not necessarily a kink blog, though related fascinated with illness and h/c especially emeto haha. originally started this as purely emeto, but it has evolved into more of an everything illness related place lol. Emeto is my main, though. sideblog. Love you all :)
Imagine your S/O has a stomach flu. They know you have the kink and they want to indulge you. The two of you go out to eat at a restaurant and they try to have as big of a meal as they can and when you get home S/O gets sick and it's just so much and they're so miserable - just absolutely ill and way too overfull
Okay this but what if they don't make it home????? Or almost make it????
Like in the restaurant bathroom, on the way to said bathroom, as soon as the make it to the door as they're leaving, in the parking lot, in the car, on the trek to the bathroom at home, the bathroom sink, the bathtub, the toilet seta bc they couldn't get it open in time, and my fave for last - at the table at the restaurant
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Imagine your S/O has a stomach flu. They know you have the kink and they want to indulge you. The two of you go out to eat at a restaurant and they try to have as big of a meal as they can and when you get home S/O gets sick and it's just so much and they're so miserable - just absolutely ill and way too overfull
Wishing I was laying with someone right now with an upset belly. Rubbing their poor aching tummy while it gurgles angrily. Massaging the gas out for them. Hearing their belly gurgle worse and they get up to run to the bathroom. I listen for a sec giving them privacy but knock on the door to see if they’re okay. I open the door a little seeing them hunched over the garbage can while they sit on the toilet. I sit down nearby and hold the garbage can for them. “It’s okay sweetie let it out, I’m right here” they groan in pain and whine. I rub their belly and help start moving the toxins out of their belly. It comes rushing out aggressively so I rub their back gently “good job you’re doing good. Let it all out”
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2-page commission of modern au k.avetham for @imill, thanks a lot ❤️
second page under the cut. WARNING: this one contains nudity (kaveh's ass) and elements of coprophilia (scat kink) but no actual scat is shown. proceed with caution!
check out my art commissions~ update terms and forms for requesting
hey, if you've made it till here and is interested in a commission with themes like these, please keep in mind: this is a first for me, so i'm not comfortable doing anything scat that is *too* graphic 👋 still, shoot me a message, and i'll see if i can help
anakin couldn't remember much after the solid hit that knocked him down, waking up to obi-wan crouching next to him, pouring water all over him and sighing in relief when he noticed his eyes slowly opening.
"what happened out there, skywalker? that was your worst fight yet" he closed his eyes again at the harsh words leaving his coach's mouth, groaning when one of the many people surrounding him wiped at the fresh cut on his cheekbone. he was still on the floor of the ring, meaning he hadn't been down for long, the celebrations still taking place on the other side.
everything that came after was in the form of a familiar blur, only coming to when he was sat in his car, driving home to you. you hadn't been at his fight, you weren't there when the medics were rushing to make sure he was fine, wiping at all the blood that had oozed out of him. it was all your fault. his fists hit the steering wheel a few times as he cussed under his breath. it felt like his whole world was closing in.
the second he was home he wasted no time in calling out for you, his voice hoarse and his tone fed up. you didn't come downstairs so he made his way to your shared room, sure enough finding you there on the bed, headphones in. he was quick to rip them off your ears, his hands trembling as he spoke.
"where were you" his tone was shaking pathetically, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. “where the fuck were you? i waited for you. i looked for you. is it that hard to show up for me?” he had no idea how he got the words out, the lump in his throat making it much more difficult.
you didn’t even have time to respond as he grabbed your arm, pulling you up and smashing his lips against yours. you tried replying, talking to him, explaining yourself, but he wouldn’t listen. he shoved you down again, forcing himself between between your thighs. it was like he couldn’t hear a single word you were saying as he ripped the skimpy panties you had on right off your body, his hands holding much more force than he ever treated you with.
he didn’t even bother stretching you out, didn’t bother making sure you were wet, simply spreading your folds apart, spitting right on your hole before sitting back on his haunches. he spat into his palm, running it all over his cock before sheathing himself inside you in one long, torturous thrust. he ignored your cry, ignored the way your hands were shaking as they pushed at him, ignored the way you begged for him to hold on, his hips immediately moving.
it was an extremely tight fit, your gummy, velvet walls were gripping him so tight he could barely move, but he didn’t care. once you slightly loosened up, it finally felt pleasurable for the both of you. he always treated you with so much care and affection, so the contrast was welcome, and you couldn’t stop the moans being forced out of your throat with each deep, harsh thrust.
