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can't stop thinking about a sickie with a miserable cold missing their partner. without them, the bed feels so big and the apartment feels empty, quiet. they grab their partner's hoodie that they borrowed and put it on. their nose starts to run uncontrollably, not only because of the cold, but also because of the sobs they're trying to hold back. they end up making a snotty mess all over the soft fabric, but somehow that makes them feel a little better. they close their eyes and try to get some sleep while they wait for their partner to come home.
Imagine your partner waking you up in the middle of the night, and the immediate surge of panic. They never complain, never ask you for anything. "Baby, my stomach hurts," they mumble.
"Bad?" You ask, trying to stay calm.
"No I just... didn't want to be alone." And you relax, pulling them against you and letting a hand wander to their stomach. There's safety in this moment, and a closeness you rarely experience. Slowly, their breath evens as you trace circles on their aching stomach. You fall back asleep soon after.
Morning comes too quickly when you're pulled from sleep to them moaning softly. They're sitting up, arms wrapped around their stomach. "Aww baby you still feeling sick?" They nod, then stand suddenly and head toward the bathroom. You drag yourself out of bed and follow, finding them hunched over the toilet. They glance up at you, meeting your gaze.
"You really think I'm sexy like this?" Their chuckle ends in a gag and they quickly turn back. You crouch beside them, one hand on their back, the other wandering across their stomach and chest. They relax into your touch for a moment before dry heaving. Once they've recovered their breath, they turn back and kiss you. "Maybe this doesn't have to be so ba-" They're cut off by another gag. They are sexy like this.
Sickie that throws up easily, getting everything up in 3-4 massive waves of vomit
Sickie that can only get up a little at a time, puking up mouthfuls a in quick succession, easily vomiting 5, 10, 15 times in a row, hardly getting time to breathe
Sickie that gets nauseous very suddenly and has to urgently run to the bathroom, not always making it before they vomit on the floor
Sickie that always struggles to puke, dealing with hours of awful nausea and unproductive gagging before they can finally get relief
Sickie that coughs and coughs until they cough up a wave of sick. Choking after every time they retch or vomit
Sickie that burps a lot, patting their back to help them burp up the trapped air, until they start to gag. Long, wet burps turning into streams of vomit
Sickie that vomits so violently that they get dizzy, see spots, and often faint from the exertion
Sickie that gags and vomits weakly and quietly, exhausted and barely awake
Sickie that can't help puking loudly, their retching and moaning clearly audible even with the door shut and the tap running
Sickie that's afraid to throw up, crying and shaking when they feel queasy, squeezing your hand when they pant and heave into the toilet bowl
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I honest to god think there’s something personality-revealing about the word a character will choose to describe vomiting. Because, like, we have so many words for it. Are they gonna say the more crass and casual “hurl”? True neutral of “throw up”? The more clinical “vomit”? Overly polite “be sick”?
"I'm cursed," Chris mumbled, out loud despite the fact he was alone, staring at the swirling water of his toilet.
Ever since morning he had been feeling out of sorts. At first, he had blamed it on sleeping wrongly, crumpled into some pretzel position that had caused his limbs to fall asleep, maybe? Then by the time lunch rolled around, he wasn't hungry. That was fine, but it was against the rules taped to his fridge, so it meant he had to eat. Important to keep himself alive and all that.
All he had been able to stomach was scrambled eggs and some apple juice, which immediately decided to riot inside of him and had him camping the bathroom for the best part of his day, fighting the nausea for the past two hours only to ultimately loose the war.
There had to be some sort of curse placed on him, because how in the hell he had managed to get some sort of stomach bug, a week after recovering from that horrible cold that had him incapacitated?
Across the house, his phone started to ring and he let out a loud groan, thumping his feverish forehead to his forearm resting on the toilet's rim. Who could be possibly calling him?
Emerald wasn't a caller, much more of a texter and his brothers only spoke to him once every other week. It could be one of his parents and that was the only reason Chris forced himself to get up and stumble out of the bathroom.
He wasn't in any mood to chit chat, but his parents were both well into their late sixties. He couldn't in good conscience ignore a call, even if he knew it was probably his mother complaining about Shark Tank or his father about football.
Lois Dawson.
