pixelated-puke - Tumblr blog

pixelated-puke · 1 year

Text

sequel to this fic

[this is p*rn just fyi.]

"Jesus, you look awful," Brian says when he comes in the door. "Are you okay?"

Tim shrugs and shakes his head. "Got really sick on the way home," he mumbles, tossing his keys on the counter and shuffling over to the couch. "You probably shouldn't be near me, I dunno if it's contagious."

Brian hurries out into the living room to sit down next to him anyways, apparently not dissuaded by the threat. "You should have called me, or something," he says, leaning over to brush Tim's hair back from his face.

"What, to have you come get me?" Tim asks, and manages a shaky laugh. "And do what with my car? Anyways, I pulled off for the worst of it, the rest of the way back wasn't that bad." He'd thrown up a few more times into a plastic soda cup, but not more than a mouthful at a time, and not harshly enough he'd needed to stop.

"I dunno," Brian admits, looking away. "Still."

"I might lay down, actually," Tim adds, leaning back into the couch and tipping his face up towards the ceiling. "I still feel pretty rotten. I should just get this shirt in the wash first."

"Hey, let me do that," Brian says, and takes the bag holding his sick-splattered t-shirt. "You get to bed, I'll be in in a minute."

"You don't have to..." Tim tries to protest, but Brian is already halfway across the room, heading for the washer. "Okay." He sighs and pushes himself back up, slouching down the hall to the bedroom to get some rest.

He doesn't feel like there's much left in him to puke up, but his stomach still feels a little queasy, so he grabs the trash can and drags it over beside the bed before he sits down and starts to undress. He thinks he must have a fever, he's so overheated; his flannel clings to his back, sticky with sweat, as he pulls it off, but the cool air on his skin makes him shiver. He strips down to his boxers and kicks his clothes into the corner, throwing the covers to the other side of the bed so he can drape just the sheet over him as he curls up on his side.

Now that he's home, he expects exhaustion to wash over him quickly and knock him out for a few hours, but he's still awake when Brian comes in a few minutes later and kneels down by the side of the bed.

"Hey," he whispers, and brushes back Tim's untidy hair to lay a cool cloth over his forehead. "Thought that might feel a little better."

"Yeah, thanks," Tim agrees, nodding. "Hey, come lay down?"

"Weren't you gonna sleep?" Brian asks. "I don't want to keep you up."

"Mm," Tim says noncommittally, and shrugs. "Don't know when I will. My stomach doesn't feel great."

"Aw, babe," Brian says, and sets down the glass of water he’s holding before he comes around the other side of the bed and crawls under the covers behind Tim. “You think you’re gonna throw up?”

“Can’t tell,” Tim replies. “Still kinda nauseous, but it comes and goes.”

Brian makes a sympathetic noise and leans in to kiss his shoulder. “Can I?” His hand comes to rest lightly on Tim’s side, but he waits until Tim nods to slide his fingers down to his stomach, tracing gentle circles over his bare skin.

“Thanks,” Tim murmurs, closing his eyes. “That feels nice.”

He tries to sleep, but the uneasy churning in his stomach keeps him from drifting off, even with Brian’s hand slowly massaging his belly, and he starts to wish he would be sick again and just get it over with. It wouldn’t be so awful, anyways, now that he’s home and has the trash can close at hand. For some reason, though, as upset as his stomach is, it’s not quite bad enough to make him puke again.

After a long few moments of lying still without feeling much better or worse, he sits up and reaches for the glass of water on the nightstand to take a few sips. It soothes his sore throat a bit, but it feels ice cold and heavy in his stomach, threatening to come back up at any second. He groans and lies back down to wait for it.

“Poor sweetheart,” Brian says softly, still rubbing Tim’s stomach with his open palm as it gurgles and sloshes unhappily. “Your tummy feels really upset...”

Tim makes a vague affirmative noise, not sure if he should say more when he’s probably about to puke again. Sure enough, a few seconds later his stomach heaves, and he leans over the side of the bed to spit the water back up, mixed with stomach acid and traces of his lunch. The cool cloth slips from his forehead, and he grabs at it quickly, draping it over the back of his neck instead.

“There you go, babe,” Brian tells him, hugging him closer as he catches his breath. “Just get it up, you’ll feel better after you do.”

Tim leans back against his chest, his head tucked under Brian’s chin. “Thanks,” he mumbles, reaching for a tissue to wipe his mouth. “I’m trying.”

As he nestles closer into Brian’s warm embrace, he can feel him getting hard through his jeans, and squirms a little against his hips to tease him. “Hey,” Brian protests breathily, squeezing him a little tighter around the waist. “I thought you were resting.”

“Careful,” Tim warns him with a shaky laugh. “You’re gonna make me sick again.”

“Oh, yeah?” Brian slides his other arm under Tim’s side to press against his stomach with both hands, kneading at his muscles until they contract, making him gag. Tim leans over quickly to cough up a thin, sour stream of vomit into the trash can.

“No, don’t stop,” Tim tells him when he starts to move, and puts a hand over Brian’s to keep him from pulling away. “It’s helping, seriously.”

“Okay,” Brian agrees, and goes back to rubbing Tim’s stomach. Tim settles back against Brian’s chest, eyes closed, waiting for the swirling feeling in his stomach to become bad enough to make him throw up again. It comes and goes in waves, but for the moment, nothing else seems to want to come up.

“Think I need some more water,” he says finally, and sits up halfway to take a few sips. His hand shakes a little as he sets the glass back down, and he swallows hard as saliva pools under his tongue. If he can keep the water down for a few minutes, maybe he’ll be able to throw up more of the thick mass of food still half-digested in his stomach.

“You sure this is okay?” Brian asks softly, his hands warm on Tim’s clammy skin.

“Yeah,” Tim assures him, nodding. “Do you, um — do you wanna...?”

“Do you?” Brian asks, surprised. “I know you’re not feeling great.”

Tim hesitates for a second, tracing his thumb over the edge of Brian’s hand, and then nods again. “Yeah, I do,” he says. “If that’s okay with you.”

“More than okay,” Brian agrees, and pulls his hands away for a moment to wriggle out of his jeans and t-shirt.

Tim sheds his boxers, catching his breath slightly as the waistband pulls over his own growing erection, and lies back down, swallowing a mouthful of thick saliva. A moment later, Brian is next to him again, bare skin pressed to his back and dick hard against his ass. Tim moans, half from nausea and half from arousal.

“You gonna throw up again?” Brian asks softly, sliding one hand over Tim’s stomach.

“Uh-huh,” Tim manages thickly, breathing hard and shallow against the sick feeling rising in his throat. Brian’s palm presses hard into his churning stomach, and he gags. Supported by Brian’s arm around his waist, he leans over the edge of the trash can as he retches and vomits up a mouthful of mostly water, and then another, followed by a thick slurry of sick, semisolid chunks of his undigested lunch splattering into the bottom of the bin.

