Eating the tuna salad had been a mistake. And easily avoidable mistake at that, as her roommate Tonya had pointed out it "doesn't look right, babes," but Bell was nothing if not a stubborn prick, who wouldn't let the fact that the tuna salad had been sitting in their mini bar fridge for a week deter her.
Now she was paying for it. Her stomach was bubbling ominously and had been feeling uneasy since morning. One whiff of her usual black coffee had sent her retching over the toilet for 10 minutes, but nothing came up other than frothy spit. Her belly hurt.
Not that Isabella was willing to talk about it, knowing her best friend had a cocked-and-ready-to-go "I told you so". She just wanted to get through the last class and go to Lucas' place, curl up in his incredibly comfy bed, knowing for a fact he'd love to dot on her.
A burp sneaked up on her and she pressed the heel of her hands to her lips, muffling it. It brought up the taste of tuna again and she squeezed her eyes, nausea making her skin prickle. She breathed through the worst of queasiness, swallowed in the saliva collecting in her mouth and slowly pulled her hand back. Her stomach was digging on her belt. She had picked these pants because they were a little loose, but it seemed like it was no longer the case, the metal of her belt buckle was pressing hard against her belly.
She tugged at it for some sliver of relief and glanced at her phone. There were still five minutes more before class ended. Not a single text from Lucas, which made her pout. Bell wished he was magically connected to her, that somehow he knew she was about to puke in the middle of campus and just decided it was a great time to offer her a ride.
But no. He was probably at football practice at this hour and his phone was safely tucked away in the locker's room.
Bell let out a shaky breath, then clutched at her stomach as a particular harsh gurgle made itself not only heard, but also made her belly shake lightly. She gagged, swallowed in convulsively and started putting away her text book and her notes, with shaky hands. Even if there was just three minutes more, she couldn't stay.
She all but bolted out of the classroom and straight to one of the campus' bathrooms, crouching down in front of it and gagging harshly. Still, nothing came up. Her stomach felt filled all the way to the top, the salad sitting in her throat, but nothing came up but a couple wet belches that had her eyes tearing up.
She could shove her fingers down her throat and get this over with, but the idea irked her and Bell would rather not throw up at all if possible. She stood up as the noise of people entering the bathroom got louder, presumably because all classes had ended.
One extremely unpleasant bus trip later and she was in Lucas' building. He wasn't supposed to be home for another forty minutes, but it was better than going back to her dorms and she was so queasy she could barely think straight. She just needed to sit down, undo her pants and rub at her belly, praying her food stayed down.
He had given her the key a month before and slowly she was getting more comfortable with coming over uninvited or when he wasn't around.
Bell all but chucked her bag at the general direction of his couch and stalked over to the master suite's bathroom for some extra privacy, only to feel two strong arms wrap around her middle and squeeze her hard as her boyfriend pulled her off of her feet.
It was all it took.
The pressure that had been there all morning went up and she scrambled in his grip, only to throw up down her front. The mess stuck to her shirt, to his forearm wrapped around her stomach and she heard loud swearing, but Lucas didn't drop her in disgust, only set her back down gently, keeping the arm that was already dirty firmly in place.
She was incredibly grateful for it, because the minute her feet met the ground, she nearly went down to her knees with the force of another retch, this one bringing up an even larger gush and covering her combat boots with puke.
Isabella coughed, dug on Lucas' arm for support and then embarrassment hit her even stronger than the nausea, causing a sob to burst through her.
"Oh no, honey-" Lucas was rambling somewhere over her head and then his big hand was on her face, pushing the dirty locks of hair away, wiping her tears with his thumb, "Bella, what's hurting? Bells, talk with me-"
She whimpered, wanting to wrap an arm protectively around her middle, but just the thought of the mess slowly sipping through her ratty tank top made her want to puke all over again, "I'm- gross-"
Lucas widened his eyes at her, "you're crying because you're embarrassed?!" he scoffed and then finally pulled back his arm, wiping the vomit off of it with his hand and then cleaning the hand down his jersey shirt. Then he cupped her face and did the same to her, wiping the puke off her lips, not bothered in the least, "I'm in the football team, baby, you're the least gross thing I've seen today, trust me."
She snorted, still unable to stop the tears, "I really don't feel well, Luke."
"I can see that," he teased, only to receive a weak shove to his chest and chuckle, "let's move you to the bathroom, honey."
It was a testament to how sick she felt that she didn't say anything as her boyfriend manhandled her to the bathroom and then bunched up her long curls into a messy bun on top of her head.
"There, you look beautiful," he said, crouching down in front of her and tapping her arms up, "let's get you out of these disgusting clothes-"
"You just wanna see my tits," Bell groaned, feeling marginally better and he opened a blinding smile at the joke.
"Always," Lucas promised with a wink, before slowly maneuvering her top off and throwing it inside the sink, "feels better, uh?"
Bell sniffled, nodding, "I messed up your floor..."
"Eh, nothing that hasn't happened before," he promised, leaning in to kiss her forehead, "are you sick?"
"Now you ask me?" She eyed him skeptically, heart soaring, because even if she had the flu, even if she was contagious, he clearly didn't care. She had never been anyone's priority as she was with Lucas, it made her feel lightheaded sometimes.
He shrugged, cheeks blushing and she leaned back against the wall, starting to undo her belt, "No, I just ate some garbage yesterday. Felt awful since morning."
"I'm sorry," Lucas grimaced in sympathy, "better now, though?"
Bella paused, accessing herself. Her stomach was still unsettled, but the insane nausea from before was gone, at least for now, "a little... Still don't feel great."
"Let's get cleaned up and in bed, so I can rub your tummy."
"You're a dork," she groaned, blushing at him calling her stomach tummy.
"I don't have a better word for that cute little tummy of yours, Bells," Lucas scoffed, leaning in again and then planting a kiss over her lips, only for her to pull back with a groan.
"Lucas! I just puked!"
"I don't care," he rolled his eyes, grabbing her chin and giving her another peck.
"You're crazy, boy," she groaned, resting her forehead heavily against his and relaxing for the first time all day.
Summary: Chris takes care of you when you get a migraine, though you reluctantly let him
Warnings: talk of migraine symptoms, nausea, vomiting, teeny tiny bit of angst I guess, an overload of fluff
a/n: okayyy I know I’ve written a migraine fic before, but it was a while ago and I’ve always wanted to do a longer/different version of that especially since mine have gotten so bad recently. so this is very self- indulgent and long, written mostly for my own comfort/benefit lol. but i’m posting it bc I didn’t have the inspiration to write anything else for now. also the title is dumb, forgive me, it’s all I could think of.
Flashing lights blinded Chris’ vision as he stood on the red carpet for the premiere of the newest Marvel movie. You stood about 12 feet away from him, posing on your own. Despite you and Chris having been together for a few months, the media didn’t yet know about your relationship and you liked to keep it that way. So for now, on every red carpet you posed separately.
Not being able to help himself, Chris kept stealing glances your way, trying not to make it too obvious. You had dawned a black, strapless jumpsuit that had a lace corset top. It was in homage to your character, whose suit was all black. Subconsciously, Chris’ eyes kept flickering to the top, which he knew would probably be talked about online later, but the fact that he couldn’t stand next to you didn’t help his natural instinct to admire what you had on…and what was underneath.
As he continued to occasionally look your way, his glances became less that of admiration, and more of concern. He noticed your face slowly becoming more and more pale as pictures were snapped, and you began to blink rapidly as if you were trying to blink away tears. Unsure of wether to walk over and see if you were alright, Chris stayed for a moment in his designated place, keeping an eye on you. But as soon as he noticed your legs wobble the slightest, his mind was made up.
Making strides your way, Chris quickly placed an arm around your back and kept a smile plastered on his face to make it look like he had simply walked over to say hello to you.
“You doing okay?” He turned towards your ear and whispered through gritted teeth.
Premise: On a movie date with Peter Parker, a migraine strikes you down. You don't want Peter to see you like this, but he refuses to let you go home alone.
Reader is female-identifying. Reader has hair long enough to be put in a ponytail.
Word count: aprox. 3,500
tw: descriptions of nausea and vomiting, reference to childhood trauma (unspecified)
(Y/N) knows she should go home.
But, she can’t. Not until this movie is finished.
Sitting next to Peter Parker in the darkness of the movie theater, with your forearms touching and fingers brushing when you reach for popcorn, is typically an experience that sends heat dancing up your arms and butterflies flitting around your stomach.
Right now, nausea was the only thing pulsing through your stomach. And with the surround sound tightening the band around your forehead and the lights sending sparks across your vision, Peter’s arm touching yours is only adding to the sensory tsunami slamming you.
You denied it when zigzags cut across your vision when you touched up your lipstick in the elevator. You denied it when Peter’s voice distorted on your walk to the theater. You denied it when a wave of dizziness hit you on your way to the restroom. But now, you couldn’t deny it any longer: a migraine storm was upon you. A rough night awaits, but you’re not ready for Peter to get up close and personal with your migraines yet.
For your entire life, you battled with migraine. In grade school, the pain forced you out of field trips, sports practices, and musical rehearsals and into bed with blackout curtains drawn, a cool cloth laid on your forehead, and a bucket by your bedside. Not a particularly attractive sight for your new(ish) boyfriend to see.
The aura for this headache was coming on strong. When the actors’ voices began changing intonation like a chameleon changing colors, you knew a harsh spell encroached. You need to make it through this date and get back to your apartment before Peter sees you collapse in a pile of puke and tears.
And, you have a game plan. Phase 1: Make it through the film without collapsing or puking. Phase 2: When Peter walks you home, hold his arm and lay your head on his shoulder. It’ll masquerade as a cute gesture, when in reality, you’ll be using him as a human cane. Phase 3: Get home, lock the door, and go into Migraine Emergency Mode.
Slowly but surely, you were revealing your layers to Peter at a safe, comfortable pace. This shitty action movie was not going to get in the way.
An abrupt on-screen crash shocks you out of your scheming. The main characters sent their car careening into a ditch. Just as the jackhammering in your head began to die down, the car burst into flames.
You throw a hand over your eyes. A gurgle of nausea twists in your gut.
“(Y/N)? Are you okay?” Peter whispers in your ear.
