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Plsss can I request a really sick Catherine with a stomach flu and George taking care of her 🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽
Oh that sounds lovely! I got so excited when I saw this ask lol. Thanks for the request! Hope you enjoy it!
Catherine the Great(ly nauseous)
A The Great sickfic
It was a normal day at the Winter Palace...well, as normal as it ever was, that is. The court ladies huddled around an ornate spread of various pastries and finger foods, gossip flowing faster than the fountains in the palace gardens. Although, if one were to look closely, there was something amiss...
It seemed that Catherine wasn't partaking in the food and chatting as she usually did. She sat alone, open book in her lap that she clearly wasn't focused on. She hadn't turned a page in half an hour.
Georgina was the first to notice, as she licked honey off her fingers. She turned and strutted across the room. "Empress?" She started. "Are you feeling alright? You've been awfully quiet today." She said, her tone oddly sincere. Catherine looked up, finally closing the book in her lap.
"Oh...yes. Yes, I'm fine, George. Thank you."
George raised an eyebrow. "Somehow, I feel you're lying to me." She said. "If you're hiding something...I will find out. You know that."
Catherine sighed, rubbing at her temples. "Yes, of course...I'm just feeling a bit unwell, that's all. It's nothing."
The brunette sat down next to her. "Unwell? Unwell how?" She asked. Catherine eyed her warily for a moment. Georgina wasn't usually one to show concern, but she seemed sincere.
Catherine sighed. "It's my stomach, mostly. I feel like I've been drinking all night...although I haven't. " she explained. "I feel...queasy...my stomach is all bubbly and it keeps hurting off and on."
George nodded, listening. "Too many figs, perhaps?" She suggested. Catherine shook her head. "No.. I haven't eaten too much. Or much at all, for that matter. I wasn't very hungry last night at dinner..."
George raised an eyebrow. "That's odd...maybe you should go lie down."
Catherine didn't need to be told twice. She stood up, involuntarily holding George's arm for support; she looked dizzy.
George stood up, putting an arm around the empress, and helped her walk to her room.
Immediately upon arriving in her lavish apartments, Catherine began the inconvenient process of changing into her nightgown. Not feeling the need to summon a maid, George opted to help her herself. She untied her corset and helped her remove the layers of skirt, then change into a soft, comfortable nightgown. Catherine didn't hesitate to crawl into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin.
It was clear now that the empress was feeling very ill...her face was pale, her eyes watering as she fought back tears. George noticed this immediately. "Are...are you crying?" She asked.
Catherine didn't try to deny it; she nodded as tears began to run down her pale cheeks. "I feel so sick...my stomach hurts. " she sobbed. For an awkward moment, George didn't know what to do. She'd never been the comforting type...but she knew she couldn't just stand there. She stepped over and sat next to the crying empress on the edge of the bed, taking her hand in hers.
"Is there anything I can do?" She asked. Catherine shook her head, shoulders shaking with soft sobs. The brunette pulled a handkerchief from the folds of her skirt, wiping Catherine's tear streaked cheeks with it. She comforted her for what must've been an hour..before Catherine fell asleep.
When she woke, the sun was beginning to set. George had hoped she'd wake up feeling better, but, no such luck. The empress sprang up as if yanked out of bed, a soft yelp of pain escaping her lips as she threw off the covers and made a beeline for the chamber pot. She'd barely had time to squat and hold up her gown before a violent bout of diarrhea took over.
George had to fight the urge to grimace from her seat on the couch. "Oh dear..." she said, her tone both alarmed and sympathetic. "Are...are you ok?" She asked. As if the answer wasn't obvious.
Catherine shook her head, tears once again running down her cheeks. Her arms wrapped around her cramping stomach, her poor body making noises that would make Peter proud. She cursed under her breath as what little color was left drained from her face. "I'm gonna throw up.." she said, voice strained.
"You...you what?" George asked, standing up in a panic, frantically looking for a container. But there wasn't time. Poor Catherine let out a wet belch and spewed all across the floor and rug. George could do nothing but watch in horror as the empress vomited up an amount that seemed ridiculous coming from such a small, pretty woman.
Drool and bile dripped from her lips as she caught her breath, bursting into tears as soon as air filled her lungs. The sound snapped George out of her trance.
"Oh....oh Catherine." She muttered, stepping around the mess and crouching to rub Catherine's back. "Don't cry, don't cry, it's ok." She said, using the handkerchief to once again wipe her tears and mouth. But Catherine was inconsolable. She sobbed for her mother, for Peter, for Leo, Marial...blubbered about missing home and how embarrassed she was...it was heartbreaking. George helped her off the chamber pot and back into bed, patting her back and making rhythmic hushing sounds in an attempt to soothe her. It took a while, but eventually, Catherine did calm down. She'd nearly cried herself to sleep by the time the sobs quieted.