“That’s it,” Brian murmurs in his ear, still rubbing his stomach as he gasps for breath. “You’re doing great.”

“Brian,” he pants, his voice hoarse from retching. “Fuck me.”

Brian laughs, low and devilish, and pulls away to slick up his fingers with lube before pressing one, and then another, inside of him. Tim keens in the back of his throat, arching his back, pushing his hips down against Brian’s hand. For a moment, he can almost forget how sick his stomach feels as Brian works his fingers deeper into him.

“God, that feels so good,” he breathes, clutching at Brian’s other hand where it’s pressed against his stomach, rubbing circles over his skin. A queasy belch works its way up his throat, bringing with it the sour taste of stomach acid and the chicken sandwich he’d eaten hours ago now. He turns over and gags weakly, his muscles clenching and convulsing under Brian’s gentle touch but bringing up nothing of substance. Brian leans in to kiss the side of his neck, massaging his belly firmly as he burps and dry-heaves over the trash can.

“You need some more water?” Brian murmurs, nuzzling at his throat while he retches unproductively.

He nods, pushes himself up on one arm to reach for the glass and take a few gulps, hoping it’ll help him get rid of the rest of what little is left in his stomach. Brian’s fingers slide rhythmically in and out, gently loosening the tight muscles and making Tim shudder and moan as he rocks his hips. He can feel the water sloshing around in his belly as he moves, and swallows hard against the urge to be sick again, trying to keep it down a little longer.

Brian pulls away briefly, fingers slipping out of him, and Tim whines. There’s the wet sound of Brian applying more lube, and then his cock is pressing into him, hot and firm. Tim gasps and cries out, squeezing Brian’s hand tightly, reaching with the other hand to grasp his own cock and begin to stroke it as Brian thrusts deep inside of him.

It doesn’t take much for the movement of Brian’s hips against him to upset his sick stomach, and a moment later he’s hanging over the side of the bed again to puke, heaving up a wave of chunky vomit, and then another, as Brian holds him close around the waist and fucks him slowly. He’s panting for breath when he’s finished, trembling from exertion and excitement as he leans back against Brian’s chest.

“Is that it?” Brian murmurs in his ear, his voice low and husky. “Are you all empty, baby?”

“Gonna — try — one more time,” Tim manages, breathing hard, his throat tight. “Just let me—“

He reaches for the water again and downs the rest of the glass in a few gulps. The cold feeling in his stomach makes him shiver, and he has to suppress the immediate impulse to gag. Brian’s palm cups his belly gently, his thumb stroking over the tender skin and soothing the sore muscles. Tim moans and bucks his hips, pushing down onto Brian’s hard cock, his own throbbing in his hand as precum leaks from the tip.

“Are — are you — almost there?” he asks between shallow, frantic breaths, swallowing thickly as the water threatens to come back up. Just a little longer, he’s got to keep it down just a little longer.

“So close,” Brian pants out, his hips jittering against Tim’s ass as he moves faster inside him. “God, I’m so fucking close, Tim.”

“Good,” Tim manages, and presses Brian’s hand closer against his stomach. Brian takes the hint and kneads into him firmly, making his gut churn and clench. “Fuck, Brian, I’m gonna —“

He barely manages to turn over in time before he throws up, water and stomach acid splashing into the trash can and onto the floor beside it as he retches. Brian cries out and buries his face in the side of Tim’s neck when he comes, thick and hot and sticky inside him. Tim slumps back against him once he’s done vomiting, and to the sound of Brian’s ragged breathing finishes himself off as well.

“How’re you feeling?” Brian slurs sleepily when they’ve both managed to catch their breath. “Better now?”

“Yeah, some,” Tim agrees, squeezing Brian’s hand as he rubs his aching muscles. “Think I’m all done, least for a while.”

“Good,” Brian murmurs, and leans in close to kiss his cheek. “You get some rest, I’ll clean up.”

“You sure?” Tim asks, turning to look at Brian over his shoulder. “I can help. I don’t feel too bad now.”

“No, I got it,” Brian assures him with a crooked smile. “You’re sick, babe, you need to take it easy.”

“Okay,” he agrees, reluctantly unlacing his fingers from between Brian’s. “But come back when you’re done, alright?”

“Of course I will,” Brian agrees, and gives him another soft kiss before he turns away to get to his feet. “I’ll be right here.”

Satisfied with that, Tim closes his eyes, and this time nothing keeps him from drifting off to sleep.

132 notes · View notes

pixelated-puke · 1 year

Note

Hey, I don’t know if you’re still taking writing prompts, but if you are, I’d love to see someone coming down with stomach flu/food poisoning while driving home (alone) and not being able to pull over

this prompt is from AGES ago and i've been slowly working on it for months at this point but it's FINALLY done

enjoy a sick t*m m4rbleh0rnets, for your reading pleasure

He starts to feel lightheaded and shaky on the drive back home, so he stops for lunch at the exit just past the state line, and gets back on the road as soon as he’s finished his sandwich, taking his soda and fries with him. He’s less than two hours away now, and he doesn’t want to delay any more than he has to.

It’s a hot, sticky summer day, and the air in the car must not be working right; he’s felt uncomfortably warm for most of the drive, and maybe it’s the angle of the sun or just the high humidity but it feels like it’s gotten even hotter after his quick stop. He fusses with the air controls, turns the fan off and back on again and holds a hand up to the vent to check the air flow, but even at the highest setting it doesn’t seem to be making the car any cooler. He’s barely driven another ten minutes before he has to shed his flannel and strip down to his t-shirt, and even then sweat drips down the back of his neck and makes the fabric cling to his skin.

With a groan, he brushes his hair back from his face and wipes the sweat off his brow with the back of one hand. He can’t wait to get home and cool off. At least he does feel better after eating; his head is clearer and his arms don’t feel nearly as weak.

That holds true for maybe half an hour.

It must be the heat, he thinks, dimly, when he realizes he’s starting to feel unwell again. He’d thought earlier he was just hungry, but it’s been less than an hour and he’s already trembling again, and his head is spinning a little, enough to make it hard to focus on the road. But the heat won’t get any better by delaying, he tells himself grimly, and grits his teeth against the wave of dizziness that washes over him. He just has to make it home -- barely more than an hour, now -- and he'll feel better once he's inside.

Two miles past the next exit, he feels his stomach turn over, and realizes he’s in trouble. It’ll be another fifteen minutes at least before he has another chance to pull off, and he’s starting to feel like he might be sick. He’s all too aware, suddenly, of the grease from his fast-food lunch, and the bubbling carbonation of all the soda he drank.

Oh, Christ, he needs to pull over. He’s going to throw up.

He glances to his right and grimaces at the concrete barrier and the narrow emergency lane on the shoulder of the highway. As urgent as it feels, it isn’t really an emergency that he’s about to puke. His mouth fills with saliva and he swallows hard. How many miles to the next exit? Too many, he thinks. He’s not going to make it that long.