You snap your eyes open. So much for appearing nonchalant. You take your hand from your face. Red hot pain radiates down your body, but you clamp your lips into a neutral expression. “Yeah, I’m good.”
“Do you need some air?”
On one hand, you could surrender. You could let Peter walk you into the foyer and buy you an icy drink to hold to your eye. Maybe you could even let Peter take you home and cuddle you through the pain. You know Peter wants to be there for you.
You shove those fantasies from your mind.
“No.” You whisper at a volume only Spider-Man could hear.
Suddenly, a yelling match breaks out on screen. You close your eyes shut. You can’t hold back a whimper.
Peter wraps his arm around your shoulders. “Honey, you don’t seem alright. We can leave.”
Your resolve crumples. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry” barely passes your lips before Peter’s slung both your jackets over his arm and looped the strap of your cross body bag around his fingers. “Please, don’t be sorry.” Peter stands in front of you, but you stare at your lap. Peter’s fingers intertwine with hers. “I’m sure this blockbuster will be here all summer.” He jokes, and in your mind’s eye you can see his smirk. You don’t have the energy to crack a smile.
“C’mon, sweetie.” Gently, Peter grabs your limp wrist.
You focus all the energy in your body to propel you out of the chair. You stumble into Peter’s chest.
He stabilizes you. “Okay, baby, okay.” He soothes.
“I’m sorry.” You say.
“Sweetheart, you’re fine.” He’s bending down to meet your eyes, but you refuse to look at his face. “Lean on me. Let’s get you out of here.”
With Peter’s arm wrapped around your waist and your head resting on his chest, you descend the cinema stairs and make your way out of the theater.
***
Getting down the stairs wasn’t as hard as you thought it would be. Typically, during a migraine, stairs are your personal hell.
But, with Spider-Man supporting most of your bodyweight, the physical exertion lessens significantly.
Plus, it’s not just the safety of Spider-Man that’s helping. It’s Peter Parker’s safe hands holding you close. It’s Peter Parker's frame shielding you from gruff moviegoers working their way around you down the mall steps. It’s Peter Parker keeping you upright, and that’s enough to keep your brain generating numbing happy chemicals even in the worst of times.
Peter guides you to a bench next to the atrium. You lay your head on his shoulder, but abruptly sit up.
This nightmare gets worse from here. You have to go home by yourself. You’re not ready for this. You’re not–
“(Y/N), honey? Are you with me?” Peter’s tenderly cradling your face. “You’re starting to scare me.”
You blink. “I’m here, I’m here.” You take a deep breath to ground yourself from the swirling dizziness. You force a weak smile. “Just a little headache.”
Peter cocks an eyebrow. “A little headache?” He cradles your chin. “You look like you’ve been concussed, babe.” Softer, he asks, “Do you get migraines?”
Your chest falls. The jig is up. “Yeah, I’m having a migraine.”
“Okay.” His tone is soft, but there’s a hardness in his eyes and a pinch between his brows and you know it’s not from worry. He’s annoyed you didn’t tell him. If there’s one thing that puts a rift between you and Peter, it’s that you won’t let him help you. You didn’t tell him when you forgot your lunch the day you had a big presentation. You didn’t tell him when your insomnia came back. You didn’t tell him when you caught the 24-hour bug 2 months ago. And now he knows you’ve been hiding this.
“I’m sorry.” You squeak.
“Oh, honey, no.” Peter whispers. “Let’s just focus on getting you out of here and in bed. Don’t even think. I’ll get you back to my apartment.”
“No,” you shake your head but stop when nausea slithers up your throat. You swallow hard. “No, I need to go home.”
“Sweetheart, your apartment’s across town, and I don’t think you can walk or swing right now.”
The damp wool of your sweater constricts your sweaty skin. “I have all my medication and things in my apartment.” You argue, but the fight in your voice is weak.
“I have lots of meds and supplies stocked because of…you know. I think I’ve got everything you need, and I can always swing over to your apartment to grab something.”
Suddenly, a crowd of moviegoers comes stomping towards the foyer, ushering in a cacophony of laughter and voices.
You squeeze your eyes shut, and Peter drags your face into his shoulder. You fist his sweatshirt and squeeze until your fingers hurt.
“Let’s get you home, my love.” He whispers.
You know by home he doesn’t mean your apartment. You know he means his place, where you spend half of your time and have your personal belongings threaded through his.
Maybe it’s the crippling exhaustion. Maybe it’s the fact that every step sends pain shooting through your skull. Regardless, you surprise yourself with your answer.
“Okay.”
***
“I know, I’m sorry, honey.” Peter whispers into your hair. He presses your body against his side as he leads you to the second set of elevators in the foyer.
Dating a chemical engineer had its perks; Peter could afford a nice apartment. However, the first set of elevators broke an hour after you left for your date. More steps for you.
Even with Peter nearly carrying you, the final stretch to the elevator feels like a mile. The wait for the elevator to arrive felt even worse when a twist of nausea wracked your stomach. But soon, the elevator doors ding open.
As soon as the doors shut behind you, you push against Peter’s hold.
“Babe?” He asks. He lets you go free.
You sink to the floor and unbutton your jacket. You take a deep breath, reveling in the coolness of the air conditioning and freedom from residual body heat.
“I feel nauseous.” You groan.
He kneels next to you. “Do you need to throw up?” There was something about his hand on your shoulder, his tone, and his stern yet compassionate expression that reminded you of Spider-Man. He’d likely posed that same question on the beat to trauma victims. The guilt bubbling in your stomach amps up the queasiness.
You take a deep, shuddering breath.
“No.” You say. Peter cocks his brow again. Despite yourself, you shrink. “Maybe later. Not at this moment.”
“Okay, darling. Would you let me carry you in?”
You swallow your shame. “Yes,” you say.
Peters picks you up as if you weigh a feather. You wrap your arms around his neck as the elevator opens to his floor.
***
You’re laying in Peter’s bed with his sheets wrapped around your face. Even with the blinds drawn, the New York City lights burn your sensitive eyes.
Despite your prior objections, you can’t deny the comfort of laying in Peter’s soft duvet with the spicy scent of his cologne filling your nose.
You hear the creak of the door as Peter steps into the room.
“Baby?” He whispers. “I brought you some stuff.”
Peter’s gait is slow and light, as if he’s trying not to creak the floorboards. Something taps the bedside table next to you.
“Can I see your head, baby? I know it’s bright outside, but I have this wrap around ice pack I think will really help.”
With a groan, you pull the blankets below your chin. You crack open your eyes, and to your surprise, Peter is holding a black version of your favorite migraine ice pack. It’s like a thick bandage that wraps around your eyes and forehead and velcros closed in the back. It’s cold, pitch black heaven.
You smile weakly. “Thanks, Peter.” You mumble. Dating someone with super hearing is a huge perk when you’re a migraineur.
“Of course.” He whispers.
Peter lays the ice pack on your forehead, and your body relaxes. The pain still pulses like a bass drum beat in a metal song, but at least there’s something combating it.
“Can I help you sit up, sweetie? I want to tie this behind your head.”
You hum your approval.
Gently, Peter raises your limp body and velcros the ends of the ice pack behind your head, creating 360 degree relief.
You moan in relief. “Thank you, Peter.”
“Oh course, sweetheart. There's a glass of water on the bedside table for you. Would you like some Pepto-Bismol?”
You hold back a gag. “No.” You croak. “But thanks.”
“After I change, can I get into bed next to you?”
You can’t help but smile. He’s so conscientious. Too conscientious. “Of course, Peter.”
A few minutes later, the bed slowly sinks as Peter gingerly adds his weight.
“Can I speak, darling?” He asks.
“Mm-hmm.” You hum.
“I’ve never been with you during a migraine before. I want to know how to take care of you. Could you answer some yes or no questions for me?” He whispers. “You don’t need to speak. Maybe one finger for yes and two for no.”
You point your index finger.
“Excellent.” Peter says. “Are you sensitive to light?”
You hold up one finger.
“Are you sensitive to sound?”
Once again, one finger.
“Are you sensitive to touch?”
You hold up two fingers. There’s some nuance to that, but there was only so much you could communicate. You really needed some sleep.
“Okay. Can I hold you?”
Warmth fills your ribcage. “I can’t lay on my side, but could you hold my hand?” Heat burns your cheeks. “And maybe lay against me?”
“Of course.” Peter whispers, a smile in his voice.
He presses a tender kiss to your shoulder. “Goodnight, my love. Feel better.”
***
You wake to a knot in your stomach. You twist onto your side which only tightens the cramp.
You moan. Your eyes crack open only to be weighed down by the ice pack from last night.
Last night. Peter was a saint. You were an embarrassment. A well-loved and well-cared for embarrassment, but falling over yourself all the same.
Your shame spiral stops as soon as it begins when a bubble of queasiness turns you rigid.
Shit.
Not here.
Not now.
You take a deep breath. Peter is slumped against your back, and thanks to his spidey senses, an infinitesimal movement could wake him up. To make matter worse, when it came to you, Peter was always extra jumpy. It was a miracle he hadn’t woken already.
You take another deep breath. Maybe if you lay as still as a statue, the nausea will go away and you’ll drift off to sleep.
A second later, like a wave careening to shore, nausea swells in your chest and up your throat. You sprint from the bed, shoving the sheets onto Peter who instantly jumps awake.
You dash into the bathroom, nearly tripping over your own feet when the carpet transitions to ice cold tile.
You collapse and promptly stick your head into Peter’s toilet bowl. Your face burns with embarrassment, and the humiliation has not reached its peak.
You dry heave three times. Of course, when you start throwing up, you feel your hair being lifted from your shoulders.
“I’m so sorry.” Peter whispers. He must have grabbed a scrunchie from your purse, because your hair stays off your face and neck while Peter’s hands rub your back and hold your hand gripping the toilet tank cover.
You can’t get out the words “get out!” to Peter with all the retching in the way.
“It’s alright. You’re alright. Breathe, baby.” Peter whispers. He draws wide circles on your upper back, and your shoulders betray you by relaxing into his palm.
You didn’t think your stomach could hold so much. You continue to gag, making a mess of Peter’s bathroom, but Peter never flinches. He continues whispering sweet nothings to you until you finish expelling all of last night’s dinner and popcorn.