Fuck, he'd rather it was his mother. Dawson was the hospital director, aka his boss, aka trouble. He squinted blearily at the screen, marking a little past 5 PM, then cleared his throat, picking up.
"Yes?"
"Hello, Dr. Lavin?"
"Hi, Dawson," he rubbed a hand over his face, "what's going on?"
"I'm so sorry to call today, I know you're on break-" oh no. Absolutely not. Chris' stomach clenched, mouth flooding with sticky saliva. They couldn't possibly want him in the hospital like this... "-one too many absences and you're my last resource."
"Ma'am," he groaned, rubbing the back of his achy neck, "I'd go in, but I can't-"
"I know it's your day off, we'll double your pay, Dr. Lavin," Dawson said, as if that was even a question. Of course they would.
"No, it's not that, I-" he pulled the cellphone away from his face, muffling a gurgly burp in his fist, "I'm sick, Dawson. Just puked my guts up."
There was a beat. A heavy sigh, "we'll keep you doing paperwork, I just need you to free one of the others, Chris," she had dropped the Dr. Lavin schtick, which meant business, "we're truly overflowing thanks to the bus accident that happened in the interstate and we're down six doctors, either because they're not in town or stuck in the jam or not picking up."
Damn his stupid luck for picking up the phone. He should've stayed on the bathroom floor.
"Fine," Chris sighed, pressing a hand to his stomach, hating the way it was sticking out and how sore the muscles were, "give me thirty minutes, I'll be down."
"Thank you," she sounded genuinely relieved. He rolled his eyes.
"It's fine," he brushed it off, muffling another gross belch by turning his face towards his bicep, "I- I got'sgo-"
"Yes, of course, of course- I'll make sure to warn Dr. Banks you'll be on paperwork only... Thank you again-" he barely heard the rest of what she said, pressing the big red button and lurching to the side with a violent retch, bringing up a mouthful of watery vomit on the monstera plant he had near his couch.
Fuuuuck.
By the time he had taken a quick shower to get rid of the cold sweat and changed into a more decent outfit than the black sweatpants and stained merch shirt he had been wearing all day, Chris was considering flat out not going. What could possibly happen? Would he get fired for being sick?
However, as much as he turned over that option, he still found himself behind the wheel, driving back to the building he had left just yesterday. Just because Welton General paid well and was the only hospital in the city, which he actually quite liked and had no prospects of moving from. Something something unfair market competition, Chris thought sourly, thinking of Lex, his brother, and how indignant he had been about Welton's makeup. Not one for small towns, no matter if it was a university town with a beautiful backdrop.
He hung out of the car, spitting on the parking lot's floor as soon as he opened the door and taking slow, deep breaths to stop his stomach from fully crawling up his throat. His head was throbbing, but not enough he could hang out in the parking lot for longer than five minutes, acutely aware he was already fifteen minutes later than the thirty he had promised Dawson.
"Dr. Lavin," speaking of the devil, Lois was waiting for him as soon as the elevator door opened on the first floor, hands clasped and a tight smile on, "thank you so much for coming."
He let out a grunt, because what did she want to hear? No problem? Of course there was a problem, he was sick and he'd rather be anywhere but there.
"I already talked with Dr. Banks," she gestured for him to follow, as if Chris didn't know the way to the office areas. Paperwork was easy enough, normally he was spectacularly good at it. Not to say he was a bad doctor, he knew he wasn't, but he was also aware he didn't have the necessary patience to deal with patients freaking out or, worse, their partners freaking out. God, he hated dealing with parents, he'd rather off himself than talk to crying mother.
Lois guided him inside the office, "we have Dr. Banks and Dr. Peters on rotation today," she cringed, since that number was scarily low. Hell, only Jonah and Claire? Not a single senior doctor? This hospital was running on hopes and dreams.
"On- Those are just the ones doing the rounds, right?" Chris collapsed on the chair behind the desk, already pulling the trashcan with his foot when the simple jostling of sitting down made him taste eggs all over again, "there are other's in the OR?"
"Dr. Marshall and Stewarts, just for the emergencies, we've rescheduled all that was in for the night," Lois nodded, much to his relief. Still bad, but not so bad they might as well shut the hospital down for the night. As if that was an option, "I'm still trying to reach Henderson and Chen, they're the only ones who haven't responded yet, so maybe..." Lois trailed off and Chris cringed, a new wave of nausea hitting him that had nothing to do with the stomach bug. Four, well five counting with him, doctors in the whole hospital was really, really fucking bad.