She'd fallen asleep with her head on George's lap as the other woman patted and rubbed her back. George breathed a sigh of relief, afraid to move a muscle and risk waking the sick empress.
Another twenty minutes passed before Catherine woke again, and nothing had improved. An involuntary retch bubbled up her throat and she found herself puking again...this time, all over George...
George froze, eyes wide as she fought every instinct that told her to push her away, to scream, or start heaving herself. But instead she forced out a "It's ok...".
Her skirt was soaked through, the warmth leaking through onto her legs. She almost wanted to be angry; but when she saw the way Catherine just scooted off of her and collapsed back into her pillows, she couldn't. This woman was very, very sick. And as disgusting as this was for poor George, she knew Catherine couldn't help it. And so she held her tongue and slowly peeled off her soiled clothes, trying not to make the mess worse. Once in nothing but her slip, she turned her gaze back to Catherine. Sighing deeply, she made her way back to the bed, and curled up to cuddle the sick empress. She might as well, at this point.
Lena noticed it halfway through Mara’s third sentence.
The intern’s voice, usually quick and a little too loud when she was nervous, slowed down. Her eyes lost focus, sliding just past Lena’s shoulder; the color drained from her face so fast it was like someone had flipped a switch.
“—and she reports the last panic attack was—”
Mara stopped. Her hand tightened around the metal clipboard. Lena watched the tendons in her wrist go stark-white.
“You okay?” Lena asked quietly.
Mara swallowed. “I… I don’t feel so—”
Her gaze went glassy. Lena was already out of her chair.
“Hey, put the chart down,” Lena said, stepping beside her and putting a hand between Mara’s shoulder blades, guiding her away from the team room. “We’re going to get you some air.”
“I’m fine,” Mara tried, but the words dissolved into a dry swallow. She pressed the back of her wrist to her mouth, breathing fast.
The hallway was mercifully empty. Lena walked her toward the stairwell—closer than the bathroom—and could feel the heat radiating off Mara’s skin through her scrub top.
“What did you eat today?” Lena asked, partly to keep her talking, partly out of habit.
“Coffee. Half a granola bar,” Mara muttered. “And…uh…whatever that casserole was in the lounge.”
“That casserole is a hate crime,” Lena said. “Okay, deep breaths, almost there.”
They pushed through the stairwell door and the cooler air hit them. Mara grabbed the rail with one hand and doubled over with a soft, frightened sound.
“Do you need to sit or are we aiming for outside?” Lena asked.
“Outside,” Mara gasped. “I don’t want to—” Her cheeks puffed. She clamped her lips shut, eyes watering.
“Okay, outside is good,” Lena said, hand firm between her shoulders now. “Small steps. We’re fine.”
They made it down one flight, down another. On the last landing, Mara stopped abruptly, body going tense.
“I’m gonna throw up,” she said. No bravado, no apology—just plain fact.
“Okay,” Lena said simply. “Then we’re going to let that happen.”
Mara shook her head, as if she could argue with physiology. Her throat worked. A thin string of saliva slipped from the corner of her mouth; she wiped it with the back of her wrist, eyes wide with embarrassment.
“Keep breathing,” Lena said, soft. “You’re not in trouble. Your body’s doing what it needs to do.”
They pushed out onto the side entrance, where the hospital’s concrete apron sloped toward the street. The air was bright and too sharp for someone already nauseated; Mara blinked in the sunlight, swayed once, then lurched toward the patch of concrete closest to the bushes.
She didn’t make it to the bushes.
Her stomach clenched hard and suddenly, and the first wave came up so fast she barely had time to bend.
It hit the sidewalk in a violent splash—thin liquid at first, bitter and clear, then thicker, streaked with the ghost of coffee, half-digested casserole, something orange from lunch. It spattered across the concrete and sprayed onto the toe of one of her clogs. The sound it made—wet and abrupt—echoed more than Lena expected in the open space.
Mara gagged again, body folding in on itself. Her ponytail swung forward; Lena caught it without thinking, gathering the hair in her fist and holding it out of the line of fire, the way she had a thousand times in med school dorm bathrooms and call rooms, back when everyone lived on bad vending-machine food and adrenaline.
“Good, just let it come,” Lena murmured.
Mara groaned, a raw, miserable sound, and another surge followed, more forceful. This time it splashed over the first puddle and splattered in a rough crescent, a little fountain of half-digested food that sent smaller droplets speckling the hem of her scrub pants and the white line of the parking-lot paint. The smell—acid, cafeteria, and something sour—rose up in a hot cloud.