Stomach aching, you collapse against Peter’s chest.
“You okay?” Peter asks.
“Yeah.” You pant.
“Take some deep breaths.” He whispers. “Would you like some water?”
“Could you make me ginger tea?” You ask. Guilt tightens your throat. You were already puking in his bathroom– you could’ve settled for plain water.
But that’s exactly what Peter has been insisting you work on– being honest about asking for what you need.
He kisses your temple. “Of course.” He says, a smile in his voice.
Two minutes later, Peter returns to the bathroom, a steaming mug in his hand.
He places your tea on the edge of the marble counter. “It’s still brewing.” He whispers.
“You can speak at a normal volume now.” You croak. You were laying on the floor, arms and legs limp yet heavy as lead.
“Is your headache better?” He asks.
“Marginally,” You say. “If I throw up, it’s usually better after.” Like the climax of a movie, once you puke during a migraine attack, it’s usually coming to its resolution.
“Okay.” Peter said, returning to his normal volume. He sits next to you. “Do you want to brush your teeth and go back to sleep?”
“Yes, please.”
Five minutes later, you’re curled under the covers, half a mug of ginger tea sitting on Peter’s bedside table.
You’re about to slip into slumber when Peter asks you a question.
“Can I text your boss that you’re not coming in tomorrow?”
Your breath hitches. Your instincts scream “No!” You have to go to work.
You take what feels like your millionth deep breath in the past 24 hours. But going to work wouldn't be good for your body. You already tried to sit through an action film with a migraine which resulted in you hurling at 3 am. It was time to take Peter’s advice and give your body a break.
“Yes.” You say, relief and guilt washing over you simultaneously.
“Okay.” Peter says, satisfaction in his voice. “Sleep tight, my love. Rest up.”
Peter presses a soft kiss against your hairline as you fall back to sleep.
***
“We need to talk.”
“I know,” you say. You knew this was coming. As soon as you walked into the kitchen this morning, you could tell Peter was holding something in from the hitch in his jaw. Being the gentleman he is, he gave you the grace of waking up a bit more and making sure your migraine was gone before starting any serious conversation. You watch the brown sugar dissolve into your peppermint tea as you trace the spoon around the circumference of the mug.
“Can we sit?” He asks.
You stop stirring. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.” You keep your back turned to him. Guilty tears fill your eyes.
“(Y/N), look at me. I’m not mad, I’m just….frustrated? I’m at a loss.” He amends.
Blinking wasn’t helping. You twist your face further away from Peter, determined not to let him catch a glimpse of your melodrama from the kitchen table. “It’s okay if you're angry with me. We already talked about this. And I ruined your night.”
“But that’s the problem.” Peter says. “You didn’t ruin anything. The reason I’m annoyed is because you think any little inconvenience like you being sick or unhappy is an annoyance when it’s really not. You’re my girlfriend, and I want to help. I want to figure out how to help you.” He sighs. “And before I can do that, I want to figure out what I can do better to build that trust between us."
You face Peter. “Peter, there’s nothing more you can do. You’ve been perfect.” Peter Parker is more of a perfect boyfriend than you could’ve imagined. He’s a human– he’s flawed— but he has one of the most beautiful souls you’ve ever come across. “It’s just me, I’m just…scared.” You admit. You turn your gaze to the kitchen island.
“What can I do to help you feel safer?”
And there was the crux of the issue: Peter has done everything to make you feel safe. But the wall between you and Peter has nothing to do with Peter.
“It’s hard for me to feel vulnerable with people because of…you know.”
Peter nods. He knew most of the unsavory details of your bittersweet childhood. “I know. Did I do something that triggered memories?” Peter asks, anxiety creeping into his voice.
“Peter.” You meet his eyes for the second time. “Absolutely not. You’re so good to me.” A tear drips down your cheek. “I want to tell you. About everything. I want to call you when I’m sick and tell you when I’m hurting.” You blink up at the ceiling. “It’s just so hard to break through that wall. To feel safe feeling vulnerable again. And I’ve talked about it with my therapist, I’ve been trying it’s just…such a big step.”
“Would it help if we discuss it together? All three of us?” Peter asks. The confusion must have shown on your face. “Maybe we could have a session together so we could work through this.”
“Really?” You ask, voice cracking.
“Of course, really.” Peter says, half-smiling.
“You’re not breaking up with me?” The question slips from your lips before you can hold your tongue.
Peter looks like he’s been slapped. “Over a migraine?”
“Over not being vulnerable enough. Not giving you enough.” The words leave a bad taste in your mouth. You weren’t able to give Peter what he needed. Your caged heart won’t open.
Peter stands. “(Y/N), you’ve given me more than enough. Who’s there to stitch me after patrol? Who’s on the phone with me at 3 o’clock in the morning when I have night terrors? Who has all of my grounding strategies memorized because I have panic attacks?”
A small smile slips onto your face. “Me.”
“(Y/N),” Peter smiles. “You’re the most amazing girlfriend I could ask for.”
You open your arms, and Peter wraps you in the warmest hug.
Even with someone as safe and loving as Peter, being vulnerable was going to be hard. But if there’s someone you want to go on this trek with, it was Peter Parker.
“I wouldn't want to go on this journey with anyone but you.”
Peter squeezes you tighter. “We’ll get through this together.”
---
Author's Note: Hello! This is my first fic I've ever finished, and I'm super excited to post this! I'm new to having a writing blog, but would love to start chatting!
So I wrote this Criminal Minds fan fiction, and uploaded it to AO3, so I thought, why not post it on here?
I don’t think there are many, if any, spoilers but just a warning if you haven’t watched the show last season 6.
This is set in season 6, after episode 12.
*
Pain.
Excruciating pain, ripping through his skull and causing his whole head and face to throb.
“Get it together, Spencer.” He mumbled to himself, rubbing hard at his eyes with his fingers. Maybe the harder he rubbed them, the faster the dizziness and blurriness would go away. Of course he knew that wasn’t going to happen, but he could hope, couldn’t he?
He needed hope if he was going to get through this migraine.
His head felt like it was about to explode.
Reid walked out of the bathroom, and laid down on the couch in the jet. All he could do was lie down with an arm draped over his eyes in an attempt to shield them from the lights.
Even the dimmed lights in the cabin were far too bright and made his headache worse.
“Any idea what’s up with him?” Prentiss asked Morgan, nodding her head towards Reid.
“No…he says he’s fine, but I’m not so sure.”
“He told me he pretended to have a headache to throw off the suspect. I’m not so sure he was pretending though.” Hotch said, looking at the two of them.
“Hey, Reid?” Morgan asked.
Reid didn’t respond, instead, he pretended to be asleep. The migraine was at its peak, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to carry on a conversation without tipping them off.
“Must be asleep.” Rossi said, staring at Reid.
Reid rolled onto his other side and pressed his face into the crack between the back of the couch and the seat cushions as nausea creeped up on him. His stomach flipped, and he sat up quickly, his hand darting to his stomach. Reid opened his eyes, which was a huge mistake, as the lights made the migraines much, much worse.
“You okay, pretty boy?” Morgan asked, frowning as he watched Reid’s face pale. He mumbled something incoherent before making a b-line for the bathroom and locking the door behind him. He knelt over the toilet, breathing heavily as he tried to quell the sudden nausea. It faded enough to keep him from vomiting all over the place, and he stood upright, grimacing at the headache.
Not two seconds later, there was a pounding on the door.
“I swear to God if you don’t open this door right now, I’m kicking it down.”
The volume of the pounding, coupled with the volume Morgan’s voice made him clutch his head in pain and sent him stumbling backwards.
“Just…hold on.” Reid said weakly, his voice hoarse and muffled from behind the door.
The team all exchanged worried looks. Reid opened the door, swaying slightly on his feet.
“Are you okay?” Prentiss asked as he walked past them.
“I’m fine.” He mumbled, sitting back down on the couch.
“You look like death, kid. You sick?”
He felt like death.
“I’m fine, Morgan.” He said, his tone edging on frustration. His head was killing him, and the nausea was building again; the conversation was definitely not helping anything.
They still had only been in the air for thirty minutes when the nausea came back full force. Reid inhaled sharply through his nose, and made a b-line for the bathroom. He just barely made it to the toilet before what little he’d eaten at lunch came up. Morgan and Prentiss were the only two of the team still awake, and they were both in the bathroom in an instant.
“Shit, man. Why didn’t you tell us you were sick.” Morgan sighed putting a hand on his back.
“I’m fine.” Reid groaned, standing up shakily.
“You’re in here puking your guts up. You’re not fine.”
“Airsick.” He choked out, stumbling back to the couch and collapsing onto it.
“Airsick? Really?” Prentiss asked, skeptical.
“Yes.” He mumbled, pulling his knees to his chest.
“Reid, you’ve never been airsick.”
Morgan sighed. “You’re gonna need to come up with a better excuse than that.”
Reid averted his eyes. “It’s just a headache.”
“That’s making you sick? Reid, that’s not just a headache.” Prentiss said.
“Migraine, headache…same thing.”
Prentiss shot him a flat look. “It’s not, and you know it. How long have you had it?”
“Since yesterday.”
Morgan and Prentiss gawked at each other. “Since yesterday? Why the hell didn’t you say anything, man? How long is a migraine supposed to last anyways?”
“Shhh.” Reid groaned, clutching his head. “A migraine can last anywhere from a few hours to a few days.”
“You’re squinting, want me to turn the lights off?” Prentiss asked softly
“Yes, please.”
x
Reid woke up to the sound of muffled voices, and when he opened his eyes, he realized that he was lying on a couch in an unfamiliar apartment. His head hurt too much for him to figure out where he was. He was sweating, too, and the unbearable stuffiness of the room was making his migraine much worse than it needed to be.
He sat up, and swung his legs over the side, wincing at the brightness of the room. A pair of sunglasses, two pills and a bottle of water sat on the coffee table, and he practically shoved the glasses on his face with shaky hands before taking the pills.
The stabbing pain behind his eyes was almost blinding.
He was exhausted, too.
The voices got louder, and he moaned in pain, clutching his head and ducking down to stare at the ground. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep for, and if his head didn’t hurt so badly, he’d be mortified at the fact that someone (he’s guessing Morgan) had carried him from the plane to wherever he was.
