Idk what this is

“I think lunch isn’t sitting well,” he muttered to Jeremiah under his breath when they happened to meet up outside a patient’s room. He palmed the side of his stomach and grimaced. “Or maybe breakfast.” Some days Drew was too busy to eat both meals but today he’d managed an egg and cheese sandwich before his shift started and the cafeteria’s rich potato bacon soup halfway through. “And all day’s been patient-facing.”

Jeremiah gave a sympathetic grimace. He understood how hard it was to spend an entire shift interacting with patients while feeling unwell. There had been no time to duck into a bathroom or sit down to let his uneasy belly settle. Drew had been holding down burps all day and he felt overfull and sloshy and gross. But not so gross that he couldn’t play it up for his boyfriend. 

“I’m going to need a belly rub at home,” he told Jeremiah quietly while he pretended to show him something on a patient’s chart. “Help me get rid of the nausea.” 

Jeremiah froze for a half second. He glanced at his watch, and then at Drew. “Fuck you,” he said softly, with absolutely no heat to his words, “we’ve still got an hour.” Drew could hear Jeremiah’s breathing speed up, just the tiniest bit. “Have you, uhh, taken anything?” he asked, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. 

For half a second Drew considered telling the man that he felt really ill, and could they leave right now? But of course they couldn’t. Even if Drew was sick enough to stop working, that was no excuse for Jeremiah to end his shift early too. And anyway, he didn’t feel so bad that he couldn’t power through another hour. 

It was a weird thing to hope he didn’t start feeling better, though. Drew hadn’t grown up with the kink like Jeremiah had, and even now he was always a little thrown off to feel the thrum of arousal that came with nausea. It went against everything he knew and worked against as a nurse - to embrace and even try to prolong illness. Because truly, feeling queasy didn’t exactly feel good a lot of the time - bad stomach bugs and appendicitis and serious food poisoning? Not sexy at all.  But then, sometimes . . . when Jeremiah looked at Drew the way he was right now, and his own body was humming with that weird energy he’d come to crave and adore . . . Well then, Drew didn’t mind the nausea so much. He could lean into it, even, and would keep leaning as long as he could stand it. 

And yeah, it had been a very long time since he and Jeremiah had indulged like this. Drew didn’t like to think about the reason for that, but he had to admit it was his fault. So yeah, there felt like more anticipation than normal riding on his upset stomach. 

“I’ll meet you in the parking lot.” Jeremiah touched Drew’s hand and he realized he’d zoned out for a minute. He shook his head to clear the fuzziness and grinned sheepishly at his boyfriend. “I’ll be there,” he promised and then, for good measure, swiped his hand across his middle. It worked; Jeremiah’s own eyes went unfocused for a second. 

“An hour,” he mouthed silently, and then added just loud enough for Drew to hear. “and take something for your bellyache in the meantime.” Without another word, Jeremiah turned on his heel and strode off down the hall.

Drew knew what Jeremiah was suggesting, and it wasn’t Pepto Bismol. But no matter how long he stared at the plate of cookies in the nurses station he could only bring himself to eat a single one. It landed heavily in his upset stomach, mixing with whatever part of his breakfast or lunch was causing problems. He grabbed a bottle of water instead, comforting himself with the thought that at least there seemed to be little chance his indigestion would ease up before it was time to go home. 

Jeremiah had clearly been wondering the same thing. He was waiting by the exit to the employee parking garage and when he caught sight of Drew’s expression, his own morphed first  into relief and then an attempt at concern that didn’t fool Drew for a second.

“Not better then?” he asked, feigning casualness and holding out his hand for Drew’s backpack. “Here, trade.” He handed over a handled paper bag with a drug company’s logo on it. Inside was a bottle of Sprite and three oversized donut holes - chocolate, cinnamon sugar, and glazed. Drew gulped down a wave of revulsion and gave Jeremiah a queasy smile.

“A little worse, if you can believe it.” In the garage, Drew let more of the discomfort he’d been hiding show on his face. “I don’t know what I ate that’s making me feel so nauseous.” This was one of those moments he had to lean into - talking about food was so unappealing right now -  but it was part of the game. He pressed his hand into his stomach and worked up an airy burp. “Need at least a dozen more of those,” he groaned, playing up his discomfort a bit.

“That’s what the Sprite is for.” Jeremiah was marching a couple of steps ahead, not looking at his boyfriend at all, and Drew bit back a smile. He jogged to catch up, wincing at the way it made his stomach slosh. 

“And the . . . uuhHLP . . . the donuts?” Just staying the word made him gag, and he stumbled into Jeremiah’s side.  

Careful, love.” Jeremiah grasped him by the upper arm before he fell over. “I figured you’d want to eat something sweet as a snack on the way home.” They’d reached the car and Drew leaned against it for a second, trying to get his stomach under control. Finally he worked up two more small burps and let out a sigh of relief. 

“Good idea,” he agreed, even though eating more felt like a terrible plan. His body jumped with a hiccup as he slid into the passenger seat. “I’m looking forward to them.” 

“I expect you to finish them all,” said Jeremiah calmly. His hands squeezed the steering wheel hard enough to make his knuckles turn white. “Before we get home.” 

When the roles were reversed, when Jeremiah was the one sick, he wanted to be cared for and indulged and gently encouraged. Drew joked that it was a shame no one else knew that he saved his very best nursing skills for his boyfriend, in the bedroom and bathroom.

Drew, on the other hand, happily gave up all control to his boyfriend on nights like these. After some trial and error Jeremiah had settled into what he called “soft dom” mode. It was a mix of “attending physician testing medical students” and school principal, with just enough drill sergeant underneath, Drew absolutely loved it. When Jeremiah’s voice dropped and authority rolled through his tone, all Drew wanted was to impress, obey, and push himself to his limit - and beyond. 

And he was planning to push himself tonight. Drew wasn’t saying it out loud but he wanted to make up for how badly he’d treated Jeremiah recently. He knew he didn’t have to - Jeremiah had forgiven him and their relationship felt more solid than ever - but that was why he wanted to anyway. So even though his stomach felt like it was a bubbling cauldron, pressed against the seatbelt, Drew took a deep breath and then a big bite of the glazed donut as the car pulled out of the garage. 

“Mmm. Delic . . Hic! . . .ious,” he proclaimed. The donut was overly sweet and the taste coating his mouth made him almost gag, so he gulped down the lump of dough barely chewed. It fell into his stomach like a rock, and then Drew did gag. Just a small one, but enough that Jeremiah sucked in a breath.

“Drink some Sprite to wash it down,” he directed. “And don’t get sick in the car.”

It wasn’t a suggestion but an order and Drew shivered with need. Jeremiah was still looking straight ahead, focused on the completely empty road in front of them. His lips were tight but Drew could see the smile struggling to push through. This was going to be fun.

“If I drink Sprite I’m going to need to burp,” he pointed out, twisting off the bottle cap. “Will that bother you?” 

Jeremiah took the turn onto Commonwealth Avenue a little faster than normal. “I think you can . . . swallow . . . a decent amount down before you need to burp.” He waved in the direction of the bag still sitting in Drew’s lap. “There’s two more donuts too, you know.” He finally spared Drew a quick glance and for just a second, his mask slipped. “Do you think you can get them down?”

Jeremiah was checking to make sure Drew was all in. It was rare for them to indulge like this so unplanned - Drew certainly hadn’t expected to get indigestion today. Normally they were already together while one of them built up to a stomach ache and the uncertainty tonight added a layer of excitement. He reached over and squeezed Jeremiah’s thigh. 

“I can get them down,” he promised. “I’m just not sure how long I can keep them down.” He palmed the side of his belly. “Something’s really upsetting it and I’m weirdly full.” Despite that, he popped the second donut hole into his mouth. This one was chocolate, and less sweet but more dense. Drew had to chew longer than normal before he could convince himself to swallow. 

“Weirdly full? What does . . . that mean?” There was an odd catch in Jeremiah’s tone. When the car stopped at a red light he turned to look at Drew’s face. “Tell me how much you’ve eaten already today.” 

“Do I have to?” Drew asked, only half joking. As determined as he was to keep this going, talking about food when he was nauseated was never easy. He took a small sip of Sprite, trying to convince himself that the sharpness of the soda would help. The bubbles gathered in his throat and he had to swallow more before he could get them to move higher. For a minute he concentrated on burping, dropping his chin to his chest to bring up as much air as he could. When he finally lifted his head, Jeremiah was ready.

“Yes, of course you do,” he answered as if there had been no pause, “we need to figure out what’s not sitting well.”

When Drew responded with a deeper belch, Jeremiah sighed. “Are you disagreeing with me?” he asked, sounding disappointed.

Drew wasn’t fooled for a minute. He jerked his head no and took a deep breath. “I will,” he promised shakily, bending over his lap to ride out a cramp. “At home.” That way he’d be near a bathroom while he tried to talk about his breakfast and lunch. His last meal had been more than two hours ago but just thinking about the soup made his mouth water - not in a good way. He let himself drool onto the floor mat.

Jeremiah sucked in a breath. “Good idea; I don’t want to be distracted by driving. So I suppose I can wait.” Drew wanted to say something but the vice around his middle hadn’t eased up. He grunted instead and Jeremiah rested a hand on his back.

“Playing it up isn’t going to make me go easy on you.” Jeremiah’s voice was breathy with arousal. The cramp eased and Drew slowly straightened up.

“What if . . . I’m not playing it up?” His body tingled with warmth that was only partly nausea. It was kind of true; underneath the arousal Drew felt pretty crappy. But he was enjoying it too, and Jeremiah was shifting in the driver’s seat and Drew focused on that. “Maybe I’m really that bad off.” 

“Not from indigestion, you’re not,” Jeremiah scoffed. He turned onto their street. “And you still have one more donut hole to finish, don’t you?” 

“Yeah,” Drew breathed out. But that wasn’t good enough. He swallowed hard and answered again. “I mean, yes, Doctor.” Jeremiah’s shiver at hearing that was all the incentive Drew needed to keep going with the charade.

He shoved the last donut in his mouth as Jeremiah maneuvered the car into the alley behind their cottage and into their parking space. When the car was finally still he turned in his seat and looked Drew full in the face. For the first time since they’d left the hospital, his expression faltered.

“You’re really pale, sweetheart.” His hand cupped Drew’s cheek, which was still full of the rest of the donut.  “And clammy.” His lips tightened, unsmiling.

Drew gulped down the bite of food in his mouth and tried not to wince. “Don’t worry about that,” he said as firmly as he could past the heaviness in his jaw. “Now I need to drink the Sprite.” He held up the bottle and very deliberately untwisted the cap. “Don’t tell me you changed your mind.” He took a sip and immediately burped. 

“This isn’t just lunch not agreeing with you.” Jeremiah grabbed the soda out of his hand before Drew could drink any more. “You’re sick, love.” 

Drew shrugged. “Does it really . . . hic! . . . matter? Either way I’m nauseous and either way you can . . . enjoy that.” Without waiting for an answer Drew climbed out of the car. Standing up didn’t help anything. He was bloated - a lot more than he’d been at the hospital - and his stomach was churning sluggishly, clearly unhappy that he’d shoved more food into it. 

“But will you?” Jeremiah followed Drew into the house and made an impatient sound when Drew braced himself against the island, trying to slow his breaths and not gag. “Tell me the truth,” he demanded, "will you enjoy it?” He rested his hand on Drew’s back and began rubbing up and down. Drew burped again, this time bringing up some frothy spit, which dribbled out of his mouth onto the granite countertop. “If you’re only doing this because you . . .”

“Don’t say it.” Drew interrupted roughly. He turned around and put his hands on Jeremiah’s shoulders, looked him in the eyes. Even with the concern added there, his pupils were still dilated with need.  Good.  “I treated you terribly - no, don’t tell me I’m forgiven, I know I am -” he put his finger on Jeremiah’s lips to stop the man from talking, “ but I still want to keep making it up to you.” 

For a few seconds, Jeremiah wavered. He wanted it, Drew could see that, even if he knew he should back off and reassess how Drew was really feeling.

So Drew didn’t give him that option. “If you’re worried about getting sick yourself, that’s one thing. But I’m stuffed and queasy and pretty sure I’m going to be vomiting at some point soon.” Still holding onto Jeremiah’s shoulder he moved them both over to the sink so he could spit up more saliva. “I . . . want you to . . . take care of me,” he continued, gulping between words. “But it’s okay if you also want to . . . oh god.”  Drew’s stomach turned over. “Gonnapuke,” he mumbled, words sticking together. He drooled more into the sink.

Jeremiah moved behind him, his body solid and heavy at Drew’s back. His hand snaked around and he rested two fingers lightly against Drew’s middle. “Can you wait?” he whispered. “I think you can wait, just a few more minutes.” He pressed himself against Drew’s backside and gave a shuddering breath.

Drew felt an immediate thrill of relief that his plan worked. “O-okay,” he stuttered, and Jeremiah immediately dipped his head to the side of his neck and began planting desperate, sloppy kisses there. He was barely touching Drew’s rolling belly but even the pressure of his lips against Drew’s throat was almost too much. Saliva flooded his mouth and he forced himself to swallow it down, unable to hold back the gag. Jeremiah felt it and made a sound, low in his own throat, that sent a wave of heat between Drew’s legs.  For a few seconds even the nausea couldn’t touch him, and he leaned his head back onto his boyfriend’s shoulder and gave into the pleasure. 

