emetophilia

A/N: This isn’t a request - simply a story that came to me randomly. So I wrote it and now I’m dedicating it to @dont-look-so-good/ @ocsickficsideblog because today is April’s birthday! April you are my amazing wee sister and I love you lots lots lots! I hope you like this and have had an absolutely amazing birthday because you deserve the best!! 😊💙


“Relax!” Zubin placed a drink down in front of Lyle, who thought it better resembled a fishbowl than a glass. “I got you a San Francisco so it’s not got any alcohol in it, just fruit juice and grenadine.” Lyle eyed the glass with caution, he’d never done the cocktail and mocktail thing before and it put him so far out of his comfort zone that he was struggling even to trust Zubin.

“Are you having the same?” Lyle asked; he expected Zubin to have something alcoholic, but the drink in front of him looked very similar to his own.

This bar was new, but had already succeeded in building a reputation as a good place for performers. That was really what Zubin was interested in, he was scoping out whether this was the sort of place that he could do his drag act in. He’d wheedled Lyle into going along with him because everyone else was busy. Lyle had tried to be busy too, but Zubin won.

“No, I’m having a Sex on the Beach,” Zubin replied, and Lyle felt his cheeks go a bit pink at the name, “it’s the same but with vodka and schnapps.”

“How do you know which one’s which?” Lyle looked between the glasses again, he couldn’t tell any difference.

“Because your one has the orange and mine has the lemon,” Zubin tapped the garnishes on the side of the glasses.

“Okay,” Lyle said, picking up his glass to take a drink and very nearly needing both hands to keep it steady. The fruit juice tingled in his mouth and Zubin grinned as Lyle seemed satisfied.

“I really like these pods,” Zubin stroked his hand across the fabric of the seat, “it gives it a bit of a cosy, upmarket vibe, don’t you think?”

“I guess,” Lyle agreed; this wasn’t the sort of place that he would go if it wasn’t for Zubin’s encouragement. It was busy – at least the pod gave them a little bit of space and at least the illusion of privacy. The wall behind Lyle allowed him to feel secure, but all the people made him feel antsy. Zubin, on the other hand, was in his element – he sipped at his drink, his eyes darting around taking all the surroundings in.

“And you can still see the platform area from in here,” he pointed out. Lyle didn’t say anything, but took another gulp of his drink just for something to do. There was a tight knot in his chest, an increasing anxiety about where he was, that he was struggling to dampen down. “Are you okay?” Zubin asked.

“Yeah,” Lyle lied, although his lips were hard to move and he really hoped that Zubin didn’t notice that his hand was shaking as he took a large gulp.

“We don’t have to stay if you’re not comfortable,” Zubin offered, his dark eyebrows furrowed down as he watched Lyle. “We can finish these and go, I’ve seen the place now.”

“No, it’s okay,” Lyle heard himself say, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew he couldn’t take it back. He took another gulp, the fruit juice was nice – but it had a sharpness that Lyle hadn’t expected. Perhaps next time he’d just have a fruit cider.

The lights on the platform had changed, a soft white spotlight cut though the pale blue light which had made Lyle feel like he was under the sea from the moment they’d come inside.

“Good evening,” one of the barmen had appeared on the platform and his voice came across the speaker loud and clear. “It’s my pleasure to introduce, on behalf of Polo bar, our first spoken word artist in tonight’s line up. Give a warm welcome to Seerhere.”

A round of applause swelled through the bar, bouncing off the roof and in the pods. Lyle looked across at Zubin, and from the surprised look on his face he was just as oblivious as Lyle.

“Did you know?” Lyle asked anyway, but Zubin’s eyebrows had raised so high up on his forehead they nearly disappeared into his hairline.

“No!” Zubin shook his head, feeling perhaps Allah really had been smiling down on this trip.

Spoken art was one of Lyle’s things. He’d always loved poetry but when he’d discovered spoken word artists on YouTube he’d instantly fallen in love. The applause had died down as a young man wearing a suit accessorized by a beanie hat stepped on to the platform. There was something about the way that he stood, feet planted firmly on the ground with a sense of certainty, and Lyle watched in anticipation – a cold tingling along his arms.

“Lists.
Tickboxes.
Type your answer here.
Delete as appropriate.”

His voice was not what Lyle expected, it was high and breathless – and sounded like music to Lyle’s ears.

“Deletion.
Backspace.
Step back.
Stop.”

Zubin watched Lyle’s face, his expression had changed entirely as he listened. To Zubin it was just words, but for Lyle it wove a pattern.

“Red light.
Green man.
Crossing.
Lives.
Interwoven.
Moments.”

The atmosphere in the room had shifted and Lyle felt welcome among the group of listening congregants. He gulped another large amount of his drink, the sharpness was growing on him now and he was quite enjoying it.

“Moments in time.
Time’s up.
Stop.
End.”

There was a moment where the room collectively held its breath, then the applause started.

“That was amazing,” Lyle thought aloud, clapping so hard his palms hurt.

“It’s pretty good,” Zubin agreed, and Lyle looked across at him trying hard not to laugh.

“I know it’s not your thing Zu,” Lyle told him, taking a long drink of his mocktail which left the glass empty, “you don’t have to pretend to me, I don’t mind.”

“But it’s your thing,” Zubin looked embarrassed at Lyle’s frankness, he drained his own glass. “I’m going to get another, do you want one?”

“Yeah, why not?” Lyle shrugged, more interested in the artist on the platform. Zubin slipped out of the pod and disappeared off to the bar; Lyle edged slightly closer to the edge of the pod so he could get a better view.