He should be more concerned at the fact that he didn’t recognize his surroundings, but he felt too crappy.
He heard footsteps in the doorway, and he reluctantly looked up.
“Hey, kid. How’s the head.” Morgan asked. “I’m guessing not any better?”
“Why am I in your apartment? And did you carry me here?”
“You were way out of it. and I wasn’t about to feel you up for your keys, so I brought you here.”
“Oh.”
“Hotch and I carried you here. You’re not my bride, I’m not gonna carry you across my threshold.” Morgan teased. Reid cracked a smile before groaning and rubbing his temples. “Can you stand? I want to move you to my room.”
“I don’t want to move, I’m fine here.” He mumbled.
“It’s not dark enough in here for you, I know the glasses are helping somewhat, but it’s still fairly bright and warm.”
Prentiss walked in from the kitchen. “Morgan and I blacked out his room while you were sleeping. We have fans going, I heard a cool, dark room is supposed to help with migraines.”
Reid nodded, and stood up, swaying on his feet. Morgan and Prentiss steadied him, and helped him into Morgan’s room. True to their word, the room was completely dark, and the fans had made the room considerably cooler than the rest of his apartment.
He stumbled to the bed, and pretty much face planted; Prentiss helped him under the covers.
“Hold on a second.” Emily said, walking into the bathroom, and returning a few moments later with a cool washcloth. “Roll on your stomach for me.”
Reid obliged, and stretched out, cuddling a pillow. “What’re you doing?”
She put the washcloth on the back of his neck, and then rubbed his back lightly. “Get some sleep, hopefully the migraine will be gone when you wake up.”
Morgan and Prentiss walked out of the room, shutting the door quietly, leaving Reid to drift to sleep.
If you’re taking requests, maybe Peter comforting emetophobic reader when she comes down with a stomach bug at his place for the first time in years?
hey anon! hope this is okay! <3
tw: throwing up, generally just feeling sick
(also, the reader's hair is long enough to be tied back in this!)
The sound of you whimpering is what wakes Peter up.
He’d been dozing off on the couch with you curled up on his chest for most of the afternoon. Warm and peaceful, tracing absentminded circles into the place where your tank top rode up, and left a sliver of skin begging for his attention.
Your weight had shifted off him after a while, and he’d chalked it up to you needing to stretch out or use the bathroom and gone back to dozing.
But then;
Deep ragged breaths. Choked gasps.
His spider-sense goes haywire and he's up in seconds.
“Y/N, baby? Are you okay?” Peter tries to not sound as worried as he feels as he makes his way down the corridor to where you've shut the bathroom door.
Another whimper makes its way to his ears and Peter’s heart clenches behind his ribs painfully when you don't reply.
“Can I come in, sweetheart?”
He hears you breathing heavily for a second before you answer, shaky and overwhelmed.
“No, no, please don’t-” your words are cut off by another gasp
Peter reasons for a second.
The door isn’t locked but you’ve also told him to not come in, and he doesn’t want to invade your space when you’re clearly hurt or upset about something.
It all goes out the window when the sound of your retching reaches him and he bursts in without a second thought.
He finds you hunched over the toilet bowl, tears rushing down your face. The warmth has drained from your skin and you look positively miserable when you turn slightly to look up at him.
"I don't want to be sick, Peter. I really don't-" you stop abruptly, pressing one hand to your hand to your stomach and the other to your mouth.
As far as he can tell, you haven't thrown up yet, but you’re shaking all over - sniffling and gasping, teary eyed as Peter kneels down next to you. You still look beautiful, even now, with red eyes and a wobbly lower lip. Still his girl, Peter thinks. Always his girl.
“Hey, hey. You’re okay, bug," he soothes you gently. "It’s gonna be okay.”
“I can’t- I can’t.”
You’re near sobbing when you reply, hand firm against your mouth. Peter wonders if you can even hear him under the agitation.
He leans forward anyway and uses the hair tie he keeps around his wrist to gather your hair back, making sure it doesn't get in the way.
“You’re okay, sweetheart. You’ll feel heaps better if you bring it up, I promise. Must have eaten something that didn't agree with you today, hm?”
His words seem to make you panic even more and you gulp so harshly that Peter hears it. You inhale deeply and press both hands against your tummy, eyes welling up as you do so.
"I can't, Peter. I can't, I'm scared-"
Over the past year that you've been dating, Peter has seen you upset, anxious, exhausted, even angry. But he has never seen you like this. Completely terrified, distressed to the point of pure dread at the prospect of being sick.
He cups your cheek tenderly with an open palm, guiding you to look up at him. Smiling at you when you turn to face him.
"I know, honey, I know. But you can do it. I've got you."
You moan a little, hands still pushing unforgivingly at your tummy - trying to dislodge the discomfort you're feeling.
And then, without warning, you pitch forward and heave with a gasp. Peter follows you down, brushing any stray stands of hair out of your face as you throw the contents of your stomach up. You're sick once, twice, until you're just dry heaving bile that dribbles into the alabaster bowl. Peter sticks by your side and murmurs easy reassurances that he hopes reach you amidst your retching.
"There you go, baby. You're doing so good. I'm so proud of you."
When it's done, you apologise to him as he wipes your face clean with a wet towel and presses gentle kisses to your sweaty skin.
"I'm sorry, Peter. I'm so, so sorry- I ruined our evening."
Peter just rubs the nape of your neck soothingly and replies.
"Bub, it's not your fault. You didn't ruin anything"
"I'm disgusting."
"No, you're just sick, and I don't mind taking care of you. Okay?"
"Mhm." You don't seem a hundred percent sold, but Peter takes it as enough.
A moment of silence follows as you focus on catching your breath again. Peter, sits by your side, watching you carefully lest another wave of nausea takes you by surprise.
"I don't think I'm going to be sick again." You say after a while, shoulders relaxing infinitesimally when the realisation dawns upon you. "I'm really tired though."
Peter squeezes your hand in his own and helps you up carefully. "Okay sweetheart, let's get you to bed, yeah? Does that sound good to you?"
"Need to brush my teeth first."
And so Peter nods and stands back as you flush the toilet and brush your teeth, eyes trained on yours in the bathroom mirror's reflection.
When you're done, he guides you to his room and helps you change into his softest t-shirt and shorts, pulling the hair tie out of your hair and tucking you in when you're changed. Peter starts stepping away but before he can, your hand fists around the hem of his sweatshirt.
"I'm just gonna go and make you some ginger tea, baby. I'll just be in the kitchen."
You thank him quietly but avoid his gaze.
"What's up?" Peter makes his way back to you, kneeling by the side of the bed and taking your hand in his, unwilling to leave you looking so distraught. "Feel like you need to throw up again?"
You shake your head no, biting your lip when heavy tears start to run down your face again.
"I'm sorry," you gulp. "This is so pathetic, I'm really sorry about all of it. I hate being sick so much."
Peter shakes his head. Firm, resolute. Squeezing your hand and pressing his lips to the crown of your head.
"You have nothing to be sorry about. Getting sick is scary and overwhelming. It's okay for you to be upset about. Don't worry your pretty self about it."
"I don't feel pretty right now."
Peter gasps in mock horror and proceeds to press kisses all over your face. trailing down from your hairline to your eyelids where his tongue cheekily swipes away at your tears, causing you to laugh.
"You're the prettiest girl I've ever seen, Y/N. Always are."
First Haikyuu fic, and sickfic in general. I apologize in advanced for how out of character they are.
Vomit warning!
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READ THE WARNING!
Word Count: 812
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It went without saying, Kenma was addicted to his video games. Kuroo knew this more than anybody, having been hanging around the quiet boy for a few years. In fact, Kuroo could count on his hands the number of times he’s seen Kenma without a device in his grasp. The only time Kenma puts down the game is for Volleyball, and when he doesn’t feel good. Which is why Kuroo is very concerned to see Kenma turn off his game and put it on the seat between the two.
The small device shook on the seat due to the unsteady jumping of the bus the team was riding. Out of the corner of Kuroo’s eyes, he saw the device slip between the crevice the two seats formed. Kenma winced and the clattering sound which rang out as the gadget made contact hit the hard floor, but made no attempt to pick it up. Yaku, who was seated directly in front of the pair, did scoop the device up and turn around to hand it to the owner.
“Hey, you dropped something…” the short third year’s voice drifted off, “Hey are you okay? You don’t look too well.”
Kenma simply grunted in response and closed his eyes tighter. Yaku sent a worried glance in Kuroos direction who simply nodded it off in hopes to get Yaku to sit back down. Much to Kuroos satisfaction, Yaku did sat back down and continued his conversation with the person he was sitting next to.
Kuroo focused on Kenma, the younger boy had his head tilted towards the window, which hid his facial expression from the third year’s view.. His thin arms were wrapped loosely around the center of his abdomen, he suddenly lifted one hand up in order to muffle a hiccup. This action, although small, greatly concerned Kuroo.
“Kitten? Are you alright? You don’t look too well,” Kuroo lightly tapped Kenma’s shoulder, to which the latter responded with a small jump and another hiccup.
Kenma turned to face Kuroo, he was noticeably more pale, which was shocking considering his natural skin tone was already rather light. His eyebrows were also furrowed in discomfort, and the team captain swears that he can see tears in the corner of the setters’ eyes.. At this point, Kuroo knew he needed to do something. He checked all around his seat for a plastic bag, or anything for Kenma to be sick in, but to no avail. He couldn’t announce Kenma’s current state to the whole bus in fear of Kenma’s becoming more sick as a result of the attention. (While the second year had grown comfortable with the team, throwing up around people would make any person a bit uncomfortable). As a result of this, Kuroo decided to tap the libero in front of him on the shoulder.
“Hey, do you have a bag? Kenma isn’t doing too well,” Kuroo near whispered.
Yaku’s eyes glanced over to Kenma before widening and reaching down for a plastic bag and discretely handing it over to Kuroo. However, Lev, who happened to be seated next to Yaku, noticed.
“Oh, hey, what’s that for?” The tall middle blocker inquired far too loudly.