“I’m so sorry,” Mara choked between heaves, voice breaking.
“There is no ‘sorry’ in gastroenterology,” Lena said. “You’re fine.”
Mara sucked in a shaky breath, then her abdomen clenched again. A third wave pushed up, more dry this time—thick strings of mucus and bile, yellow-green and stringy, stretching from her lips and hanging precariously before gravity pulled them down into the mess at her feet. When she tried to inhale, she gagged on the taste and coughed, splattering a few more drops across the concrete and her own shoe.
Lena tightened her grip on Mara’s hair, the other hand braced between her shoulder blades, feeling the tense tremor of exhausted muscle.
“Almost there,” Lena said. “You’re doing fine. No one has ever died of puking in front of their attending.”
Mara gave a strangled laugh that turned into another gag. A thin, final trickle dribbled out of the corner of her mouth, splashing on the sidewalk in slow, viscous drops. She spit once, twice, trying to get the taste out, saliva hanging in glistening strings before breaking.
Finally, her body seemed to decide it had done enough.
She stayed bent at the waist, hands braced on her knees, breathing through her mouth. Sweats beads had formed along her hairline. A damp patch clung to the front of her scrub top where a few stray flecks had landed. Her face, though, was returning from grey to a blotchy pink.
“Worst. First impression,” Mara panted.
“You’ve been here three weeks,” Lena said. “You’ve already impressed me. This just makes you human.”
Mara tried to straighten and swayed. Lena stepped in closer.
“Whoa. Sit before you collapse,” Lena said, guiding her over to the low concrete lip near the bushes. Mara obeyed, sinking down. Her hands shook. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and then stared in horror at the dark smear left behind.
“Yep, that’s going in the wash,” Lena said, matter-of-fact. “Stay put. I’m going to grab you some water and a bag.”
“No, I can—”
“Mara.” Lena’s voice had that attending tone that brooked no argument. “Stay.”
Mara huffed weakly but didn’t move. She watched Lena stride to the nurses’ entrance, speak quickly to someone inside, and come back with a small plastic emesis bag and a bottle of water.
“Here,” Lena said, opening the bottle for her. “Sip. Tiny sips. If your stomach gets dramatic again, the bag is Plan B.”
Mara nodded, took the bottle in both hands like it might jump away.
“I really am so sorry,” she said again, voice rasped and small.
“For what? Your GI tract having an opinion about cafeteria food?” Lena sat down beside her on the low wall. “If there’s anywhere you’re allowed to throw up, it’s a hospital. Consider this your employee benefit.”
That earned a real laugh, even if it was a fragile one. Mara sipped the water, carefully, eyes pooling again—not just from nausea this time.
It was the look that got Lena: the way Mara glanced sideways at her, as if checking to see whether she was disgusted, annoyed, or disappointed—and the visible relief when she found none of those there.
“This stays between us and the sidewalk?” Mara asked.
“The sidewalk is bound by HIPAA,” Lena said dryly. “You’re safe.”
⸻
The drive home should have been ten easy minutes.
Mara sat in the passenger seat of Lena’s car, emesis bag clutched in her lap, window cracked. She’d insisted she was steady enough to go home rather than the ED, and Lena, after checking vitals and watching her for a while, had agreed.
Halfway down the main road, the first speed bump did them in.
The gentle roll of the suspension was all it took; Mara’s face went from cautiously neutral to that same sickly green in three seconds.
“Oh God,” she whispered, fingers tightening around the plastic ring of the bag. “I’m gonna—”
“Bag. Now,” Lena said, one hand still on the wheel, the other reaching over to steady the base of the bag.
Mara barely got it open in time.
The heave came up from deep in her gut, dragging a thin whining sound out of her throat. A rush of sour fluid hit the bottom of the bag with a wet, drumming sound, splattering up the inside walls in chaotic streaks. The translucent plastic magnified everything—the pale chunks, the thin yellow fluid, the bubbles of air trapped between swirls.
Mara gagged again, shoulders rolling forward, and another wave shot out of her, hitting the half-filled bag and sloshing it dangerously close to the rim. Lena felt the heat through the thin plastic against her fingers.
“Keep it tilted up,” Lena said calmly, adjusting it so nothing spilled. “You’re okay. We’re almost there.”
“I hate this, I hate this,” Mara choked, eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners.
“I’m not thrilled either, but you’re doing fine,” Lena said, absurdly aware of the absurd intimacy of it—her hand bracing someone else’s bag of vomit while navigating an afternoon left turn.
