stomachflu - Tumblr blog

stomachflu · 1 year

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sickee feeling sick yet still attending their plans and vomiting in public <33

hi thank u for the ask !! happy 2 comply :)

CW FOR EMETO AND LIGHT NSFW

a feels miserable. their head is pounding so viciously that it’s practically about to explode, their insides are turning dizzily, and they’re pretty sure they’ve developed a low-grade fever at least.

and yet, here they are, at an event that b had dragged them to. they know it’s important to b, but they’re seriously not feeling well. for a moment, a considers asking b to leave early.. but thinks better of it for now. they can tough it out.

..right?

desperate to relieve some of the pressure and the nausea whirling around in their stomach, a presses their hand to their mouth. they let out a sickly, wet burp into their hand; and that’s all they’re hoping for, but their face goes pale when bile and undigested fruit (from the fruit bowl, of course) coat their tongue and mouth in a thick layer like poison.

“oh, gross..” a murmurs to themselves, closing their eyes and focusing on the vile substance in their mouth. It’s sour.. and warm.. and sticky, and—

“rrgh-“ they groan, finding that concentrating too hard on the texture of the mess only makes their stomach writhe more violently.

‘no, no, no-‘ they’re thinking to themselves, their hand still pressed desperately to their mouth.

“Hhnghh..”

a is completely taken over by nausea, and as they begin to swallow back their stomach’s contents, they’re entirely oblivious to the world around them. the noise, the colors, the scents — they’re all gone, replaced by a dizzying nausea.

just as a manages to force the last bit of bile back down their throat, they can feel a hand on their shoulder and another wrapping around their waist. their eyes snap open to see b, a concerned (but also slightly amused) expression plastered on their face.

“are you okay, honey? you feeling sick?” mumbles b, softly, pressing the back of their palm against a’s forehead—

“ah.. you’re burning up.” b smirks softly, “wanna get to the bathroom?”

b leans in close to a, whispering into their ear.

“or are you just gonna puke on the floor, like the dirty little whore you are?”

a’s face flushes, and they whine, squeezing their legs together in an absentminded response to the heat pooling between their thighs. that was hot.

“I.. I..” a stammers with bated breath, locking eyes with b. their throat works, swallowing convulsively to delay the inevitable.

“it’s okay, baby. just let it out, yeah? you’ll feel so much better..” b croons, combing through the other’s hair as they press closer to a.

b can feel a’s heart pounding, the sweat on their pale skin, and the way their belly is rumbling and churning beneath them. b shudders, their own face heating up a little in response.

“you’re so warm..” b whispers, “c’mon. get it up, honey. for me?”

b’s encouragement is enough. a lets go, allowing b to hold them in place as their knees buckle beneath them. their stomach heaves and sends up wave after wave of warm, lumpy puke. it pools in the floor - it’s covering b’s shoes, and most of a’s outfit. The sticky substance is even coming out of a’s nose.

great. a’s just thrown up on the floor at a professional (and quite gorgeous) venue. this will not be good for their reputation, but just seeing what it’s doing to b..

“good boy/girl~” b coos sweetly, wiping the bile from a’s lips, nose and chin. “but you’ve made a mess of yourself.”

b’s own breaths are slightly shaky as they speak, a lopsided smile on their arousal-flushed face. they can feel their own thighs heating up with desire.

a whimpers, coughing sharply as they lean against b’s chest. b’s warm, soothing chest.

“i know.. i’m sorry..”

“don’t apologize. that was the hottest thing you’ve ever done..” b grins widely, scooping a up into their arms.

they’d have to leave early, but b isn’t complaining.. because now their partner is a vomit-soaked, sweat-drenched mess - completely at b’s mercy.

with a kiss to a’s head, b whispers again: “you’re so pretty when you’re sick. don’t worry. i’ll help you when we get back home.”

#SUPER hot @//////@#nsfw

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stomachflu · 1 year

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Sickie puking into caretaker's hands is such an underrated thing so here's some prompts for it:

1: Caretaker is so experienced and comfortable with sickie that they've caught their vomit by hand many times. So one day, when sickie keeps complaining that their stomach hurts, caretaker is cupping a hand under their mouth with every burp, hiccup and cough because they're on edge.