His loud tone caused Yaku to shush him with a well placed chop and a glare which spoke a thousand words. However the damage was already done. Taketora, who sat behind Kenma leaned over the seat, just in time to see Kenma lurch over a plastic bag. He quickly sat back down and rustled through the bag at his feet. Kuroo gave Kenma space while still rubbing circles on his back. Kenma’s back arched once more as a harsh gag made its way up his throat. A distinct crinkling nose as vomit spilled into the bag let the few surrounding players know it was productive. Taketora finally made a reappearance above the seat, handing a water bottle to Kuroo, as Kenma’s hands were a bit full. The third year sent a grateful glance as another crinkling sound was emitting from the seat next to him. As he went to resume rubbing Kenmas back, he noticed Taketora had already taken his place. Kenma tied off the bag as the bus slowed to a stop. Kuroo helped him off the bus and handed him the bottle of water. Kenma wiped his face with a paper towel which was handed to him then swished a mouthful around his mouth before spitting it out in the grass. He then took timid sips of water. His normal skin tone began to return as a result of becoming rehydrated and finally being on solid ground again.
The coach walked up to the pair, “Alright, no more video games on the bus, we need you in top shape for matches,” the coach gave Kenma a hearty slap on the back.
Iwaoi with a pukey Iwa that completely refuses the fact that he's sick?
Of all the places for a stomach bug to set in hard, on the bus on the way back from a huge game was probably one of the worst imaginable. Iwaizumi’s luck on this point was immeasurably bad. It really did seem like the universe’s twisted sense of humor that just after scoring the winning point in the game’s final set, his stomach would start doing backflips so severe it felt like he was being disembowled.
The worst part was that he wouldn’t admit he was sick. That was what was worrying Oikawa – and by extension, the entire Seijoh volleyball team – the most.
A request, if you're taking ones that aren't from ur prompt lists! A character with a bloated, gassy painful belly that's so absolutely packed full of air that they can't stop venting it from both ends. (I'm also fine with emeto and scat-- and if you include one, including both is even better!)
A and B are in a new relationship, and B is slowly learning that A has issues with their digestive system.
One day, after dinner, A starts looking really uncomfortable. They can't seem to get comfortable, as they shift around on the sofa a lot, and their hand strays to their belly often. Stifling a couple of burps, they continue to watch TV with B.
After a little while, they get up and head for the bathroom without a word, where they proceed to let out a huge belch. Since they've been holding it in, it hurts their throat and their stomach to let go, and they lean against the wall for a little while, panting.
When they come back, B snakes an arm around to start rubbing their belly.
"You feel kind of bloated, eh?"
A blushes and squirms, embarrassed, but nods. The rubbing stirs up another burp, and A whimpers in embarrassment, but B chuckles and squishes them closer, telling them not to worry.
Then, a tiny fart squeaks its way out, and A covers their face, clearly sheepish. B reassures them again, telling them that they just want A to feel better, since dinner clearly didn't agree with them. A nods, submitting to B's belly rubs, since their poor tummy really does feel upset.
They belch and fart continually for the next ten minutes, until their belly gurgles ominously.
"I feel a little sick," A confesses. It's been an hour since they ate, and B is worried that the food might have been bad, since it's giving A so much trouble. B pulls A to their feet and shepherds them to the bathroom, with one hand in the small of their back, the other a comforting presence on A's swollen tum.
A kneels down slowly before the bowl, trying to ride out the nausea. B's gentle belly rubs bring up a few more burps, but A scrambles to their feet all of a sudden. The nausea is still there, but there's now a huge pressure and terrible stabbing cramps in their gut. Yanking down their shorts and panties, they whimper and howl and waste explodes out of them, and B can see that they're barely pushing, just letting it flow out.
A is clutching their belly, rocking back and forth, and B leans them back so that they can slip one large hand onto the curve of their bloated gut and push down. A jerks and writhes, the pressure uncomfortable but productive, and more filthy blasts of air emerge. They're sobbing quietly from the pain in their belly and ass, and B tries their best to comfort A while helping them to get it all out.
Ten minutes later, A can't seem to pass anything else, even though their stomach still feels upset. They get cleaned up, and snuggle back on the couch with B, this time with their head in B's lap and a gentle, deep massage stimulating their guts. It's not long before they start farting again, and they dash to the bathroom soon after.
Bonus: they're too tired the third time, so B has to carry them there.
When A turns the key and steps in, wheeling their suitcase in behind them, they don't realise that anything is wrong at first. The TV is on, things are otherwise quiet, and their partner B can't be home yet from work, they think. That's before A hears the groaning and sniffling from the bathroom.
A steps closer. B has a sensitive tummy, and A thinks that it's possible they ate something wrong. But as they set down their keys and toe off their shoes, that's when they realise the big problem. On the counter is a small stack of take out receipts, all dated for late into the night. Sighing, they head for the bathroom.
The door isn't locked. "Sweetheart?" A calls. "I'm home." B looks up from their perch on the toilet, their eyes red-rimmed and watery, and attempts a smile. Then, their face contorts and a splashing sound is heard.
"Sorry," B groans weakly. "I'm not feeling very well." A loud burst of gas rips its way out explosively, and B whimpers. "I had to call in sick today. Thank god its the weekend tomorrow."
"Let me see," A coaxes. Though they're tired from their business trip, their partner clearly needs some tender loving care. "I saw the takeout receipts on the counter, baby. Have you been eating nothing but takeaway?"
B uncurls, letting A take a look at the bloated swell of their upset belly. It gurgles angrily, and B doesn't bother to hold back a pained sigh. Gently, A starts to palpate B's lower abdomen.
"I've been putting in a lot of overtime," they confess. "I've just been rushing out of the door in time to go to work because I'm so tired from the night before. When I do get home, nothing is open, so it has to be takeaway. Ooh..."
A sighs, half in exasperation and half in tender sympathy. It looks as if they really can't leave B alone. While they were together, A had gradually convinced B to start eating regular meals and sleep earlier. It seemed like that had gone out the window the moment A had left for a week. B's belly burbled beneath their hand, and B bent forward with a choked moan. More soft stool pattered its way out, punctuated by painful sounding little emissions of gas. It continued for a while, and A was concerned at how hard they could feel B was pushing beneath their palm. A few long minutes later, B finally slumped to the side, exhaling noisily and heavily, reaching out blindly for the pack of wet wipes.
A furrowed their brows. "You must be in a lot of pain," they murmured. "I haven't seen you use the wet wipes in a while."
"I've been... Well, I kept feeling constipated throughout the week, but it's usually diarrhea when I finally go," B admitted. "I've been so bloated, and then when it hits and I have to go, I have to run or else I don't make it! Oh, A, I'm so sorry..." B sniffles and grabs A's hand, although they bow their head in shame.
"Shh, shh. I do wish you'd taken better care of yourself, but I'm not upset with you. Why don't you get cleaned up while I hop in the shower? You can join me if you'd like, then we'll watch a bit of TV before we go to bed." B nods, face aflame as A tilts their face up to kiss their forehead gently.
Bonus: B's tummy wakes them up in the middle of the night, and A rubs it for them until they run off and have more diarrhea.
Bonus 2: the next morning, B doesn't particularly feel like eating, but A makes then some toast, eggs, and slices fruit. B's stomach starts churning again after they drink some coffee, and they fidget miserably until A realises they're uncomfortable. B farts loudly and turns crimson, hugging their belly, which is still a little bloated. A palpates their gut until the cramping forces another huge fart, this one causing a tiny amount of mess to seep out. They barely make it to the toilet before the floodgates open.
Bonus 3: after yet another near accident, A suggests a pull-up just in case. B had last needed them months ago when they'd caught a nasty stomach bug, to avoid accidentally soiling their clothes.
If you can, can you write a fic where the group goes out to eat and after, Namjoon goes to his studio to work... but later, Namjoon has diarrhea from the bad food, and he’s locked in his studio and has to call for help? But he has to find a solution because his help is taking too long...
a/n: I gotchu fam, i’ll finish some more requests tomorrow, thank you again! I hope you enjoy! TW: scat
———————————
Seokjin was tired of cooking for a change.
The others knew how to cook and it was about damn time they started trying it, but even today they were too tired to even attempt, and Seokjin couldn’t blame them.
Their dance practice happened to go over so much longer than the boys had anticipated, and the company needed to hold meetings for just so many business propositions that had the all excited but just, incredibly worn out. The group had an even brighter future ahead of them, and it was a complete and total honor. But they were starving, and none of them felt like cooking. So they book it to the closest and most promising looking restaurant which, just happened to be quite new and had a variety of unique looking things on the menu. The boys had quite the feast, and when Namjoon returns to the dorms, all full and inspired, he locks himself in the studio.
Literally.
It isn’t on purpose. In fact he locks the door and somehow loses the key but, he figures he’ll be fine. He could either sleep here or call one of the boys when he’s finished so they can unlock the door and free him from his solitude. And for a while, everything is great. Piece by piece, Namjoon begins to put together a new song. The melody comes clean, smooth, beautiful. The vocal line is meaningful and Namjoon has no idea who he should give it to but, this song is a song for anybody, maybe even all of them if he could get Yoongi and Hoseok into the booth for a quick session.
But then the bubbling in his stomach begins, a light tugging of his gut forcing him to squirm in his seat. It doesn’t feel good, by any means. In fact it’s distracting Namjoon from his work which, is annoying as all hell. But he journeys on, the song becoming more and more complete as he comes up with a solid chorus that transitions gloriously into the bridge. Namjoon would be very excited by now.
If it weren’t for the overwhelming pain in his gut.
The bubbling and the gurgling has begun to fester and infect him from the inside. It’s painful, really painful, and Namjoon needs a bathroom. The rapper makes to unlock the door before the knob abruptly halts, something clearly blocking its movement.
It’s then that Namjoon remembers, he’s locked in.
The rapper grunts as he allows his hands to cradle his tender stomach. The twitch of his stomach is not only more apparent but harder to ignore, and Namjoon needs to get to a fucking bathroom, fast. It takes Namjoon forever, but eventually he finds his cellphone. (As you can see, the rapper is not only clumsy but incredibly forgetful) He calls Jungkook who, of course doesn’t answer. The brat is probably playing Overwatch and paying his phone no mind. He then calls Yoongi who, doesn’t answer. He’s probably asleep. He finally gets ahold of one of his bandmates who, just so happens to be Seokjin.