By the time they pulled up in front of Mara’s apartment, the bag was about a third full of cloudy, sour-smelling liquid, with a few stubborn, floating flecks of what might once have been vegetables. Mara’s hands were trembling so badly Lena had to help her seal the top.
“Trash can by the side of the building,” Lena said. “We’re going to do a careful mission.”
They walked the few steps together. Mara dropped the bag in, wincing at the squishy thud it made landing on the bottom, and then leaned against the brick wall, breathing through her nose.
“I cannot believe I did that in your car,” Mara said hoarsely.
“And yet,” Lena said, “my upholstery lives to see another day. That’s a win.”
Mara huffed, eyes bright again. “You’re being way too nice about this.”
“Occupational hazard,” Lena said. “You spend enough years around med students and residents, you either get nice about bodily fluids or you burn out.”
Mara looked at her for a long moment, studying her face, like she was trying to find the catch.
“Thank you,” she said finally, quiet and sincere in a way that landed somewhere low in Lena’s chest. “For…not making me feel like a disaster.”
“You’re allowed to be a disaster,” Lena said. “Just don’t be a quiet one. Tell me when you feel like this. We’ll deal with it.”
Something in Mara’s expression softened at that, a tiny shift, like a knot loosening.
“Okay,” she said.
It wasn’t dramatic. No music swelled. But for Mara, that miserable, humiliating afternoon—the sidewalk, the car, the bag in the trash—lodged itself like a strange, secret thread of connection.
It was the first time she’d really felt that Lena would stay.
Georgia should have known better. She always knows better. She’s the one who tries her best to keep Molly from impulse-buying buckets of glitter or eating questionable gas station hot dogs, the one who checks— and double-checks— that rent gets made, the one who makes sure everyone drinks water between rounds at the bar.
But tonight is movie night, the first chill of October outside, and Molly came home with a family-sized bag of candy corn that was apparently on sale at the convenience store on the way home. It’s big enough that it could probably sustain an entire small town through the winter.
Molly had had that wide grin, her eyes shining and mischievous, and had said, “Look, candy corn!” before pouring it all into their big candy bowl, so excited to have found it and brought it home to her.
So, here they are, three horror movies deep, and the bowl between them has emptied far faster than Georgia thought possible.
At first it had been fun— the waxy-sweet crunch of sugar, the way Molly kept popping three into her mouth at a time and giggles with her mouth full, the pleasant nostalgia of eating Halloween candy while watching scary movies.
Now, though—
Georgia’s hand hits the bottom of the bowl, and she glances down, realizing they’ve emptied it out.
“Oh, no,” she says, just as her belly groans.
“What?” Molly asks, looking at her. She follows her gaze down to the bowl, then groans. “Ohhhh, no. That’s probably why my stomach feels so…” She wibbles her hand in the air, then drops it to her belly over her sweatshirt. “Ugh. Just gross, I guess.”
She shifts uncomfortably on the couch, taking the bowl to set it on their coffee table instead. Now that she’s paying attention, Georgia realizes her stomach is a taut balloon under her own sweatshirt, starting to gurgle miserably. Her lower belly feels heavy and bloated, the candy all chewed-up and sitting like a heavy swamp in the bottom of her tummy.
Her upper stomach is soft and rumbly; when she rubs over her belly through her sweatshirt, it doesn’t do anything to rub at her upper tummy, but dragging her hand down shows her just how bloated and heavy her lower stomach is, and how bloated and rumbly her guts are becoming.
Every time Georgia shifts, the mass of sugar inside of her sloshes thickly, as though the candy corn has fused into a thick, heavy syrup at the bottom of her belly.
Molly flops dramatically against Georgia’s side with a long groan before she lets out a little burp at the end. Her hands clutch her swollen tummy as it lets out a low, hollow rumble. “I think I’m dying.”
“You think you’re dying?” Georgia mutters, rubbing the flat of her palm across her own bloated stomach. It’s firm, distended, especially lower down where it pushes uncomfortably against her waistband. She exhales sharply when a weak burp bubbles up her throat, but it relieves nothing. “You’re a menace. I never eat this much sugar unless you’re somehow involved.”
“Worth it.” Molly tries to smile up at her, but her expression twists into a wince when her stomach lets out a gurgle that accompanies a sharp cramp. She clutches her belly tighter, curling towards Georgia’s lap. “Okay, maybe not entirely worth it. My belly feels like… like a pumpkin. Stuffed with candy.”