“When feet meet the street
It’s tarmac and rubber,
When feet meet the street
But can’t leave
It’s cold toes and sleeping bags.”

Lyle closed his eyes, as this person spoke the words seemed to curl and dance like a trail of rising smoke in front of his eyes. He was entranced by it, goosebumps were rising on the back of his neck. Zubin returned with the glasses and slid in beside Lyle.

“This would be a good venue for one of your poetry things,” Zubin said when the artist had finished his next piece.

“It would!” Lyle agreed. He’d never thought about that; their previous poetry soc readings had always either been jammed into the English department’s common room, or in one of the dingier pubs on campus where the air became so thick and hot it was difficult to breathe. “Maybe I’ll have to suggest it at the next meeting.”

For the first time in their friendship it was Lyle who wanted to stay out and Zubin was waiting for him; there was two girls who followed the first performer, one who Lyle didn’t rate too highly and the other who he thought was phenomenal. Lyle was so enthralled that he hadn’t noticed Zubin refilling his glass every time it was empty; what notified Lyle to the amount of liquid he’d drunk was the need to go to the toilet. He wobbled as he got out from the pod and was unsure as to why he felt so unsteady on his feet.

Normally his anxiety prevented him from going to the bathroom on his own in such a busy place, as the mere thought of having to walk across a crowded bar to get there made his knees weak. But tonight he simply waved off Zubin’s offer and set off across the gathered clumps of people, heading towards the area next to the platform where there was a sign for the toilets. He pushed through a door and found himself in a corridor with an open door out to the smoking area, and both sets of bathrooms – the cold air from outside hit him with a ferocity that made him wobble again.

He stumbled a little as he entered the bathroom and, as a precaution, decided it might be better for him to use a stall. Lyle’s head was swimming as he closed the door and locked it with trembling fingers; he sat down rather heavily on the toilet and sunk his head into his hands. He hadn’t been sure why he was feeling so woozy, but as he sat on the toilet with his eyes closed, the realisation that he definitely had a bit of alcohol in him presented itself.

Anger rose in Lyle’s chest – had Zubin known all along that he was giving him alcohol? If that was true he was going to be really upset with him. He knew Lyle had a lecture in the morning and he really didn’t like going out before his classes. He had to psyche himself into moving because his surroundings were swirling unsteadily; he focused on keeping himself steady as he washed his hands. His cheeks were flushed and his glasses were sliding down to the point of his nose.

The sound seemed much louder as Lyle re-entered the bar, and he focused on putting one foot in front of the other while not banging into those around him. When he slid back into the pod he felt a lot worse than he had when he went to the toilet; Zubin was there with another two glasses, but the thought of drinking more made him feel queasy.

“There’s alcohol in that,” Lyle said, pointing to the glass in front of him.

“No, it’s the San Francisco,” Zubin told him, but Lyle shook his head and shoved it towards him.

“Try it,” he insisted, so Zubin took a sip and then his eyes widened; he took a drink of his own.

“Shit,” he muttered, looking horrified. “Shit Lyle! I must’ve got them mixed up!”

“Yeah,” Lyle nodded. He was trying to take deep breaths as the effects of the alcohol hit him all at once, and he could feel the baked potato he’d eaten for dinner churning inside his stomach.

“Oh shit Lyle! I’m sorry!” Zubin put his hands onto Lyle’s arm and gave it a quick squeeze.

“It’s alright,” he replied, although he was increasingly feeling not alright as he sat. “You didn’t mean it…” Lyle felt like his lips were made of rubber as he spoke; his mouth had gone rather dry, but he was swallowing repeatedly as he felt something rising in his throat.

“Are you alright?” Zubin asked, he’d moved round in the pod so he was right next to him. Lyle paused, trying to establish just how he was feeling; his stomach was doing somersaults and he could feel his glasses sliding down his nose as he shook his head quickly. “What’s going on?”

Lyle wanted to reply, but his stomach gave a jolt and he clapped his hand to his mouth as a gag pushed up. Watery liquid filled his mouth and he looked at Zubin, absolutely petrified, but not knowing what to do.

“Are you gonna be sick?” Zubin put his hand on Lyle’s shoulder and Lyle nodded, not removing his hand from his mouth for fear of what might come out. “Fuck, right…”

Kmmmmchh!” Lyle heaved, his back banged against the wall as he tried to push himself back; if he was going to throw up he didn’t want to get it on himself. He could taste acid as he tried to swallow down the mouthful of sick, but he was failing. “G’rrrkk!” Lyle could feel his cheeks straining and he didn’t know what to do… He really didn’t want to be sick in the middle of this club, that was just beyond humiliating!

“Here, Lyle,” Zubin grabbed one of the large empty glasses from the table and held it up to Lyle’s face; Lyle shook his head, but then a contraction from his belly had him grabbing the glass with both hands.

Brruuurrrllluuuukkk!” Lyle cringed as a gush of mushy sick poured into the glass, half filling it immediately. He tried to take a few gasps of air now his mouth was empty, but his body had other ideas. “G’kkkhhhuuuh!” Another wave of puke came rushing up and out of him.

“Oh fuck,” Zubin put his hand on Lyle’s back and rubbed across his shoulder blades, “it’s okay Lyle.” Zubin could hear Lyle breathing raggedly and could see the glass he was clutching so tightly was very nearly full. “Let me take that from you.” Zubin tried to take the stem of the glass to prize it out of Lyle’s hands but he was shaking his head again. His stomach was still rebelling and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to keep the rest of it’s contents down for long. “Use this one,” Zubin picked up another glass and managed to swap them.;

Uuuuarrrp!” Lyle belched loudly and a spattering of vomit fell into the glass; he felt awful – his head was spinning and he could feel sweat and tears mingling on his face. “Huuuaaaargh…” With every retch Lyle only managed to bring up a little amount of sick and Zubin could feel the muscles in Lyle’s back straining to get it up.