It didn’t last long enough. He could tell Jeremiah was trying to be gentle, but his hands were frantic and Drew’s stomach was too upset. He gripped the sides of the sink. “Careful,” he groaned. “Don’t . . . don’t press.”

“How about . . . here?” Jeremiah’s breath was hot on Drew’s skin and his fingers carefully untied the top of his scrubs and slipped inside. He was getting carried away, and that was normally a good thing, and exciting and hot, but today Drew was dizzy and clammy and knew he wasn’t going to get enough relief when his stomach was empty.

“Ohhh. . . kay . . . “ Drew blew out a nauseous breath. He tried to focus on what Jeremiah’s hands were doing and not that his stomach was getting ready to send up his lunch. He retched, and Jeremiah froze. 

“What should I . . . ?” he began, body trembling with the effort of holding still. As much as Drew wished he could keep chasing the pleasure, he was feeling too sick, and desperate for the relief vomiting would bring. 

“Keep going,” he muttered, and when Jeremiah pushed himself against Drew’s backside it slammed his stomach against the front of the sink. Drew belched, and threw up a mouthful of undigested donut. It landed in the bottom of the basin with a plop and a wave of revulsion rolled over him. Jeremiah grabbed his hips and Drew buried his head in his arms around the sink. Jeremiah thrust again and Drew vomited a gush of soda and donuts and soup. 

“S-sorry,” he stuttered, feeling his face prickling as it readied for the next round. “Couldn’t wait.” 

“Hah, neither could I.” Jeremiah ripped off a paper towel and carefully wiped Drew’s mouth and turned on the water to rinse out the sink. “I’m guessing you’re not done vomiting?” 

“No,” mumbled Drew miserably. Sometimes he climaxed too, even when he was the one getting sick, but that was definitely not happening tonight. “Can we go to the bathroom?” The bathroom was close to the bed and the bed was where he wanted to be as soon as his stomach would let him. “And will you sit with me?” 

“Like you could stop me.” Jeremiah brushed his hair back and kissed Drew on the temple. “As soon as I change clothes.” He kissed Drew again, still breathing hard. “Thank you. That was . . . well, it’s always good, but being unexpected made it . . .so  thank you.”

The deli sandwich he’d had earlier— salami, bleu cheese, tomato, lettuce, mayo— is sitting in his stomach like a rock. It had just been sitting out at the grab-and-go station in the hospital caf, and maybe he should have been suspicious, but it’s a hospital. He didn’t think to check if it had been out for too long or if it was past its expiration date or if it was being stored at the proper temperature. Maybe he should have, but he didn’t.

Not only that, but he’s steadily eaten an entire bag of shredded mozzarella cheese. His tummy feels like it’s struggling to break it down, sitting like a heavy blanket over everything inside of his stomach. It’s bloating him up more than he expected it would. He guesses he hadn’t really been thinking about it while he was taking the fistfuls of cheese. Each fistful felt separate on its own, but now they’re gluing together inside of him, and he feels so full and tight and uncomfortable that he’s starting to regret eating any of it at all.

“Hey, Dr. Monroe, can I get your opinion on something real quick?” one of the medical students asks, and Riley suppresses a burp to nod and follow after them.

While he’s helping the med student and her patient, Riley’s cramping stomach feels like it’s bloating even more. He can feel it pressing into the elastic waistband of his scrubs but he can’t try to reach down and rub it while he’s working. He just has to ignore it and power through, pretending it’s not happening at all. He’s really good at that when he’s working at the hospital. The work, healing, and patients all come first.

He moves through four more patients before the bloating and cramping in his stomach forces him to take note of it again. In the time he’s been ignoring his belly, it’s grown uncomfortably round with gas. He ducks into another empty hallway to try rubbing it again and finds it heavily rounded out, the gurgles he can feel inside also felt against his palm as he presses into the bloat there.

“Shit,” he curses. A burp bubbles up his throat, tasting like salami and cheese and the black coffee he’d chugged barely twenty minutes earlier. “Oh, fuck, goddamnit.”

A nurse scurries past and Riley makes himself go quiet, even as his stomach does not seem to get the message. It feels like it’s putting on a show as it attempts to cope with what he’s done to it. An almost-theatrical rumble growls up from the pit of his stomach as it starts to churn, trying to digest the food and lactose. He has the feeling that his stomach is like a simmering pot of soup, gases and fluids and chunky solids bubbling too quickly inside his belly.

There’s an uncomfortable, strained, popping sensation in his intestines then, as if there’s a tight bloat squeaking its way through him. He tries to force out the gas, even if it’s a fart, but the rolling waves in his belly and the tight contractions of his intestines seem to refuse to let go of the gas. It seems like his belly is perfectly content to be horribly miserable.

A series of warm, gurgling bubbles churn up from the pit of his stomach to his chest, and he starts feeling a little sweaty— and a little nauseated— as one deep burp comes up, then another, then another. Each one of them burns in the back of his throat, painful with the acidic coffee.

It feels bad. It feels so, so, so bad, and the next burning, acidic belch grabs at his gag reflex and makes him gag into his fist.

But he has work to do, and he makes himself do it. He keeps interacting with his patients and helping the nurses and the med students, and he doesn’t let a stupid little upset stomach get in the way of his hard work. If someone gets hurt on his watch because of a bellyache, he would never forgive himself.

However, his stomach is still feeling worse and worse, and he’s unable to ignore it completely. Even as he continues to help patients, part of his brain can’t help but notice but just how nauseated and gurgly and uncomfortable his stomach is becoming as he keeps working.

His upset stomach is working overtime to try and digest what he put into it, but it’s not doing a great job. It’s definitely trying, but it’s a lot, and it might just be too much, he’s realizing. He’s starting to get sweatier and a little clammy, his stomach cramps getting worse and worse, tighter, noisier, more painful, as his digestive system struggles to process what he’s put into it and is forcing it to try and digest.

Though his body is attempting to manage the overload of indigestible lactose— he knows he’s lactose intolerant, even if he likes to pretend he isn’t— and the probably-spoiled sandwich and the acidic black coffee, it seems to be losing the battle. The gurgling in his belly and his intestines is getting louder and more active, everything inside him fighting against him. It almost feels like his stomach wants to eject what’s in it, like it might empty itself against his permission, but it isn’t actually doing anything yet.

Well, it is doing something. It’s trying to process the lactose and spoiled food that are fermenting inside of it, and it’s struggling to succeed in doing so. A storm is steadily brewing in his belly, even though his shift is nowhere close to being done.

He wishes he could get his stomachache to stop. He rips open an alcohol pad under his nose more than once trying to curb the queasiness, but it’s starting to become a persistent problem.

His nausea is actually building more with every passing minute. As he moves from patient to patient, he starts getting really nauseated, like his body wants to reject what he’s put into it. His stomach feels like it has had to expand to accommodate the bloating, leaving him feeling tight and uncomfortable and dense.

His stomach cramps tightly. There are these sharp, stabbing pains that are starting to pierce into his intestines, as if every part of his digestive system is protesting the large amount of cheese and the spoiled sandwich and the black coffee he’s forcing through it.

It’s a weird feeling. He’s a doctor, so he knows that cheese is really high in fat and really low in fiber, and he knows that eating as much as he did would slow his digestion significantly. It’s almost giving him a constipated, bloating feeling— but the black coffee he chugged is trying to speed up his digestion, to stimulate it and make everything go faster, and the two are fighting against each other and making a storm brew up ferociously in his belly. His heart is starting to beat faster and deeper and he can feel it in his belly, pounding like it’s inside his throbbing tummy.

The spoiled sandwich is the real deciding factor here, and it is wreaking havoc on his digestive system. As he hides in the hospital hallway and clutches his churning belly, he can feel the way the sandwich is just wrecking him, sending his insides into turmoil.

A bubble pops in his tummy, and he groans, trying to massage it more deeply. His belly feels soft, squishy; he displaces the bloat as he presses into it though it doesn’t come out in any good or meaningful way.

Riley’s heart starts to pound too fast and too deep. His belly struggles to digest, trying to process what he’s eaten and move it through his digestive tract, and it’s hard at work with how much fucked-up stuff he’s put into it. There’s too much gas, too much pressure; waves of attempted digestion vibrate his belly, pronounced gurgling audible to anyone who passed by him.

The next couple of minutes feel like they stretch on forever.

Riley attempts to continue and to leave the side room, moving on autopilot. However it is getting harder and harder for him to hide what’s happening. He can feel his pulse throbbing inside of him and his limbs buzzing with an anxious and unsettled energy. He hunches a little when he walks, trying to protect his belly. One hand pushes into the swollen throb just below his ribs, as if he could physically hold everything down if he just pushed hard enough.

Despite his best efforts, it doesn’t seem to help. In fact, that added pressure only serves to make the uncomfortable, bloated gas and the shifting, unhappy contents of his stomach shift with an audible glorp. When Riley’s stomach forces up a deep belch, he nearly chokes on it; it claws up his throat, stings his nose, makes his eyes prick. He’s so nauseated by it that his body nearly seizes up with the effort of swallowing it back down— and he has to swallow convulsively just to do that much.

When he manages to tuck himself into an empty room again, his scrubs are sticking to him with sweat, his stomach feels actually heavy, and he has this sensation that the contents of his belly are boiling and disgusting like hot liquid concrete.

With every step, he can feel everything inside of him sloshing, thick and wet and wrong. His burps used to taste like cheese, or salami, or coffee, but now they just taste acidic and disgusting. Another cramp tightens deep inside him, forcing a roll of nausea through his belly, and he has to grip the closest wall when his knees buckle at the force of it.

He can’t do this. He hides himself as fast as he can in the empty room, slamming the door shut behind himself. There isn’t a lock, so he just has to lean against the door and block it with his own big body.

His stomach gurgles. He’s not sure exactly what is disagreeing with him, but something is, or everything is. It feels like nothing is digesting at the same time that something is digesting too fast, and he can’t figure out which end everything wants to come out of. He only knows that there is a storm in his stomach that he only has to ride out. He cannot avoid it anymore.

As if realizing he’s conceding to the pain, his sick belly forces up a thick belch, then another, stirring up the storm into a riot in his belly. The gurgles are just as audible as his burps, and he just can’t stop burping now that he has started.

Every couple of minutes, this rancid, gurgling bubble of air swells up from the churning pit of his stomach. It drags in an audible burbling up his spine to burst out of him. None of them are polite or little, they’re all deep and rumbling and erupting out of him. They burn, hot and bitter and filled with acidic bile. Each one makes him more nauseated, to the point where he starts trying to swallow them back, tense every time they try to come. He swallows even harder and thicker, pressing his hands into his bloated, roiling stomach and trying to breathe through it, but he can’t manage it.

Whatever is happening in his stomach, he is not getting out unscathed.

He’s a doctor. He understands indigestion. This is not that. This is much worse than that. This is his entire system breaking down, everything inside of him fighting against itself. There’s an actual battle in his stomach, he thinks. The deli sandwich had to have been past its prime, and it’s like it’s speeding through his intestines, accelerating way too fast for him to even process it. It’s making his insides churn, unable to properly digest; it’s only reacting to him, not digesting or processing or absorbing anything. All it can do is react as the disgusting sandwich decimates his insides as fast as it can.

And in the middle of it all, that cheese just sits there.

It’s just thick and undigested and gluing everything together in a way it absolutely should not be. When the sandwich tries to fly through him, and the coffee churns everything up so horribly, the cheese just keeps everything packed into the lowest curve of his belly like wet cement, bubbling and thick and clogged up, a drain that cannot go down. The more Riley rubs at his stomach, the more he realizes how uneven the contents of it feel, and how uneven his body feels as a result: his middle is firm, bloated, without any give, but his sides are squishy and tender, and his lower belly feels heavy and weighted while his upper tummy has an airy heft to it of bloat, the air churned up and pushing upwards obviously.

The only thing his whole belly has in common is how loud it is. No matter what, everything is so loud. His system is trying so hard to process everything, and failing to process anything. His intestines are grinding into overdrive, his stomach bubbling furiously, everything in his tummy bubbling and squealing and groaning under the pressure of too much lactose and too much bacteria and too much food trying to slug its way through his system.

His body forces up a hiccup that tugs at the back of his throat, and he gags, wet but empty.

Pushing through the first door he finds, Riley finds himself in an empty stairwell. Crouching down, wrapping his arms around his stomach, he tries to breathe. He fails. His tummy keeps doing somersaults, flipping inside of him, like it’s being turned inside-out in slow motion. Another acidic burp churns up from his belly, leaving his mouth tasting like curdled milk and rotten tomatoes and heat.

“Shit,” he curses as dizziness crashes over him, making the stairwell spin around him. His stomach churns heavily, his head swims, and the nausea taking over him starts pulsing inside of him. It feels like it has a heartbeat, throbbing hot and constant and in the center of his gut. He tries to rub at it and diminish it, hoping that rubbing his upset belly will either soothe it or upset it enough to do something, but neither happens. Not really. It does upset his belly, but not enough to do anything; all that happens is that he feels a tight, heavy pressure gathering in the pit of his stomach. His stomach gurgles again, complaining as loudly as it can, wet and thick and weird, and he practically feels the contents of his belly shifting inside of him.