"Garcia is coming in the morning!" She perked up, as if sensing the panic starting to grow in him, "and we're getting a lot of patients redirected to Portland- It's going to work out."
"Of course," his mouth was sticky. Chris gulped down, "lemme get to work then."
"Thank you again," Lois sounded incredibly apologetic, "I'm gonna warn the nurses that you're sic-"
"No!" The sheer mortification of it nearly caused him to jump, "no need. I'll be fine."
Liar, a little voice whispered in his ear, stomach already churning again, that slow but constant manner that told him he was done for. Maybe not now, but soon.
"Uhm- Of course," Dawson sounded surprised by his outburst, "I'll let you work, you know where to find me."
Finally his boss left and Chris promptly planted his elbows to the table, burying his face in his hands and groaning. Fuck his life.
Paperwork was harder when he felt like absolute crap, but at least it was something to take his mind off of his stomach. He fished out his earbuds from his work case, putting only one so he could still hear the outside noise and listened to music as he decoded several different doctor's notes into insurance claims and what not.
Normally he found this part of his job rather therapeutic. Claire, Dr. Peters, didn't understand it. She always got antsy and started moving around the office when they shared it. Banks seemed to be in his wavelength, just as long as they didn't exchange a single word. For some reason Jonah Banks seemed to enjoy being the biggest pain in the ass alive. Marshall was the same as Claire, only worse. Chris could count in one hand the amount of office hours they had ever shared, because she'd do anything in her power to avoid it. Henderson complained the whole time and Chris had considered homicide more than once. He'd rather work with Banks, with whom he had had several conflicts, than withstand Henderson's monotone blabbing.
Chris' stomach rolled and he kicked the trashcan closer, leaning over it to spit the saliva accumulating in his mouth. He was probably gonna puke soon, but he had taken some Gatorade before leaving home and he did not want to risk becoming dehydrated. Not only it would be humiliating enough in normal circumstances, but when the hospital was running on fumes? So when the blue saccharine liquid tried climbing up, Chris gulped it back down, shuddering as he could literally feel the goo sliding down his throat.
"Lavin," Banks slammed the door, "we need you in the ER."
If Chris was a slightly better person, he'd have taken Bank's serious voice as the don't argue signal it was and obeyed. Except he wasn't.
"I'm not on ER tonight," he kept his eyes firmly on the computer screen, twirling the pen between his fingers, "Dawson called me for desk duty, not to wrangle snotty children."
"No," Banks scoffed, walking further in, "Dawson called you to help and you bitched your way into desk duty, when we actually need an extra set of hands in the ER. Now get off your ass, we're crammed and Claire and I cannot take it all by ourselves."
"Then call Marshall or Stewarts, Dawson said-"
"Wendy is already in the ER intubating someone and Stewarts just entered surgery. Get off your ass," Banks' tone was always so fucking arrogant. King of the world. Chris had always found it a bit amusing that Jonah seemed to think that just because he had that stick permanently shoved up his ass and a mean mug, he could get things his way.
"You can scream and kick all you want," rolled his eyes, which was a bad idea because a jolt of pain stabbed his skull. Low blood sugar, his brain supplied and his stomach complained. No fucking way he was gonna eat something, no matter how much his body demanded it. He could still taste the lunch eggs, "but I'm on desk duty. I'm sick."
"Oh, fuck off!" Banks snapped, "we're gonna loose a patient, there's simply not enough of us. You can't sit here filling insurance claims when we've got eleven fucking cots busy downstairs," he stepped closer, Chris wondered if Jonah thought he could scare him. Maybe that shit worked on nurses or with Claire, but not with him.
"Like I said," Chris cleared his throat when his voice came out too deep, coated in annoyance and sticky saliva, "I'm sick. I can't be in the ER."
"We have a stroke downstairs and if we lose her because you were too busy doing crosswords to come help, I'll make sure to move a lawsuit for malpractice against you myself."
A stroke patient changed things.
He had been under the impression tonight was busy in the sense there were two doctors for far too many drunks, kids with pneumonia coughing everywhere, food poisoned fuckers shitting everywhere. A stroke-
He got up and ignored the victorious expression on Banks' stupid face.