“Hello?” His hyung answers. “Hey, hyung uh… I kinda locked myself in the studio and-” Namjoon’s gut takes that moment to wrench painfully, the force only pulling down, telling Namjoon that whatever it is, needs to be out of his body. “Hyung I need you to get me out of here.”
The rapper hears a brief pause on the other line before the singer starts to laugh, the sound imitating a windshield wiper. “How the hell did you manage to do that Joon?” Seokjin asks incredulously. Namjoon groans as another cramp tears through his gut, causing him to place a hand on it in anguish.
“Seokjin this isn’t the time for games I need you to come and unlock this damn door.” Namjoon hears a gasp before Seokjin snaps, and rightfully so.
“If you want to be ungrateful and have an attitude then fine. You can sleep in the studio. Goodnight.”
“Wait no Jin-”
There is a click before the incessant disconnected tone rings through the room. Namjoon grits his teeth before nearly throwing the device across the room. Okay, he could have been more polite when speaking to his elder, it was only respectful. However, he is literally about to shit himself and he doesn’t have time for semantics.
And after about thirty minutes or so, Namjoon realizes that Seokjin’s threat was indeed not empty and he was most definitely not coming to open the door.
Namjoon begins to pace back and forth, a feeble attempt to get his mind off of the pain, as well as a way to cope with the fact that he might actually have to shit in his studio. It’s the only other solution he can think of and right now, if he doesn’t do something then he he’s gonna have to burn these pants and he doesn’t want to do that.
He likes his pants thank you very much.
Namjoon whimpers as the cramps become too intolerable. He’s gonna shit himself, there’s no denying it so, he might as well do it in the cleanest way possible. The rapper grabs the nearest trash can he can find before taking a deep breath, pulling together every last shred of dignity he has left. No one has to know, and in case someone comes for him in the morning to let him out, he can hide the can and dump it later.
Everything is gonna be okay.
But just as Namjoon unzips his pants, pulling them down to sit on top of the trash can, the lock to the door clicks.
Fuck.
But it’s too late, because Namjoon’s bowels have already let loose and everything toxic and burning in his stomach is being released.
Right into the trash can.
Namjoon stifles a wounded grunt as the door opens.
“Here I come, Kim Seokjin to save the day, again. You should be thanking me profusely Joon, for not being mean enough to let you sleep here because if it were Yoongi… Joon?”
Seokjin is immediately at the rapper’s side, the younger wincing in pain as the molten lava pours from his backside. Seokjin hisses through his teeth as he rubs back Namjoon’s hair.
“Oh baby, why didn’t you tell me you had to use the bathroom?” He genuinely asks, sounding somewhat dissappointed and yet, guilty.
Namjoon groans as his body folds over. “I think it was the food…” He admits, his stomach still being torn up from the inside out. Seokjin sighs as he rubs circles in Namjoon’s back.
“So you’re sick.” He concludes. Namjoon nods as he palms his stomach as softly as he can. Seokjin kisses his head. “Let me know when you’re done so we can move to the bathroom, okay?” Namjoon groans.
“Okay…”
As soon as Namjoon’s stomach lets up, Seokjin gently guides the sick boy to the bathroom, giving him the privacy to relieve himself, as well as clean himself up. Seokjin waits patiently and when the rapper comes out, his cheeks flushed and his stomach still hurting, Seokjin hugs him.
And Namjoon hugs back without a second thought, his breathing labored but his heart warm.
“Thanks for coming hyung.” Seokjin giggles before kissing Namjoon’s hair once more, the younger immediately blushing.
“You’re welcome, and next time, don’t be such a shithead.” He jokes, hoping that Namjoon caught onto his little pun.
Unfortunately he does but when they get back to the dorms, the two fall asleep, Namjoon in his arms as Seokjin rubs his stomach to sleep.
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a/n: I really hope you liked it anonie! I will complete more requests tomorrow. gn!
Summary: Jungkook stomach finally gets relieve. Feat Jin and Jimin as the caretaker.
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Jungkook wanted to follow the advice of his Hyung, maybe sleep will do some good. He still didn't felt the urge to use the bathroom, but he decided it would be better to try to go before he sleeps. Not risking it to mess himself. Secretly he rushed to the bathroom and sat down on the toilet. With a groan he pushed, but nothing came out, not even gas was leaving him. Only sharp cramps shot through his stomach. He doubles over and holds his tummy in pain. The younger didn't knew why nothing came out. Normally, by now he would've diarrhea or he would stink up his room. But all he could feel was the gas swirling around in his belly. With a huff he stood up and pulles his joggers up, making his way to his room again. Carefully laying down in his bed he decided to sleep and wait till the medicine kicked in.
Jungkook tried to sleep, he really did and normally it didn't took long for him, but today it was different. His belly didn't gave him a break, as it gurgled unhappy. He felt himself expanding by minute. The younger palmed his stomach and a moan left his mouth. Wondering why he was so stupid to make such a mistake.
Half and a hour later the door to Jungkooks room opened and a concerned Yoongi entered.
"How are you feeling?" the rapper asked. Jungkook only shrugged.
"My stomach really hurts, Hyung" the singer said moaning.
"Hm the medicine should help you soon. If you need anything, we're here." Yoongi said and ruffled the youngers hair before he left the room.
After a while the rest of the members arrived at the dorm, all happy how they spended the day. Everyone changes into comfier clothes and they made their way into the living room. Laugher filled the room again, till they died down as they saw Yoongi and Taehyung sitting on the couch looking really worried.
"Are you guys okay?" Namjoon asked frowning. That made the worried pair look up.
"Uh..yeah..we are." Taehyung said. With that the rest of the members got really confused.
"Yeah. Where is he? Did something happen?!" Jin askes, already worried that something bad happend to the younger.
"We watched a movie and he suddenly complained of his tummy hurting, so we bought him to bed and gave him medicine to settle his tummy" Taehyung explained sadly.
"I checked on him after 30 minutes, but he only was in more pain. He really looks like shit." Yoongi added. Everyone looked worried at the two.
"Yoongi language!" Seokjin scolded. "Well, I look after him." he added.
"I'll come with you!" Jimin said. Both walked towards Jungkooks room. Opening the youngers door and carefully entering, if he fell asleep they didn't wanted to wake him up. However, the younger was wide awake, clutching his stomach and groaning. Jin rushed to the youngers side and sat down beside him, slowly rubbing the others arm up and down, Jimin slowly following.
"Hey, Kook. How's your stomach doing?" the older asked concerned. All Jungkook could do is shake his head and moaning as another painful cramp hit him. That worried Jin and Jimin more than they liked. The eldest decided that it would be the best to try to rub Jungkooks stomach, that always helped the others if they had a stomach ache. As soon as he started the rubbing and adding pressure, Jungkook pushed the olders hand away.
"N-no, don't Hyung. Hurts too m-much" the younger cried out and clutched the upset organ. Jin was at a loss of words, he didn't knew how to help the younger anymore. Jimin on the other hand was so worried that he rushed beside the younger in the bed and pulled him into his arms. Slowly rubbing his back and with that Jungkook calmed down. Jin sighted.
"I leave you two alone, maybe you can get him to sleep a bit. If it doesn't get better, come down and we'll call a doctor" the eldest said with a concerned smile and left the room. Jimin positioned himself behind Jungkook and held him. Carefully he layed his hands over Jungkooks painful swell, only to notice that it was rock hard and incredible bloated. He was so worried about the maknae.
"Do you know why your belly is so upset?" Jimin asked softly. Jungkook swallowed. Now was the time to open up, sooner or later he had to.
"N-no" the younger lied and Jimin noticed that, he knew the younger too well. But he didn't knew why he was lying. He sighed.
"Jungkookie, you're lying. I can't help you, if you don't tell me and I'm really worried." the older said sadly. Jungkook felt guilty, he doesn't wanted to worry his hyungs so much.
"I promise, I won't tell anyone" Jimin added. The younger chewed on his lower lip and finally he spoke up.
"I drank bananamilk and ate ice cream and...u-hm...I'm kinda lactose intolerant and I forgot to but new pills. I tried to use the toilet but.. nothing comes out.." embarrassed he mumbled the last part. Jimins eyes widened. He wanded to scolde the younger, but decided against it. Instead he didn't said anything at all, thinking about something that would help. While he was thinking his finger tips roamed over Jungkooks bloated stomach, rubbing it softly. The touch so light that Jungkook only felt it a bit. However, that was enough to let up a bubbly fart. The younger moaned in relieve, finally the pressure in his belly lessens a bit and he relaxed his muscles.
"Does that feel good?" Jimin asked softly. The younger nodded. Sure he was embarrassed about being gross in front of his Hyung, but the relieve it gave him, took the over hand.
"Yes, please don't stop. That really helps." the younger breathed. They continued this for a bit, Jimin softly rubbing the youngers stomach and Jungkook letting up bubbly farts that soon turned wet. Jungkook felt a pressure lower down and he knew what that meant. He rushed to the bathroom and as soon as he sat down, hot liquid rushed out of him. He moaned, finally he could relieve himself. As he emptied himself he could feel how the bloat of his belly deflated a bit, the pressure letting up.
After a while of the torture of liquid diarrhea, only airt farts left his body. As he felt good enough, he cleaned himself and walked back to his room. There Jimin waited patiently and Jungkook plopped down into the olders embrace. A sigh of relieve leaving the youngers lips. Jimin wrapped his arms around Jungkook and one hand he layed on the youngers middle again. Somewhat relieved that the youngers stomach doesn't felt that hard and bloated anymore.
"Do you feel better?" Jimin asked softly and Jungkook nodded.
"Yeah, thanks Jiminie Hyung" the younger smiled.
"You have to thank the others tomorrow too! Tae and Yoongi Hyung got really worried!" Jimin remembered with a smile. The younger only nodded and burried his face into his hyungs chest. Genuinely happy about how much all of his hyungs care about him. Of course, that wasn't the last trip to the bathroom that day, but every time he came back, Jimin was still there, his arms open for the younger. Jungkook was so happy that he opened up to Jimin.
Hello could you please write Jimin with an upset stomach and Jungkook tries to takes care of him? I love your blog!