“needed you there” his voice was strained, his clothes suffocating him, the patch on his cheekbone annoying him to the point where he ripped it off, hissing at the sweat that was now seeping into his open wound. “you like being fucked like a prostitute, is that it? want to be treated like one, eh?”
you words were lost at a particularly hard thrust, your entire body being jolted up the bed with his new pace, his grip on your hips painful and bruising.
“slow down, fuck- please” you broke off into a sob, tears now flowing down your cheeks as you pushed at him.
“why the fuck are you crying? why are you the one crying?” his voice was loud as he bent down so his face was a mere breath away from yours. you hiccuped, looking away only for his fingers to harshly dig into your cheeks, making you look at him. “fucking answer me”
“i’m sorry. i’m sorry, please- please just slow down” you spoke between sobs, your nails digging into the skin of his arm that was gripping your face harshly. he let go of your face, his hands moving to pull your legs over his shoulder as he sat back, his eyes moving to where he was disappearing into you.
“shut up” his tone was nothing short of condescending as he slapped the back of your thigh, your loud cry doing nothing to stop him as his hand came over your mouth. “you stay fucking quiet”
and you could only nod against his hand, your eyes wide in fear at this new side of him, your clit pulsing at how good it all felt. he was going to make sure you were sorry anyway.
imagine them projectile vomiting onto the closed bathroom door 🥺 they really tried to make it but didn't expect it to be closed. maybe it's the middle of the night and they couldn't see. they're humiliated and don't want to wake their partner, but they feel really bad and it's more than they can take.
youre up in the morning taking a shower for work, when you hear the bathroom door open. your love must have woken up with you too. before they could announce their arrival , you hear a sickly, wet burp and the frantic movements to get to the toilet. it gushes out into the bowl over and over. when they manage to catch a breath, all they do is apologize. what could have made them sick?? there were no signs they didn't feel well overnight, and you ate the same food for dinner the night before. you grab a towel to quickly cover and join their side. brushing their hair out of their face, you can feel them burning with fever. maybe you'll be calling out of work today.
i will never get tired of a boy going to bed feeling funny and waking up in the middle of the night feverish and horrifically sick.
he tries to brush off his sour stomach and tiredness and lack of appetite. after all, he’s been working long hours and eating the wrong things. a good night’s sleep is all he needs. he hardly touches his dinner and is in bed by 7:30.
he falls asleep quickly next to you, but his temperature rises and leaves him with feverish, confused dreams. you’re awoken by him mumbling deliriously, and when you ask him what’s the matter he starts muttering incoherent sentences that don’t seem to connect or conclude. you switch on a bedside lamp, and examine the pallor of his sweat-slicked face while using your palm to feel his forehead. he’s absolutely burning hot. his eyes, heavylidded, flutter.
“i don’t feel good” he manages to tell you through dry lips. his breaths come shallow and out of his mouth. you feel so sorry for him but can’t help but find him irresistible in such a weak state. you ask him where he isn’t feeling good, brushing back his bangs.
“stomach” is all he says. you probe further and ask him what kind of stomach ache it is, and with a heavy swallow he says “nauseous” and that “everything is spinning.” you lie there with him until his saliva is too much for his own mouth, and you have to help him to the bathroom. you stay by his side until he thinks he’s done.
the next morning doesn’t fare much better. he got sick a couple more times in the night, and is still running a fever. he mumbles incoherent thoughts about having to call into work sick, so worried about having to take a sick day, about how much he’ll be missing at work. he tosses layers of blankets to the floor and removes his pajamas, complaining about how hot it is. within fifteen minutes he is shivering and you have to help him put his pajamas back on.
he goes a couple hours without throwing up, and you suggest crackers. he manages to keep those down, and before long he agrees to a can of chicken soup. when you come to place the tray over his lap, he is lying there staring off into space looking so miserable and pale. you hope the soup will give a little color to his face.
he slurps the soup down to its bottom. you’re glad to see him eating, and after he’s done you take the bowl to wash. as you’re doing the dishes, you hear him coughing. you think he might be trying to clear his throat.
you hear him start to retch.
you leave the sink and come back into the bedroom. his head is hung over a trash can. he looks up.