2: Caretaker instinctively cups their hands under gagging sickie's mouth to keep from having to clean up more vomit.

3: Caretaker is used to catching spit out food or medicine because sickie has a weak gag reflex and is sensitive to certain textures, so one day they just do it like always but sickie ends up puking.

4: Caretaker goes to wipe sickie's mouth after they've just thrown up but they start throwing up again so they're stuck holding a tissue/paper towel/ washcloth there, a vain attempt to catch it.

5: Caretaker covers sickie's mouth in a badly thought out attempt to stop them from vomiting. It fails and their hands takes the brunt of it.

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stomachflu · 1 year

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Characters having their back/sides rubbed when their stomach hurts, especially if their stomach is too tender to be touched directly ❤️

#yessss

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stomachflu · 1 year

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(flirtatiously) My stomach hurts

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stomachflu · 1 year

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What emeto tropes turn you on the most and or just do it for you EVERY single time? 🤭

ooooo this is a GREAT question. let’s see…

REALLY long buildups of nausea, like. someone feeling sick all day, etc, getting progressively queasier before they puke. like not just saying that someone’s felt sick all day, but actually seeing it

speaking of saying things… the sick person trying to talk about how bad they feel/talking through nausea, especially when their voice gets all tight and they have to keep cutting themself off… that’s the good shit.

i know you said tropes, implying like Singular Tropes, but combining burping/bloating with the above & it’s like, 300% hotter for me

uhhhh okay this one is Super nsfw & you guys already know this about me, i think, but: fucking someone who has the stomach flu is the Ultimate turn-on if both characters are, like, Into It. the idea of making someone feel better even though they’re all pukey… chef kiss, etc.

uhh if you wanna know more, i have a list of my likes/dislikes in my about, that’s about as complete a list as you can get probably.

#VERY fun question thank you #i suppose i could’ve added a bunch more things but almost every trope i like is Situational.#like there’s some situations where it’s the hottest thing ever and some where it’s a complete turnoff ykno what i mean.#anyways here’s my Top Faves #surprise! tumblr user stomachflu is horny for the stomach flu!#emetophilia #nsfw

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stomachflu · 1 year

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imagine a cute sickie. you're holding their too-hot body on your lap, laid back on the couch. they shift a little, hands clutching their bloated belly in obvious discomfort.

"oh, poor baby. feeling sick again?" you kiss their forehead as you lean to grab a bucket.

sickie doesn't dare to nod, just staring forward with intense concentraction. "y-yeah, a little bit...." they sit up and a gag catches in their throat.

"oh...it's okay, i got you." you help sit them up as they quietly gag again, soft little tongue shooting out and dripping saliva into the bucket.

"ah...ugghh......my stomach feels g-gross..."

"shhh, shhh." you rub their swollen belly, feeling it gurgle and clench under your hands. "you'll feel so much better once you get it all up."

"ahh.....hhhrggh!" they gag again, heaving over, but nothing came up.

"you can do it baby, get it up. it's okay." you encourage them.

finally a thin retch manages to bring up a spurt of hot stomach contents spattering into the bucket. they gasp and spit.

"ohhh, that's good. good job. come on now," you can see their throat bobbing and you press a little harder on their stomach.

"HuuRRRRRGHHHH!" they let go a thick gush of puke. A breath, a whimper, and then they burped up another stream.

"you're doing so good," you pat them on the back and help them wipe their lips off. "do you think you need to be sick some more?"

"i--" they burp behind a hand, trying to control their nausea. the relief that came from vomiting was starting to fade. "i think i'm do-- uurrrp!" they can't help but belch again, and it turns into a wet gag.

"easy,easy. looks like you got a little more to go, huh?" you press your thumbs into their lower belly and hear it whine and gurgle. they gag again, a cute rounded O-shaped mouth with soft tongue shooting out.

you kiss them. "alright, one more for me.you'll feel better, promise. you can give me one more."

