sheen of sweat has him feeling sticky. Alfred’s brows furrow. He’s not in the mood to argue now, or even grouse at her; this hunger is all-consuming, exhausting. It feels like it’s eating him up.
“Get me some food,” he beseeches. “Please, Di. Whatever we’ve got.”
“We have nothing.”
“No, that’s not…” Alfred inhales a shaky breath. “Don’t say that.”
When he reaches for another fig, Dinah bats his hand aside. Alfred whines again, trying to squirm out of her grip… but he’s too heavy, too sluggish. Moving just makes him cramp up.
“Please,” he gasps. After a great deal of effort, he manages to get onto his hands and knees. Now he can crawl, at least… but his stomach. His stomach is killing him. It hangs heavily on his middle, and he can barely move in these clothes. His trousers risk tearing every second… by Jupiter, did they shrink more overnight?
He manages to crawl far enough to get another fig. He shoves it in his mouth… but it does nothing to soothe the roaring hunger in his stomach. He’s being consumed by a beast that won’t rest until it’s full… and there’s nothing to give it, no offering left that will truly sate it. The fig’s juices run down his chin, staining his collar bright pink… but Alfred doesn’t care. He’s breathing hard, clutching his tummy. Every breath comes out like a sob.
When he looks up at Dinah… for the first time, he actually looks afraid. “Di,” he rasps, “what’s wrong with me?”
Dinah looks like her heart is breaking. Without hesitation, she kneels down beside Alfred… and pulls him into a hug.
One thing about Dinah — her embraces are legendary. When she hugs you, it’s so easy to give in… to forget all your problems and just soak in the relief of having her close. A tiny sob slips past Alfred’s lips; he buries his face in her dense curls, trembling from the force of his hunger. He feels dizzy from it, itching in his own skin… except his body doesn’t feel like his own at all. He feels too… soft. Too heavy.
Dinah doesn’t draw back from her friend, even as his sticky, sick-sweet perspiration drenches her shirt. Alfred’s sweating buckets, and breathing way too hard. She can feel his heart, running like a race car engine. Or maybe that’s just his stomach; when she presses close, it lets out a fierce grumble, and Alfred groans with it.
“Hurts,” he whines. “I can’t bear it, Di…”
“Shh.” She massages circles into his back, rocking him like a child. Deep down, Dinah’s mind is in a whirl. They can’t stay here any longer; she can’t just watch as Alfred gets sicker and sicker, hardly even aware of what’s happening to him. They need to go.
“Alfred,” she says gently. “Do you think you can make a portal?”
He pulls back, blinking at her blearily. There’s no hint of comprehension in his eyes. “A whuh?”
Reaching down, into the pocket of his waistcoat, Dinah withdraws the old pocket watch. The moment his gaze lands on the timepiece, remembrance flares in Alfred’s eyes. It works like matchstick, his powers sparking to life from the ashes. As greedy as if she were holding out a sirloin, Alfred reaches for his watch.
“A portal out of here,” Dinah insists. “Somewhere with a hospital.”
The sick boy shakes his head. “No, I’m not—“
“Alfred.”
The note in her voice startles him — it’s rare to hear Dinah beg. When he looks up, he’s momentarily struck dumb by her expression. Those big doe eyes have gone soft, watery; she’s squaring her jaw like she’s trying not to cry. Cronos’s balls, has he upset her? No, no— Alfred didn’t want that, he didn’t mean it. The pair of them bicker, they gripe and tease each other… but she’s still his Dinah. His favorite person. The only person he’s been able to tolerate in a long while, actually, and… the girl who makes every day worthwhile.
He never meant to make her cry.
“Di,” he exhales, reaching out to her. Suddenly, everything else is forgotten. His hunger, his fever, his fear of hospitals… none of it matters. All he can focus on is her. “Please. Please don’t. I’m sorry I’m sick.”
Dinah gives a huff, her gaze going from teary to incredulous. “What?” She sniffles miserably. “You think I’m upset because— no. No, Alfie. That’s not your fault.”