“It’s okay – you’re okay,” Zubin gently put his free hand on Lyle’s leg and could feel it trembling.

“It – hic – hurts…” Lyle forced out between gags, he couldn’t quite get his breathing back under control and his stomach muscles were tensing so much that they ached.

“I know,” Zubin placated, “just try and breathe – in though your nose and out through your mouth.” This was one of the techniques Lyle used when he was panicking, so Zubin reckoned it might work now too.

Hrrrk! Hmmmk!” Lyle was holding the glass over his mouth and nose, heaving repeatedly but not bringing anything up. “Huuurrp!”

“Don’t fight it Lyle,” Zubin said, rubbing Lyle’s back more and gently using his other hand to push Lyle’s glasses up.

Huuuuaaaarrrraaallpph!” Zubin felt Lyle jerk sharply and the glass was suddenly full and overflowing, dripping down onto the seat in between Lyle’s legs.

“Alright…” Zubin tried to make Lyle let the glass go, succeeding and placing it on the table. Lyle close his eyes, leaning slightly into Zubin – he felt like the whole world was blurring around him. “Lyle – don’t fall asleep, come on, let’s get you home.”

Mmmm…” Lyle hummed, he was breathing slowly now and his stomach felt hollow and sour.

“Come on,” Zubin gripped Lyle’s upper arms and managing to haul him out of the pod; he wrapped his arm around Lyle’s waist to hold him upright. “That’s it…”

Lyle retched again as the cold outside air hit him, but he had nothing left inside him so he was hanging limply from Zubin, heaving emptily towards the ground.

“Oh Lyle… I’m so sorry…” Zubin felt awful for his mistake to have caused this.

“It’ – hrrrk – okay…” Lyle mumbled.

“It’s not,” Zubin shook his head, “but I’m going to get you home and make sure you’re okay… You’ll be fine, I promise.”

“Thanks Zu.”

wiseinnerwhispers  asked:

Okay but... can you imagine how sick Peter would be if he ate a bunch of left over Halloween candy thinking it'd be fine in the morning cause of his metabolism but then Tony called and he had to swing around the city for a while? He'd probably manage to keep it down until he got to the tower and then he'd dizzily stumble towards the bathroom but end up loosing it in the hallway on Tony's shoes since Tony was concerned about him and grabbed Peter's shoulder to spin him around or something...

Thank you so much for this!  It’s possibly the most excellent prompt ever!  And you @wiseinnerwhispers, you make the world go ‘round with all the support and love you give.  

So here you go.  I think I messed up the details a little bit, and I don’t even want to talk about the timeline.  But this does take place right after my last Spiderman fic, No sympathy.

___

Peter wakes and immediately looks at the clock.  It’s 6:59. His alarm will be blaring in a minute. He blearily reaches out to turn of the device before it can start beeping at him.  May’s given him permission to miss school if he still feels as sick as he did yesterday, but as Peter lifts his head, there’s no echoing throb. It’s a relief.

He slides out of bed and heads to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth, stepping a little harder than he normally would just to test his luck.  The resultant vibrations die out around his shins and leave his head alone, and the taste of toothpaste doesn’t turn his stomach, so Peter decides he’s ok.  

He kicks it into high gear and goes back to his bedroom to dress and pack up his backpack.  Peter grabs his suit from the back of his desk chair where he’d thrown it last night, shakes it, and gives it an experimental sniff. It’s a little sweaty, but the god-awful scent of homeless man’s pot smoke has dissipated.  He wads up the spandex fabric and tucks it into the bottom of his backpack.  

Peter barrels through the kitchen, almost knocking Aunt May’s orange juice to the floor as he throws pop tarts into the toaster and looks for something to toss in his bag for lunch.

“Feeling better this morning?” May asks, looking up from the newspaper.  

“Oh, yeah,” Peter says, still scanning the pantry.  “I don’t know what hit me, but I’m fine now.”  He spies a half-finished bag of candy corn and a handful of fun-size Milky Ways, and Peter sweeps them into his backpack.

“Maybe just had to clear your system,” May suggests.  Then, “Are you taking all my candy?”

“Um.”  Peter hastens to put a few of the chocolates back.

“No, go ahead,” May says, smiling to show she was joking the first time.  “You didn’t really get to celebrate last night.”

“But, I mean, I could leave some.”

“Take it.  Or I will eat it all, and I can’t afford new jeans,” May jokes.  “I’d give a lot to have that teenaged boy metabolism.”

“Hm,” Peter muses, feeling a little guilty that his growing hunger lately has forced an increase in the grocery budget.  He forgoes dropping cheese crackers into his backpack as well.

The toaster spits out the pop tarts, and Peter takes one in each hand, clamped between his thumbs and index fingers so the steaming pastries won’t burn him.  “See ya, May,” Peter calls, transferring one pop tart to his mouth as he lets himself out the front door.

“See ya,” May echoes.

Peter wolfs down his breakfast as he dashes to school.  He hadn’t realized the hunger gnawing at the corners of his stomach, but now that he thinks about it, he didn’t have much of a dinner last night, and most of it ended up splatted on a street corner and in the toilet.  It makes the pop tarts taste extra good, like the food of the gods. Which, who knows? Maybe they are.