Georgia huffs, though she’s not unsympathetic. She reaches out to start rubbing circles into the side of Molly’s bloated belly, feeling a gurgle under her hand as she tries to help work out some of the bloat, while her other hand presses against her own aching middle. She lets out a long exhale, then pushes her hand in firmer along her lower guts, hoping to coax something out, desperate to get the indigestion gas and bloat out.
The candy corn feels like it’s sitting in a sticky, undigested lump that refuses to move inside of her. Her stomach is still trying to work around it, but it can’t actually digest it, apparently. The occasional rumble doesn’t work up anything productive, her stomach gurgling around the unmoving mass inside.
Every so often, her stomach flips, nausea whispering at the edges of her tummy, but it hasn’t crested into anything unmanageable just yet.
“God, Molly,” Georgia complains with a sigh. “You and your candy.”
“Don’t act like you weren’t shoveling it in, too,” Molly’s voice is both petulant and weak. A hiccup escapes from her before she groans, twisting to press her face into Georgia’s soft sweatshirt and uncomfortable belly. “Be careful. My tummy hurts.”
“Mine, too.” Georgia shifts upright a little bit, trying to sit straighter, hoping to coax a burp up by moving around. Another small burp does come, but it’s sour and unsatisfying. She presses a hand harder to her stomach, feeling the firm swell bloated out there, the ache spreading under her ribs. Everything is bloated thick and heavy below, but right at the top, everything is soft and rumbly and so uncomfortable she has to groan. “We’re both a mess, aren’t we?”
Molly nods against her belly before they both lapse into silence for a few minutes, their current movie flickering unheeded on the screen. Georgia tries to focus so she can distract herself from the growing upset in her belly. All she can think about, though, is the heaviness right under her breastbone, the cloying taste of candy corn still coating her tongue, and the restless churning inside that refuses to settle.
In Georgia’s lap, Molly squirms, her arms winding tight around her belly as she buries her face in her thighs. She flops around, squinting up at her before her tummy clenches and she groans. “Tell me I’m not gonna puke, baby, please. Not ‘cause of candy corn, not ‘cause I just—” She stops, a fist to her mouth, then lets a thin, acidic burp come up with an unsatisfied grimace. “Just ‘cause I ate too much candy corn, what am I, four?” Sad, mournful, she peeks up at Georgia again. “Promise I won’t puke?”
“You’re not gonna puke,” Georgia answers automatically, though her own stomach lurches hard just thinking about it. It doesn’t feel true. She strokes Molly’s hair and sighs, lips pressed thin and tight against another queasy burp before she can talk again. “We just… need to wait it out. Digest. It’ll pass.”
But even as she says it, Georgia’s not sure she believes it.
Even as the lights off the television flicker off of her face, the volume turned down low, neither of them is paying attention anymore. It’s more background noise than entertainment.
Molly shifts restlessly against her lap, her cheek mashing against Georgia’s thigh.
“I can hear my stomach,” she complains weakly. “It’s like… blorp, blorp, blorp, and then it goes, grrrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmp. You know?”
Georgia huffs out a tired laugh. “That’s because you stuffed it full of candy corn, you beautiful genius.”
“We stuffed our bellies full of candy corn,” Molly shoots back. “You helped.” She’s clearly too miserable to gloat properly, and yet, she still tries.
If Georgia could send a joke back, she would. As it is, her tummy feels like it’s getting heavier, more bloated, and she lets a slow breath out through her mouth, tilting her head back on the sofa.
“Mmnhmm…” Georgia presses her hand down over the bloated swell of her own belly, wincing when it answers with a sluggish, upset gurgle. She’s starting to feel stretched too full, like all the sugar has glued itself into a single huge lump in her stomach. Her mouth is starting to taste faintly sour, too; the air in her chest feels trapped, tight, burning a little bit.
She pushes gently at her upper stomach, hoping to massage her tummy and her chest at once and work up a real burp. Nothing feels like it moves, and all she gets is a hollow hiccup that burns in her throat.
Molly groans sympathetically at the sound. “That was gross. You okay?”
“No,” Georgia answers. “It would’ve been gross if it actually worked. Nothing’s moving or settling down or anything. It feels like the candy corn just won’t sit right and settle and digest.” She leans her head back against the couch, eyes closing. “I just need a really good big one to move things along, I think.”
Molly wriggles a hand up under Georgia’s sweatshirt in response, pressing at her upset stomach experimentally. Georgia lets out a startled grunt as the bloat inside her moves nowhere. “Ow— hey—”
“I’m helping!” Molly insists, though she immediately makes a face when she rubs a circle in and pulls her hand back. “Wow. You’re rock hard. There’s no give there at all.”