The idiot now would probably think his stupid lawsuit threat had worked, as if Chris wasn't well aware he was in the function given him and who was actually committing malpractice was Banks, wasting time arguing with him instead of doing his job. Again, that shit probably worked with doctors who were a little more green.
Talking about green, his stomach wasn't one bit happy about the change of scenery.
The ER was chaos, Chris was shoved into the direction of the head nurse and then somehow he ended up being bossed by Claire, whose face was all pink, blonde hair sticking to her temples as she huffed, moving around.
The stroke patient was a woman in her late eighties, who was barely responsive. Chris wasn't sure why the fuck Marshall wasn't all over her, considering Wendy was to neurologist of their group, and it was only once he was going through her imaging that he understood. It was ischemic and, surprisingly, venous instead of arterial.
The tight squeeze in his chest — pure, unmitigated guilt for not being there sooner — vanished. She was already on an IV and under observation, nothing to be done and her surviving rates were great. He breathed out....
Then got thrown into the deep end, by Claire lifting her eyes and saying "help!?" in a pitiful voice as she manhandled a drunk man into his cot, smelling like piss and seizing due to alcohol.
By the time he was able to stop moving around, two and a half hours had passed. He had long forgotten about his stomach bug or about his office hours, in flow state as he moved from patient to patient, taking in what was pouring through the doors.
Henderson arrived at 9 PM and Chen at midnight. Chris' headache increased from annoying to unbearable around 10 PM and he was having to move to the bathroom every fifteen minutes or so to cough over the toilet by the time they reached midnight. His knees felt weak and his whole body was aching.
And, as was always the case with the ER, as easy as the chaos had started, it ended.
Claire let out a breath, stumbling into the doctor's lounge, wiping her forehead with the inside of her wrist, "holy fuck," she collapsed on the couch, "I can't feel my feet."
He wanted to ask if she was on a twenty four hour shift, because Chris was pretty sure he had seen her in the hospital that morning when he left to go home, but he was scared of opening his mouth. His stomach had long passed "unsettled", hell, it had long passed "throwing up". He had forced himself to drink water and it had all come back up, tinged blue at first, now a weird lime green. Not good, Chris knew, vaguely. He couldn't remember why, though.
The revolving doors opened again, Banks walking in as he already removed his coat, because of course the snotty prick favored the pristine white lab coat instead of the regular dark scrubs anyone sensible would wear. Had to virtue signal he was a doctor, since that was all of his personality.
"Are you okay?" Jonah asked and Chris raised his eyebrows, confused and shocked, before realizing the question wasn't directed at him, but rather at Claire, boneless on the couch.
"Yeah, mmm'gimme just fine-five..." His coworker mumbled, sleepily. Yep, she was definitely pulling a twenty four hour shift. Chris didn't envy her, although now that he thought about it, he kinda was too. He had done yesterday's graveyard shift, then left the hospital at 6 AM and slept until 10 AM, when he had woken up all achy. Then the bathroom camping...
"-reporting you to the board-" Banks was suddenly right in front of his eyes, looking furious. He had a really angular face and when he looked this pissed, Christopher thought Jonah looked cat like. Light eyes squinting, might as well have slits for pupils.
He was tripping.
"What..?"
"While you were hiding in an office, we nearly lost two patients-"
"I wasn't-" he started, frustrated, but his tongue felt too heavy and big for his mouth, there were a bunch of colorful little dots around of Jonah's unruly curls. Glitter.
"-said you were sick? Yeah, sick where?" Jonah scoffed, "as soon as you were down there with us-"
Chris rolled his eyes, immediately regretted it when the room swam. He was freezing. On the couch Claire stirred, opening her exhausted eyes to glare at them.
"Can you two measure dicks outside?"
"Malpractice doesn't fucking cover it, you're lazy and entitled and-"
He took a step back, because Jonah apparently thought "personal space" was optional, only for his foot to seemingly meet thin air. His knee folded and suddenly he was on all fours on the floor, head swimming and blood drumming in his ears.