Alfred goes quiet, biting his lip. Suddenly, he’s not sure what his fault is — only that he isn’t well. Surely he’s doing something wrong.
“I’m scared,” Dinah says, and his heart plummets. Crying from fear is way worse than crying from sorrow. His girl should never feel like this.
And it’s all because… of him?
Alfred blinks down at himself. That swollen belly, these rolls bulging underneath his shirt… dear gods, when did he get all this? His hand grazes over his new gut, incredulous. Another shiver runs through him. In some echoing cavern deep in the back of his mind, Alfred’s pride is screaming. Fat. The extra weight is literally spilling off him, and he has no idea where he picked it up. When the hell did he get so fat?
“Fuck,” he blurts out — and Dinah’s startled into a laugh.
“Hospital. Okay? Doctor.”
For once, Alfred doesn’t argue. Seeing himself clearly for the first time in days has him rattled enough to do anything. As always, Alfred’s first instinct when spooked is to escape — jumping from one world to the next, as easily as moving through a house.
The pocket watch opens with a sharp clink. Alfred’s fingers move briskly, with so much skill, Dinah can’t hope to keep up. He spins and adjusts the dials until the watch is whirring, responding to his touch like a magnetic force. No one else can use the watch — only Alfred.
“Take me to a bloody doctor!” he blurts out — and a shimmering blue portal materializes in front of him. It’s about as tall as he is, wide enough to be a threshold. Though the image within is flickering and blurry, they can still make it out — hexagon-panelled walls, a metal interior, a room lit with red-orange light with a large central console in the middle.
Alfred begins to step through; Dinah snags his arm. “You need a doctor, not the Doctor!”
“Who?” asks Alfred.
“Exactly!” She gives him a little shake — which isn’t helping the disorientation, thank you. “Try again! Think hospital, medical care… maybe a world where healthcare is free?”
“Not sure that one exists, love.” Nonetheless, the world-jumper gives his watch another shake… and, with a shudder, Alfred conjures another portal. Through this one, they can clearly see the interior of a high-tech hospital — bustling halls, doctors in sleek scrubs passing from room to room. Dinah heaves a gusty sigh.
“Finally,” she mutters. “Let’s leave this place behind.” She’ll be happy to never see the color pink again. All these vibrant fruits and blossoms, the sticky sap and branches that reach out to snare you… not her idea of an adventure.
Apparently disagreeing, Alfred reaches out to snag another dig. Dinah has to drag him through the portal, using the football scrimmage tactics she learned from her older brothers. Catch him around the waist, get him off his feet… don’t mind how much he’s yelling, or how soft he is…
They make a hand landing in the middle of the hospital hallway, sprawled on the floor like a pair of fools. Alfred grunts underneath her; Dinah sits up, giving his stomach a pat. He grunts, then belches.
“Sorry,” she declares.
“No, you’re not,” Alfred grunts.
It takes the hospital five hours and countless rounds of tests to figure out what’s wrong with him — where this endless hunger is coming from, why he’s swelling up and sweating sickly-sweet sap. Turns out, the answer is obvious — his arm. Those tiny puncture marks from that bramble seemed so innocuous, at first. Alfred didn’t even remember them the next day. He had no idea there was venom coursing through his system, stimulating his hunger horomones like no tomorrow.
“A very interesting ailment!” the perky resident chirps, twining a sterile bandage around Alfred’s arm. “Think of it this way: in a forest, there are natural predators, and then there’s prey. Maybe where you were, tiny organisms existed which depended on larger organisms to survive. Some larger animal gets scratched by this bramble bush… and suddenly, it’s hungry. The animal is driven to eat and eat, filling its stomach until it can’t move. Maybe it makes itself sick… or maybe it just lies there, rapidly piling on the pounds. It would eat itself to death — either through a ruptured stomach, or gaining so much weight the body simply couldn’t support itself.”