Breathing shallowly, he looks around the car for something — anything — he can vomit into so he doesn’t make a complete mess. The paper bag from his lunch? No, no good, it’ll soak through. The styrofoam cup his soda came in, maybe. It’s the best option he can think of.

He scrabbles to pull off the lid with one hand, tossing the trash into the footwell of the passenger seat. A wave of nausea washes over him, and he gags a little. Shit, shit, shit. Clutching the steering wheel tight with the other hand, he grabs the cup out of the cup holder and hugs it to his chest, too sick now to care that the motion splashes the last of his Coke over the side of the cup and onto the seat.

Saliva pools under his tongue again. He swallows it back, glancing up at the road signs to see how far he is from the exit. Still too far, and the churning of his stomach feels worse every second. He fights to keep his gaze focused on the road in front of him as the taste of metal fills his mouth.

The slightest bump in the road is all it takes to make him lose it, and he ducks his head as his stomach heaves. Acid burns in his chest as he retches, a thin, dark stream of watery sick spilling into the cup with a splash.

He coughs, gasps, spits to clear his mouth. It doesn’t get rid of the taste. Fuck, he feels awful, and he doesn’t even have a free hand to wipe away the vomit that’s clinging to his lips and dripping down his chin. The sensation makes him want to gag again, but he swallows hard instead. Just let him get to the next exit before he throws up any more, so he can pull off first and do it on the side of the road.

No such luck is in store for him, though; he's still seven miles and close to five minutes from the exit when he starts to feel queasy again. He groans and grips the steering wheel tighter, until his knuckles go white, but it doesn't help. Barely a minute later, the swell of nausea overwhelms him, and this time when his gut clenches it brings up chunks of his half-digested fries, making him choke and splutter a little on the feeling of something solid in his throat. Gross.

Just a few more miles, he tells himself, panting a little to catch his breath. Just a few more miles to the exit, not even five minutes now, and he can pull off and get out of the car until he feels a little better. At least until he’s sure his stomach is empty and he’s done vomiting. He already feels sick again, but surely he can make it three more miles.

His mouth floods repeatedly with more acidic saliva that he has to swallow back every few seconds, but finally the exit comes into view. Relieved, he puts on his blinker and turns onto the ramp, but as he hits the curve still going a little too fast his stomach lurches up into his throat again.

Too late, he ducks his head as another stream of sick pours out of his mouth, mostly missing the cup and spilling down his arm and the front of his t-shirt. "Shit," he chokes out, his eyes burning as tears well up against his will. "Fuck."

There's a gas station just on the right, and he pulls into a stall next to the convenience store. He has to set the cup down to put the car into park, and grimaces as he feels vomit smearing off his hand onto the gear shift. If he's careful, there won't be too much to clean up, but the smell is probably going to linger for days. With his free hand, he rolls down both front windows, hoping a little bit of a breeze will at least help mitigate the odor.

He gets out of the car, wiping his hand on the hem of his soiled shirt, and leans against the door for a moment, waiting to see whether he’s about to throw up again. His gut churns and gurgles unhappily, threatening to revolt at any second, so he grabs the half-full cup and stumbles over to the nearest garbage can before he ends up puking all over his shoes. He’ll have to wait to get cleaned up until his stomach settles a little.

It takes a few minutes, this time, before the nausea builds up enough to make him vomit, but when he does, it feels like his stomach is being turned inside out. He retches a few times, back to back, each heave bringing up another wave of thick liquid. When he’s finished he gasps raggedly for air, sick still dripping off his tongue as he pants over the garbage can.

His knees feel like jelly, but he doesn’t dare let himself sit down, so he braces himself against the edge of the bin with both arms instead. After a long few moments, when his gut doesn’t make another attempt to purge itself of his lunch, he slowly pushes himself back upright and shuffles back towards the car. He’s not at all sure he’s done being sick, but he’s got to get himself cleaned up at some point, so he grabs his wallet and his flannel and heads into the small convenience store.

By some small miracle, it’s empty, so only the bored cashier looks up at him when he enters. “Uh,” he falters, stupidly, his tongue feeling thick and clumsy in his mouth. “Bathroom?”

“Yeah, just in back,” the cashier says, holding out the key at arm’s length as if she’s afraid to get too close to him. Probably fair, to be honest, since he has no idea if he’s contagious or not. He takes the key and hurries to the back of the store, shouldering the door open and locking it behind him.

Inside, he catches sight of himself in the mirror and can’t help but grimace. His face is so colorless it’s almost grey, the shadows under his eyes dark as bruises against his pale cheeks, and sweat has plastered his hair to his forehead in odd directions. And that’s not to mention the vomit spilled down the front of his t-shirt.

He washes his hands first, then pulls his shirt over his head awkwardly, careful to keep the mess of sick from getting in his hair. His hands are clumsy and trembling as he struggles to button his flannel, and halfway through he has to stop and drop to his knees on the dirty floor, retching weakly over the toilet. Not much comes up this time, just a thin trickle of sour liquid. Maybe he really is over the worst of it. Still, his stomach feels uncomfortably tight, and he doesn’t think he’d better take any chances.

When he’s finished changing, he splashes some cold water on his face and wipes the sweat from his brow with the end of his sleeve, then grabs his crumpled t-shirt and leaves the bathroom. On his way back up to the counter, he stops to grab a bottle of water, some tissues, and a pack of Dramamine, as well as a big plastic soda cup that he doesn’t fill.

“Can I, uh, get an extra bag for this?” he asks hoarsely, holding up his soiled shirt as he passes the key back over the counter. The cashier nods and hands one over before she rings him up, while he digs his wallet out of his pocket and fumbles to get out his debit card.

“Have a, um,” she begins as he takes his things, and then changes her mind, finishing, “I hope you feel better?”

“Thanks,” he says, and manages a very strained smile.

When he gets back to the car, he sits down in the front seat with his legs hanging out to crack open the water bottle and take a few tiny sips. It doesn’t make his stomach feel any worse, at least, and it helps clear the taste of vomit out of his mouth. He gulps down a Dramamine as well before pulling himself the rest of the way into the car, hoping maybe that will help keep him from puking any more on the rest of the way home.

With a groan, he fastens his seatbelt and starts the car up, pulling out of the convenience store parking lot and back onto the road towards the highway. Less than an hour left, and he’ll be home and can lie down, he reminds himself, and if he starts to feel sick again, well, that’s what the cup is for — and the empty plastic bag on the passenger seat, if it comes down to it.

Gritting his teeth, he turns onto the ramp, hoping that maybe he’ll be lucky and be home before that happens.

132 notes · View notes

pixelated-puke · 1 year

Text

Nov(emeto)ber 2022 Day 11: Unconventional Receptacle

@monthofsick

Quinn didn't get carsick often, at least not compared to when he was younger, but every now and then he still would, under the right (or very wrong) circumstances.

It was Friday night and he'd just gotten off from a long shift at the student health center where he worked on campus. It also happened to be the night of some big basketball game, so Quinn was glad when it seemed most students had gone to that, rather than drink themselves into a stupor and land themselves at the clinic.