His morning classes pass quickly, and Peter does his best to focus on algebra and chemistry and history even though his mind is on other things.  He didn’t do that great of a job of patrolling the neighborhood last night, and he forgot to call Mr. Stark and leave a message.  A mission report.  If Mr. Stark asks about it, he’ll just tell the truth and say he was sick, which is perfectly valid reason for an excused absence.  But it still doesn’t seem like a great track record for a superhero.

During lunch, Peter hides out in the band room with Ned to work on the Lego death- star-in-progress. Ned has a treasure trove of Halloween booty to share, somehow including the diamonds of watermelon sour patch kids and multiple full-size chocolate bars.  Peter adds his candy corn and milky ways to the pile and chows down, ruefully wishing he’d made buttered toast for breakfast.  Or at least something a little less sugary.  It only takes a few pieces of candy to sear his tongue with sweetness and make his teeth feel grimy.  But Peter’s hungry, and with his current rate of calorie burn, it’ll only take a few rounds of the block in his Spiderman suit to burn it all off.

The bell is ringing to signal the end of the lunch period, and Peter’s phone is vibrating up a storm in his pocket.  Pretending he’s on his way to class, he ducks into the bathroom to check the messages.

Mr. Stark: There’s a thing.  Can you assist?

 

Mr. Stark:  Oh, you’re at school.  Nevermind.

 

Mr. Stark:  But really, can you assist?

 

Mr. Stark:  Happy’s on a Starbucks run.  Please provide own transportation.

Peter hastens to compose a reply.

 

Peter: Yeah! Of course!  I don’t have any tests today.

He considers deleting the exclamation points.  Decides against it.  Oh well.

Peter: To the tower, right?  What do you need help with?

 

Mr. Stark: Yes. Excuse the boxes.  We’re packing for the move.

 

Mr. Stark:  How’s your knowledge of local gang hangouts?

 

Peter: Not fantastic?

 

Mr. Stark:  Hm. Ok.  Scans are showing up weird weapons tech.  Figured if it’s HYDRA, I’ll handle it.  But if it’s just bullies, you can give it a try first.  I also need you to model.

 

Peter:  Always happy to slam some bullies.  Model what?

 

Mr. Stark:  Your suit. Duh.  I’m working on a new micro armor layer, and I need you to put it on and tell me if it hurts when I hit you.

 

Peter:  Ok…

 

Mr. Stark:  Don’t just stand there like a dumb kid on your phone.  Get your ass down here.

 

Mr. Stark: I’m not swearing at you.

 

Peter wonders if he’s supposed to reply, but he just throws his phone into his backpack and exits the bathroom.  He glances up and down the hall a few times to make sure there aren’t any teachers watching, then he dashes for the door.  

Peter dumps his backpack in the alley and quickly pulls on his Spiderman suit.  Since he doesn’t have any cash for a cab and his metro card’s down to a few cents, webbing himself across the city seems like the best option.  He supposes he could park somewhere and wait for Happy to finish up whatever he’s doing, but what fun is that?  Peter usually gets a kick out of swinging around.  Plus, he doesn’t get the impression Happy likes him that much.

Once he’s situated, Peter scales the brick wall and sprints across the building’s flat roof.  He shoots a web onto the corner of the building diagonally across the street and jumps, letting his feet skim the roofs of a few taxis on his way over the intersection.  

With this quick method of transport, it’ll still take Peter a good ten or fifteen minutes to get to the tower.  He’s less than halfway through the journey when his stomach starts sloshing. Honestly, it’s not that unexpected what with all the junk he just ate and fact that he was sick yesterday.  But it’s annoying as anything.

Eight blocks from the tower, Peter’s head starts is aching.  Not in the nice, polite, excuse-me-I-think-I’m-starting-to-get-a-headache way, but more in the please-stop-I’m-hella-dizzy way.  The way that demands a change in activity or dire consequences.  

Peter jumps onto a rooftop and sidesteps a skylight, doubling over with his hands on his knees so he can catch his breath.  He’s fine. He tells himself he is five or six times and swallows a sweet, chocolaty burp, then leaps back into free fall before he can second guess himself.  Once he shoots a web and starts to swing, though, the disgusting flip of his stomach starts up again in the worst combination of overindulgence and motion sickness ever.  Peter’s fucked and he knows it.  He imagines he feels worse than Steve Rogers did in that infamous story of Cap and the cotton candy and the Cyclone on Coney Island.

He’s swallowing hard against rising gunk in his throat when he swings onto the block dominated by the Avengers Tower and, as it has been for the past few weeks, about a thousand U-Haul trucks.  Peter doesn’t want to let his feet hit the ground for fear that his body will take it as a cue to turn itself inside out, so he webs himself to the balcony on the 21st floor, the one where he knows Tony’s lab is located.  The sliding glass door is open slightly, and Peter shoves through it.  He pulls his mask up over his nose and mouth, intent only on getting to the bathroom before the inevitable happens.

“Hey, where are you going?”

For once in his life, Peter ignores Mr. Stark’s question and keeps hustling, though his pace is slowing significantly as the motion sends his stomach into frantic convulsions. He’s sweating all over.  He can’t feel his face.  He can’t feel his feet.

“Yo, kid.”  A hand comes down on his shoulder and forcibly spins him around.  “I’m talking to you, you know?”

“Ohshit—” Peter manages to choke out before everything’s coming up, running through the fingers of the gloved hand he’s pressed to his mouth a moment too late. He can’t suppress the next spastic retch, and a heavy splash of minimally digested candy and pop tarts hits the floor, soiling his red boots and Mr. Stark’s black Converse.

“What the fuck?”  Tony leaps backward, then seems to think better of his actions and comes up behind Peter to place a tentative hand on his shoulder and keep him from collapsing on his shaky knees as his stomach continues to evacuate.