Georgia grimaces. “Don’t remind me.” Her own hand returns to the middle space between her center and lower tummy, rubbing again in slow, long circles. “Feels like I swallowed cement. And all the air in an oxygen tank.”
Molly snickers faintly at the comparison as if her own stomach is not audibly upset. In fact, when she shifts again, it gives a long, wet gurgle, and she freezes in place, eyes widening. “Oh— Uh-oh.”
Watching her, Georgia narrows her eyes. “What kind of ‘uh-oh’ was that?”
“The bad kind,” Molly answers, clutching her tummy in both arms, curling up as tight as she can. “The worst kind. It’s moving. Like… It’s starting to slosh and it feels so bloated and it hurts, Georgie.”
Georgia groans in sympathy, her own belly churning queasily in response. She rubs Molly’s back with one hand and her own stomach with the other, like she can soothe the both of them at once. “We are gonna regret this tomorrow, I bet.”
Molly sits herself upright, her hand pushing at her stomach, though nothing comes up. “I regret it now. I don’t think I’ll make it to tomorrow.”
Georgia holds her close, trying to keep the both of them calm. It’s futile; by the time the credits roll on their third movie, the both of them are practically horizontal on the couch, pinned down by their own heavy, uncomfortable stomachs.
Shifting onto her side behind Molly, Georgia wraps her arms protectively around her furious, round tummy. She can feel the weight of it pressing out against her sweatshirt, a hard dome beneath her ribs. Every so often her stomach gives a queasy lurch, threatening more nausea, and she just keeps swallowing thickly, trying to force it all back down and to stay down.
Molly, sprawled in front of her, has been hiccuping on and off for half an hour at least, and each one makes her groan sicker and louder afterwards.
“It’s not fair,” Molly moans. “I wanted this to be fun. Good candy corn. Not… ughhhh…”
Georgia strokes her hair absently, eyes closing. “Too much of a good thing?”
Molly’s tummy gurgles under Georgia’s hand, a ferocious and violent rumbling that billows upwards. She suddenly jolts away, lurching upright, one hand grabbing her belly and the other clamping over her mouth. Georgia sits up too, panicked, but Molly only sits there before she groans loudly.
“I thought I was gonna burp, but it—” She stops, then breathes hard through her nose, pale and trembling. “Ohhhh, no, nope, nope, that was almost not a burp.”
The words alone make Georgia’s stomach roll inside of her. She swallows hard against the acid burning thick in the back of her throat, fighting the gagging, rumbling belch that creeps up, half-formed, before it fizzles out again.
“Don’t say things like that,” she mutters weakly, squeezing her eyes shut.
“Sorry,” Molly says, though her voice is still pitched high and tight with discomfort. The sofa jostles as she rocks back and forth a little in place, rubbing her bloated belly with both hands as it burbles inside of her. “It just feels— Ohhh, it just feels so stuck, like all the sugar’s sitting in one huge, giant lump that’s hurting so much and my stomach just doesn’t know what to do with it except be miserable.”
“Tell me about it.” Georgia tries to shift again and sit up and forward a little, hoping gravity will help. Maybe she can even walk around—
No, nope, the motion just sloshes her stomach contents, and she lets out a strangled groan as she collapses backwards again.
“Okay, nope,” she groans. “Bad idea.”
They sit in tense silence for a while, both girls trying to manage their breathing, their bodies, their upset stomachs, trying to convince themselves that this is just going to eventually pass. Their bellies both gurgle and shift, but nothing is moving fast enough in either of them to help. They ate too much sugar too quickly, and their bodies are both furious and overloaded with the bloating, the gas, the cramps, the queasiness, the nausea.
Georgia’s stomach is a tight, swollen, bloated knot, the weight of the candy corn pressing down on her like a heavy, sticky burden. It feels like she’s about to burst, the sweet syrupy mess lodging heavy and unmoving in her gut and refusing to shift.
Every breath is a struggle. Her stomach feels full to the point of discomfort, and yet somehow, she doesn’t feel satisfied either. The bloating is unbearable, making her skin feel stretched, taut over the rounded curve of her belly. Her stomach churns with a slow, nauseating gurgle, an angry ripple of indigestion sugary gas that rises up from the pit of her belly, too thick to fully escape.
The pressure keeps building, each wave of discomfort growing sharper, as though something inside of her is trying to force its way out but can’t. It doesn’t know how, or what form; it just knows it’s upset, and wants her belly to be upset, too.
It’s as if the candy corn is this solid, sticky mass that won’t digest or break down. A tight cramp punches through her abdomen, making her gasp. The bloating presses painfully against her waistband, every shift feeling like her stomach might split. She pushes her hand in between her belly and the waistband, stroking in slow ovals, but she still can’t work up anything helpful. She just feels more uncomfortable and full by the second.