The sandwich, the coffee, the cheese— it’s all one incoherent mess now, sloshing back and forth with these sickening, tumultuous turns inside of him that have thick saliva gathering in his mouth.

The storm brews up ferociously, as metaphorical as it is real. There’s thick pressure filling him up, and the roiling in his belly is gaining strength, everything moving inside of him in the worst possible ways. The cheese is fermenting, the gas is expanding, the spoiled sandwich is rushing through him, and the coffee is sliding slimy along his stomach lining.

His insides feel like a disaster. Another burp churns up, and Riley belches, deep and wet and thick, before he gags and dry heaves.

Nothing comes up. He dry heaves again, a third time, but nothing comes up, and he swallows thickly to keep everything down before he groans, shaking and trembling like a leaf.

His undershirt clings to his skin with sweat. His scrubs are too tight, especially around his bloated belly, and every belching breath makes his tummy feel like it pushes harder into his waistband. He puts his hands on his belly again, trying to rub it and work out some gas or soothe the internal chaos, but all he does is churn up the storm inside.

His upset belly feels like it’s yelling at him. It won’t stop churning, sloshing, bubbling; it burbles loudly, then groans, making him whine before he belches again, unable to keep it back. The burbling inside almost feels cartoonish in how wet and aggressive it is, punctuated on every gurgle with these weird, small, high-pitched squeaks of gas that is trapped deep in his belly. The sandwich— the bad sandwich, he should have known how bad the sandwich was— is ripping through him like his guts are on fire, making his insides bubble like he swallowed a potion— and yet the cheese just sits there stubbornly, as if it is a second potion fighting against the first, the lactose refusing to digest and instead deciding to feed the bacteria gurgling away in his belly, making more gas and more bloat and more horrible, thick, churning noise.

Every last bit of him is overstuffed and queasy. He’s clammy and trembling and actually thinks he might shit himself if he takes a step, or throw up if he takes a breath that’s too deep.

He’s just about to try and stand up, his hands clutching his swollen and upset belly, when he hears, “Riley?”

The door to the stairwell opens just as Riley jumps to find Luke standing over him. His entire belly lurches up his throat, and Riley’s hand flies up to clamp over his mouth as he belches. It’s deep and wet but nothing comes up, even as he groans and takes a knee right there on the stairs, trying not to vomit or shit himself at the same time.

“Hey,” Luke says. He’s calm and measured and professional as always. “You doing okay?”

Riley considers lying, but it wouldn’t work. He just shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut as his stomach gurgles again, thick and horrible. There are weird, painful, tight cramps seizing his lower belly; his digestive system struggles to process what he’s put into it, and he starts sweating, burping again, tasting the burning acid of the black coffee. It feels so horrible, disgusting and forcing him to gag before he swallows thickly, and his bloated, cramping belly has to re-accept the almost-vomit, taking it all back into his gassy, bloated, uncomfortable stomach.

His belly, all rounded-out and gurgling, tries to force up another belch. He feels so nauseated, really nauseated, and he’s starting to sweat because of it, his body rejecting what he’s put into it, refusing to actually digest it. His cramps are coming these sharp, stabbing, piercing pains, while his stomach gurgles again, loudly and heavily and bloated. It won’t stop; it can’t stop churning, burbling, too heavily unsettled.

Riley is vaguely aware of Luke’s arm winding around him, helping him to stand again. He forces him to walk, navigating him out of the stairwell and back down the hall, but everything feels dimmed and faraway and strange, as if he’s underwater and watching everything from a distance.

A nauseating vertigo starts growing inside of him, making everything spin even more severely and confusingly. A creeping heaviness settles into his limbs, pulling at his body, making every step that Luke forces out of him to feel like he’s dragging himself through a sea of molasses. His vision keeps swimming, his head throbbing, his skin prickling with a clammy cold-heat, his stomach—

Fuck. His stomach.

His stomach is an absolute mess. It feels like a swirling, seething cauldron of thick liquids and fermenting chunks and undigested food and roiling acid and bubbling gas. It’s heavy— it’s so heavy, it’s too heavy— and it’s bloating high and taut under his ribs.

But it’s not staying still.

It keeps moving inside of him, this sick, fizzling churn that refuses to stop. It twists his tummy, wrenching the contents inside this way and that, making his belly lurch against itself. It’s like everything in his belly is physically flipping over and over itself inside of him. It just won’t settle.

“Fuck,” he mumbles out loud. “It hurts so much. It won’t settle down, it just—” He belches again, then manages, pathetic, “Something isn’t sitting right,” and clutches his belly, churning right under his hand, whatever isn’t sitting right trying to claw its way out of him.

His uneasy stomach sloshes inside of him as he clutches it. When it bubbles again, the queasy feeling only increases, twisting his insides and wrenching at his intestines. His discomfort only grows as his stomach starts doing more and more somersaults. Roiling waves surge through his sick belly, twisting his guts into knots; the creeping heaviness gets closer and closer, weighing over him while his stomach bubbles up with hot, nauseating, fizzy discomfort.

“You’re okay,” Luke tells him. Riley doesn’t feel that way though, with his sickly disorientation and the way his stomach keeps trying to lurch up his throat. He’s starting to feel this prickly, clammy feeling as wooziness claims him; the white walls spin, and he feels faint and queasy at the same time.

“I’m gonna be sick,” Riley mumbles. He’s not even sure if he’s coherent. His words are followed up by a heavy, thick, long belch, pulled from the pit of his belly, and he doubles over. Forcing Luke to stop, he leans against his own knees; another belch rips out of him, and he groans, eyes watering, nausea building. “Fuck, I’m gonna be sick—”

“Not here, you’re not,” Luke tells him, forcing him through a doorway.

Riley whimpers softly. It won’t stop. His belly churns, and he grabs his swollen stomach, hands pressing hard into the tight swell of his abdomen. His guts gurgle so loudly that he would be embarrassed if he were more coherent. As it is, his stomach blorps loudly before a strange rolling glurg churns through it, followed by a series of sharp, squeaky little gas bubbles that rise up inside of him and shift his belly and his guts and his intestines and the contents of his sick stomach.

God, but he can feel every single little bubble of gas gurgling inside of him. Every single one sloshes, twists, turns, and adds to the uncomfortable, indigestion storm gurgling hard and fierce inside of him.

His body is basically begging him to reject everything. It’s screaming at him, his stomach roiling, wanting to force up the spoiled meat and acidic coffee and indigestible cheese, but—

But nothing will come up. Nothing will come out.

His cramps shift as Luke forces him onto his knees over the toilet. They’re not this dull, strange thing anymore. Instead, they have become these sharp, piercing jolts that stab into his abdomen in horrible waves, making him gasp and clench his arms over his belly as he folds forward over the open inside of the toilet.

“Just let it up,” Luke encourages him. “C’mon. Something’s making you sick, you just gotta get it out.”

His hand pats hard at Riley’s back, forcing up a thick, heavy belch like he’s an infant being burped. 

“I feel so sick,” Riley complains, his voice groaning and weak and pathetic. “Fuck, I feel so sick, I—”

His intestines twist themselves into knots, wringing themselves out, making his pain tighter and stranger and refusing to allow him relief. His stomach cramps and clenches hard, his nausea twisting harder, and he belches with violence. It feels like this gurgling burp comes up from the pit of his stomach and nearly brings a wave of vomit with it, ripping through him without warning. His throat burns with stomach acid, the burp long and deep and searing, and he groans heavily as it leaves a bitter, burning heaviness on the back of his tongue, inside his throat.

“Easy,” Luke murmurs, rubbing his back again. His voice is calm, close, steady, slow, and right next to his ear. “You’re almost there. Just let it up.”

Except Riley can’t let it up. It won’t come up, and Riley belches again into the toilet water, his arms wrapping tight around his stomach, clutching at his belly while his fingers dig into the bloated, rebellious, heavy curve of his tummy. His whole body won’t stop trembling, sweat dripping down his temples, his breath coming short and fast and desperate as he belches thickly again.

“Okay, I’ve got you,” Luke promises him, rubbing his back up and down, thumping near the base of his spine. He forces up another thick belch, and Riley rocks forward over the toilet, tasting black coffee and bleu cheese and bile. “You’ll feel better once you let it up, okay? Just let it go. You’re okay, just get it up.”

Riley belches again, deep and stinging and searing. It feels fiery as it launches up from his belly, through his chest, to this throat and his mouth, leaving the lingering bitter taste of bile and stomach acid, and his hand flies up to cover his mouth as it rips out of him. His other hand still clutches his stomach, and he knows how he must look, pale and sweating and pathetic, but he can’t help it.

He breathes deeply, trying to stop himself from getting sick while knowing the fight is inevitable. His lower belly gurgles, and when he shifts, he thinks he’s going to belch again, but a deep, wet fart rips out of him instead. He gags, his stomach turning, and he hunches over the toilet.

“Get out,” Riley tries to tell him, weak and pathetic. “This is disgusting, get out—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Luke protests. “You’re sick—”

“—And it’s gross—”

“—And you need me,” Luke continues, “so I’m staying.” His hand thumps between Riley’s shoulder blades again, forcing up a thick belch that ripples the toilet water. “That’s it, babe. Get it up, c’mon.”

Riley burps again, then groans. “I can’t, it’s— I feel— I need to, I can feel it, but it won’t—” He belches once more, sick and heavy. “Fuck, it won’t come up, it’s just—” He rubs his belly where it is storming the worst, burbling so thickly and heavily, and complains, “It’s just churning up, it won’t move.”

Pale and sweating and disoriented, Riley belches over the toilet again. His stomach won’t stop gurgling anymore, and he feels like he needs to shit and vomit all at the same time.

“I know,” Luke assures him, steadying him, keeping him upright over the toilet. “I know. Just breathe. You’re safe, I got you. It’ll be up soon and you’ll feel so much better.”

Riley belches once more, hunching forward, arms wrapping tighter and tighter around his belly. His lower belly won’t stop rumbling anymore. It’s full of knotted, peristaltic gurgling, deep and desperate rolls that feel like they should be dragging him towards a release of this sickness, but he’s still stuck in the middle.

Attempting to force a retch, all Riley succeeds in doing is belching again. His stomach churns, and another sick fart rumbles out of him, mortifying him.

“I’m sorry,” Riley apologizes. “You should go—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Luke stops him. “Just let it happen. It’s not your fault, you’re sick. Just let yourself be sick and get it up.”

“I can’t,” Riley complains, shaking like a leaf. The pressure intensifies, the cramps worsen, and his belly tightens with churning gurgles. Groaning, Riley tells him. “Fuck, it’s like I’m full of hot, bubbling concrete. It won’t come out.”

“What did you eat?” Luke asks. Riley moans, and Luke insists, “Tell me so I can diagnose you. It’ll be over in a second.”

Riley swallows thickly, then confesses, “I ate—” He belches, tasting mayonnaise and coffee and cheese. Sitting up and away from the toilet, trying to rub his swollen upset belly, Riley tells him, “I had a sandwich from the caf—”

“Which one?”

“Salami,” Riley tells him, tasting it as he says it. “With bleu cheese, tomato, lettuce, mayo— Fuck—”

“Keep going,” Luke insists, rubbing his back. “Tell me everything.”

Riley belches over the water again, then continues, “I had— I had a coffee—”

“Black coffee?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Luke encourages him. “Anything else?”

Riley pants over the water before he admits, “I ate a bag of shredded cheese.”

There’s a pause that feels as thick and heavy as the bag of shredded cheese inside of Riley’s belly.

Then, Luke asks, “A bag?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Riley admits. “I just kept eating it, I’m s—”

“Don’t be sorry,” Luke stops him. “I’m glad you ate. I’m just sorry it’s upsetting your belly so much.” His hand sneaks around Riley’s stomach, stroking slowly, coaxing up another gassy belch. “That must feel awful inside of you. You’re so bloated.”

He pushes in, and Riley’s upset stomach forces up yet another rumbling burp, just as gurgling as the rest of his stomach. A weird, tight squelch squeaks along his belly, and he rubs at it, trying to coax up something further. All that happens is a thick gurgle runs through his belly horizontally, and he can’t do anything to soothe it.

“Okay,” Luke murmurs. “I think the cheese is probably slowing everything down.” He says this as something gurgles in Riley’s midsection, loud and fast before it makes something thick ripple in the lower right of his belly. “Yeesh. All that fat and no fiber? No wonder nothing’s moving through you. You can’t digest all that when you’re this blocked up.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Riley mumbles. Another gurgle starts in the center of his belly and squeezes to the side; it doesn’t go up or down, doesn’t offer relief. Just churns.

“Your body knows what it needs to do,” Luke coaxes him. “It’ll figure it out. Don’t fight it. It’s not going to digest, you need to get it out.”

Another thick, heavy cramp pierces his belly, and Riley lurches forward over the toilet again, panting as saliva fills his mouth. He spits out a mouthful of thick, ropey, syrupy saliva.

“Jesus, your stomach is bloated,” Luke comments.