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter chokes out as soon as he can take a breath.  “I didn’t mean—”  He cuts off with another gag.  “Sorry.”

“Um.  It’s ok,” Tony says, sounding like he’s out of his depth, fishing for the right words.  “I’ll…call May to pick you up?”

“No, I…I can’t,” Peter breathes, scraping mucous and melted chocolate off his tongue with his teeth. It seems rude to spit onto the floor, but there aren’t a lot of better options.  

“Yeah, right, you’re supposed to be at school…” Tony reminds himself.  “Well, I have 23 guest rooms in this place, so I guess it won’t be any trouble if you want to lie down for a minute.”  

Peter tries to say thank you, but the words turn into a wet burp he struggles to keep from turning into a heave.  “OhmygodI’msorry,” he exhales.

“You’re…gross,” Tony says. “But, come on.”  He uses the hand on Peter’s shoulder to steer him down the hall. “Good thing I haven’t packed the puke-cleaning robots yet.”

anonymous asked:

Lance who doesn't show up for training and when *paladin of your choice* shows up to find him he's throwing up in the bathroom

Borrowing a little bit of past experience with this one… Sorry I’ve been so MIA, it’s been a long summer.



Lance’s stomach is tied in knots. He’d spent the past four hours trying to will away nausea, sweat soaking through his sleep shirt from the stress. Everything feels so hot and stinging, even the fabric of his clothing feels like it’s made of needles, stabbing him at every nerve ending. His head pounds throughout the night, and he isn’t sure he slept so much as he probably lost consciousness at various intervals.

But the burn within his gut seems to be the worst. Everything is in a strange haze, which Lance has felt before. He’s sure it’s a fever, and it’s not even his first one in space. But to feel the stabbing, twisting feeling in his stomach, he almost wants to cry. It takes Lance nearly an hour to will himself out of bed, trying to repeat to himself that he won’t throw up, he can’t get sick–he just needs water, and to sleep. Maybe a painkiller or three. It doesn’t work, and he can only slowly kick at his sheets until the fabric stops restricting his legs. He doesn’t stand up so much as he rolls out of the bed, crawling his way towards his bathroom.

Keep reading

Not-doing-too-good emeto sentence starters A-J

Based on this post X  

Choose up to 3! Send me a pairing + who’s sick & who’s caring 

.

A. Good old basics: 

A1. “Are you okay? You look pale." 

A2. "Can you make it to the toilet?" 

A3. "Did that sound come from your stomach?" 


A4. "I think I’m going to be sick." 

 A5. "I’m suddenly not feeling so hot." 

A6. "I think I need the toilet." 

B. Drunker than they should be: 

B1. "I think you’ve had enough." 

B2. "You should sit down before you fall over." 

B3. "Just how many drinks have you had?" 


B4. "I’m not that drunk." 

B5. "Is the room spinning or is that just me?" 

B6. "I’m not some lightweight!" 


C. Over did it a little: 

C1. "Maybe you should take it easy." 

C2. "Why do you always insist on acting tough?" 

C3. "You seem kind of out of it do you want to sit down?" 


C4. "I didn’t think it was anything to worry about." 

C5. "It’s happened before and I’ve always been fine." 

C6. "I guess I should have taken better care of myself…" 

D. Our favorite gluttons: 

D1. "You’re going to make yourself sick if you eat that much." 

D2. "There’s no way you can eat all that." 

D3. "That’s your last one, then I’m cutting you off." 

D4. "Are you going to finish that?" 

D5. "Maybe I should have stopped after that last one…" 

D6. "I ate way too much." 


E. Poor thing got hurt: 

E1. "You fell pretty hard, you should sit down." 

E2. "You look like you’re about to pass out." 

E3. "You should see a nurse. You might have a concussion." 


E4. "I feel a bit light headed." 

E5. "I’m fine really I just need a moment." 

E6. "It’s starting to hurt a bit more now…" 


F. I thought that tasted funny: 

F1. "You’re really going to eat that…?" 

F2. "I told you you should have cooked it longer." 

F3. "Next time, I’m picking the restaurant." 

F4. "That’s the last time I buy food from a place with wheels." 

F5. "Maybe the meat in my food was bad or something…" 

F6. "And I don’t even like seafood!" 


G. Stop the car: 

G1. "Do you need to pull over?”  

G2. “It’s okay if you want to open a window." 

G3. "Are you sure you want to go on the ride again?" 


G4. "Can we pull over at the next stop?" 

G5. "Could you try to drive a bit more smoothly…?" 

G6. "I don’t get car sick so I’m sure I won’t get sick on a ride." 


H. Fluff fluff and more fluff: 

H1. "Would it help if I rubbed your stomach?" 

H2. "Lay your head on my lap." 

H3. "Everything will be fine I promise." 


H4. "I’ve got a stomach ache… can you make it better?" 

H5. "I just want to lay in bed until it goes away." 

H6. "Can you turn off the light…? It’s too bright." 


*A little more hardcore: 

I. Call 911: 

I1. "Why didn’t you tell me you were this sick?" 

I2. "That’s it. I’m taking you to the hospital." 

I3. "If you can’t keep this down I won’t have any choice but to get help." 

I4. "I can’t stop throwing up." 

I5. "My stomach is killing me." 

I6. "I think something’s really wrong." 


J. You can’t eat that: J1. "Those are poisonous!” J2. “Which cabinet did you find that in?" 

J3. "Drink this, it will make you throw up." 

J4. "I think I took too many." 

J5. "My throat feels funny…" 

J6. "I thought the red ones were safe." 