He didn't know if he was coming down with something or if he was just tired, but he knew he wasn't looking forward to the long walk to the bus stop, and then the ride home. At this point, he was just ready to shower, change clothes, and sleep.

So, when his phone vibrated in his pocket with a message from Callaghan, Quinn breathed out a sigh of relief. Cal texted that the game had just finished, and if Quinn could wait about 10 minutes or so, Cal could swing by and pick him from the clinic. They worked together, so Cal knew his schedule, but Cal was also on the basketball team and Quinn had taken his shift for tonight.

Quinn eagerly accepted his friend's offer, loitering around the clinic for a few minutes before heading to the nearest parking lot to wait for Cal.

A raucous chorus of laughter and loud voices caught Quinn's attention. Even before the SUV pulled into the parking lot, Quinn recognized Cal's voice in the distance.

What he hadn't anticipated, however, was a third of the basketball team riding in the backseat.

Quinn strode up to the car once it pulled up to the curb, smiling at Cal, before pulling open the back door.

The stench inside the car hit Quinn like a slap in the face. It was like BO and old, musty gym socks, which wasn't too unusual given that everyone had just come from the inside of a locker room.

Still, the smell was stifling once Quinn closed the car behind him. He tried to hold his breath, only exchanging quick pleasantries with the car's occupants.

He noticed the fast food bags that littered the floorboard. Cal might not have been very organized, but he wasn't a slob either, Quinn assuming that Cal and his friends had stopped for something to eat before the game.

Quinn set his backpack on the floorboard, knowing he'd be smelling the grease for days.

"Sorry about about the smell," Cal said, looking back at him through the rear view mirror, seeming to pick up on Quinn's discomfort almost immediately.

Quinn brushed it off as nothing. "How was the game?"

The entire car erupted at once, every one of Cal's teammates eager to share highlights from the game that Quinn only pretended to be interested in.

A warmth came over Quinn a short time into the drive. He told himself it was probably from all the bodies in the car, but it was enough to create an unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach. The sweaty, wet dog stench wasn't really helping either.

"Hey, Cal, do you have the air on back here?" he asked, trying to sound casual and nonchalant.

A nervous chuckle from the driver's seat. "Nah. The A/C went out about a week ago. I haven't had time to take it in yet. You okay?" he asked, glancing back in the mirror.

"Oh yeah," Quinn replied, forcing a smile, having to speak up a little over the others in the car. "It's just a little warm. That's all."

"Lemme roll the windows down."

There was the mechanical sound of the windows sliding down, followed by gleeful whooping from the backseat occupants. Quinn wondered if they were drunk or if athletes were always this boisterous and obnoxious.

Having the windows down was a horrible idea, Quinn quickly decided. The muggy outside air seemed to suffocate him as the car sped down the road. He didn't have to worry about the BO when he could barely catch his breath.

He leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes as he tried to inhale deeply through his nose. Maybe he could sleep the rest of the way home.

. . .

Or maybe he couldn't.

When he opened his eyes, he wished immediately that he hadn't.

The interior of the car, its occupants, the lights of the university—everything swirled nauseatingly in front of him like a kaleidoscope.

Somehow, he felt even warmer than before, though he could feel something of a breezy blowing through the open windows.

Where were they? Were they almost there? It was impossible to make out anything with how bad his vision was swimming.

Had he fallen asleep at all, or had this feeling come on suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere?

A wet belch bubbled up from his chest, reverberating in his ribs.

"Yo, Cal, your buddy's looking a bit green."

"Quinn, are you—?"

By way of reply, Quinn's entire body jerked forward as he heaved, vomit spraying from his lips. He coughed and spluttered, before throwing up another mouthful.

Noise erupted from beside him and all around the inside of the car, but all Quinn could hear was the ragged sound of his own breathing and the churning, gurgling sound of his stomach.

Vomit plopped and splattered as he threw up another wave, and it was only then that he realized, horrified, that he was throwing up into his own unzipped backpack.

Weeks of class notes from varying subjects, textbooks, and who knew what else, now all covered in the former contents of his stomach. Ruined. All his hard work was ruined.

The thought was enough to make him gag again, vomit spurting out from his lips.

He felt only a minuscule sense of relief when he realized the car had stopped moved. They must have pulled off the road. He leaned forward over his lap, sick and saliva hanging in tendrils from his lips. There was no point trying to salvage his belongings now.

"Quinn?"

He jumped, startled when Cal appeared at the open door beside him. He heaved again, but thankfully, it was dry.

"'M sorry," he mumbled, his tongue clumsy and heavy with residual nausea.

"For what?" Cal chuckled, looking sympathetic. "Your stuff, I mean—I'm sorry."

Quinn didn't say anything. What else could he say?

Instead, he grabbed his backpack, the squelching sounds as the bag's contents shifted nearly making him heave.

With Cal's help, he maneuvered himself slowly out of the backseat of the car, bidding the rest of the basketball team an awkward and quiet farewell.

He was still a little dizzy, and unsteady on his feet, managing only one step away from the car before burping up another thin stream of vomit.

Cal wrinkled his nose, placing a grounding hand on Quinn's shoulder. "Come on, I'll help you inside."

If there was one thing Quinn looked forward to all night, it was this. At last, he was finally home.

38 notes · View notes

pixelated-puke · 1 year

Photo

i made a little comic, but i cant colour it :(

128 notes · View notes

pixelated-puke · 1 year

Text

The idea of telltale signs for someone that they ARE about to puke and there’s nothing they can do to stop it are… just so nice to think about. There’s of course the classic “mouth filling up with that weird thick saliva” but I’m talking about whole body sensations too. For someone the signal might be a wave of hot flashes, for someone else it might be sudden cold sweats or chills. It might also be more localized. Maybe their heart starts hammering, or they feel a lump in their throat, or their stomach feels unbearably full out of nowhere. It’s no longer just nausea - it’s their body letting them know that yeah, they are about to puke their guts out.