As if Riley doesn’t know. He doesn’t need his boyfriend to comment on it. He knows how big and huge and bloated his belly is now, so distended and taut under his scrubs that he can see it straining the thin fabric. He’s visibly bloated, and his stomach is gurgling so constantly that it’s actually making these weird little rippling motions every time it burbles, like his insides are moving around and trying to rearrange themselves— or like everything in his stomach is trying to make space for itself when there isn’t any space left for it.

Through it all, Riley’s gut keeps trying to move and digest and function and work and process, but all it is actually capable of doing is bubbling, and burbling, and gurgling, and  churning, and attempting to digest in this slow, agonizing way.

And failing.

It’s so weird, but Riley thinks he can feel everything melting together in his belly. The spoiled sandwich, like a fucked-up soup swimming in sour stomach juices; the massive amount of cheese, unable to digest, thick and curdling and stuck inside of him; the bitter coffee, liquid and gurgling and sloshing around inside his sick belly like some sick acidic potion in a beaker.

The bacterial, chemical disaster inside of him is getting worse, and worse, and worse. The slow-brewing storm isn’t a storm anymore, it’s a hurricane, and it’s getting worse with every passing minute.

The contents of his belly are fermenting. He can feel it, especially the way that the fizzy, bloated pressure of the lactose absolute refuses to digest and instead sits in him like a sticky, heavy rock, churning up gas the longer it sits there. His intestines stretch to accommodate the uncomfortable gas, twisting his guts into tighter, more painful knots. They force out a heavy, painful fart, and he moans, burying his face in his arm, hunching over the toilet again.

“You okay?” Luke asks, as if the answer could possibly be yes.

Riley feels like he’s going to be sick from both ends, but he can’t move. Not even a little bit. His nausea is rising and sinking at the same time, slow and hot and steady. It climbs up the back of his throat and sinks down through his lower belly. It feels like it’s pumping out of his stomach in both directions, and his stomach spasms, lurching in both directions, contracting sickly as his mouth floods with saliva.

“I’m going to be sick,” Riley whimpers. “Fuck, I’m going to be sick—”

He belches, cutting himself off. It tears up from the pit of his belly, and a heartbeat later, his body forces out another fart that makes his stomach audibly gurgle.

“Okay, up, get up,” Luke instructs him. He hauls him up with an arm underneath his, forcing him to sit on the toilet while he shoves the bathroom’s trash can between his thighs. “Jesus, what the hell is going on inside you? Is that really all you ate?”

Riley belches heavily again, tasting salami and coffee and cheese. “Yeah.”

“You feel like you ate an entire Thanksgiving dinner,” Luke comments, rubbing his hand over Riley’s bloated, bare, exposed belly, now that his pants have been tugged down and he can push his scrub top up. “Did you eat one sandwich or one hundred?”

Again, Riley burps, his stomach gurgling ominously inside of him. He whimpers as another burp tries to come up but he swallows it down, though he doesn’t know why.

Well, he does. He doesn’t want to do this, doesn’t want to lose control, but he doesn’t think he has a choice.

“It’s okay,” Luke promises him, rubbing his back, still at his side despite how disgusting he is. “Just let it happen. You’ll feel so much better once it’s all out of you.”

“I’m sorry,” Riley whines. “This is so gross—”

“Hey, you’re a doctor, I’m a doctor,” Luke stops him. “We’ve seen it all. You just gotta do whatever will make you feel better, that’s the whole point. Okay?”

Riley hesitates. Then he agrees, “Okay.”

“Okay.” Luke thumps him between the shoulders, forcing another deep belch out of him. “Get it up, babe. Come on.”

Riley tries to bear down, or force up another belch, but his stomach just won’t release.

And it won’t stop gurgling.

It’s non-stop, and it’s loud, it’s cartoonishly and humiliatingly loud. Something protests in his guts, and then his belly starts up all over again, groaning and bubbling and popping like it’s a boiling cauldron beneath his ribs, filled with potions and chemicals that aren’t meant to interact. As he clutches his belly, he can feel the bubbling continue in his belly, a burbling that pushes against his palms and makes audible pops and groans as he feels and sees it ripple under his hands.

“Fuck,” Riley complains, leaning forward, arms wrapped around his belly as it continues gurgling like a pot of soup, chunky and wet and thick. “Shit, I think the cheese is blocking me up. It won’t stop gurgling inside me.”

“Yeah, it sounds like that,” Luke agrees. His hand comes forward, rubbing slow circles over the front curve of his bloated belly, just over his belly button. Another desperate gurgle churns up, bubbling just under his hand in a way that Luke can feel, and Riley’s hand shoots out to grip the edge of the sink next to him, whimpering through it. “Shit. How’d that feel?”

“Bad,” Riley confesses. Something gurgles in his exact center. It should be too deep for Luke to feel, but it works its way out to the front of his tummy before going down and coming out as a sick, strange fart that turns his bowels and stomach all at once, bubbling yet again. “Fuck—”

“Let it up,” Luke encourages him.

“I’m trying,” Riley snaps at him. He doesn’t mean to be short-tempered, but he feels so sick he can’t help it. His lower belly keeps rumbling so much, too much, it’s so bloated and keeps forcing through little bubbling pops and it feels like he should be able to get everything out, but he just can’t do it. He just feels so full and uncomfortable and—

And still, he just can’t get it out.

“Hey—” Luke starts, crouching next to him, rubbing into Riley’s stomach more firmly, but he forces up a heavy belch that makes Riley surge forward over the trash. Nothing comes up, ultimately, and he burps again, his belly churning heavily inside of him, noisy and throbbing and audible.

“Oh, shit,” Riley complains. “I need— I need to get it out, why— why won’t it come out—”

“It’s okay,” Luke assures him, calm as patient as always, even as a sharp, stabbing cramp seizes Riley’s gut and makes it gurgle audibly, thick and moving under Luke’s palm. “Don’t fight it. Just listen to your body. You know what your belly’s trying to do, you’re a doctor. So, let it do it. You know what the point is. It needs to get rid of what’s making it sick.”

He’s right, and Riley tries to process this. He is right. If this were his patient, he would know that this much belly movement and gut involvement and belching and farting and illness would indicate that something indigestible is upsetting his patient’s insides, and once it came out, they would start to feel better. It’s just harder when it’s his own stomach, fighting against what he chose to eat, rippling noisily under his own hands.

Riley groans as another gurgle pushes through him. He presses down harder on his belly, hoping that he can move something— the gas, the upset contents, the churning spoiled food, anything. He just needs it to start happening and stop sitting there being so sick.

“It’s right there,” Riley tells him. “I feel so full, I just— It’s all right there and I feel so full and I just want it to come out.”

“Yeah, I know,” Luke says. “You’re all backed up. It’s probably the bag of cheese, babe.” Riley groans, tasting it and feeling it all at once, gluing his insides together. “Yeah, that’s it, I think. That sandwich was shit for you and then the cheese just plugged you right up. Your gut wants to get rid of what’s making it sick, but it can’t. You overloaded your system, like— like you’re a clogged drain.”

Riley certainly feels like a clogged drain. He even sounds like one, his belly bubbling in the same way a clogged drain would, burbling heavily right in the pit and forcing its way up.

His belly lets out another long, rolling gurgle, like a bottle of soda abruptly turned upside-down and made to glug all over the ground. Riley moans low in his throat, clutching his swollen belly. His lower tummy and intestines churn, desperate to empty themselves, gassy and swollen and so bloated that he can’t stand it. There’s so much motion inside his tummy, muscles throbbing with peristalsis, his gut wanting and trying and begging to clear itself out, but it just keeps hitting the thick, gluey wall he stuffed inside himself.

The gas builds, and builds, and builds, and only occasionally forces itself out in a deep fart or a wet belch. Otherwise, it refuses to release, even when Riley tries to bear down to force something out of his body.

All he gets is this weird, wet, crackling gurgle that surges through his lower belly and a sharp, painful cramp that twists his stomach like a knife.

“Fuck,” he pants. Rocking forward, he admits, “I can’t. I can’t get it up, I can’t, it feels like it should be moving, but—” His stomach groans loudly, churning before it bubbles and pops near the crest of his belly, and he moans as he tries to rub at the protesting, swollen swell. “It just won’t move out. It just keeps moving inside of me.”

Luke lays a steady palm against his back, right in the center, grounding him. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

No, he is not okay. He is a disaster— or, at least, his stomach is a disaster.

The bag of shredded cheese is clogging him up, filling his guts like a long, heavy lump of congealed glue, and the sandwich— Oh, fuck, the sandwich is fermenting in his belly just above it, unable to move through him, the spoiled meat and off vegetables and warm mayo bubbling inside of him, fizzing and popping and rotting in real time. Every two seconds, it feels like, another sick-slick gurgle rolls through his stomach and either moves up or down, bringing with it either a deep, choking burp or a wet, sour fart, everything heavy with stomach acid and illness.

His body fights itself from both directions, and Riley is the one losing.

And his belly is raging.

As he sits there, trying to rub and soothe it, it growls at him, furious at what he’s done to it. In its churning, it feels like it roars at him, thundering like the storm it is inside of him. He shifts, forcing up another burp, and his belly glorps, glugging like a clogged drain, every piece of his digesting system screaming at him to be emptied.

However, he is locked down far too tight. He is like a locked pressure cooker, nausea churning up more and more heavily, something sick and loud squelching across and through his belly in a squeal.

His mouth fills with saliva that he has to swallow down thickly. His belly churns, protesting even that joining the contents in there. “Luke, I— I don’t feel good.”

Understatement of the century.

“I know,” Luke tells him. “Get it up. It’ll be so much better.”

Riley closes his eyes, dizziness and disorientation surging. It feels like he’s floating halfway out of his body, woozy and weird; his body is clammy, flushed, pale all over, and his muscles keep tensing, especially in his abdomen as he gags and his belly gurgles loudly, filling the hospital bathroom and echoing.

“Let it go, honey,” Luke encourages him, rubbing his belly harder. It seems like he pauses for a second before he’s reaching out to vigorously rub his stomach, so hard and forceful that a heavy belch rips out of him, loud and upset and making his nausea furious. “Come on—”

Riley forces his hands away, another burp rocketing up so hot and thick that it burns inside of him. His belly squelches in the center, a non-stop mess of indigestion and nausea, and he belches again, a deep, gagging heave following that forces his body to curl forward over the trash bin.

Another belch comes up.

And another.

And another.

They’re getting worse, heavy and disgusting and churning up the storm in his belly. His ass clenches, and he wraps his arms around his belly with a groan.

His next retch is wet, painful, so loud and violent that it echoes off the bathroom tiles. His belly clenches mercilessly, forcing another loud gurgle through it as it tries to do something, but it can’t do anything. The cheese and sandwich and coffee are just tearing him up inside. There’s no way he’s actually going to process anything inside of him right now; it has to come out.

Riley gags again, and a mouthful of something comes up. He spits into the trash can, gag reflex making him belch sickly, but it’s not much. It’s just discolored froth and thick saliva.

God, his stomach just won’t stop gurgling. The nausea is relentless, loud and messy and wet-sounding, like a pot of soup boiling over inside his belly. Each noise rolls over the last one, sloshing and churning deep inside him and rumbling up to echo off the bathroom tiles as Riley attempts to breathe through them.

Attempting to shift and find a position that doesn’t make everything worse, Riley finds this is impossible. Everything feels worse. His abdomen is so swollen with indigestion, bubbling with gas, churning with sick overfull undigested food and plugged up with the stupid amount of lactose he ate. His guts are making so much noise it sounds like there’s something alive inside of him, fizzing and bubbling and trying to claw its way out, making its displeasure known.

He can feel what Luke was telling him now. He can feel what the cheese is doing to him. All that heavy lactose that he ate so fast is just sitting undigested in his belly like the powder keg it is, clogging him up so bad it’s forcing the sluggish mess of his spoiled sandwich and stale coffee to ferment more than it ever would otherwise. He can almost feel the chemical reaction— fuck, he can feel his own colon, attempting to fight against stomach contents it was never meant to digest. In return it releases gas and fluid and fire and all Riley can do is suffer.

His digestive system is still trying so hard to work overtime and contain the damage.

It’s failing.

A thick wave of nausea creeps higher in his throat like a rising floodwater, slow and heavy and inescapable. His belly lurches, a low twisting clench that forces him forward. A shaky breath escapes him as his stomach grumbles again, a loud churn that bubbles inside of him and ripples his bare belly in a visible way from the outside.

“Riley, honey, you’re so pale,” Luke murmurs.

“I feel like I’m gonna—” Riley starts before a belch rips out of him, his stomach gurgling so loudly it’s nearly louder than his actual burp. “Oh, fuck, I feel like I’m going to explode, but I can’t, I’m just— Fuck, I’m so bloated, I feel so sick, I can’t, I can’t, Luke—”

His stomach gives a loud, gloppy slosh, and then a deep blorp that feels so painful that it’s almost offended. His belly twists in slow motion before his intestines rumble, another gassy swirl pushing through it and making him groan loudly as his belly groans the same way, if not even louder.

Really, he’s not even bloated anymore. It’s bloating, yes, but it’s more than that too. It’s the kind of internal storm that can only be a punishment. He had known the sandwich had tasted a little off, he had known dairy hates him, he had known that eating that much cheese and drinking that much coffee and eating a sandwich like that might do something, but he didn’t care. It didn’t seem like it could happen to him, and he had been hungry and stupid and running on three hours of sleep and half a brain cell. He has eaten things like this before; surely he’d be fine and be able to digest it.