The nausea was stronger than it had been even in the morning, flooding him and causing him to retch violently. Nothing came up, but his stomach spasmed again. He clutched the rug, curling his fists so much that his knuckles turned white, as the room swam-
"What the hell?" A hand that was too soft to be normal grabbed his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. Green- No, hazel. Jonah's eyebrows drawn together, confused-
Chris retched again, freeing his chin from Bank's limp hold and coughing violently. Something boiling hot crawled up, his mouth tasted salty and then he belched a splash of something neon yellow all over the rug, and the front of Bank's pants.
He wasn't a crier, not normally, but his whole body was shaking violently and his head was pulsing and his thoughts were all over the place, so Chris felt his eyes prickle with tears. He bit down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood, fighting the wave of sickness induced panic. The taste of blood made him gag again, more bitter bile falling on the pile, burning his now wounded lip.
"He seems sick to me," Claire's voice filtered through the drumming in his ears and suddenly there was a hand, much smaller and sure, grabbing his shoulder and pushing him to sit on his heels instead of being on all fours. His stomach spasmed again, more watery vomit rocketed up, his self control long melted by exhaustion and it ran down his chin and wet his dark scrub shirt.
"He's not responsive," Claire patted his cheek and he wanted to say he was very responsive, except that what came up was a whimper. He'd have to quit his job, this was too humiliating to come back from, "fuck, Jonah page a nurse! Don't just stand there! We gotta get him on an IV, he's dehydrated like hell."
hello Ok emetophillia under tbe cut. warning for. People who are emetophobic. it's not pictures or whatever but. talking about puke in an Erotic context. ok.
hungover guy puking his guts out in the toilet and making gorgeous whiny sulky noises between hurling and crying oughhhhhhh imhard
Princess who indulges far too much during a party and stumbles alongside her knight only to get horribly sick. Knight who holds her hair back and offers the cool, sweet relief of a gauntleted hand over her neck.
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in love with the caretaking after the vomit more than the actual vomiting, the cuddled, the way their partners convince them they really are sick
especially with how vomiting just means super sick, must stay home
Ditto, it’s really all about the surrounding scenario for me. And yeah, I love the “Oh, you really do feel sick” finality of vomiting. Like, no way around it, that sucks and they need to rest!
I think more boys should be feverish and nauseous and whiny so you can stick your hand down their pants and edge them till they cry :3
I think it would be really silly and funny to give a boy food that he can’t stomach while he’s sick and then watch him burp and moan and throw up on himself tee heeeeee
Got so sick earlier, I managed to pull myself out of the bathtub and record on time, but I did get my phone a little wet.
I was feeling off ever since lunch, I think I might’ve eaten something bad. I holed up in my room all day nursing this tummy ache. My stomach was so bloated it was hard and painful to the touch, so I decided to take a warm bath to get more comfortable. My stomach felt so sick, every time I burped and released air, a felt my lunch crawl up my throat.
I wasn’t able to enjoy the warm water for long, because as soon as I got situated, my stomach hitched and I let out a sickly belch, quickly leaning over the side of the tub as a measly strand of sick escaped my throat. I started salivating, and my stomach flipped. I quickly got out of the bathtub and dried off, with only seconds to spare, I hit record on my phone and braced myself in front of the toilet, panting and drooling into the disgusting water below.
When I tell you I SPEWED that shit I am not joking. I’m so glad I caught that on video, my stomach was contracting so much it hurt, and my cheeks kept ballooning with every heave. It got everywhere. I’m still so bloated, but the nausea is thankfully gone (for now).
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A and B are both sick in bed, but that doesn’t stop them from having sex. somehow, it’s when they’re this vulnerable that they enjoy it the most and feel more turned on than ever. their bodies are warm and covered in sweat. their skin is so sensitive to even the slightest touch. their noses are red, chapped, and dripping with thick snot. the bed is covered in soaked tissues and the blankets are a tangled mess. they look at each other, both thinking they have the most beautiful person lying beside them
[Disclaimer: chatgpt wrote the lyrics for me. Credit to whoever chatgpt stole them from]
Kazuki had promised the lyrics would be ready by Friday. But Thursday night came, and all he had was a blank page and a stomachache. A vicious, relentless stomachache that kept him awake, twisting and turning in bed, unable to focus on anything but the excruciating pain.
He stared at the bedside clock, fingers pressing into his abdomen, counting down the minutes to Friday. It seemed impossible. Between the constant trips to the bathroom and the sharp, cramping waves of agony, it felt like his body was decided to jeopardise the deadline.