210 notes · View notes

pixelated-puke · 1 year

Text

still really cannot stop thinking about that nauseous buildup before a sickie finally pukes….

when there’s that really slow loss of control:

the progression from tinges to nausea that can be ignored to waves of nausea that can’t, that have the sickie nearly doubled over in pain as their stomach starts to gurgle audibly

then they start quietly belching and hiccuping, coughing occasionally to try and get rid of the nausea at the back of their throat, maybe spitting out some saliva – and they feel bad, quite bad, at this point; they’re feeling the nausea starting to crest but they’re still mostly in control, they can still talk and move and think relatively clearly

and then they start to lose that coherence as they feel sicker and sicker. they’re talking from behind a wall of nausea, having to hold it back just to get the words out. increasingly, they can only think about and feel their nausea and the side effects of it – the churning of their belly, chills, hot flashes, fuzziness, cramps

and then they gag for the first time – maybe it’s shallow and quiet, maybe it’s loud and deep, but it escalates that feeling of not being able to control what’s happening; the sickie is at the mercy of their sickness now, waiting for the inevitable

they’re dry heaving and retching now, and they can feel each one coming but they can’t do anything about it; their body is lurching forward without their consent, and all they can do is hope relief comes soon, hope that rubbing their tummy or chugging water or anything will help make that happen but all they can do is wait as their body takes over

and then that moment when they finally start to get sick – maybe only a trickle of bile or watery sick comes up or maybe they immediately bring up a long wave of sick, but either way it takes them by surprise; the shift from about to be sick to actively getting sick shocking them, bringing a whole new host of painful sensations and body mechanics that they didn’t ask for and can’t do anything about

just, the way they lose more and more clearheadedness and control over what’s happening with every step is *chef’s kiss*

299 notes · View notes

pixelated-puke · 1 year

Note

Hay! I don’t know if you’re still talking prompts but could you do one where the sicky is super bloated and tender to the touch and the caretaker gives them a belly rub and it makes them puke all over themselves and the caretaker

When Kellan gets home, he finds Aiden on the couch, lying on his back with his long legs dangling over the arm, his t-shirt pulled up over his ribs and a hand resting on his stomach. His usually slim belly is swollen beyond belief, and he groans softly as he lifts his head to look dolefully towards the door.

“Kel,” he whines, “I think I ate too much.”

“No kidding,” Kellan says, raising an eyebrow, and throws his things down on the table by the door. “What, did you raid the whole pantry, or something?”

“I ordered food when I got home,” Aiden explains, “but I was too hungry to wait for it, so I made rice and beans in the meantime.”

Kellan sighs, shaking his head with a wry smile. “And then you ate the whole pot and everything you ordered, right?” he adds. “Honestly, Aiden, when are you ever gonna learn that your eyes are always bigger than your stomach?”

“I know, I know,” Aiden says, and moans again, rubbing his distended gut with his palm. “I feel so stuffed I can hardly move.”

“I don’t feel sorry for you,” Kellan says, though he does, a little. “Sit up, you’re taking up the whole couch.”

“But,” Aiden protests, and whines as Kellan grabs his shoulder. “C’mon, man, cut me a little slack, huh?”

“It’s your own fault,” Kellan replies, pushing him upright and collapsing onto the couch next to him. Aiden groans as the movement jostles him, and Kellan feels a pang of guilt. He doesn’t want to actually hurt Aiden. “Come here, you big dummy,” he says gently, and puts an arm around Aiden’s waist to pull him closer. “You want me to rub your tummy for you?”

“Please,” Aiden says, shoulders slumping with relief as he leans into Kellan’s side.

Kellan hugs him close and puts a hand on the curve of his bloated belly, kneading into the taut skin. Under his hand, he can feel Aiden’s stomach churning, struggling to digest the amount of food he’d forced into it. Poor Aiden; he can’t be feeling too well in this state.

“That feels good,” Aiden mumbles, his words punctuated by a low burp. “Oops, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Kellan says, and laughs. “Probably made you feel a little better, huh?”

“Yeah,” Aiden agrees, and burps again. “Oof. Thanks.”

He lapses into silence as Kellan traces circles over the rounded dome of his overstuffed stomach, aside from more burping and the occasional soft groan. His gut gurgles and rumbles, shifting palpably under Kellan’s touch. “This still helping?” Kellan asks, working into the strained muscles with the heel of his hand.

“Yeah,” Aiden murmurs, his eyes fluttering closed. “Oh—“

A deep, guttural belch starts in his chest and works its way up to his throat, and then his belly hitches and he suddenly jerks forward to spew a thick stream of vomit into both of their laps and down the front of his crumpled t-shirt.

“Oh,” Kellan says, somewhat dismayed. “Gross.”

“Fuck,” Aiden manages thickly, sick still dripping from his lower lip. He’s suddenly gone very pale. “I — I’m sorry…”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Kellan reassures him, patting his shoulder with his free hand. “Jeez, you must have really overdone it to make yourself sick like that.”

“Guess so,” Aiden agrees, and fumbles to find a clean part of his shirt to wipe his mouth. “Oh, God, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Kellan says again, squeezing his shoulder. “It’s just clothes, they can be washed. You think you’re gonna throw up again?”

“Dunno. Maybe.” Aiden swallows hard and groans, clutching his stomach.

“We’d better get you to the bathroom just in case,” Kellan says, and carefully gets to his feet, trying not to spread the mess on his jeans all over everything else. “Come on, I’ll help you.”

Aiden accepts the hand he holds out and trails miserably behind him down the hall to the bathroom. “I’m really sorry,” he says again as Kellan helps strip off his soaked t-shirt. “It just happened so suddenly. I mean, I was nauseous, but I felt like it was getting better, and then—“

“Shh,” Kellan tells him. “It’s okay, seriously. Let’s just get you out of these clothes and I’ll go grab you a clean shirt.”

Aiden nods and pulls off his jeans, already unbuttoned at the top to make room for his bulging stomach. Kellan takes his off as well and carries the whole mess out to the kitchen sink so he can rinse them out, before doubling back to Aiden’s room to find him a new t-shirt.

When he gets back to the bathroom, Aiden is leaning over the toilet, cradling his belly in both hands. “Still feeling nauseous?” Kellan asks gently, sitting down next to him.

“Mmm,” Aiden groans wordlessly, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He still looks pale, and sweat has plastered his hair to his forehead. Kellan rubs a sympathetic hand over his bare shoulders.

“You want me to rub your stomach some more?” he offers.

Aiden considers that for a moment. “Well, either it’ll help settle my stomach or it’ll make me hurl again,” he says with a shaky laugh. “And I think I’m gonna do that anyways, so I guess there’s no harm in trying.”

Kellan chuckles at that and presses himself close against Aiden’s side, massaging his swollen gut with one hand while the other rubs circles between his shoulderblades. Aiden moans quietly and leans forward a little more, resting his head in his hands as he hovers over the toilet. A long, wet belch rolls up from his stomach, and then another, and a moment later he’s burping up another wave of chunky sick into the water.

“There you go,” Kellan tells him as he feels his belly clench and shudder. “Just get some of it up, and you’ll feel better.”

“God, I hope so,” Aiden groans, and spits up another mouthful of his stomach contents.

Kellan hugs him gingerly and pats his back, giving him a rueful smile. “I’ll be right here with you,” he promises.

Aiden does end up puking a few more times, but he brings up less each time, and finally his stomach settles enough for him to sit up. “Thanks,” he tells Kellan, leaning back against him. “I think I’m feeling better now.”

“Then why don’t you take a quick shower, and you can put on a nice clean shirt for bed,” Kellan says, helping him to his feet. His stomach is still rounded and taut, but not nearly as pronounced as it was before. “And after that we’ll get you into bed, huh?”

“Yeah,” Aiden agrees, passing a hand over his belly and managing a weary smile. “That sounds nice.”