Another soft wave of discomfort rumbles through her like a warning. It’s not just fullness; it’s a relentless, stretching horribleness, as if her stomach is somehow both too hollow-empty with gas and too grumbling-full with candy, teetering on the edge of a relief that refuses to come.
Georgia has forgotten about the world outside of the stiff, unmoving upset of her tummy, occasionally grumbling and flipping, when Molly finally whimpers and curls up as tight as she can into a ball on her lap.
“We’re not gonna puke, right?” Molly asks, quiet and desperate and queasy.
Georgia swallows against the sour taste rising in her throat and forces her voice to stay steady. “Right. We’re okay. We won’t puke, not tonight. We’re just nauseous. It’ll pass.”
But her own body doesn’t agree, not with the bloated pressure mounting more heavily in her lower belly, the sluggish churn of pure sugar and chemicals that all refuse to settle.
And both of them know: it’s only a matter of time.
“Bed?” Molly suggests.
Georgia nods, not wanting to be sick, hoping this could trick their bodies. They stagger up, clean up, get into pajamas, and head for bed.
And then, hours later— honestly, neither of them is much better off.
Even having moved from the couch to the bedroom, they don’t feel more comfortable. Lying side-by-side, the sheets tangled between and around them, they both try (and fail) to get comfortable. They can’t sleep; both women are curled up, still side-by-side, both holding their bloated bellies, eyes closed in the hopes of sleep and to protest against the rolling nausea both of them feel.
Molly’s breath hitches in a quiet sob of frustration in the darkness, the silence broken only by their tummies gurgling and their occasional whimpers.
“I can’t…” Her breath hitches again before a low, slow, upset gurgle forces its way through her belly, sounding unproductive and horrible, just like Georgia feels. “I can’t believe we ate so much. I can’t believe candy corn can do this.”
Georgia sighs, her own stomach sounding out a deep, gurgling protest that ripples beneath her palm.
“Tell me about it.” Georgia lifts her pajama t-shirt, pressing both hands tight over her swollen tummy and trying to rub it hard, trying to ease the cramping tension, but it’s not helping. It hasn’t helped for hours. “It’s like my stomach is trying to turn itself inside out.” Another furious, unmoving rumble shifts her guts unhappily. “Or like it will. Or it has to.”
Molly groans in agreement, slumping back against the cushions, careful not to fall against Georgia’s belly anymore. “My stomach is literally harder than a rock. I think I ate too much for my stomach to handle. Or my intestines. Or my body.”
Georgia presses her lips together, feeling the same way. She swallows thickly, the sour taste rising in the back of her throat.
Please, no, she thinks, desperately, but she knows her stomach isn’t going to let her off the hook this time, not anymore. She knows it’s been too long now that she’s been too full and too sick, and the nausea has built too steadily for it to go away without something giving. Or escaping. Or both.
“I feel like I have to puke,” Molly whimpers, curling her face into her arms over her belly. “My stomach’s too full. It feels crazy bad, Georgie. Like— It’s so full and achey and weird. How does candy corn do this? It just feels—” She rubs her stomach hard, forces out the words, “It’s so upset, I feel horrible.”
Georgia nods silently. She wants to agree, or comfort her, but her mouth is dry, and she can feel the acid pooling in the back of her throat, bitter and thick on the back of her tongue. She burps weakly, her chest tight, forcing it up, but it doesn’t relieve anything. She tries to force a fart next, but nothing even happens. In fact, both things make the feelings so much worse; the pressure underneath her ribs feels like it’s pushing up, and down, and out, all at once, trying to escape her body.
Pressing her body into her stomach, Georgia tries to calm it down, but it feels pointless now.
“Just—” she sighs, then mumbles to herself, “Just get it over with.”
She’s not sure if she means the nausea or just the waiting. Either way, she’s sure Molly’s thinking the same thing.
Then—
Then, it happens, when Molly lets out a soft, strangled groan. Her face twists, and she scrambles upright in bed, a hand over her mouth, chest heaving, belly swollen and grumbling.
“Oh, God,” she chokes out, but it’s already too late.
Georgia can hear the retch before Molly even makes it to the bathroom, a gag thick in the back of her throat. It’s followed by an immediate wet splatter of something sickeningly sweet, surely, then a loud, horrendous groan, followed by a thick, wet belch and another splatter.
“Molly!” Georgia exclaims, scrambling after her, but she finds her already kneeling in front of the toilet, grasping the rim, gasping for air as the candy corn in her belly makes a grand reappearance.