He can’t.

He couldn’t.

And now, he’s paying the price.

His stomach growls again, snarling like thunder, deeper than any gurgle he’s endure before now. It takes a longer time, too, and feels like it starts in the base of his throat before it rolls through his belly to the pit and through his intestines. It ends with a frothy, fizzling churn low in his gut, between his hips, in the pit of his stomach, like someone shook a bottle of soda and cracked the seal and is waiting for something to happen.

“I think it’s just— fermenting inside of me,” Riley gasps. He whimpers through the next gurgle. It’s medicinal of him to say. “I feel like— I can feel the fermentation. The gas building up, the—”

He belches, everything inside of him proving to be incompatible with his system. Nothing is willing to sit right, struggling to digest inside of him, making him feel bloated and full like his stomach has a heavy balloon full of cement inflating inside. The pressure is too much and won’t ease or release no matter how he moves or how much he belches or farts. A rolling, uneasy queasiness rumbles through his belly, gurgling loudly. It’s almost like carsickness, the unsteady and strange nausea bubbling through him, churning up his tummy so loudly that he feels like he needs to keep burping, even if it isn’t helping. Everything is fermenting so sickly that each belch is sour and unpleasant and thick; the longer the food just churns up in his belly, the more it tries to digest, and the more acidic and nauseating it becomes. He feels sluggish and sick and strange as he belches again.

It all tasted okay going down, but it feels horrible now that it’s inside of him. His belly is gurgling so loudly, bubbling that sounds like he’s a broken washing machine on spin cycle. All the cheese in him fermented too fast and gurgles too much, while the salami clogs him up and the coffee speeds him up all at once. There’s too much inside of him, and too many noises as his belly tries and fails to digest.

The volume is a problem. He mixed up too many things, too many dense and hard-to-digest foods consumed at once. His digestive system is working overtime and still failing, rumbling through his intestines and trying to get everything out in the most miserable of ways.

Another sour belch bursts out of him. The immense bloating and pressure in his belly, especially in his upper tummy, won’t go away. In fact, the queasiness only increases, at the same time his stomach noises do.

He’s a doctor. He knows what’s happening: indigestible lactose is untouched by any digesting enzymes in his belly, it’s meeting his gut flora, and it’s fermenting in real time. The salami he ate— and the bacteria and fungi that were clearly attached to it— are breaking down inside of him, releasing acids and gases and toxins. His digestion is slowed to a crawl because of it and the sheer amount of cheese inside of him, making him feel bloated and queasy and nauseated.

The coffee could’ve helped in another situation. But right now, when his belly is attempting to deal with so much already, that much acid is upsetting things so much worse. He can feel his colon inside of him as his belly gurgles again, a loud and thunderous sound before he groans. He feels something popping deep in his belly, and he leans forward, clutching his stomach, feeling the intense bloating and cramping rumbling inside of him as things get pushed through him undigested.

The coffee is amplifying the fermentation and noises already happening inside him, like giving his belly a megaphone as it gurgles and churns louder this time. He groans, clutching his belly, and doubles over his own lap.

Fuck, his belly is so loud.

A huge, rumbling blorp rolls across his lower belly. It’s followed immediately by another audible, heavy slosh, and then a drawn-out warbling gurgle that sounds like a clogged drain tying to empty, gargling around a stuffed pipe.

And it hurts.

Riley grabs his stomach, his belly feeling and looking so round and swollen with stomach upset and unreleased gas that it’s like a balloon about to burst. Pressing his hand just below his navel, a bloated ache radiates out, pulsing waves of nausea and discomfort following.

His nausea is all he can focus on. His throat feels tight, his mouth waters, and his stomach gives a high-pitched glug. It’s followed by a loud, roiling churn that sends ice water through his veins in a sudden freezing chill.

“Okay, let it up,” Luke encourages as another enormous growl tears through Riley. It’s thick and wet, like something shifting beneath the surface of a murky swamp, bubbling just the same way. His stomach clenches, then sloshes, a full-body heave rolling through him as he belches into the trash can between his legs.

“Help me,” Riley begs. “Please— Help me—”

Luke doesn’t hesitate, pressing his hands into Riley’s belly, trying to force something up. His angry stomach protests, and he inhales deeply, trying to swallow down air to force up another belch. He inhales the scents of sweat and bathroom bleach and his own belching, the phantom taste of his sandwich thick in the back of his throat, and it forces him to retch again.

Still, it doesn’t bring anything up. It’s just another horrible burp that makes his belly rumble, all wet and all awful. He hiccups.

“Fuck,” he moans. His stomach gurgles in agreement, a thick and drawn-out continuous glorping that sounds like a thick potion being stirred. He coughs and gags, the pressure swelling and forcing up another burp before his stomach gurgles, fizzling like an opened and shaken soda can.

His nausea no longer comes in waves, but exists now as a constant rising tide. It is everywhere and everything, and he burps again before his belly roars, wet and urgent and giving him a warning.

“I think—” he manages before he burps again, his stomach gurgling right in the center, foaming up. “Luke—”

His body lurches forward of its own accord, and another bubbling retch rips out of him, forcing up a mouthful of sour spit. His stomach sloshes, but refuses to let anything out; every sound is thick and wet and gurgling and horrible and unfinished.

“Come on,” Luke encourages him. “Just let it out. Y—”

“I’m trying,” Riley insists. “I—”

Another loud gurgle from his belly cuts him off, so loud and so thick and so wet that they both freeze. Riley’s eyes are wide, and he can feel that both ends want to let go at the same time.

His lower belly cramps hard, his muscles all twitching at once. At the same time, his upper belly churns up a gurgle, and he belches, shivering. “I can’t— I can’t hold it—”

“Don’t hold it,” Luke encourages him. “Just let it happen.”

Riley belches again, leaning forward over the trash can. His belly actually heaves, both inside of him and physically visible from outside. Another thick belch burbles out of him, his whole belly sloshing, every moment wet. With his next deep, brassy belch, something shifts behind his ribs, and he feels something loosen.

Every muscle in Riley’s belly quivers, clenching hard against the storm that’s trying to release itself and escape him. He lets out a small, broken whimper as he belches again, wet and gagging.

Fuck, his stomach sounds so horrific, churning like boiling soup, so loud and frothy and furious. There’s no rhythm or reason to it anymore, it’s just an unpredictable mess, overlapping layers of groans and pops and sloshes and glorps and glurks that seem to rise up from the depths of his belly and crash against each other. The sounds overlap and echo through his belly, storming like thunder.

Suddenly, there’s a harder, deeper sound— a wet blorp that seizes his whole belly, from his throat to his ass, and rumbles his belly so significantly that a ripple surges visibly through it, under his hand and Luke’s.

“Jesus,” Luke comments just as Riley stiffens.

Another sharp, wet squelch erupts from Riley’s lower belly. He doubles forward, arms wrapped around his gurgling stomach, and he whimpers, “Luke— Luke— Fuck, I— I can’t keep it down— It’s not sitting right, I can’t keep it down, I can’t, it’s gonna come back up—”

Luke’s hands are steady on his back, grounding and warm, comforting even through the sticky sweat of sickness on him. “Hey, it’s okay. Just breathe. Don’t fight it, let it up. It doesn’t want to stay down, that’s why you don’t feel good. It’s not sitting right because you’re not meant to digest it. Let it come out.”

Riley belches heavily again, thick and long, tasting salami and cheese and coffee so thickly that he can’t help the sick, strange, gagging burp that follows. His stomach churns in a hollow, deep way, and he farts, clutching his belly.

It’s too much. His whole belly is so heavy and taut and it aches, so filled with sick contents and squelching gas and hard pressure that won’t come out. His belly groans loudly, squealing and glorping, like something trapped inside of it is alive and trying to claw its way out. His nausea deepens, surges, and he gags, then retches, a fiercely wet heave that curves his body over the trash can again.

His whole body contorts, and he belches again, tugging in the back of his throat. His stomach won’t stop gurgling as he feels more and more nauseated, and as that nausea grows more persistent and overwhelming. The lactose in his gut remains undigested because he just cannot digest it. Instead, it ferments, making him so gurgly and bloated and uncomfortable while his digesting system is already working overtime to deal with the negative consequences of everything he ate.

His storming belly rumbles, growling way too loudly as it decides it’s going to force everything up. A long, low churn glugs through his belly, the soupy swamp of contents inside bubbling and burbling as he belches and feels the storm inside him actually swirl. When he belches again, his gassy insides fizzle, a loud roar thundering through him before he belches again. The sound gargles through his intestines and sloshes through his tummy, fighting against everything he ate: the sandwich that was definitely out too long and past its prime, the entire bag of cheese that refuses to digest and makes his stomach so noisy and upset, the black coffee that is making everything slimy-slick and horribly gassy inside of him.

Another horrible burp comes up, and another, and another. He can’t stop them, and they refuse to be stopped as he spits up another mouthful of thick, weird saliva into the trash can.

“Get it up,” Luke encourages again. “That’s it, come on.”

It doesn’t feel like Riley has a choice. His upset belly is making him feel more nauseated than he ever has before, loud and messy and unstoppable. It releases another cavernous, horrible, loud glorp of a sound before it feels like everything inside of him actually just breaks apart.

His stomach clenches hard, gurgling loudly, and then everything gives.

A sharp, wet noise erupts from his ass. It’s hot and sudden and humiliating, but it’s also such a release of pressure that he can’t help but sob through it. His bowels release, burning liquid pouring out of him as he doubles forward with an immense surge of nausea and gags, spitting up a thin wave of vomit that tastes far too much like salami.

It’s too much. The dual sensation of his body emptying from both ends at once is overwhelming. There’s too much pressure, too much movement, too much pain, too much relief, too much misery.

“Fuck— I’m sorry—” Riley pants before he hiccups and belches up his first real wave of vomit. His voice sounds wrecked and watery as another burst erupts from below, feeling like he’s vomiting from his mouth and his ass at the same time.

“Hey, nope, none of that, don’t apologize,” Luke insists. His arm slides around Riley’s waist while his other hand comes to his belly again, stroking across the front of his swollen tummy slow and steady. “You’re okay. It’s just food poisoning. You’ll be okay once it’s out. I got you.”

The pressure of his hand on Riley’s belly makes him belch again. Now that his body has agreed to let everything go, his tummy clenches again, and another wave of nausea forces him forward. He burps up a small mouthful of vomit, then retches, bringing up a huge wave of cheese and salami and mayo and coffee, half-digested— and the other half releases in liquid form from the other end, absolutely loosening and emptying out of him as he belches again and sobs.

He can barely hear Luke. Everything is the roar of blood in his ears and the gurgle of his stomach inside of him. It’s all hot and wet and heavy as he shakes. Every inch of him feels so sick and sour and the slop inside of him cascades out from both ends, and he belches again before a wet fart forces more out, miserable.

And even through it all, his stomach won’t stop roiling. It just keeps gurgling the entire time, punctuated by these miserable, suffering gurgles and weird churning squelches. His stomach forces up a continuous stream of sick from between his lips, while from the other end— wet, loose liquid forces out of him, while unpredictable and throbbing cramps wrack his lower belly and force everything out in one way or another.

He loses track of time. All there is is his belly churning and forcing something out one way, or another, or both. By the time he can actually take a breath, he’s covered in sweat, the bathroom smells horrible, the trash can is full, he’s panting for air, and his belly is still loudly and audibly churning. His mouth tastes acidic, his skin is damp, and his belly—

Well, his stomach isn’t like it was.

Before, it had been hard and rounded out and swollen with how much was in it. Now, it’s softened, some of what’s inside of it out now—

—But it doesn’t feel like everything.

Despite how much Riley just was forced to expel from his system, it feels like he’s still full. Whatever is making him sick is doing a number on him, because his soft, grumbling belly keeps gurgling, still uneasy despite how much it has just erupted out of itself.

“Okay,” Luke whispers. A cold washcloth presses to the back of his neck. “You’re okay. It’s all done now.”

Riley swallows thickly, slumping backwards. “I don’t—” He burps, his hand coming up over his mouth, weak and slow. “Ugh. I don’t feel okay.”

“You will.” Luke kisses this cheek, then brings the washcloth around to wipe over his face. It feels so nice and cool, and Riley closes his eyes with a sigh and a tilt into his hand.

Another faint glorp rumbles through Riley’s gut. His tummy churns with an audible squelch, rumbling just under his hand where it rests over his navel, and he groans, pathetic, as his stomach gurgles with renewed queasiness.

“Not yet,” he mutters, miserable.

“No, not yet,” Luke agrees. “Soon, though. Just let it all up.”

Riley laughs a little before he groans, rubbing his hand over his stomach as slow and steady as he can. It’s not really doing anything, and it’s not even that easy to do. His arms feel limp and jellied, every inch of him totally wrung out, hollow and sore and weak—

—Except his stomach.

His stomach is the only part of him that doesn’t feel hollow. It still feels way too full, and it wants him to know this, refusing to stop making noise even after he feels like it should be totally emptied out.

As it turns out, his belly isn’t anywhere close to being emptied out.