Curtesy of Emetofiend2Dand3D

anonymous asked:

I just got this idea. Have some Viktuuri: Viktor and Yuuri's first encounter is not in Hasetsu. That's the first formal meeting. Not first encounter. Viktor was ill at a competition that Yuuri just so happened to be in as well. When Yuuri stumbles upon one puking Viktor Nikiforov, fanboying aside, his caring nature takes over and tries to provide comfort. But Viktor's fever was so high at the time, he didnt remember Yuuri's help. Until of course it happens again when Viktuuri is together -Galaxy

What a great idea! This is set during Yuuri’s previous Grand Prix Final series.

By the time the Cup of China is coming to a close, Yuuri is exhausted, a ball of nerves held up only by adrenaline and copious amounts of caffeine. His free skate is a blur. Yuuri rushes to the bathroom to splash some water on his face in an attempt to stay awake for the trip back to the hotel.

He’s barely paying attention to where he’s going, so he nearly runs into the person blocking the bathroom sinks. “I’m so sorry!” he yelps, apologizing instinctively.

“’S okay,” the man slurs, waving a hand vaguely. Yuuri finally takes a moment to get a look at the stranger.

“Victor … Nikiforov?” he stutters and does a double take. He’d probably do a spit take if he was drinking anything.

“Yeah. Who’re you?” Victor asks, accent thick. He doesn’t sound angry, just confused.

For a moment, Yuuri forgets how to talk, as well as his own name and how to think. “Um,” he splutters for a second. “I’m Yuuri Katsuki!” he squeaks.

Victor doesn’t respond, and Yuuri takes a second to actually look at him. He frowns at what he sees. Victor seems pale and unsteady on his feet, and there’s a feverish flush on his cheeks. “Are you okay?” Yuuri asks anxiously, concern overriding his starstruck stupor.

“I’m okay,” Victor mumbles, before lurching over the sink with a gag. He brings up a few thin strings of bile and groans. Yuuri automatically moves forward to rub his back, shyness momentarily forgotten. He winces at the heat radiating off Victor.

“"You’re really sick, aren’t you?” His question goes unanswered as Victor struggles with another heave, spitting a few globs of saliva into the sink. “You won a Grand Prix Final qualifying event running a fever like this?” Victor just slumps into Yuuri’s side with a low moan, apparently finished puking for the moment.

Yuuri carefully props him up against the wall of the stall and wets some paper towels to create a makeshift cold compress that he presses to Victor’s forehead. The taller man sighs at the coolness, and Yuuri smiles slightly, glad that he could provide a tiny bit of comfort for the obviously ill skater. He’s at a loss for what to do now, though. Victor needs help, but Celestino will be looking for Yuuri soon.

That’s it! He just has to find Victor’s coach; surely he’ll be willing to take care of his student. And like any superfan of Victor, Yuuri already knows his name and what he looks like.

Yuuri hurries out of the restroom, looking desperately for any sign of Yakov. He spots him a few meters away, arguing with a young blonde teenager.

“Are you Yakov Feltsman?” he asks, pretending that he doesn’t already know that.

“Yes,” Yakov replies, turning to face him. “And who might you be?”

Yakov is intimidating, and Yuuri finds himself tongue-tied for a few seconds. But the idea of Victor, miserably sick and alone in the bathroom, spurs him into action. “I’m Yuuri Katsuki, sir.”

Yakov scoffs, unimpressed. “And what do you want?” Behind him, the younger skater mutters something in Russian.

“It’s not me, it’s Victor.” Yuuri does his best to stay calm and explain the situation. “I found him in the bathroom. He’s really sick!”

“Show me where he is,” Yakov demands. Yuuri leads him to the bathroom, where Victor is still miraculously propped against the wall. Yakov moves to his skater’s side, pressing his hand to Victor’s face to check his temperature and cursing in Russian.

Yuuri offers to help, but Yakov waves him off. He decides that maybe it’s best if he just leaves. Victor is probably in good hands with his coach. “I hope that you feel better soon!” he calls over his shoulder as he exits the bathroom.

Later, at the Grand Prix Final and when Victor comes to Hasetsu, it becomes evident that Yuuri is the only one who remembers the encounter. It’s disappointing but not entirely surprising, given how sick Victor was at the time.

Coming back to competitive figure skating is very challenging and tiring, making one very susceptible to germs. So it’s not completely unexpected when Yuuri finds Victor in the bathroom after practice puking up his guts. “I thought you were coming down with something,” Yuuri mutters to himself, rubbing Victor’s back in soothing circles.. Then, a little louder, “You’re really sick, aren’t you?”

Victor’s shoulders jerk up in surprise, and when he finally gets a break from vomiting, he cranes his head around to look at Yuuri. “It was you?” he asks, sounding dazed.

“What?” Yuuri doesn’t understand what Victor is talking about. Just how high is his fever?

Victor spits shakily and wipes his mouth. “At the Cup of China,” he explains, his voice raspy. “You took care of me.”

It takes Yuuri a moment to get over his shock; he didn’t think that Victor remembered that at all.

“Yes, and I’ll take care of you now,” Yuuri promises, a fond smile on his face. It’s amazing how much can change in just a year.