I was already working on some jikook so it worked out well. I’m not sure if this was what you wanted but I hope you enjoy nonetheless! 💖
TW: Emeto/Scat
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Jimin should’ve known better, he really should’ve.
However, being hunger stricken for what felt like a decade to him though it was just a day, he didn’t think much of it when he grabbed the container of leftover kimchi at the back of the fridge.
He was now paying a hefty price for each bite he scarfed down deliciously as his stomach gave another displeasing gurgle.
The dancer buries his face into his plush pillow, letting out a moan as he feels another harsh cramp creep up his abdomen. He curls up miserably, pulling the covers up with one hand while the other was harnessed around his achy middle.
The door creaked open “Jimin?”
Jimin peeked through the covers, wincing at the light that seared through like a paled vamp . “Kook? What are you doing here?”
The younger shrugged, waddling over to the bed and crawling in before mumbling “Can’t sleep..”
Jimin sighed but allowed Jungkook to drape his arm over his middle nonetheless, despite how much it was protesting.
He felt his stomach tighten painfully, letting out a silent gasp. Jungkook snapped his eyes open “Hyung? What happened?” He frowned at the beads of sweat that formed on his brow and how his face twisted in pain.
“It’s nothing Kookie. Sleep..” Jimin bit out, trying to sound as convincing as possible though he wasn’t buying it. On cue, his stomach gave out a loud gurgle. His stomach was swirling as he felt a tug at his gut, widening his eyes he grabbed Jungkook’s arm “I- Just.. need to use the bathroom”
He chokes out, freeing himself as he leapt off the bed and dashed to the bathroom. Jungkook sat up quickly, pouting deliriously.
Undoing his sweats with frantic hands, Jimin sat on the toilet seat. Arms draped tied around his middle as he leans over with a grunt. He pushes only a little, the action alone opening his floodgates as hot liquid poured out of him.
Jimin winced, feeling his stomach bubble from under his palms as he pants softly “Jimin Hyung…” Jungkook knocks “Are you okay in there?”
“M’fine Jungkook- argh!” He leant over miserably as the pain seized his insides, “I’m coming in..” Jungkook announces. Jungkook silently steps in, eyeing the older with worried eyes as Jimin sniffles.
“You shouldn’t be in here it’s gross” Jimin retorts as he shivers, if only Jungkook was ears to that. He frowns at the sound of liquid plopping into the porcelain and moves to open the window slightly “What’s gotten you so sick hyung?”
Jimin’s lips quiver dangerously before bursting into tears “I-I don’t know!”
Jungkook kneels in front of him, cupping his cheeks gently as he wipes his tears “don’t cry hyung.. you’ll be alright, are you finished?”
Jimin shakes his head, his stomach drooping as nausea now quells in his chest. He feels his throat burn as his tongue coats in saline “I feel really sick Jungkookie...”
Jungkook sighs, still not comprehending “I know that Hyungie but–” he isn’t given much time to shuffle back when Jimin pitches forward with a hand clamped to his mouth, vomit spurting through his fingers as Jungkook yelps in surprise “Shit, Hyung!”
He hastily grabs the trash can from under the sink and shoves it onto Jimin’s lap, just in time for when his shoulders roll with a deep blech. Jungkook flinches, rubbing circles into his back as he regurgitates thick waves of orangey, chunky sick.
Jimin retches, whimpering as he feels his rear burn and gags when the stench fills his nostrils. Neither end letting up.
He coughs up a mouthful of sick while Jungkook shushes him, whispering sweet nothings into his ear “Shh shh, just let it out baby.. you’ll feel better afterwards” Caressing his back slowly.
Soon enough, his bowels tapered into just empty farts but his stomach was still seizing up which left him dry heaving over the trashcan
The younger singer tsks while flushing, gently coaxing the bucket out of his deathly grip. “You’re done pumpkin, there’s nothing left in you to bring up I promise..” Jungkook whispers sweetly, Jimin nods as he hoists him to a stand, letting his dongsaeng help clean him up no matter how embarrassing it seemed.
Jungkook sets the trashcan aside, carefully leading Jimin to the sink. He passes him his toothbrush and Jimin pouts “I'm never having Kimchi ever again..”
hello! first of all, i love ur writing! i've had this scenario in my head for a while, could you write it? it goes like this: jk leaves practice early bc he feels too bad & goes to sleep in his bed. fast forward hours later, he wakes up to the sounds of everyone coming back & realizes he has messed the bed multiple times as he was sleeping. before he can react at all, his stomach rebels again & he messes again, disgusted he pukes and starts crying loudly. his hyungs find him & take care of him ♡
A/N: thank you for the compliments love! a lot goes on in this one so watch the triggers plez. Thank you for the request!❤︎❤︎❤︎
BTS AU: Medical student Hoseok finds it hard to stomach any food after his graphic studies. Luckily, roommate Namjoon is there with some tummy rubs
Collab with the amazing @featherypromises
TW: Emeto
Jung Hoseok was finishing his notes from the previous slide in the empty lab. He had completed surgery practicals on animals, but he was moving onto cadavers... the slides alone made him queasy. The discoloration and the... appearance of the veins... and the blood pooling before it was removed...
Hoseok spun away from the projected images as a small amount of vomit filled his mouth. He swallowed with difficulty. His breathing was labored. He had to get over this or he'd never become a successful doctor.
A sigh was heard from afar. His roommate Kim Namjoon, majoring in AI (Artificial Intelligence) stood there with an oppressed look on his face, arms crossed “Yah, why don’t you call it a night already”
Hoseok grimaced, Kim Namjoon was every parents' dream child. He was a born leader, a talented artist, spoke 4 languages, and he was brilliant! He heard that Joonah was in the top 1% of tested students in South Korea. Hoseok couldn't even hate him for it. The boy worked hard.
He sighed, glaring daggers at him anyway.
"Go away smarty-pants, some of us have to study."
Namjoon paid no heed, swinging a chair out before climbing on it, hugging its back rest. He twists the screen, a foul look on his face with a mutter under his breath “ugh..grim”
He turned to his roommate, pulling the papers out of his hands and flicking through them with an approved nod. “Come on you glum. Some of us have to eat you know” he taps his head with the documents “I got take-out for two”
Hoseok felt his stomach flip at the mere mention of the other f word. He swallowed and shut his eyes against the glowing images on the wall. Hoseok shuddered at the memory of the grotesque images.
"You just save the other portion... I don't think I'll be hungry... for the rest of my life."
“Hmm” Namjoon hummed, stroking his chin with his index and thumb. Swiftly walking around his friend, before holding him by the shoulders and pulling him to a stand. Already shoving him out the door “Let’s say you owe me one, so you can eat it to do the least sunshine boy” He chuckled
Hoseok groaned,
"Were you even speaking Korean just now?"
He let his roommate force him bodily from the room.
“Well, someone’s left their brain behind” Namjoon jokes, sat at the table and ridding the food of the poly bags. He takes out each container of delicacies like kimchi, pork belly, black bean noodles and his most craved. Blood ox soup. Rubbing his hands in excitement and takes the chopsticks, splitting it in half and launching the food into his mouth “eat up buddy”
Hoseok couldn't even look at it.
He stood and mumbled about going to the restroom. He held his breath. Ugh…
“Hob-ah! Come have a bite” He twirled his chopsticks around, frowning in concern that his friend was barely eating anything these days. Dunking the chopsticks into the soup he picks a piece of meat, getting to his feet and holding it before the latter’s mouth, a hand ducked underneath it “Hobi say ahh”
Hoseok feels tears well up in his eyes and clamps a hand over his mouth and races to their half bathroom in their room. His feet slip and he falls but his hands catch the rim of the toilet. He pulls himself up and retches his back arching violently.
Namjoon froze. Trying to comprehend the situation, did he do something wrong?
He thought to himself, tilting his head a little with his brows pinched in worry till a loud retch sounded through the apartment.
“Shit” he cussed, quickly darting to the bathroom to see Hoseok hauled over the toilet seat miserably
Hoseok winced at the pain in his hip and side where he fell but his face quick was beyond his control as he vomited bile and the granola bar he had eaten for breakfast hours ago.
His feet slid on a carelessly dropped towel and he clung to the toilet bowl with shaking hands.
“Hey hey easy” Namjoon warned. Crouching down he placed a steady hand on his back. Helping him over the bowl so he doesn’t get anymore mess anywhere or on anyone.
Hoseok's tears trickled into the porcelain, reminding him of the hideous mess in the bowl: the bile, which was made by the liver and released by the gallbladder, his head swam and he heaved and coughed.
“Aish..you should’ve said if you were feeling queasy you doughnut.” His fellow 94’ liner light-heartedly scolded, rubbing his palm up and down the bridge of his back.
“Anything more to let up?” He adds nonchalantly, this was the fewer the norm. He knew hoseok couldn’t handle the vile images with a stomach as squeamish as his. Why he still wanted to be a doctor he had no clue..
Hoseok gasped and coughed up a few acidic, nasty drops more before shaking his head. He slid bonelessly to the floor. The cool tile cooled his head a bit, making the swimming vision clear.
"Just leave me here to die. Then donate my body so someone else can throw up because of me."
“You sound like you’ve OD’ed on fucking morphine Hoseok” Namjoon laughed while soaking the towelette under the tap, reaching over to flush the puke filled bowl too
Namjoon sat down with a sigh, wringing the cloth out before tenderly wiping at Hoseok’s face and the spittle of sick that had got on his chin. He snorted “you aren’t gonna find such a friend that cleans after you get sick huh? I’m truly one of a kind..” He giggles to himself as he helped Hoseok off the floor
Hoseok nodded tiredly and groaned. His stomach gurgled threateningly and cramped viciously causing him to cry out:
"Ah! Ah-ah-ah! Aiish! That really hurts!"
Namjoon frowned, hoisting the boy up with his arms and letting him lean his weight a hand on his stomach. “Still nauseous or crampy just crampy Hobi?”
Hoseok gasped and doubled over Namjoon's arm dry heaving. "C-cramping. Didn't wanna eat... Didn't wanna be sick..." his voice was hoarse and weak.
“Okay Hobi, Lets get you comfortable first yeah?” Namjoon muttered, voice slow and heavy with worry. Not usually the affectionate (Hoseok) out of the pair, he resorted to stroking his hair back a little which was sweaty and disheveled.