68 notes · View notes

pixelated-puke · 1 year

Note

sebastian with motion sickness? (stardew valley)

i wrote this so long ago, anon 😭 and for the record, I lost interest in s.tardew valley so fast, i'm not taking requests for this fandom anymore

FAMILY TRIP

In which what was supposed to be a fun family trip turns into a carsickness nightmare for poor Sebastian (S.tardew Valley)

ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ motion sickness, vomiting, graphic descriptions of vomiting, nausea, mentions of anxiety, read as familial only!

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ 4,1k~

Sebastian made his discontent heard by letting out a deep sigh, his warm breath fogging up a spot in the glass. Puffing out, he watched as water drops rolled down, the green scenery rapidly running by, smudging together like a rained-down painting.

He'd rather be anywhere but there, trapped in that car heading to Yoba knows where. He hadn't picked up whatever Maru, his half-sister, was saying to him as they left, but she looked excited, which probably meant it wasn't anything he would be interested in. Even as Robin smiled at him, tidying up the hood of his sweater instead of demanding he change out of it, he still hadn't a clue.

Those extra hours where no one would be home, and the house would be blissfully quiet could've been put to good use, getting ahead on the work piling onto his desk. It was hard enough to code with people constantly going in and out of his room, an opportunity like that wasn't something he could afford to lose, but there he was.

To make matters worse, Sebastian was already feeling off after the first few turns. The rain didn't help either, the car seemed to be swiveling over the damp road, shifting him from side to side in a dizzying fashion. The pressure in his eardrums only added to the already uncomfortable fullness in his skull, concentrating more on his nose bridge and temples.

The young man could feel himself scowling, his eyebrows pinned together, it felt like part of his face now, he couldn't relax. It was quickly growing to be more than he could handle with a deadpan face.

Sebastian snuggled his fists in the pocket of his sweater, trying to get comfortable in his seat. His belly felt oddly sensitive under the fabric, he could almost feel it churn, or at least he could imagine it, in detail, and that only made it worse. The seatbelt strung over it only served to annoy him further, so discreetly, he slipped his arm under it, holding it from pressing on his stomach.

That barely made a difference, his belly was unsettled now, tossing its contents like a salad as the car continued to swivel. Sebastian couldn't concentrate, boredom was getting the best of him. He was restless in his seat and now regretted not bringing a book or something to pass the time. It was too late, they were almost an hour away from Pelican Town, with no chance of turning back.

Sebastian grimaced as he tried to swallow, his scowl deepening when his ears popped. That relieved a bit of the pressure, softening his headache for only a moment because now he could hear the hum of the engine, the metallic padding of the rain on the roof, and the buzzing of the radio that played over it.

Demetrius reached out from the passenger side and rolled the button, trying to adjust the frequency. The noise worsened, distorted sounds trying to make into words, but coming out garbled among the static.

“Here, dad, let me try”, Maru said, detaching her seatbelt and slinking into the space between the two front seats. Sebastian yelped as she suddenly gripped his knee to keep her balance. “Oh, sorry Seb”, she added while peeking over her shoulder, and transferring her palm to the seat, the other arm reaching for the radio.

Sebastian puffed out exaggeratedly, making his annoyance clear, he was inviting confusion at that point. The last thing he needed now was the top 10 cheesy pop songs of the moment stuck to his head, but knowing Demetrius, he wouldn't have a say in it.

Maru let out a triumphant sound as she took her seat back, some awful disco hit of the '80s filled the entire car, tapping into the white noise in some parts. It was unbearable.

Sebastian sulked, sinking inside the collar of his hoodie, wanting nothing more than to shrink and disappear. His throat felt like it was being pinched, growing tighter every time he had to swallow.

His half-sister was eyeing him curiously, pumping her fists and shaking her shoulders along the rhythm, giving him that small smirk he'd always take as a challenge. He'd never thought she liked that type of music and thinking again, she was probably just excited to get to wherever they were going.

“Ugh”, he scoffed, feeling his head grow heavier, but was sure no one had heard him.

In the few minutes that he had to endure it, Sebastian grew more and more nauseated, that awful thumping in his head now making his stomach throb. He could feel each bump on the road, every risky turn that sent the organ in a loop, trying to glue itself to his spine. It was hard not to think of his poorly-made breakfast at a time like that.

He hadn't had much, to begin with, and chose to skip lunch, or rather, he chose to eat it cold over having to stop in the middle of his coding. He could feel now why that had been a horrible idea, for as soon as he stepped out of his room he was being hauled off to the door with the promise of a fun family trip. So much for fun.

The young man clenched his eyes shut, raising a shaky hand to the bridge of his nose, pinching it in hopes of relieving some tension, like undoing a knot. His frown only deepened, engraved in his face now.

He could barely breathe without wanting to gag, but he couldn't allow it, he had to stay put, stay quiet, until—

“Sebby?” He nearly jumped when Robin spoke his name, the concern was clear in her voice, even behind that gentle tone she put on. “Are you okay honey? Does your head hurt?”

Sebastian met her eyes in the rearview mirror, giving him a worried frown.

“A little…”, he mumbled, desperately seeking out something else to look at. He couldn't lie, it was obvious how pale his face had gotten, and the quizzical look she shot at his answer. With a small sigh, he stammered: “Actually, I… I feel a little sick.”

“You get carsick?”, Maru questioned promptly, sounding more curious than skeptical.

“Just try to breathe, okay?” Robin instructed, her voice even more gentle. “We'll take a break once I find somewhere to pull over, alright?”

“You're going to pull over on the highway, in this rain?” Demetrius butted in, sounding disgruntled, but Robin didn't reply to him.

Sebastian did his best to ignore it, turning to Maru to respond to her but found himself pinned under her gaze instead.

“S-Sometimes…”, he tried, but his voice came out timid. Robin just raised her eyebrows, giving a knowing look of I won't say it. Embarrassment ate his face at the thought of her launching into some story.

“You could've told me. I would've brought some anti-emetics for you, or at least some rubbing alcohol”, Maru insisted, her eyes boring into his face, suddenly becoming paler. “I'm a nurse, you know?”

He could've, but why would he? It wasn't a topic he would just throw around in conversation, not like he got that much opportunity for conversations. Sebastian didn't know what to say next, so he resorted to just shaking his head, trying not to look in her direction. He smacked his lips as he gulped down the syrup-like saliva pooling over his tongue, grimacing at the heavy aftertaste.

“Hey, I'm listening”, he heard Demetrius protest as the music got progressively quieter until the beat could barely be heard.

“It's way too loud”, Robin shrugged, returning her hands to the wheel. “You can still hear it just fine.”

He tried not to smile as Demetrius started grumbling, but it wasn't a great feat. Despite the music being gone, Sebastian's head was still heavy, that pressure behind his eyes refusing to clear, and now, he could feel hiccups building up in the back of his throat.