Emeto starters
  • 1. I told you you shouldn't have eaten that
  • 2. Oh god, get the trash can
  • 3. Why didn't you say you weren't feeling well?
  • 4. Hm...Not hungry?
  • 5. Don't be ridiculous. You know I don't get sick.
  • 6. I forgot my anti-nausea pills...
  • 7. I can't be sick right now!
  • 8. Sorry I puked on your shoes...
  • 9. Excuse me, where's the nearest restroom?
  • 10. My friend isn't feeling so well...
  • 11. Are you sure you have to puke? You've been dry heaving for like an hour.
  • 12. Please don't talk about food right now.
  • 13. I dare you to ride that roller coaster!
  • 14. I haven't been able to keep anything down all day...
  • 15. Here, I'll hold your hair back.
  • 16. D-don't look at me, I'm gross...
  • 17. I...I think I ate too much.
  • 18. Pull over...I said PULL OVER!
  • 19. I'll give you this bag just in case.
  • 20. Are you sure you're up for that today? Your face looks a little green.
  • 21. Don't worry, I've got you.
  • 22. How could you throw up in my car!?
  • 23. I forgot to tell you I get motion sickness...
  • 24. I think I'm gonna get sick...!
  • 25. Maybe you'll feel better if you lie down.
youtube

Enjoy this arousing video!

FINALLY. IT TOOK ME YEARS TO GET THIS FIGURED OUT 

But yeah if you missed my earlier announcement, this is what happens when I get really really high and drink 2 liters of Dr. Pepper on top of a huge burrito. I don’t really have a very good gag reflex, so even though I tried and tried and tried and tried some more off camera, I couldn’t get very much up. I was absolutely miserable for hours after this. 

But it was worth it because I love you kinky little shits <3

Episode 1

@outtacommission mentioned Lance with an infected wound and I was kind of inspired. Not sure if I want to continue this or leave it here but… here’s a thing. I had some free time.

——— [part two here]

Lurching forward, Lance catches himself on the side of his bathroom stall and grimaces, fighting back a wave of nausea. His side stings–rather, his entire midsection, from the healing, jagged cut on the left to the stinging of his skin and the cramps of his stomach. It hurts, and Lance knows he ought to ask someone else to check on it, but he’s determined to fight this one out alone.

After all, he doesn’t want to be shouted at for being the screw up, not again. Not this time when it’s something as minor and foolish as being cut. They already had to repair his undersuit, which he felt bad about when Allura had fixed him with that look of displeasure, and he didn’t want them worrying more. It’s just a cut, of course. That’s nothing, nothing the wonderful and strong Lance can’t handle on his own.

Keep reading

His head was pounding to the beat of his heart. It hurt even without that, only intensifying at each beat. Everything hurt his head, the lights, his boyfriends humming, even thinking was too much for him.

“Will… please be quiet…” he begged in a whisper.

Will stopped humming and looked at Nico. They were both on the couch but at separate ends. Will had been poured over patient files, converting notes to his permanent records. He hadn’t even noticed he was humming. Nico could be moody at times but he didn’t think that was why his boyfriend suddenly snapped at him like that.

He was curled in on himself, he was paler than usual and the dark bags under his eyes were even more pronounced now. “Nico? A-are you feeling alright, babe.”

He groaned then mumbled, “m'fine,” sounding anything but. He spoke through clenched teeth like he was in pain, which of course he was.

“You shouldn’t lie to your doctor.” Will pointed out, earning another groan from his poorly looking boyfriend.

“Gods, I said I’m fine Will!” He said angrily, wincing as it caused his head to hurt more. “Just be quiet.” He snapped.

“Geez! Somebody sure is pissy tonight.” Will sassed back.

Nico looked at him and frowned, his angry expression softening. “Sorry babe… S'just a headache.” He was much quieter right now, clearly it was becoming more and more painful for him.

Will set his papers down and completely faced him now. “Are you going to tell me what’s really going on?”

Nico groaned yet again. “You really are a significant annoyance. I don’t feel well, alright? Happy now Mr. Sunshine?”


He frowned. “Not particularly. How could I be happy when you’re clearly feeling ill? Now what’s going on? What hurts?” He asked in that doctor-like way.

He rolled his eyes and winced. “Uh… My head is trying to murder me, my stomach keeps flipping inside me, I think I might have a fever too.” That was it but he felt so crummy it didn’t seem like it could only be three things giving him so much grief.

Will scooted over and felt his forehead, whistling in response which caused Nico to wince. “Sorry, sweetie. That’s some fever you’ve got..” He stood up.

“Where are you going!?” Nico asked looking panicked.

“Easy, Nico, I am just going to go get the thermometer so I can get a real read on this.” He pointed to Nico in general, who launched himself of the couch saying he wanted to go with but suddenly he crumpled to the ground in front of him.

“Nico!” Will shouted, trying to catch him but Nico was able to control the fall, going to his knees then all fours.

“Ahhh! Quiet! Please…” he held his temples and squeezed his eyes shut. “I just got up too fast…it made me dizzy.”

Will looked at him with worry and slowly helped Nico sit in a more comfortable way than on his hands and knees. “Why don’t I help you to bed and I’ll go get the thermometer?”

He had already lost his fight against not being found out, there was no reason to play it down anymore and now the only thing he wanted was to sleep without seeing his dinner again. He nodded and allowed Will to help him up and help him to bed.



When Will had taken his temperature earlier it had read at 102.9 which had explained why his head had hurt so badly. He fell asleep right away after his temperature was taken.

Nico wasn’t even awake, his body reacted without him being alert enough to stop himself. Will woke to a horrible sound and something hot and wet on his back. He was relatively unphased as this happened several times in his life, being a doctor and all. He slowly got up trying to avoid spreading the mess around. He could hear Nico being sick again before he could turn around, when he did he noticed Nico wasn’t actually awake.

“Oh Neeks…” He tisked lightly. He carefully removed his own shirt that was now soiled with Nico’s stomach contents. As he did this Nico threw up again. The mess was now spread out in front of his mouth and clinging to his cheek.