He walked out the restroom ever so carefully with Hoseok, supporting him fully as he winced in pain and set him into his bed “did you want any water? Heating pad? Medicine?”
Hoseok cringed. Even water he would pay them a return visit very quickly at this point, and without food or water medicine would not be kind to him. He limped over to the bed and clutched Namjoon's hand, tears trickling down, as the younger man lowered him into the narrow bed.
"P-please. Don't leave m-me... Joonie!" Hobi's thin frame was curled into a question mark. Hoseok pressed Namjoon's warm hand firmly into his stomach, moaning as the warmth of his large hand began to relax his muscles.
“I won’t leave Hobi-ah, Just relax” Namjoon comforts as he sat down, rubbing comforting circles onto Hoseok’s bloated pouch of a tummy.
Namjoon found it hard not to coo at how Hoseok’s dramatic pout so he carded his hands through his locks and placed a soft kiss behind his ear “Get some sleep if you can, I’m right here”
Hoseok released a shuddering watery sigh and closed his eyes feeling Namjoon's usually clumsy hands relaxing him and taking away the pain. Slowly, the anxiety and pain faded, revealing a softer, more vulnerable Hobi. He slept, not caring for a few blessed hours about his success or his family's expectations... he was just Hoseok and that was enough.
Anon asked me for a Yuta scat/eprocto and I was dying to write something like that! That one got kinda long since I may have got a little too excited with it but ldjdkdhdjdh
Here we go, hope you guys like it~
Sah xx
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Yuta was usually a pretty healthy person. Japanese food is usually pretty light and healthy, and Yuta also liked to play sports and exercise. But the thing is, when you're busy, it gets really hard to stay healthy. Yuta didn't remember when was the last time he had a proper meal. He ended up getting used to just eating junk food on airports and roadside cafeterias. He didn't really liked it, but he hadn't really paid attention to it until it finally started messing up with his stomach.
He was sitting with the boys, they all just talking and joking around, since they finally had a night off. Suddenly he felt his stomach gurgle. His expression changed instantly, while he moved his hand to rub his belly a little bit. He could feel it bloating slowly, starting to get kinda unconfortable. He sighed, deciding to go to his room and lay down for a while, just until the sick feeling stopped.
- I'm gonna go to my room, those days of working non stop are finally getting on me. - He laughed a little, standing up as his friends agreed and told him goodnight.
When he got to his room, he instantly laid down on his bed and unzipped his pants, helping to relief some of the pressure in his belly, which just kept gurgling and, by now, had started cramping really bad.
Yuta moaned softly, trying his all to get confortable, but he just couldn't. His stomach was hurting so much at this point, that the poor boy even considered calling someone to help him, but he was just so embarassed. It was so embarassing to admit he was actually gassy, but yeah, he was. And the worst part was that he couldn't even get anything out, no matter how much he pushed.
The poor guy was starting to get really frustrated at the fact that he was actually going to need someone's help. He felt so disgusting.
He turned to his side, hugging his belly and curling up into a fetal position, trying to just sleep, but that's when he heard the door opening.
He looked at it, seeing Taeyong. Of course, it had to be him. He probably had noticed something about Yuta's behavior, that the others wouldn't ever pay attention to.
Taeyong looked worried. He got closer to Yuta, sitting on his bed.
- Are you feeling okay, Yuta? - He asked, rubbing Yuta's arm.
Yuta just whined, feeling way too embarassed to talk about what was really wrong. His belly gave a loud gurgle, and something seemed to click on Taeyong's brain.
- Is your stomach upset, angel? - He asked. Yuta let out a whimper, the cramps in his stomach getting stronger and stronger by the minutes.
The poor boy actually felt like crying.
Taeyong put his hand on Yuta's belly, feeling how bloated it was. He looked at the japanese, finally seeming to understand what was happening.
- Yuta, are you gassy...? - Taeyong asked softly, noticing how embarassed Yuta was.
Yuta's cheeks got red. He whimpered, trying really hard not to cry, but nodded a little.
- Oh, baby... - Taeyong sighed, starting to rub Yuta's belly softly, trying to comfort him. - There's no need to be embarassed, hm? You're clearly in pain, I want to help you.
Yuta could feel his stomach gurgling, as Taeyong's hands helped lessen the cramps, but he was still so full.
Soon, he felt some pressure going down. He whimpered, scared of doing it in front of Taeyong.
He started to move a little, looking unconfortable, making Taeyong confused.
- Are you okay? - He asked again. Suddenly, he got what was happening, but he had to be really careful to talk about it. - Yuta, do you need to... ?
Taeyong didn't even end the sentence, seeing that Yuta had started crying softly.
- No, Yuta, don't cry, please... - He tried to calm Yuta down.
- S-Sorry I-I'm disgusting I know... Y-You don't need to deal with it... - Yuta whimpered, his face getting red and tears falling down his cheeks.
- No, baby, that's not true... You're in pain, Yuta, if that's what you need to do to feel better, just do it, I don't care.
Without giving time for Yuta to answer, Taeyong applied more pressure on the japanese's belly, making a low fart come out of him slowy. Yuta whined, trying to cover his face, the crying intensifying.
- Shh... Please, Tata, don't cry. - Taeyong started to rub Yuta's hair with his other hand to try calming him down. - You just need to let it out of your system. All the shitty food he have been eating recently must be really getting on you, buddy...
Yuta just kept sobbing softly, moaning as more farts started coming out. He hated to admit it, but it actually made him feel a little better.
The situation stayed like that for a while, Taeyong rubbing Yuta's belly and hair, while Yuta farted and cried, embarassed. Just then, Yuta felt something... Different.
He felt something actually shift inside of him, and he knew he had to get to the bathroom, fast. He got up, walking past Taeyong, who didn't even have time to ask what was going on.
Yuta sat on the toilet in time for everything to start coming out of him. It hurted a lot. The poor boy started sobbing louder at this point, hearing Taeyong's voice from the other side of the door.
- Yuta, can I come in? - Taeyong asked inoccently, really wanting to help the younger.
Yuta didn't know what to answer. He didn't want Taeyong to see him like that, he was already embarassed enough. But, at the same time, he really just wanted a little bit of comfort, so he didn't even complain when Taeyong opened the door, looking at him.
- Poor baby... - Taeyong got closer to Yuta. The smell in there wasn't good at all, but Taeyong didn't want to make the sick boy feel even worse, so he just stayed there, rubbing Yuta's back as the japanese cried and moaned in pain and embarrassment.
- I-It h-hurts... - Yuta cried, still hugging his belly.
- I know, Tata, I know... - Taeyong knelt down next to him, starting to rub his belly again, trying to help things get out, so that the pain could finally stop.
They stayed like for a good couple of minutes, until Yuta finally felt sighly better. The pain in his belly decreased a lot, but he was now met by a strong wave of weakness and dizziness.
He managed to clean himself, but ended up having to be carried by Taeyong to his bed, where he laid down, feeling really tired and sick.
Taeyong went to get some water for him, but when he came back, Yuta was already sleeping. His belly was still making some sick noises, so Taeyong decided to lay down by his side and rub his belly, trying to get the boy to feel better.
And that's how their night ended. Soon, Taeyong was also asleep, with Yuta safe in his arms.
Missing my girlfriend (!) = inspiration for Soft Emeto. Please consider…
Cuddling on the couch, one of you not feeling so well. Tender kisses on temples, fingers intertwined
Standing in the kitchen, awaiting the teapot whistle. Holding each other, her unsettled stomach grumbling in the quiet, the swell of it against your palm. Wondering if tea will help, or just make it worse
Walking in the park, she touches her stomach. Eye contact, that look. Both of you a little worried, a little warm
Nighttime, too late. She can’t sleep. Nauseous, maybe a bit feverish. Bloated, crouching near the toilet, waiting, waiting. Rubbing her back and holding her hand. Sick burps, sympathy
Snuggled in bed, rubbing each other’s tummies. One of you awfully bloated and hurting, the other trying to distract, soothe. Foreheads together, stealing kisses between moans
Saturday sun, but she’s too quiet, too pale. Holding her hand on a bench. Noticing oh, oh darling, your stomach– a bathroom, unbuttoned pants, productive burps. Comfort. Gentle kisses, afternoon in
On the couch again, too much food. Stuffed groans, playful looks. Kissing her cheek, her mouth, her neck. Arousal adding to bellyaches, an evening of whining, hiccuping, mutual caretaking
By the time Quinn started fighting the urge to gag over his textbook, he knew it was time to call it quits and head home. He’d been hoping to get a lot of studying done in the quiet of the library, but since the moment he’d sat down, all he’d done was discreetly rub circles into his stomach and swallow down bitter-tasting saliva.
His stomach gurgled ominously beneath his clothes and Quinn fought the urge to groan. Whatever this was had come on quickly and left him feeling miserable.
Muffling a burp into his fist, he gathered his things, shouldering his bag and headed out the door.
He could smell the greasy food from a nearby diner wafting through the breeze, and he was heaving before he even realized what was happening. He slapped his hand over his mouth and ducked into the closest building—back into the library—looking for a bathroom.
He just had enough time to duck into a stall and lock the door behind him as nausea swelled over him like a tidal wave. His stomach lurched and he burped up a mouthful of vomit into the toilet.
Quinn barely had a moment to try and catch his breath before a surge of sick flooded up his throat, splashing onto the seat and floor. He coughed as it burned his nasal passages, his shoulders tensing as he felt his stomach muscles clench.
He continued to be violently sick for several more minutes, though for Quinn it felt like an eternity. By the time the vomit had slowed to a trickle and then stopped enough for him to spit out the remnants of sticky saliva, his knees were trembling and the floor of the bathroom stall looked as though it had definitely seen better days.
Quinn burped breathily over the filled toilet bowl, but his stomach was empty and his muscles ached from the strain. He grabbed a wad of toilet paper and swiped at his lips, debating the practicality of finding someone to tell about the mess. It was courteous, but also embarrassing, and the way his stomach flipped at the sight and the smell, he was afraid that opening his mouth before he was ready would lead to more disastrous results.
Whatever he ended up deciding, all he really wanted was to go home and sleep.
Too Scared To Be Noticed
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