“Oh my god,” Dinah murmured, hugging herself.
“And then,” chirps the resident, “the animal would die! And those smaller organisms could feed on the body.”
“You mean,” Alfred says — very calmly, considering everything. “I caught the ‘eat yourself to death’ disease, and nearly became fertilizer?”
Finishing her work, the resident claps her hands brightly. “Yep, that sums it up!”
Alfred sinks back onto his pillows with a groan.
Once he’s comfortable in bed, the IV in his arm feeding him a copious amount of drugs — including fever-reducers, antibiotics, and anti-venom designed for foreign pathogens — Dinah leans in, pressing the back of her hand to his brow.
“Quit fussing,” he mutters, swatting her away. “I’m fine.”
“You will be,” she agrees mildly. Resting her elbows on the edge of the bed, she surveys him. “Are you still hungry?”
Alfred swallows, actually having to think about the question. The faint ghost of hunger is still there, nagging at him whenever his mind wanders to it, but… for the first time in days, his stomach feels blissfully calm.
“No,” he says softly. “Don’t believe I am.”
He’s still fat, and that’s not going away any time soon. (Jupiter’s balls, he’ll have to make a workout regimen. Probably start dieting. And visit a tailor for new clothes…)
He’s alive, though. That’s all he can ask for.
Perhaps the young man is incapable of saying thanks — but he meets Dinah’s gaze, and reaches out to squeeze her hand. It’s the most he’s capable of. His companion doesn’t mind; she knows exactly what he means.
If you saw my last post, you know I created an AI sickfic RP generator using Character.AI. That one was restricted to a clinic setting. This new one I've made is more liberal. (I also think the quality of the writing is much better.)
You can write out your prompt as a sentence, but the AI will likely respond better to this format — Name: (insert name). Personality: (insert personality traits). Receptivity to help: (AKA how they'll react to you). Setting: (anything from bedroom to Antarctica). Source of pain: (indigestion, food poisoning, etc.). You can forgo any of these categories if you'd like.
Example convo (sorry for the blurriness):
Fun things to remember!
Swipe on the AI's generated response and it'll give you more potential replies!
The more you vote (stars at the bottom), the higher quality it'll grow to be!
If you insert a fictional character for the name, the AI should mimic the character (to an extent)!
A. Angst
1. There’s nothing you can do to make it better.
2. Please just leave me alone right now.
3. I just need some time, okay?
4. Yeah, alright, fuck you. You had no right.
5. I don’t want to talk to you right now.
6. If you do that, I will never forgive you.
7. Everything’s messed up, it all feels bad.
8. I feel like I can’t breathe, it hurts so much.
B. Bad ideas
1. Hey, watch this!
2. I’m going to eat the whole thing.
3. I dare you to…
4. I know it looks shady, but I really think we should eat here.
5. I’m going to stay up all night to study.
6. I don’t need a jacket, it’s not even that cold.
7. I used to get seasick but not anymore…
8. I know you’re sick, but just a little kiss?
C. Colds
1. My nose is raw.
2. I can’t-I can’t stop sneezin’
3. My throat is so sore, I can’t even eat.
4. I can’t talk, my voice is shot.
5. I can’t even taste anything.
6. Does my forehead feel hot?
7. I’m sorry about all the tissues… I’ll clean them up.
8. It feels like a cat scratched my throat.
D. Drunk
1. You couldn’t outdrink me.
2. Sorry… I don’t think the alcohol is settling.
3. I’m really dizzy.
4. I’m too drunk to sleep.
5. You shouldn’t have mixed alcohol.
6. I told you to stop drinking a long time ago. This is your fault.
7. I can’t be hungover, I have a test today…
8. I’ll never drink again…
E. Embarrassing
1. I’m about to throw up in front of everyone if we don’t get out of here…
2. I ruined my chances with… I can’t believe I did that.
3. Oh god, it’s okay. Let’s get you to the bathroom though.
4. I can’t stop burping…
5. I’m sorry, my stomach feels funny… can we go home?
6. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? There’s no reason to be embarrassed.