Despite how much he’s just shit out and thrown up, his stomach churns on, bubbling and squelching like there is still something living inside of him that is fighting to escape. It is probably something alive— something fermented, something— something bad, mold or fungi or something that thinks it can live inside of him, because that’s the only explanation for how ferocious his belly feels. Something must be trying to destroy him; there’s no other explanation.

The pressure is different, shifting. He’s able to get the gas out now, and cannot stop burping. Each belch seems to release some of the pressure and air, which should be helping, but instead he only feels sicker and more nauseated with every burp. His stomach without gas is only motion and movement, churning unsteadily, fizzling shifts of acidic liquid and fermenting cheese and sick sandwich swishing through his gut with the sick air. Now that he’s emptier, everything is louder, too much space for even more sounds.

Beside him, Luke readjusts his crouch, then puts his hand on Riley’s bare belly again, stroking slowly. The noise beneath his hand is immediate and awful, a churning glorp and squelch that he can feel rippling under his palm before it gurgles downwards into a burble in his lower guts that squeals and then pops loudly, making Riley groan with a wave of queasiness and another gurgle in the center of his stomach.

Riley lets out a helpless, nauseated whine.

“I’m not done,” Riley gasps. “I’m not done, I’m gonna be sick again, I feel so sick—”

“It’s okay,” Luke lies, because how can this possibly be okay? “Your body’s just trying to get it all out. That’s a good thing. Get it out, it’s okay. I got you.”

Riley belches again, clutching the trash can once more. His own vomit is cooling in the bottom, and the sight and smell makes him gag again, another loose torrent releasing from his other end in the process.

“Ugh, I hate this,” Riley groans. “I feel like a broken faucet.”

“Two broken faucets,” Luke corrects. Riley belches weakly again, glaring sideways at him as he spits thick saliva into the can. “Or two erupting volcanoes. This is apocalyptic.”

Riley would laugh if he could. Instead, he retches again— sudden and violent, gagging, no warning— and belches up another wave of watery vomit into the can. His shoulders shudder, and the next belch comes fast, his belly churning loudly as it squeezes up a mouthful of mucus and foam and vomit.

His stomach twists around the sick remains inside, and he sobs hoarsely before he heaves again. Another deep cramp seizes his lower belly, thick tension that coils low, and he groans.

“No, no, no—” he whispers before his stomach squelches. He can feel exactly where every organ in his body is— his stomach, his intestines, his colon— and he vomits into the trash can at the same moment that his other end releases, splattering wetly and embarrassingly. It feels like every hole he has is streaming something, and he sobs through it, his stomach convulsing as it tries to empty itself in every direction. His bowels cramp, and his stomach gurgles, and messy, loose, seemingly endless waves fall out of his mouth and his ass all at once.

He doesn’t even have the strength to apologize anymore; all he can do is let it happen. At least Luke just holds him, calm and patient and kind, not asking for any apology or even seeming to comment on how gross it all is. He just keeps telling him he’s okay, even though it’s obviously not true, until his body gives up on emptying itself.

Eventually, the cramps and spasms and convulsions slow.

The gurgling doesn’t actually stop. His belly keeps making these soft, horrible, miserable sounds— these fluttering kind of glorp noises followed by these long squelches of trapped gas and these loud, thundering churns of the little that remains inside his storming tummy— but the violent, projectile expulsions do slow down into trembling and gags and the occasional heavy fart or belch that doesn’t become more anymore.

Riley slumps backwards, head lolling, trying to catch his breath. Tears cling to his eyelashes.

“Sorry,” he croaks, voice raw and rough. The effort of talking nauseates him, and he closes his eyes as another belch rolls up, his stomach gurgling. He puts one hand over his soft, rumbling belly, stroking back and forth slow and steady, trying to soothe whatever’s left in there. “Fuck. That was… Fuck.”

“Yeah, it was.” Luke kisses his temple. “You’re okay now. Wanna clean up and lay down?”

Riley considers the state of himself. “I think I’m dead.”

“You’re not,” Luke informs him. “Your belly’s gurgling too loudly for you to be a ghost. You wouldn’t get away with it.”

Riley huffs a laugh, weak and wet, and it makes him burp. The belch is long and thick and nauseous, and he groans, his hand digging in a little harder as he rubs his belly.

“Don’t make me laugh, I don’t feel good,” Riley complains. “Fuck. I feel so sick still. How do I still feel so sick?”

“Because you are still sick,” Luke comments. He wipes sweat away from Riley’s forehead, vomit away from his mouth. “You’re not going to magically heal once it’s out. Your body suffered for way too long. It’s trying to fix what that mess did to it.” He dabs at his chin. “What were you thinking, by the way? That much black coffee, a bag of shredded cheese, and one of those slimy salami sandwiches from the caf? What’s wrong with you?”

Riley groans, his stomach gurgling in protest, squeezing his eyes shut harder. “Ugh, and it was so soggy. I should have known.”

His stomach rumbles loudly, a thunderous gurgle like it echoes the regret he’s feeling. There’s another sensation like he’s a clogged drain, the sound deep and restless and twisting. There’s a sudden pop, then a slosh deep in his gut, the queasiness brewing back up and gurgling to distract him. A low rumble rolls through him, then another, then another, before they’re overlapping in a newly relentless symphony of wet churns, gurgles, groans echoing out of him, rumbling through his tummy like an overboiling cauldron, despite the fact that he should be empty.

“Fuck,” he groans again as his stomach bucks, protesting every bite he swallowed earlier. Another sharp pang stabs in his lower gut, the cramp followed by a long, rumbling, ominous squelch that sounded like someone slowly stirring macaroni and cheese inside his belly.

“Oh, that sounded awful,” Luke comments. “What the hell is still in there? ‘Cause whatever it is is not sitting right, it wants out.”

Riley absolutely knows this already, rubbing harder at his belly as a sloppy, deep blorp burbles up from deep inside of him. Sweat prickles along his temples again and his belly rumbles so loudly he almost doesn’t even hear Luke’s comment.

Another vicious gurgle rolls through him like thunder as he attempts to speak. When he can talk, he tells him, “I don’t— I don’t feel good, I’m gonna be sick again—” and then belches heavily.

“It’s okay,” Luke promises him. It can’t be true, but he still promises. Riley feels the pressure increasing in his belly again, so he shifts, and he feels everything inside of him shift at the same time. His stomach gurgles, and a deep bworp rumbles up out of it as his belly churns and sloshes angrily at the movement.

Riley stiffens, his hand stilling as he clutches his soft, rumbling belly.

“No, no, no,” he mumbles. “Oh, no—”

Another cramp tightens his lower belly, and his tummy growls so loudly he can feel it through his ribs. His whole body starts shaking, all of him sweating again, and he farts, and he belches loudly, but his body won’t release again. He retches softly, though nothing comes up; his stomach flutters inside of him, then rumbles loudly, squelching in the lower pit, like it’s deciding still whether or not it’s actually done.

It’s a few minutes of this with nothing productive happening before Riley slumps. Looking up at Luke, he asks, “Can we go home?”

“Can you make it home?” he asks.

Riley considers this, then shakes his head.

“On-call room it is,” Luke tells him.

He helps him up. To his credit, he helps clean him up, and wash himself down with cloths and the sink, and then rinse his mouth. It’s all disgusting. And yet, Luke doesn’t flinch. He just helps him through it all before helping him out of the bathroom and to the bed in the on-call room.

Cleaning up helps a little, but not that much. It definitely doesn’t help his nausea, though. His stomach protests through the whole thing, gurgling wet and sharp and loud through the whole process. Still, it makes him feel more like a person and less like a leaking meat sack to be clean and redressed— and Luke even helps wash his hair for him in the sink, and doesn’t comment when he leans forward to get rinsed and his stomach churns so loudly it sounds like he’s about to shit himself— which he miraculously does not.

By the time Luke is helping Riley collapse into the thin single cot in the on-call room, he’s cleaned and dried and wearing one of Luke’s sweatshirts. It’s too small for him, but he likes how it smells, and he keeps burying his face in it as he curls up on his side in bed with a groan.

As he lays down, his belly rumbles loudly, and so he curls around it, winding both arms around his belly. It gurgles again, a loud squelch forcing through it, and it’s just so loud. It’s so embarrassingly loud, it’s just— not quiet little gurgles or demure digestion, but a full, loud storm, even still now. His stomach glugs and churns like a washing machine full of cement and a bunch of bricks, heavy and messy and horrible even after he’s theoretically emptied himself out. These wet, sloppy sounds keep sloshing through his belly, followed by high, squeaking fizzes of gas that shift through his gut like his intestines are carbonated and boiling near his belly.

When he turns his head into the pillow, his body forces up another belch, deep and wet, and he tightens his grip on his soft, rumbling belly.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Why is it still doing that?”

Luke sits on the edge of the bed, running his hand through Riley’s hair before he coaxes him to lay on his back.

“Because you ate a spoiled sandwich and washed it down with a gallon of acid and a dairy bomb,” Luke reminds him. “That’s some fucked-up math, babe. Your stomach is not gonna be able to solve that problem.”

Riley whines, dragging his arm up over his face, his other hand slipping beneath his stolen sweatshirt to rub at his churning belly. Luke eases his hand under the sweatshirt too, pushing it up slightly and laying his warm, broad palm against his belly. His stomach is still swollen, bloated and rumbling and hot to the touch; as Luke leaves his hand there, he can feel another gurgling churn ripple through him, so violent it’s like a burbling wave he can actually touch.

“Jesus, that’s horrible,” Luke comments. “Are you still feeling that sick, sweetheart?”

Riley nods, unable to speak, lips tightening as he swallows thickly and his belly churns loudly again. He can feel himself getting colder and paler; there’s a pop in the center of his belly before something rumbles and makes his belly contents swirl.

The air is leaving him a bit at a time, but his belly is still so swollen with sickness. Each gurgle visibly shifts beneath his surface— a churn there, a roil there, a glorp there, a gurgle there, a burble there. Luke tries to rub slowly where he sees and feels the most bubbling, his hand firm and grounding. He pushes soft circles just below Riley’s navel, then right above it, where he can feel a cluster of activity rumbling inside of him.

Riley shifts, curling towards Luke’s hand, and the movement sends a slosh through his belly like a thick stew slopping against the sides of a pot. He belches, and his belly squelches before releasing a long, low, ominous groan.

“God, it feels like there’s an actual storm in there,” Luke murmurs. Riley’s belly lets out a high-pitched squeal just to the right of his navel, and so he presses gently there. He earns a rumble and a deep belch that makes Riley gag.

“I do have a storm in me,” Riley tells him. “It feels like there’s a fucking hurricane in my belly and it just won’t stop.”

His stomach gurgles loud and thick as if in agreement, and Riley closes his eyes again, trying to breathe through the wave of nausea that follows.

“Still feeling sick?” Luke asks unnecessarily.

“Mm-hmm.” Riley nods, then whispers, “It’s bad.” His hand comes up to rest on the rumbling, bloated swell just over his navel, above Luke’s hand. “It’s like— It’s all right here, but there shouldn’t be anything left inside of me.”

Another loud, sudden groan ripples through him, and he moans, rolling onto his side again, grabbing Luke’s hand and pushing it harder into his belly like it’ll help.

“I still feel gassy and nauseous,” he admits. His shame is all gone by now. “Fuck, just so gassy and nauseous. It’s like my belly is bubbling.”

Luke keeps rubbing his stomach, trying to ease the worst of the tension with his slow, patient spirals of touch. His shame stays gone with every time Riley burps or farts or his stomach growls in another thunderous snarl, and Luke still doesn’t comment. He just keeps rubbing his belly and sitting with him and telling him he’s going to be okay once it all settles.

Eventually, his quiet, calm rubbing feels like it quiets Riley’s body enough to relax. Not completely, because his belly is still gurgling and bloated and uncomfortable, but his churning is slowing and his heart isn’t pounding so badly. His closed eyes are less tormented and more sleepy from the exhaustion of everything he’s just gone through.

Unbeknownst to Riley, as he falls into a restless sleep, his belly keeps making noise. It should be digesting— Luke was hoping he would hear productive sounds as his belly processed the last that was left in it and worked it out the other end in a healthier, less painful way— but it doesn’t sound like it is at all. His belly keeps groaning like a thundercloud in the distance, ominous and present and yet not yet arrived.

Luke keeps rubbing his stomach, trying to soothe it.

The room is dark. It’s quiet.

Except for Riley’s sick tummy.

It keeps churning, gurgling so loudly that Luke’s surprised it takes as long as it does for Riley to wake up again. He’s clearly uncomfortable in his sleep, tossing and turning, his face creased and pale, his hands continuously creeping back to clutch his belly. He belches more than once in his sleep, and occasionally a sick fart slips out; the whole time, his belly keeps gurgling so loudly it’s a shock nobody comes to ask what the sound is in here.

Riley’s dreams are disorienting, filled with nausea and confusion. Even there, his stomach hurts so badly. It’s all rolling ships and spinning rooms and swirling nausea before he’s jolting awake, his sleep shattered by a sour wave gurgling through his belly.

“Hey, you’re okay,” Luke assures him, his hand still on Riley’s storming tummy. Riley blinks, confused, and moves to sit up. His stomach lurches upwards with him, and he belches as his stomach gurgles, groaning before a wet squelch tears through his lower belly.