Molly’s body visibly convulses with each heaving retch, coughing a gagging gurgle before another wave of the sweet, cloying smell of sugary vomit fills the bathroom air again. She retches again, loudly, her stomach almost visibly rippling and deflating as the mess of half-digested candy comes up in thick, gloppy waves. It’s helped by the fact that she keeps belching, these huge, deep, massive burps that release so much of the bloat inside of her.
Georgia steps forward hesitantly, but her own belly churns in revolt. She can’t look away, though, wanting so badly to help. She’s caught between sympathy for her girlfriend and the overwhelming feeling that her stomach is about to do the exact same thing—
—And then, it does.
Georgia’s stomach gives a sickening lurch, the pressure unbearable now, the bloating too much to hold down. She tries to swallow and give Molly time, but it comes up too fast and without her control. A flood of sugary-sweet vomit makes her gag, throat burning with the sickly, bitter, burning taste, and she lunges for the sink as it bursts out in an explosive wave. The candy vomit nearly chokes her, and she doubles over right beside Molly, both of them retching, both of their heads swimming with the now-soured taste of candy corn on their tongues, their earlier indulgence destroying them both.
It’s a mess.
They can’t stop, the both of them bringing up candy corn and vomit and gas from the bottoms of their bellies.
It’s a fucking mess.
Molly, between retching coughs, looks up at Georgia with her pretty face pink, her cheeks flushed with the strain, her eyes bright. “We are—” She belches, her hand falling to her rumbling tummy. “We are never doing that again.”
Georgia’s knees tremble, her hands shaking on the edge of the sink, her stomach still clenching violently in time with her next heave. When she can breathe again, she says, voice tight, “Nope. Never. Never ever. Never again.”
It takes a long time, but eventually, they manage to empty out enough to leave them both hunched over— Molly over the toilet, Georgia over the sink, both exhausted and drained. Molly’s face is pale when Georgia looks over at her, seeing a fine sheen of sweat clinging to her forehead. When she looks at her tummy, though, at least some of the bloating seems gone— and some of the bloating in her own belly is gone, though there’s an upset, airy gurgle working through her lower tummy that she’s ignoring.
Molly looks up, and Georgia is barely able to manage a weak smile. She wants to be able to help her and take care of her more than anything, but her stomach still feels so fragile and upset, as though it’s not quite done with her yet.
Her skin is clammy, Georgia’s entire body aching from the effort of feeling sick and throwing up. The weight that had settled in her belly, though— the heavy, swollen lump of candy corn and indigestion gas— is starting to dissipate.
Georgia sits down heavily on the floor, shuffling to sit back against the wall, and Molly flushes the toilet before joining her. They both collapse back against the bathroom wall, breathing heavily, stomachs churning. The only good thing is each other’s presence.
Molly sighs, eyes still half-closed as she reaches up to slowly rub her still-aching stomach. “Next time, maybe we get pumpkin pie instead.”
Georgia groans at the idea of eating again, though she manages a faint chuckle.
“Yeah,” Georgia says, tired. “Maybe a side of water. And Pepto. And sense.”
Molly curls into her, burying her face in her side, clutching her belly in one hand as the other reaches out to rub slow ovals into Georgia’s. And, despite the aftermath, and despite the heavy nausea still lingering like the bad taste in the back of both of their mouths, both of them feel a kind of relief— the kind that can only come from knowing you have learned a lesson and will never, ever make the same mistake again.
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Part 1 ( had to trim the first recording I got into three parts because I was having a hard time posting it)
I didn't have much of an appetite all day, but I when I came home from work, I thought it would be a good idea to try to get some supper in me. I made a packet of ramen and felt so full after eating it... I knew I made the wrong choice. A little over an hour later it all came back up again. I was so sick, throwing up into a bread bag. And it just kept coming to! By the second and third part I kept trying to move to stop the recording but every little motion started me throwing up again. I think you can tell how exhausted my body was getting towards the end of it.
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hey y’all it’s @queasy-kitty … i got locked out of my main account cuz i was blackout drunk and factory reset my phone. T-T i literally woke up and tried to check the time and my phone was just asking what language i wanted to use. i took 12 shots on friday night and it’s safe to say i was miserable and pukinh my guts up all day saturday. i have a bunch of videos to share hehe
anyways sorry about the inconvenience y’all. i’m back!!! and i would hella appreciate reblogs from emeto blogs so people can find me again!! ill repost my fav videos from my old blog onto here and then post some new content soon!!
janainaart
stormborns
blakekathryn
annaxmalina