7. Is that your stomach? It’s so loud.
8. I’m sorry, I really can’t believe I did that…
F. Full
1. Oh, god, I ate all of it?
2. I won the eating contest… can we go home now? Please…
3. I can hardly breathe, I’m so full.
4. I feel really sick… I really overdid it…
5. I told you not to eat all of that.
6. I’m never taking you to a buffet again…
7. I wasn’t hungry, but I didn’t want to hurt your feelings by not eating your cooking…
8. I ate too many sweets… I feel really bad.
G. Green
1. I’ve been on this boat too long…
2. I told you I can’t sit in the back seat…
3. I’m starting to feel really queasy… can we pull over?
4. I told you I didn’t like roller coasters…
H. Help
1. I’ll hold your hair back.
2. Do you need help… getting it up?
3. You want a back rub?
4. I’ll get you some antacids.
5. You want me to rub your stomach for you?
6. I’ll clean that up… don’t move.
7. Lay down and rest, I’m going to make you comfortable.
8. Here’s the trashcan if you need it…
I. Injured
1. My knee, I think… I think I tore something…
2. Is it bleeding? I can’t look…
3. I think you broke my nose…
4. It hurts so bad… please, make it stop.
5. I can’t move my arm…
6. I can’t walk on it.
7. I think it’s broken, oh god…
8. You really smacked your head hard, didn’t you?
J. Just
1. Just let it up…
2. Just get this over with, please.
3. Just help me to the bathroom, will you?
4. Just try taking this medicine again, please?
5. Just relax, I’ll take care of everything.
6. Just eat it.
7. Just stop complaining already!
8. Just come cuddle with me.
K. Killing me…
1. My stomach is killing me…
2. You are smothering me to death.
3. My head feels like I’ve been beat with a hammer.
4. I think I’m dying, I feel so sick…
5. I may need you to call an ambulance…
6. I think it’s something serious.
7. Something’s wrong…
L. Lethargic.
1. I’m so tired, I think I’ll just sleep on the floor…
2. I can’t sit up any longer.
3. I just want to sleep, please.
4. If I take the medicine, can I sleep?
5. I feel like I have no energy at all…
6. I can’t stay awake, I’m sorry.
M. Moping.
1. Just go and have a good time with everybody… since I’m sick.
2. I can’t believe you’d do that while I’m sick.
3. I feel like shit…
4. Everything hurts so bad.
5. I’m so tired of being sick… I want it to be over already.
Whumpee sick with the flu and suffering through a high fever curled up on the couch with the tv on across from them, not really paying it any attention and staring wearily out into space, caretaker comes over and asks how they're feeling, laying a hand across their forehead as they do so, but the whumpee is so tired and out of it they don't even realize the hand is there at first and jump a little when they see their friend looming above them
hah, oh my gosh, thank you so much, i'm so glad you enjoyed it! ( i love your blog ahjdhdhdhjj so this means a lot!! ) i haven't has any more ideas for jatp sickfic / emeto, but i'm up for prompts....
The end of a long day. A comes home and drops down on the couch, exhausted. “God, my head hurts.“ Face buried in their hands.
B’s in the middle of cooking dinner. They quickly glance over everything on the stove: Yes, it looks okay to leave simmering for a few minutes. Luckily, everything they need is right at hand: One cupboard door for a bottle of painkillers, quietly shaken out; another for a tall glass, filled with water at the sink.
“Here.“ Quiet, tipping the pills into A’s palm and then following it up with the water. A groans in relief. “Want me to turn the lights down?“
“Fuck, could you?“ A breathes it like they’re too far gone to have thought to ask. They press the cool glass against their temple, still hunched forward, curling in on themself like that will protect them against the pain.