Riley’s eyes flutter open, and he moans.

His stomach feels so full. Not really with food that much anymore. Most of that has come out of him. But now, he’s filled with nauseating gas, sick fluid, and this awful pressure that feels like something is swelling and living and shifting around in his belly, like his entire digestive system is still scrambling to bring something up after attempting to process something so foul and horrible and indigestible.

He swallows thickly, disoriented in the darkness.

His saliva threatens to come back up.

The second the thick spit hits his belly, it tries to force its way back up, making his stomach growl loudly. He groans, his hands coming back to clutch his stomach, rubbing desperately.

“What’s going on?” Luke asks. “Do you need the bathroom again?”

Riley can’t manage to talk. All he can do is nod, and the next thing he knows, Luke is taking him by the arm. It’s too much already, though, and Riley isn’t going to make it. He belches, too loud and too deep and too wet, and Luke releases him in favor of scrambling for the trash bin. He manages to get it in front of his pale face, between his shaking hands, just in time for Riley to belch again and bring up a mouthful of bile to spit into the can.

Riley can’t even sit up all the way. He collapses sideways onto his side again and heaves, another retch into the can before he’s belching up another violent wave of stomach acid and the little that remains in his belly. He can feel the solid chunks of chewed sandwich his body couldn’t digest passing back up, and gags harsher around them, belching up another burst of sick air from his belly.

His lower stomach clenches, and Riley clenches as tight as he can, focusing on keeping everything coming up instead of going down. His stomach growls loudly, storming as it forces more up, as if there is anything more to even get out.

His whole body shakes, trembling with the effort of waking up and vomiting like this. Ropey strands of thick saliva hang from his lips as he gasps into the can, clutching it sideways still, his belly squelching thickly with liquid that sloshes inside of him and yet refuses to come all the way up.

“Fuck,” Riley gasps before burping thickly, eyes filled with tears. “Fuck, my stomach—”

The stomach in question lets out another loud, gurgling rumble, and he sobs.

“I feel like I’m gonna explode,” he groans. “It’s all just churning inside me, like it’s just— I don’t know, it just feels like something’s boiling, or fucking— bubbling, or alive, fuck.”

Luke pushes his hand under Riley’s stolen sweatshirt and against his bare belly again. His palm presses to the swollen swell and finds it even louder than before, rumbling to the touch under his hand and glugging loudly like a sink trying to drain a thick stew after someone stuffed the pipes with peanut butter. There are these weird rolls of gas sliding under his skin, followed by sharp pops and thick sloshes and long, sloppy, rippling gurgles that make Riley belch again.

“Your body’s still trying to process what’s left, I think,” Luke speculates. “It’s still trying to move through you. You’ll feel a lot better when it all clears out.”

Riley burps again. It’s wet and sour and thick and he collapses into Luke’s arms afterwards, his belly grumbling. Luke takes the trash bin away and sets it on the ground, close enough to be grabbed when he inevitably needs it again.

“How am I still alive?” he whines. “I should be inside-out. I should be dead.”

“You’re too stubborn to let this kill you.” Luke kisses his temple, and Riley groans, pressing his face into Luke’s chest just as a long, low churn grumbles through his belly like a rumbling roll of thunder. “Just breathe. It’s probably over now.”

Riley shifts against him. He does try to breathe through the nausea, focusing on Luke’s palm heavy and steady and slow as it rubs his bloated, boiling, belly, but—

But then, something shifts again.

Something deep inside of him feels like it snaps, and his belly rumbles, deep and wet and heavy. A wave of nausea surges through him and makes him scramble upright, wide-eyed as he belches, his hand coming up over his mouth while the other one clutches his rumbling tummy.

“Luke—” he manages before belching again. His voice is strained as he begs, “Oh, shit— Help—”

He clutches his stomach with both hands now as he doubles over his own belly, trying to get out of bed and yet unable to. A ferocious, twisting cramp shoots through his lower belly, and his tummy roars with a thunderous, sickening, aggressive squelch. It bubbles up from below and rises in his throat all at the same time, and his tummy twists, his entire digestive system pulsing and convulsing, unable to decide which direction to go in first this time.

“Okay,” Luke says, firm and steady. “Okay, come on, let’s go, up with me.”

Luke grabs him under the arms. Even though he’s smaller than Riley, he still manages to get him up to his feet quickly. It’s all the strength and urgency of a doctor that has him moving him, even when Riley’s body locks up and his knees won’t work and all his muscles are tense with the effort to not let go.

And still, he fails.

His body forces up a deep, gurgling burp. It’s followed by another belch that makes his stomach gurgle, before there’s a noisy, heavy, wet sound erupting from below. Riley whimpers, absolutely mortified, and sprint-stumbles out of Luke’s arms, out of the on-call room, and into the bathroom just down the hall, slamming the doors behind him.

His stomach lurches once again, heaving violently inside of him. He yanks his scrub pants down, ignoring the mess inside as he plants himself on the toilet just in time for the next disgusting wave. His body lets go in every direction, and Luke isn’t fast enough this time. He’s still scrambling to put the trash bin in front of him when Riley parts his thighs, his stomach gurgles, and he vomits between his own legs into the toilet, hot and liquid and with such force his vision darkens for a moment.

His bowels release once again as soon as Luke puts the trash can in his arms. His insides cramp and spill out from every direction once again, even though there shouldn’t be anything left. His body wrings itself out, loud and relentless and gurgling waves pouring out from both ends, and his stomach—

Fuck, his stomach is just a goddamn mess. It’s unbearable, the nausea is too much. It churns out loud as he empties himself. Thick, roiling bubbles pop and shift and gurgle deep in his center like something horrible is cooking in there, something— something foul and indigestible and unstoppable. Every time he thinks he’s empty and that there can’t possibly be more, his muscles clench and his stomach groans and another wave of nausea hits, and suddenly he’s back to his belly squelching and his ass emptying and his tummy forcing up bile as he sobs into the trash can.

“I can’t stop,” Riley mumbles into the trash can. Luke holds him up and doesn’t even comment on how horrible this all is, or how disgusting he is, or even how loud his belly is.

Over a stupid sandwich and cheese and coffee. He could almost laugh if he wasn’t so sick.

Another horrible sound escapes from him, like a monstrous roll of thunder escaping his belly through his throat.

“Oh, fuck, I’m gonna—” he manages before he’s vomiting again. Another burbling gush escapes him from below, his belly gurgling and cramping tightly, and he has no control anymore. It’s all just happening.

“You’re doing so good,” Luke promises him. “Just let it out. I got you. It’ll end eventually.”

It doesn’t feel possible, but it does eventually ease again. Riley doesn’t trust it this time though. It eased before, and then he woke up and shit himself. He’s still belching, still farting, and his belly is still gurgling— long, wet, sloshing gurgles— but he doesn’t even try to stop it anymore. He just lets it all happen. It’s inevitable anyway.

“Still alive?” Luke asks him.

“Barely,” Riley replies. He belches again, his voice raw. “Exorcise me?”

“Later.” Luke kisses his cheek. “You done for now? Want help cleaning up?”

Riley’s face heats up again as he remembers the fact that he literally shit himself. In front of Luke. At work.

“You don’t—”

“I want to,” Luke stops him. “Let me help, okay?”

Riley nods, allowing Luke to help him sit up again. It’s a mortifying experience to be cleaned up and helped through changing his clothes, swapped out for scrubs that Luke runs to grab from the next hall, but he does feel better once it’s done.

He can tell his stomach isn’t done, though. Through the whole experience, his belly keeps protesting. The loudest, most upset sounds keep crawling through his tummy. It refuses to stop shifting, rumbling non-stop with heavy glorps and grumbles that make Riley stop occasionally to press a hand to his belly and the other to his mouth and breathe until he can move again.

Luke wipes sweat— and worse— away, he helps him change, he coaxes him into drinking water, and he holds him up as he brings him back to the on-call room. Riley is trembling, pale, and clammy by the time he’s back at the bed, and he collapses on the small bed with another groan, curling back up on his side.

As predicted, his upset belly gurgles immediately and loudly. It’s a thick, syrupy glorping that rises and sinks from his center at the same time, filling his tummy and rolling outward with an echoing slosh they can both hear. If Luke had his hand on Riley’s belly, he would have felt it, too.

“Fuck, it’s still going,” Riley mumbles. “Why won’t it stop?” Luke puts his hand on his stomach, laying down next to him, starting to stroke slowly. “Please kill me.”

“But you have such a beautiful orchestra in your belly,” Luke jokes. “It wouldn’t be right.”

Another gurgle churns beneath his palm, followed by a blub-blub-blub that is punctuated by a glorp in his belly, that clogged drain fighting him again. A high, tight squeal of gas squelches through his gut a moment later, and his upper belly joins in, not wanting to be left out, joining with a series of low, hollow rumbles that overlap each other, fizzling and gurgling and making him groan.

It’s all so loud, embarrassingly loud, and nauseating, and every few seconds there’s a new gurgling sound. His belly should be empty, and yet it feels like it’s foaming still, gargling with sickness. Air pops inside of it, sick and sloshing; occasionally, it grumbles, a rumbling thunderous groan, and Riley curls up tighter around his own belly.

Through it all, Luke just keeps rubbing his tummy, slow and steady and grounding. “You just need it to settle. Just work through it, just breathe. It’ll settle.”

“It’s not,” Riley complains, face buried in Luke’s thigh. “It’s never going to settle. This is the most unsettled anyone’s stomach has ever been.” A gurgling slurp of a noise echoes through him, and something stirs in his guts, low and heavy. Luke pushes his hand against the active motion and gets a response of a warbling, burbling, fizzy churn that vibrates under his touch. “Fuck, it feels like my stomach is fucking brewing something.”

“Yeah, you feel like a science experiment,” Luke comments. “Like, did you drink a bunch of potions while I wasn’t looking? Because it feels like you’re just full of shit that shouldn’t be near each other.”

“Clearly.” Riley belches again into Luke’s thigh. “I’m not an experiment, I’m a fucking environmental disaster, just— a bubbling, fermenting, horrible disaster. I can feel everything still… Fuck, it feels like it’s moving inside of me.”

As if on cue, his stomach churns, glubbing loudly, followed by a long roll of nauseating gas that works its way through his belly with a loud grumble and out in a squelch and a hiss.

“Your stomach agrees,” Luke comments. It does feel like it’s moving under his hand, it’s so active inside him. “Jesus. That can’t feel good.”

“It doesn’t.” Riley groans, curling tighter to him. “Fuck, I feel carbonated.”

Luke kisses the top of his head. “Go to sleep, my handsome soda fountain.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“…I hate my stomach.”

“Now, that, I believe.” Luke keeps rubbing said stomach, pausing to tap just beneath his navel. “I love it, though. Even when it’s fighting you.”

His belly continues its protests, muscles tense, guts groaning, long squeals of shifting gas overlapping with thick, echoing glugs of fluid and illness trying to move through him, a plugged-up sewer that forces everything left inside to get worse and worse the longer it lingers.

He’s starting to calm and trying to sleep when his belly gurgles aggressively again.

His stomach has been gurgling this whole time, but this one is different. It’s wet and rising and feels like something forcing its way up a clogged pipe, wanting to erupt into a sink and fill it with something disgusting and rancid from below. The gurgle builds in his belly, tight and hot and low, spiraling up into his chest, then squelching heavily before the exact center of his stomach churns so aggressively and gurgles so loudly he’s not sure he’s ever heard anything like it before.

“It’s never going to end, is it?” Riley asks, his belly gurgling again. His stomach groans, and he closes his eyes, trying to ignore the nausea. It won’t be ignored.

A long, slow groaning burble rises from deep inside of him. For a moment, he doesn’t move— he just breathes, setting his hand against his belly, trying to rub where he can feel the gurgling gathering most heavily. His tummy glorps; he tightens his grip; it doesn’t help. His belly glorps again, the remains inside turning over themselves.

His belly squelches next, sharp and wet and heavy, and he winces, groaning, turning more closely into Luke.

“Fuck,” he whispers into him, his hand digging in just below his ribs, where the nausea throbs most presently. Another roiling churn echoes up from his lower belly, and he can feel it moving through him, like thick sludge sloshing through a too-small pipe. It shifts sharply inside of him, and he moans, closing his eyes tight, swallowing thickly.

Luke’s hand slides over Riley’s, then moves higher, rubbing the soft, rumbly swell just above his navel again.

“Why won’t it stop?” Riley asks quietly. His belly whines, the bloated sound of gas forcing itself through him, right before there’s a gurgling glug that burbles up from the pit of his stomach. “I sound like a clogged toilet, holy shit.”

“You sound like you went to hell and back,” Luke comments, continuing to rub slow, even circles over the firm swell of his sick belly. He’s careful not to press too hard, but Riley’s nausea is growing again all the same. “Want some water?”

Riley belches, his stomach growling loud and low at the idea of drinking anything. His stomach lurches, and he belches again, thick and sour, before he groans. “No, thanks. I don’t think I can move.” He pauses, then groans again. “Fuck. I have another shift—”

“No, you don’t,” Luke tells him. “I called out for you for the next few days. Once I can get you home and in bed, you’re staying there, you hear me? You’re gonna let that noisy monster inside you settle.”