But dawn came and the song was miraculously done, barely held together by Kazuki's desperation to finish it and get some rest. He shared the draft in the group chat, hoping no one could tell how close he’d come to completely giving up.
Verse 1
Knives in my ribs, you came unannounced,
Settle in deep, start tearing me down.
Cold sweat baptism, bathroom-floor prayer,
I’d sell my soul just to not feel you there.
You coil like a curse I can’t outrun,
Every second hits harder than the last one.
You don’t whisper, you don’t warn,
You kick the door in, make me mourn.
Pre-Chorus
I guess I let you inside,
Now I’m paying the price.
You won’t leave scars,
But you rewrite my insides.
Chorus
YOU’RE RIPPING ME OPEN, I’M LOSING CONTROL,
A RIOT TEARING THROUGH MY CORE, NO SAFE WAY HOME.
CALL IT LOVE, CALL IT PAIN,
YOU HIT ME THE SAME.
I’M BITING MY LIPS THROUGH THE SCREAMS I DON’T SHOW.
YOU’RE KILLING ME SLOWLY,
FROM THE INSIDE —
LET ME GO.
Verse 2
Tried to stand up, world snapped in half,
Vision went blurry, I laughed at that.
You bend me forward, drag me down,
Like I did something wrong just by existing now.
No witnesses, no one to blame,
Just me and you in this private cage.
You don’t care if I beg or plead,
You feed on my weakness, you live in me.
Pre-Chorus
Every breath
Is a gamble now,
Every step
Feels like I’m going down. (Down, down, down…)
Chorus
YOU’RE RIPPING ME OPEN, I’M LOSING CONTROL,
A RIOT TEARING THROUGH MY CORE, NO SAFE WAY HOME.
CALL IT LOVE, CALL IT PAIN,
YOU HIT ME JUST THE SAME.
I’M BITING MY LIPS THROUGH THE SCREAMS I DON’T SHOW.
YOU’RE KILLING ME SLOWLY,
FROM THE INSIDE —
LET ME GO!!!
Breakdown
I SHOULD’VE KNOWN,
I SHOULD’VE KNOWN,
SOME THINGS ARE BETTER LEFT ALONE.
ONE BAD CHOICE,
ONE LAST BITE,
NOW I’M PAYING FOR IT ALL NIGHT.
Bridge (half-time, raw)
I don’t need your forgiveness,
I don’t need the truth,
I just need a moment
Where I’m not fighting you.
Final Chorus (scream/sing)
YOU’RE RIPPING ME OPEN, I’M LOSING CONTROL,
THIS ISN’T HEARTBREAK — IT’S BREAKING MY CORE.
CALL IT LOVE, CALL IT PAIN,
YOU HIT ME THE SAME.
I’M CURLED ON THE FLOOR, TRYING NOT TO EXPLODE.
YOU’RE KILLING ME SLOWLY,
FROM THE INSIDE — OUT.
Outro
Dawn creeps in, I’m still alive,
Barely breathing, but I survived.
You didn’t break me, you tried hard, though.
I’m on my knees, begging you to go.
Feedback didn’t take long to arrive. It was Ryota, the drummer, who replied first.
Another song for that whore?
This is bullshit and you woke me up for this?
Kazuki stared at the screen, the words burning into his eyes as he typed the asnwer.
Calm down R it wasn’t like that
This has nothing to do with my love life
Followed by a crude
Wtf bro what is it then? Seems pretty clear to me that you are not over it yet
Kazuki's fingers hovered over the reply box, but the words didn’t form. He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Another notification came in. From Itsuki, the guitarist.
Don’t worry Kazu. R-kun is just jealous of your love life
It’s public knowledge you’ve got terrible taste in women 💔
And even worse in men 🍆💀
With a smirk on his face, Kazuki flicked the middle finger emoji in the group chat and tossed the phone aside, laughing under his breath.
The pain in his stomach stroke again, exactly as the song described. Kazuki took a slow drag off his cigarette, exhaling the smoke as if it could blow his stomachache away.
After one last hit, he crushed the cigarette butt in the ashtray and sank back into the sheets, arms tightly wrapped around his aching stomach. Finally time to get some rest.
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