B lets their fingers brush over the back of A’s hand, and then goes to turn down the lights. Checks on supper. Eight minutes before the timer goes off. They’ll have to keep an eye on that. Get to the kitchen to turn it off before it starts to beep. With the time they’ve got, though, they come back to A and let their hands settle on their shoulders. Maybe they perch on the back of the couch; maybe they stand behind it, pressing in close. Either way, they start in with a gentle shoulder massage, going deeper when A, slurred, asks for more.
“You okay?” B finally asks, still keeping their voice low. It’s obvious what the answer is, but they know from experience that A just needs some space to tell them what’s going on on their own. Trying to rush it will just shut them down.
“Just a tension headache.” Eyes scrunched shut. “Work sucked.”
“Mmm?” Leaving space, again.
A scrubs their eyes with the heel of their hand and it all comes tumbling out, everything that had gone wrong at work, “and I just couldn’t take it today, I don’t know why, I didn’t even have a headache then,“ and “the drive home was hell, I could barely keep my eyes on the road“ and “I just wanted to get home. To you.”
Maybe that’s a new confession, slipping out in a moment of vulnerability, or maybe it’s a familiar expression of long-standing care. Either way, B just lets them talk, and keeps up the massage, moving onto their neck, their scalp, and then down to their collarbone, encouraging them to sit up, to lean back against the back of the couch, to let their shoulders come down and back. One eye on the stove, and it’s time to get up, to do the next step in cooking, to keep the food from burning and the timer from going off. B eases off of the massage and pulls A in for a hug, arms wrapped around their shoulders from behind; gentle, gentle.
“Lie down,“ B murmurs. “I’ll let you know when dinner’s done.“
“Yeah, okay.” Pliant, letting themself be guided down. B glances at the timer again, and comes around the front of the couch. Down to A’s level. Their eyes can’t hide their concern.
“Hey.“ Quiet, hand still moving on their shoulder, their upper arm. Palm coming up to caress their jaw. “You sure this is just a tension headache? You feel pretty warm.“
A shrugs– “I think so”– and shivers a little, and sighs. “I dunno. Maybe not.“
The timer goes, and B pulls a throw blanket over A, whispering “sorry” for the sound. Lips to A’s forehead, and yes, that’s a fever coming on. B straightens up to go silence the timer, already mentally recalculating their dinner plans. “Sleep,“ they say, and A nods, already halfway there. “We can eat when you wake up.“
Characters that are visibly queasy; they're cheeks puffing out as they take small, restrained breaths. Their eyes closed as they try to stay still despite the fact that they're shaking, coldsweats rolling down their body. Their face is pale and almost green, and they're arms are wrapped tightly around their torso/pressed up to their mouth.
What are we calling this trope? The one where they’re barely conscious in the backseat either being taken to the hospital or home or whatever? Like we need a name for this cus this is magical emotional and physical whump right here.
can i just…….. please…. have a boy……. be sick and vulnerable and exhausted?? and feverishly nodding off in front of the tv?? and like….. Other Boy finds him….. and he’s really dizzy and a bit out of it and his legs feel weak…. so when Other Boy helps him up and back to bed he actually has no choice but to completely lean on him…. and let Other Boy support him all the way there…..
and like…… Other Boy’s heart breaks a little seeing him in such a fragile, vulnerable state……
one of my favorite ever fever scenarios is when someone is just starting to come down with it and it’s only evident because they’ve got chills when no one else does. but the romanticism of a fall/winter cold is also my favorite which means the ideal weather is a-little-chilly so this person’s dressed appropriately in a scarf and jacket which should be comfortable, but they’re absolutely freezing and insisting that it’s colder outside than the forecast proclaims
As much as I love sickies who are cold and shivery from having a fever, there is definitely a time and a place for a character whose fever just makes them unbearably, miserably hot. Sweating through their clothes and sheets, half delirious and feeling like they’re burning from the inside out, even when their caretaker holds a cool cloth to their forehead and neck it just heats up almost right away. Fever dreams about being on fire, trapped in a scorching desert, etc. They kick off every cover they’d previously wrapped themself in, but they’re still boiling.