Nico himself was curled into a tight ball, laying on his side with an expression of misery etched on his face. When Will pulled the comforter off of his frail frame he saw that Nico was shivering violently and he had his arms wrapped protectively around his midsection. He had thrown up at least four times now and he still hadn’t woken up yet.

Will got out of bed and started to lift him up and into his arms. Only when he was being moved did he wake up. He was burning with fever much higher than before, and mostly unaware of what was happening. “Shit, you’re on fucking fire, Nico!”

Will picked him up and carried him to the bathroom, stripping them both down to only their boxers. He had to chuckle as he found Nico to be wearing the ones with hearts made of bones that he got him for Valentines day. His laughter short lived as Nico began dry heaving. He started the water in the tub turning on the shower to a chilly barely warm stream and grabbed Nico again. He sat under the water and laid Nico atop himself, letting his naked body be chilled by the luke-warm stream.

After what felt like an eternity Nico started to stir. “Hhnnnng….” He moaned, then whined, “Isss cooold….!”

Will kissed him, so thrilled he was awake enough to feel it. “Oh thank the gods! Nico! You’re alive!”

“Of course I am! Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s just an expression,” he said rolling his eyes. “How do you feel?”

“Wet…and not in the fun way…” He mumbled. “I feel sick…”

“Yeah, well, you’ve soiled our bed. I’ll clean it up when your fever is lower.”

“You know, I am not Percy, the water doesn’t help me feel better.” Nico pointed out, starting to shiver.

Will just rolled his eyes. “It will lower your fever.”

“I-if you s-say s-so.” he said grumpily, curling up and nuzzling deeper into Will’s freckly chest, seeking out any warmth he could find.

“I’ll get you better, I promise.”

“I know.” Nico mumbled into his chest.

@emetoprincess and I are at it again. This time, Nico and Will live out their lives through cute whumpy illness and injury scenarios. These are probably going to be too long, and from now on, I’ll probably post the rest on my AO3. This installment is a whopping 14k+ words, so brace yourselves. This is very self-indulgent and defies real world illness and medicine.

Nico set down his last box of clothes, dropping it with a flourish and stretching high above his head, grimacing as he pulled at the ache in his back, but still managing to smile at his boyfriend.

Or rather, his fiancé.

“Please tell me that’s it for today,” Nico said, rolling his shoulders. “At least I can sit down while we unpack. Wait—is the furniture even here yet?”

He looked around, seeing nothing but skyscrapers of boxes and heaps of trash bags on the floor. Moving in with Will was one of the best decisions he’d ever made—right up there with deciding to marry him—and the only thing that could possibly make their move-in a disaster was if they had nowhere to sit, nowhere to sleep.

Keep reading

Held Steady-Voltron

So I started filling out these requests in one story several months ago–then my life kicked into high gear and I was too stressed to write. Finally though I finished this. It’s around 3000 words..

Oh man…How about something with Lance? Either he’s sick and complains about it, so nobody believes him until it gets much worse, or he tries to hide it because he doesn’t want to look like the weak link.

A is sick and not exactly in denial but rather just down playing it a lot. They keep hanging out with their friends as they go on with the day but are obviously feverish and half asleep. In the end B carries them to bed despite sleepy protests.

           It had been a rough morning for Lance. The blue paladin had awoken to Allura sounding the alarm for one of her emergency drills, just early enough that it wasn’t worth it to go back to sleep before the day began. He dragged himself out of bed in a stumbling haze, not really awake but just conscious enough to realize that something in him wasn’t right. Even so he had put on his suit and joined everyone else less than a minute later than the rest of the team had assembled. Thankfully Allura’s scolding had been brief—Lance had done his level best to remain upright while the princess spoke with them but the longer that he was conscious the more Lance came to realize that he felt terrible. His limbs ached and felt heavy, and lightheadedness made walking a chore. His stomach was uncomfortable but in a vague sort of way that might have been queasiness, but it also might have been hunger—Lance was still too asleep to tell. Still the brunt of Allura’s ire was focused on him and the blue paladin decided that rather than complain about his condition it would be easier and less likely to annoy his teammates if he kept his discomfort to himself.

Keep reading

Emeto starters 2
  • 1. Some of it got in your hair...
  • 2. I'd appreciate it if you DIDN'T vomit on me.
  • 3. I'm not gonna throw up, alright?!
  • 4. I can't go back out there! Everyone saw me puke!
  • 5. Ugh, that smell makes me want to hurl.
  • 6. Let's find you a clean set of clothes, okay?
  • 7. You should probably know, I have a really weak stomach...
  • 8. Um...not to be rude or anything, but are you throwing up in there?
  • 9. You can't be mad at me for throwing up. You're the one who gave me this germ.
  • 10. Seriously, I'm fine. Don't w- oh god never mind, I'll be right back.
  • 12. It's...it's all over the carpet...
  • 13. I'm sorry I brought you here, I didn't know this was going to happen!
  • 14. It's okay. Just breath. You can do it.
  • 15. Um...what did you put in the food again? I don't think it agrees with me...
  • 16. That didn't sound good.
  • 17. This medicine should help...if you can keep it down that is.
  • 18. Come on, you need to keep your strength up. Just finish the sou- okay, um, never mind.
  • 19. I guess I'll have to clean this up...
  • 20. You'll feel better once you get it over with, you know.
  • 21. I can't leave the bathroom...I've been throwing up all day.
  • 22. Don't use your sleeve! I'll be right back with a wet cloth.
  • 23. So that's why you suddenly cancelled the plans...and here I was thinking you were mad at me.
  • 24. It's okay, everyone gets sick once in a while.
  • 25. Don't be ridiculous, of course I'll stay with you. It takes more than a little puke to scare me.