The pale young man leaned over almost unconsciously, gently hugging his stomach as he swallowed convulsively, stifling a few gags. His head was spinning mercilessly, he couldn't help but let out a few nauseated groans. His uneven bangs hung off the side of his face like a curtain, covering his tear-filled eyes, but leaving his adam's apple to bob freely. He wished he had brought a hairpin or tie, or at the very least, a plastic bag.

“Keep your head up”, Maru instructed, and he quickly realized it wasn't encouragement when he felt her hands lightly on his shoulder, carefully picking him up. “Lift your chin, like that, and look at the roof. If you slump like that then you'll surely get sick.”

Sebastian did just as she said, trying to affix his gaze to one spot, but it kept dancing before him, swiveling in sync with the car. It barely helped, but he was grasping at straws, he could feel his stomach at the back of his throat now.

“M-Mom…”, Sebastian mumbled miserably, his voice growing deeper, more sickly. “I–I need you to pull over…!”

“Hold on, Sebby”, she tried, gripping the steering wheel, just wanting for that stretch of the highway to end and a shoulder to materialize itself. “Demetrius, can you see if you can find a bag?”

“There should be one around here somewhere”, he was already onto it, digging through the glove

compartments for a folded plastic bag he surely had stuffed there.

Sebastian was trying his damndest not to just give into nausea and let his breakfast splatter on the carpet. He kept swallowing despite it being useless, his mouth was overflowing with saliva, the metallic pull at the end refusing to clear out.

He could feel Maru's eyes glued to him, but he couldn't sustain her look and somehow ward her off. Holding himself from vomiting was taking all of his concentration, just a slip and he—

A harsh wet gag made his face crumple, his lips momentarily parting as his tongue drove out, only to be pressed thin. His hand flew to cover his mouth as he realized he could taste something highly bitter in the root of his tongue.

”Oh no, it's happening. Dad! We need that bag, like right now”, Maru panicked, nothing like the serenity he expected out of a nurse.

“I'm on it!”, Demetrius exclaimed in response, holding himself short of going louder.

Sebastian squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to drown out the noise. He hated crowded places, and while his own family usually didn't fit the criteria, they had somehow managed to recreate the experience.

The air was humid and stuffy, almost too heavy to fill his lungs, the roof looked like it was seeping water through, but he was convinced that was just inside his head. He wasn't drowning, and yet his throat was squeezing itself around the mass trying to climb up. He was going to suffocate if he didn't let himself get sick.

And while the commotion distracted his family, he tried to contain the wet gag that anticipated his chest heaving. His stomach caved in painfully, that dense mass surging up his throat and inundating his mouth. An awful strangled sound came out of him before was cut off gurgling. His cheeks bulged behind his hand, like balloons seconds away from popping.

He would've warned if he could, he even lowered his head, thinking it would've let him speak, but before he could, an off-color slurry gushed out and broke through his tightly pressed lips. Then the cracks between his fingers, coating the front of his hoodie in his thoroughly digested breakfast.

The texture was overbearing, like wet clumpy oatmeal, and the pungent stench stuck right under his nose, making him recall whatever he had eaten. He gasped sharply, hurriedly retrieving his hand and going to wipe it in his jeans, but froze as he realized what had just happened.

“M-Mo– guh, mom!” He fought to get the simple word out, his jaw was nearly numb, refusing to close as vomit and saliva dripped from it. “H...urry!”

“I'm trying honey, wait for a little–”, Robin blurted out, glancing at the rearview mirror and spotting the warzone on the back seat. “Oh, Sebby… Roll down the window a bit.”

Maru twitched in the second it took her to decide against going for it herself, getting anywhere close to Sebastian would only mean an even bigger mess. She settled for lowering the window on her side, sticking closely to it as the sharp smell of stomach acid hit her. She wasn't squeamish by any means, but situations that graphic were usually Harvey's to deal with, he insisted. She hadn't seen anyone vomit firsthand in a while now, and it had softened her.

Still, she couldn't help but feel bad for Sebastian, so much so that she quite literally swallowed her disgust, pushing it to the back of her mind. Her half-brother had gone beyond pale, sweat rolling down his neck, making hair stick to his skin. He looked like he was going to shrink inside that filthy hoodie.

Sebastian could feel his head spinning, he was too sick to register anything going on around him. His stomach throbbed from the abrupt spell, but showed no signs of settling down, nausea kept washing over him in dizzying waves.

The organ lurched again, a gurgle coming up his throat and mercilessly sending more vomit guzzling out his mouth and cascading down his clothes. He could only shudder as the added weight on his chest fell to his jeans, soaking onto the fabric and the seat between his legs.

He could already imagine the thorough scolding Demetrius would give him, but he could even hear in the back of his mind, but what pierced through was Robin's voice.

“It's alright Sebby, don't worry. We can clean this up”, Robin informed, sounding almost out of breath from how tense she had gotten. She wanted nothing more than to turn around and care for her sickly son. “I'm pulling over now, it's okay.”

The news gave him a bit of hope, and he didn't think to brace for what the sudden stop would do to his nausea. He jolted forward as the car made a sharp turn, grass taking a toll under the wheels, and his stomach leaped to his throat. In an instant, he had his head hanging over his lap as puke splattered violently over his jeans.

He was miserable, his ears were ringing, his head pounding so mercilessly he didn't even notice the door on his side unlock. A cold breeze replaced the humid air inside the car, making him shiver worse than he already was. He slowly turned his head to find Robin standing in the thin rain, looking at him like someone would at an abandoned dog.

“...ugh, I'm– urp, I'm so sorry mom”, Sebastian mumbled, biting his lip to hold back the tears, severing the heavy threads of bile hanging off his face. “I couldn't… gh, hold it in…”

“Own, Sebby… it's okay honey, it wasn't your fault”, she reassured sweetly, maneuvering around the vomit-covered boy to undo his seat belt. He let out a small whimper as it finally quit digging on his neck, but now there wasn't anything to hold him up. “Do you think you're done, sweetie? Do you still feel sick?”

“A-A little…, yeah”, he responded truthfully, his queasy stomach still throbbing inside his abdomen.

Carefully, she helped him out of the car, the vomit on his lap plopped to the grass as he managed to stand up and take a couple of steps away from the car. The rain was thin but still enough to make his hair slick, small droplets gathering on the tips of the strands.

It didn't take long before he folded over his own shoes, letting out a pitiful groan as he realized it wasn't going to stop. Nausea was making his head spin mercilessly, his legs felt like they were made out of jelly. It was supposed to be clearing now that he was out of that humid car and the bumpy road, but his stomach still hadn't had enough.

Robin placed a gentle hand on his back, guiding him to get closer to the grass until the both of them were squatting down. He was drawing in long raggedy breaths, trying to keep himself from crying. She noticed it and rubbed soft circles in between his shoulder blades, tenderly shushing him. The other hand went to fix his hair, holding the uncut bangs from the line of fire.