“im sorry,” he mutters. “im so sorry. i didn’t mean to.”
this sight absolutely breaks your heart. in this woozy state he feels the need to apologize, worried about upsetting or offending you for throwing up the soup you made. you rub circles on his back and hush him as he apologizes again and again and again. after he’s done you tuck him back up, kissing his burning forehead. you sit at his bedside to play with his hair and make him sleepy. he goes in and out of sleep, and senses when you’re not there. when he wakes he weakly cries out for you, begging for you to make it all better. all you can do is pet his hair and shush him, hoping it’ll all be over soon.
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Something about throwing up in bed just makes me go feral,, someone not making it to a meeting or something else in the morning, so a teammate or friend checks on them and they're fast asleep on their side with a pool of vomit on their sheets </3
okay but sickie propping themselves up on their shoulders and breathing heavily until watery puke begins climbing their throat and spilling onto their shirt
Dear Anon!
Don’t worry, I have gotten you ask. I have a bunch of videos lined up for ya, and some of my other favourite *Emeto* resources Ik ur gonna love! 🙌✨
Im a bit busy at the moment because of school and a orchestra concert. But give me two days and I’ll have it all out for you.
there's somebody puking in the stall next to me. they keep hollowly coughing, so loud, trying to force more up. this is the third time they've flushed. i hear a little dribble into the water in the toilet bowl and quiet, sickly spitting.
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J.C. stumbles toward the bathroom, hand sliding over the wall, the chilly hallway draft blowing against his shivering skin. His bare feet, slick with sweat, stick to hardwood with each desperate step.
His insides erupt as he reaches the toilet. A waterfall of vomit pours from his mouth and splatters onto the floor, toilet seat, and wall. He kneels, and another torrent of warm liquid splashes into the water below. He grips the edges of the toilet seat until his knuckles turn pale, the pain in his stomach like burning knives. There is a short reprieve between heaves. He gulps and coughs.
“Babe?” Cecile mumbles sleepily, running her fingers over the empty space in the bed next to her. She hears retching from across the hall in the bathroom and sits up, rubbing her eyes. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” J.C. replies, interrupted by a violent heave.
Cecile makes her way to the bathroom and peaks around the doorframe, wincing at the sight and smell of the puddle of puke chunks on the tile floor. “Oh, honey,” she says and carefully steps over the mess to rub J.C.’s back. “Was it something you ate?”
“I don’t know,” he sniffs and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Gagging and groaning softly, he positions his head over the brimming toilet bowl and vomits a stream of water and bile.
“Just let it out,” Cecile soothes, rubbing small circles against J.C.’s damp shirt. J.C. grimaces and jerks away from her touch, glancing up at her curious, loving eyes. He knows he shouldn’t be afraid to be vulnerable around his girlfriend. He knows he should let her take care of him because it’s what she wants to do. But it’s not what he’s used to.
The last time J.C. threw up for a reason other than excessive alcohol consumption was when he was a junior in college. It was Fall semester, finals week, and he was studying his ass off for his stats exam. His stomach had been hurting all week, but he figured it was stress. It turned out to be the stomach bug that was going around. J.C. kept a trash can next to his desk and kept studying. He didn’t bother telling anyone because it didn’t matter. He had it under control.
That’s what he is used to.
J.C. heaves again, curling up and pressing his fists into his bloated abdomen. “These cramps hurt like a motherfucker,” he says through gritted teeth.
“I know,” Cecile says, frowning up in concern and crouching to rub J.C’s shoulders. “I’m here.”
She stands up and tears some paper towels from the holder and begins wiping up the vomit on the floor.
“You don’t have to-” J.C. begins, cut off by a gag.
“It’s okay,” Cecile assures. “It’s okay.”
Her warm sincerity melts him. He lets his head sink to rest on the toilet seat and watches her clean. When she finishes, she steps over and kisses J.C. on the cheek.