"i....hhhnnnn...." they try to hold back the tidal wave, but the smell of vomit in the bucket pushes them over the edge. a cough turns into a sputtering gush of liquid, all over their face and chest and your legs. "I- I'm sor -- uurrhhhlp!"

you sigh, pressed against their undulating stomach as you hold the bucket still. "that's okay, that's okay. you're doing so good baby."

they look so miserable, you put the bucket aside and take them in your arms.

"but i'm-" they burp thickly and swallow bwfore continuing. "i still feel sick, i don't wanna make a mess on you...."

"shhh, baby its okay. you just relax." you pet their hair, speaking quietly and soothingly. even when their body jerks in a heave again, you don't recoil.

"i'm sorry, i....guhh. ohh, i don't thin-" they burped again and it turned wet halfway through. you feel warmth spread down your front as your little sickie can't help but spew into your shirt.

you rub their back and scoot your middle closer to their churning stomach. it coaxes another heave out of them and a gush of vomit. you sigh again. "that's alright baby, get it all out...."

#...hot.

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stomachflu · 1 year

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i have become SO picky about reading emeto content lately adjfkl i gotta start writing stuff again.

#i get SO picky about like. wrong illness? buildup of symptoms too quick? etc.#which is a ME problem -- i just wanna read My Own Dream Fic haha.#i gotta start writing again. so i can Read the stuff i want.

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stomachflu · 1 year

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Fun thought: eating contest participant coming down with norovirus but not knowing it. It's just coming on as they eat. The real challenge is less about winning, and more about keeping everything they just scarfed down, down.

ooo yes good thought

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stomachflu · 1 year

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ugh i’m like. barely active on this account anymore but over the past few days i have been REALLY wanting to write some puke porn…

#thinking emoji.

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stomachflu · 1 year

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96.*trying to rub stomach discretely* "No, my stomach is cramping like crazy." & 39. “Do you think he caught that bug that’s been going around?” for any male character please? thank you ❤️

Kellan can tell something is wrong; Aiden is uncharacteristically quiet throughout the whole club meeting, and he looks tense and uneasy, sitting in the back corner with his shoulders hunched and his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. Every now and then, a pained look flickers over his face, but for the most part he keeps his expression blank, staring at the floor while the others talk.

After the meeting, he lingers in the doorway, waiting for Aiden to catch up. “Hey,” he says quietly, keeping his voice low so no one else except maybe Melanie will hear him. “Are you doing okay?”

Aiden manages a strained smile that turns into a grimace. “Actually, no,” he admits, rubbing his stomach surreptitiously through the lining of his jacket. “My stomach is cramping like crazy right now.”

“Oh, no,” Melanie frets, reaching for his arm. “You should have said you were sick!”

“Think it must have been something I ate,” Aiden says, and laughs weakly. “Probably my own fault.”

“Yeah, if you weren’t always stuffing your face with junk food, maybe this wouldn’t happen,” Kellan teases lightly, and punches Aiden in the shoulder. “Come on, you should get home if you’re not feeling well.”

“I still wanna hang out with you guys, though,” he protests, shaking his head.

“So we’ll come over to your place,” Melanie says, shrugging. “That way you’re already at home if you start to feel worse, and you can just tell us to piss off whenever you want.”

“You guys don’t have to…” Aiden says, and then whimpers a little, hugging himself tighter with both arms as his face twists up in pain. “Ugh — sorry — hurts…”

“You’re clearly not up for hanging out at the union, anyways,” Kellan says firmly, taking his other arm to lead him towards the campus train station. “Let’s get you back home.”

They're halfway to the station when Aiden falters and stops, breathing hard as he clutches his stomach with both hands, no longer trying to be subtle. "Oh, fuck," he gasps. "I think I'm gonna hurl."

Melanie squeaks and covers her mouth; Kellan takes a step back without letting go of Aiden's arm. "Okay, uh, just..." he says awkwardly. "Over here, in the grass, not on the sidewalk."