“Don't worry, I'm not mad at you. No one's mad”, she whispered gently, running the back of her hand on his cheek.

“Demetrius'… urp, gonna kill me… for sure”, Sebastian mumbled and tried to spit out a trickle of odd-colored saliva, grimacing as he realized he couldn't swallow it. His throat started spasming, forcing more harsh gags out of him. “Shit, guh… I'm gonna… puke again.”

“It's okay, just get it out”, Robin encouraged.

He braced for the painful cramp in his stomach, feeling it lurch upwards, a short-lived burp being cut off as more pasty vomit erupted out of him. It splattered heavily on the wet grass, quickly congealing into a puddle of his thoroughly digested breakfast.

It was nothing more than a damp mush of some tannish color, with more defined yellow clumps and leafs sticking out of it, but it was enough to make him squeeze his eyes shut. He tried not to think of what he had eaten to create such a mixture, just entertaining the thought made him dry heave.

Toast, he had eaten some half-burned toast and poorly scrambled eggs for breakfast. It was all he was able to pull off before he had to start working already, he ate at his desk against his better judgment. Even starting so early, he couldn't get much done, everyone kept coming into his room to tell him about the place they were going to that afternoon, even Demetrius, who seemed much more talkative than usual.

In the middle of heaving, Sebastian froze as he heard footsteps approach, his breath locking as if he was trying to make himself seem invisible. Something was barring the rain gently falling on his hair, the soft padding transferring to a firmer surface.

“Brought an umbrella for you two. How's he?” He heard Maru's voice ask from above, and relaxed momentarily, his careful breathing cutting into harsh wet coughs. With the answer in front of her, Maru asked instead: “Is he running a fever?.”

“I don't think so”, Robin guessed, sliding a hand to her son's forehead as she felt for any unusual heat, trying to keep up with his coughing. His skin was slightly clammy, but not much different than what he would feel like constantly wearing that hoodie. “I can't tell for sure.”

“Let me”, Maru said, lowering herself as she held the large umbrella up and reached out with a hand. “Excuse me.”

Gently, trying to maneuver around the vomit stains on his face, she cupped his cheek, then slid down to his neck. He didn't feel feverish to her, just… exhausted.

“He's fine, I think”, Maru said finally, getting up on her feet. “Oh yeah, dad said he can lend a sweater, but try not to get it dirty. He's already… well, never mind.”

Robin nodded, thanking her without much attention to spare. Sebastian hadn't stopped dry heaving, struggling to come up with more, but showing no signs of stopping. She braced him as he broke off into shallow retches, lowering himself even closer to the grass as a thin trail of puke drizzled out his mouth.

“There, there…”, she tried to comfort, but the weariness was starting to show through her voice.

“I, uh… I tried to clean his side a little. Couldn't do much, so I threw a towel over it. I'm hoping it'll work until we get back home”, Maru informed almost methodically, clutching the umbrella in her hands. “You can take him there when he's feeling better.”

“Oh, we're turning back? We were almost at the aquarium”, Robin asked. “Maru, I know how much you two wanted to go.”

Sebastian felt his heart sink in his chest, he was horrible. The Aquarium, they were going to the Aquarium. That was why Maru was so excited, if only he had paid attention. If he hadn't—

“I mean, no way we can go now… and besides, it's raining. It's probably closed anyway”, Maru lied, trying to shrug the disappointment, but it still showed through in her voice. “It won't be as fun with Seb like that.”

Sebastian scrunched his nose as he heard it, trying all he could but finally, the tears he had been holding broke through his tightly clenched eyes. A torn sob made his chest jump, unable to contain it between the heaving.

“I'm sorry… I didn't mean to– I didn't want to ruin–”, an awful strangled sound clogged his throat, making way for more pitiful sobs as his shoulders continued to heave.

Sebastian couldn't tell if it was the nausea making him cry, or the crying that was making him gag, but he could feel his stomach revolting either way. He tried to brace himself as his throat contorted painfully, shallow gags making way for a final huge wave of mostly mushy clumpy vomit.

He could feel himself being pushed back the volume, his stomach clenching hard as it purged itself out for torturous drawn-out seconds. By the end, he was left miserable, coughing wetly as clumps remained in his nostrils, heavy ropes of drool and bile connecting his lips to the huge puddle of regurgitate on the grass.

”Sebby! Try to… breath a little, you'll be okay”, Robin tried comforting him, gently pulling him by the shoulders in an awkwardly loose hug, trying to avoid the vomit stains on his chest. “By Yoba, that was… I-It's okay, it's okay.”

Despite the grounding hand on his back, Sebastian was feeling he was in free fall, his poor stomach was convulsing inside his torso, unable to settle down after the huge spell just moments ago. He could feel it at the back of his throat, lurching as it tried to come up with more for him to vomit, but all it brought was painful retches. He was well and truly empty now.

“Gee… Look, if this doesn't stop we should take him to Harvey's”, Maru informed, her voice suddenly tense. “He might be proper sick, not just carsick.”

“Yeah, we'll really have to turn back now. I'm so sorry, Maru”, she frowned, taking in her apologetic shrug for a moment, then turning to Sebastian. “Honey, think you can walk back to the car now?”

He took a moment first, taking in deep shaky breaths before nodding weakly. Robin tried to pass some confidence as she helped him to his feet, he looked like he could faint at any moment.

Maru kept close to the two, holding the umbrella above them, even as Robin helped him out of the soiled hoodie, using it to thoroughly clean him up, and into the spare one. Sebastian looked like he had shrunk to half his size in his stepfather's clothes, but that could've been easy due to how sick and small he looked.

He was exhausted, all of his energy seemingly left on that disgusting pile in the grass. His insides were sore and achy, bruised much like a worn-out punching bag. He couldn't help but whimper every time he felt it throb under his clothes, but all his mother could do was whisper small reassurances as she settled him down on the backseat, over the towel.

The smell was unbelievably strong on his side, hitting him like he had shoved a lit match into his nose. He nearly winced, gagging on his mouth, even though there was nothing left for him to puke. He threw his head back and weakly turned to Robin, who was attaching his seatbelt, trying to look unbothered.

“C-Can I… have a bag? P-Please…”, he forced out, his voice barely higher than a whisper.

“Oh, here!” Maru jumped in, hurriedly rustling it open and putting it under her chin, thinking another disaster was under way.

Sebastian took it with shaky hands, not much desperation to his movements, held it weakly as he spat into it. Sniffling, he clutched it against his chest, grimacing deeply. He couldn't get rid of that taste, much less of that horrible nausea. He wanted to cry and keep crying until he managed to doze off, but he only mustered the latter.

Breaking down like that, in front of everyone, in front of Maru. He felt pathetic, so small he could shrink and disappear and no one would notice, even if everything said otherwise.

The car turned on, the engine humming somehow more gently to his ears this time, and Robin checked on him one more time before they finally started moving. He rested his head against the backseat, staring off into the window, and dozed off for the rest of the fun family trip.

45 notes · View notes