Aiden stumbles after him into the grass, eyes screwed shut and mouth pressed into a tight line as he tries to steady his breathing. Kellan rests a hand on his shoulder from behind and feels him shudder as he doubles over to retch, dry-heaving a few times before he manages to cough up a mouthful of sick that splatters the ground at his feet.

"Gross," Kellan comments, wincing slightly, and rubs his hand over Aiden's back.

"Sorry," Aiden manages, before he vomits again.

Kellan looks over at Melanie behind his back, and she grimaces. They wait quietly for a few moments while Aiden catches his breath before she gently suggests, "Do you think you're done?"

"Uh," Aiden says, straightening, and brushes his hair back from his forehead with one hand. "I think so, for now." He looks even more like shit than before, his face very pale and sweat breaking out across his brow, but he manages a shaky smile at them both.

Kellan isn't encouraged. "You think you can make it to the station before you start puking again?" he asks, skeptical.

"I dunno, man," Aiden says, a little sharply, and Kellan cringes. "I don't feel nauseous right now, but it came on kinda suddenly!"

"Sorry," Kellan mumbles, looking away. "I didn't mean..."

Aiden groans, shaking his head. "No, I didn't mean to snap. Come on, let's just go, already, I'm sure you guys are sick of waiting on me."

He does manage to make it to the station without having to stop again, though once they're there he makes a beeline straight for the garbage can. Kellan and Melanie exchange worried looks as they trail after him. "Do you think he caught that bug that's been going around?" Melanie asks in an undertone, and bites her lip. "A ton of people were out in my classes last week."

"I dunno," Kellan says, shrugging, "but he seems like he's in pretty bad shape."

Aiden is leaning over the trash, one arm braced against the edge, when they catch up to him, but he hasn't thrown up again -- yet. "Sorry," he says again, lifting his head a little. "You guys don't have to come with me, I can..." He pauses to swallow hard and take a deep breath. "Get home by myself."

"Don't be stupid," Kellan says, shaking his head. "Of course we're coming with you."

"Someone has to take care of you while you're in this state," Melanie agrees, patting his back with one hand.

"Thanks, you two," he says with a strained smile, and then groans, his shoulders hunching as he clutches his abdomen. "Ugh, fuck--"

He gags and doubles over to vomit into the trash can, bringing up what must be the better part of his lunch in a chunky stream of half-digested stomach contents. Kellan grimaces. “You’re okay, dude, just get it up,” he says as Aiden heaves. “Maybe if it’s something you are you’ll feel better.”

“God, I hope so,” Aiden pants, wiping his mouth across the back of his hand. “I feel rotten.”

“Well, once we get you home, you can get into something more comfortable and lie down with a hot pack to help with the cramps,” Melanie suggests, still rubbing circles on his back through his jacket. “Oh, and there’s the train now, come on—“

“Just try not to throw up on the ride, okay?” Kellan says, taking him by the arm to pull him gently across the platform. “It’s only a few stops to your place."

#omg i loved this!

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stomachflu · 2 years

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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.

#👀👀#REALLY REALLY GOOD #nsfw

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stomachflu · 2 years

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Thinking about a sickie who‘s camping in the bathroom because of how overwhelming the nausea is right now. But caretaker is on their way to them (or maybe has gone out for groceries and forgot their keys). So sickie has to move to open the door for them.

They are basically dragging themselves towards the door, feeling dizzy and worse every step. They are opening the door and leaning heavily against the doorframe while caretaker is coming up the steps. Caretaker takes one look at how pale sickie’s face is and immediately gets worried. They are grabbing sickie with one hand to support their weight while balancing their bags in the other.

They barely manage to close the door behind them before sickie says „I think I‘m gonna …“ but does not get to finish the sentence before they start to heave and throw up right there on the floor. Caretaker is stunned by how bad sickie feels. When sickie’s retches have stopped, they move them back to the bathroom and start to clean, realizing it will be a long night …

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stomachflu · 2 years

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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.

#EYES EMOJI this is good

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