Riley wants to protest, but his stomach is doing enough of that for him. He knows he’s useless in his state, so he just nods and lets his head fall back against Luke’s thigh. His stomach fizzles weakly before it squelches loudly again, and he exhales shakily, closing his eyes once more.

“I’m gonna be sick again,” he says with confident finality. “I can feel it.” He rubs his hand into the churning mass beneath his navel, trying to soothe the storm with slow circles that won’t stop a goddamn thing. “Fuck. I’m never eating here again.”

“Might be the combo of black coffee, cheese bag, and the most disgusting sandwich you could’ve chosen,” Luke reminds him. Riley groans, a deep glorp rumbling through his stomach in a heavy roll as Luke reminds him of what brought him here. “Yeah, see? I told you so.”

Riley wheezes a week laugh that forces up an immediate burp. “Ugh— Fuck, don’t make me laugh. You’re gonna make me vomit, everything’s still moving too much.”

“Did you eat anything else?” Luke asks and sounds genuinely curious. “That’s a lot of movement for what you had.”

“No, that’s it today.” Riley swallows thickly.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, Luke asks, “Do you think it would help?”

“What?”

“Eating more,” he tells him. At Riley’s alarmed look, he clarifies, “I don’t mean another bag of cheese, you dumbass. I mean— Another sandwich, maybe? Or some toast? Something from the vending machine? Just to help you get it up. There’s clearly still something in there that wants to come out and can’t, so…” Luke shrugs. “Eating should either settle your belly or bring the last of it up. Either way, uhh— Win-win?”

Riley is skeptical at first, but Luke has a point. He acquiesces and lets him get up and leave for a couple minutes. When he comes back, it’s with a pre-wrapped sandwich from the caf and an apologetic expression.

“Nothing better in the break room, I checked,” he tells him, tossing it down between them. Riley makes himself sit up, his stomach gurgling in protest as he does, and picks up the sandwich to read the label: a turkey sandwich with bacon, cheese, and coleslaw. He might like this on a normal day, but right now, his stomach rolls just reading the label. “You don’t have to—”

“No, I want it to be over,” Riley protests.

He sits up and Luke sits next to him. They’re both side-by-side on the cot as Riley unwraps the sandwich and takes a deep breath to steady himself. He inhales the scent of the sandwich, pulling in a deep lungful of bacon and cabbage, and his stomach gurgles so loudly he thinks he’s about to vomit for a second. He doesn’t, but it’s a close call.

“Go slow,” Luke tells him.

Riley nods. He holds the sandwich in one hand, his other hand pressing lightly over the grumbling curve of his upset belly, just waiting for the inevitable explosion. He takes a deep breath again, frowning, and holds his breath to take a cautious nibble of the sandwich.

At first, nothing happens. He swallows down the bite, and Luke squeezes him, encouraging.

He takes a second bite.

Nothing happens.

He takes a third bite.

Glorp.

Inside him, his stomach turns over itself, churning audibly as it rumbles, slow and sluggish, like trying to push molasses through a straw.

Closing his eyes, breathing heavily, he rubs his gurgling stomach.

“Don’t,” he whispers. “Just stay down, please. Please.”

His stomach rises and falls heavily under his hand, gurgling as another burble rises from deep inside, accompanied by a visible ripple over the top crest of his belly.

Luke’s brow furrows. “That didn’t sound good.”

“It didn’t feel good,” Riley complains. “Oh, fuck— It moved.” His hand rubs harder at his belly, feeling as if he can feel whatever it is crawling through him, like the bites of his new sandwich are alive inside his belly. “It’s like— It’s like it didn’t go down, it’s like it’s—”

He can’t finish before he belches. His stomach gurgles again, loud and aggressive— and then lower, there’s a heavier, more ominous burbling, and he shifts on the bed, curling forward, his grip tightening on the sandwich in his hand.

“Riley, you should stop eating that,” Luke warns him.

“No, it’s working,” Riley insists. His nausea is rising, but that’s the point, wasn’t it? “It just— It just reacted so fast, like I fucking— swallowed a mouthful of acid— I feel—”

He belches again, a surge of nausea swelling up so strong that he thinks he might vomit in his lap for a second. His stomach burbles loudly, simmering and shifting, the contents unsettled, and Luke rubs his back.

“Don’t force yourself,” Luke tells him. “Give me that—”

“No, I’m gonna… I’m gonna keep going,” Riley insists. He takes another breath, then another bite. Another gurgle tumbles through his sick tummy, and he rubs the rumble he can feel rippling under his hand before he burps around the bite he’s still chewing.

It’s a bad idea.

He knows it’s a bad idea and he knows it even as he’s doing it. Still, though, Riley chews and swallows anyway.

His whole digestive system protests at once.

His stomach clenches, gurgling so loud and livid that he groans out loud. A bubbling churn follows, a heavy glorping that forces him to drop the sandwich. Luckily Luke catches it and puts it aside just as Riley’s gagging.

“Oh, fuck,” he gasps out, both hands cradling his stomach as it heaves beneath his palms. Luke shoves the— cleaned-out— trash bin in front of him again, and he drops his head over it though he doesn’t release his belly. He hiccups, his stomach sloshing and swollen and furious with him, before he belches again, deep and wet and heavy.

Luke directs his head forward just in time for Riley to gag.

His whole body tenses, his stomach gurgling loudly before the pressure inside roils up and he vomits up a wet, heavy wave of barely-digested stomach contents. The bites of the sandwich he’d only just swallowed come up first, disgusting and just the same as they just went down, and then they’re followed by a sudden, massive, liquid release. Too much motion, too much fermentation, too much sickness, too much, too much— and not enough mercy, ultimately. The mess that chokes up out of him is thick, half-digested, and just as loud as his gurgling belly, splattering against the bottom of the cleaned-out can as his stomach thunders with another snarl.

“Fuck,” he manages to gasp out before another round surges up.

He’s just lucky that things don’t seem to want to go down anymore. Or, at least, nothing has moved through him enough anymore to come out that way. Everything just comes up, and the addition of the sandwich forces his belly to want to purge with purpose, glorping and sloshing and squelching audibly and visibly as it brings up everything he’s eaten since what feels like the day he was born.

Spitting out a mouthful of something thick, he whimpers, then burps again, triggering another wave.

Then—

No, no, he’s not lucky.

His lower belly cramps, and he gasps out, “Luke— Shit—”

His stomach gurgles, pressure dropping so low so fast it’s almost impressive if it wasn’t alarming. He rolls off the bed, shoving the bin into Luke’s hands as he sprints out and manages to make it to the bathroom this time before his body revolts and starts emptying from both ends.

A loud gurgle sounds from inside his belly, burbling audibly, and he palms at his stomach as he empties from one end. Luke shoves the bathroom trash into his lap just in time, holding it up for him as he burps up more of the sandwich and his sick stomach contents, and he groans.

“You’re okay,” Luke tells him and holds the bin for him while Riley rubs his bloated, gurgling belly. Riley groans and spits. “Let it up, get it out. You’re almost done.”

“I feel so sick,” Riley complains. “I don’t feel good, I feel— I feel so sick—”

“I know,” Luke says. “I know, baby. Just breathe, get it up. I got you.”

Another loud, gurgling rumble echoes from Riley’s belly before he farts again, a moment before he gives a thick, watery burp. Riley groans, his stomach bubbling non-stop, still so noisy and revolting, turning over itself even when he should be empty.

It takes a while, but, finally, it all slows. Riley’s belly gurgles and he burps, rubbing his hand hard over his navel, not sure what’ll happen next.

“Done?” Luke asks.

Riley shrugs, then belches, spitting into the trash can. His stomach burbles under his hand, and he groans.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be done,” he whispers. He groans as his insides shift again, his arms hugging his belly as it starts glorping again, aggressive grumbling followed by a low, echoing pop that makes his whole body stiffen before he burps again. “Ugh, it’s still going. It’s all still moving, fuck.”

“I know.” Luke kisses his temple again. “Just relax. Let it come out when it comes out. I got you.”

Riley’s belly burbles again, churning with miserable queasiness, and he belches again. Luke’s hand comes over his tummy, rubbing firm just below his navel. He coaxes up another burp, and his nausea spikes.

“It’s never gonna stop,” Riley complains.

“I’m never gonna go anywhere,” Luke tells him, and Riley believes it. Even as he lurches forward and burps up another wave of vomit into the trash can.

This grabs your attention. You quickly put your phone away and sit upright, trying to hide your blush. "Oh, poor baby..." you say, patting the couch beside you. "Sit down with me."

He makes his way over to you, talking slower than usual as he explains, "I just... Got carried away eating, you know...? I feel like I have to burp, but I can't get anything up..."

"It's okay..." you say as he sits beside you on the couch. "I'm here, I'll help you."

He looks at you quizzically for a moment before you turn and pull him into an embrace. You feel his warmth against you through the thin fabric of his shirt. He's shaking a little, gripping onto you.

"Here, lean over like this..." You guide his hands to your sides and his head over your shoulder. He follows along with you, not saying a word.

"I'll help get those burps out for you." You start massaging his back, and you feel his muscles relax under your touch. He lets out a soft, content moan. You slowly change your rubs to gentle pats, and quickly he lets out a loud, uncomfortable burp that lasts for several seconds more than you thought it would.

He lets out another of his little moans, which seems to be a mixture of relief, embarrassment, and the discomfort that came from releasing all that at once. "Keep going..." he whimpers. "That felt good..."

You give his back a rub in a circle before you pat it again. He burps softly with each thumb of your palm, small, airy burps that grow louder each time. You increase the pressure, and another loud belch escapes his lips, and he grasps you tighter as it comes out. "Ugh..." he whines.

He's shaking less now. He seems to be feeling better after getting so much of that gas out. You stop patting him for a minute, just to see if he's done, but he leans against you and whispers, "Keep going... please... and do it harder..."

You listen to his request and hit his back with a bit more force. He seems to look uncomfortable after the first one, but the second time, he belches again, but this time it sounds a little wetter than the previous ones.

You keep putting his back, releasing large belches that get progressively more wet and painful sounding. Suddenly, with another huge, wet burp, you feel warm, slimy liquid flowing down your back. The warmth soaks through your skin, combined with his body heat, feeling comforting like a blanket. You shiver slightly as you feel the liquid creep down your body.

"Ugh... I- I'm sor-" he starts to say, but it's already too late. He's started vomiting, and his body seems happy to continue. You keep your arms wrapped around him, pinning his body against yours and preventing his weak attempts to break away from you. More puke erupts from him and you feel it flow down your back, even quicker than before. You feel truly how creamy and slimy the smooth and thick vomit is. It soaks into the fabric of your pants, teasingly dampening the skin on your bottom. It pools around you, leaving you sitting in a small puddle of his puke.

The smell begins to take over the air. It's incredibly bitter and sour, comparable to that of diluted vinegar, but also sickeningly sweet from all the ice cream he ate. He lets out a giant belch again, which brings up even more puke onto you. There's more than you thought he could fit inside him. You loosen your grip and he pulls away from you, coughing a few times and making an attempt to force words out before he gags again and pukes all over your front. You look down at the slop covering your chest and tummy. It's a dark yellowish brown.

Your eyes make their way up to his face, which is bright red from effort and embarrassment. He's sweating, and tears are pooling in the corners of his eyes. "I-" He pauses, as if preparing for another gag. After a moment, he settles on swallowing thickly before continuing. "I'm so sorry, baby... I didn't know I'd..."

"Shh..." you say quietly, wrapping your arms around him gently while trying to keep your puke-soaked body away from his already ruined shirt. "Don't worry. I promise you, it's alright. I'll get this all cleaned up soon. We'll get changed and bring this somewhere else, alright? Don't worry..."

Even though he didn't cry while he was actively throwing up, tears begin to spill from his eyes as he wraps himself around you with disregard for both of your clothes. "Thanks..." he whispers.

Steve and Bucky have just spent their evening at the latest fancy, excessively formal gala where they’re playing politics. Shaking hands with the government officials they pretend to listen to when it comes to how to save the world, living up to their roles as superheroes who are definitely not vigilantes and certainly operate under the law, yes, sir. Really actually gritting their teeth against boredom while making polite conversation. They’re doing it for the sake of the other Avengers and so they’re not deemed as enemies of the state… again.

So, once it’s over and they’re free to go home, both Steve and Bucky breathe a sigh of relief upon getting back to their car. It’s all over, well into the night or, actually, the next day. It’s morning now. Early, early morning. But. It’s over with. Thank God.

Steve, however, sighs especially loudly, fidgeting with his tie and instantly undoing the knot the moment he drops his ass into the passenger seat, shutting his door with a little too much force.

“That bad?” Bucky smirks, teasing him but not looking over from the driver’s seat at him because he’s too busy sticking the keys in the ignition and starting the car, flicking on the ventilation system and fiddling with the radio, turning it on low for some background noise.

“You have no idea,” Steve snarks back tiredly, falling farther into his seat as he buckles up with a click.

Amused, Bucky looks over at his best guy now that the car is idling, warming up, there’s something in his voice that catches his attention - he swears if anyone said something stupid to his Steve, they’re gonna pay for it - and

Oh.

After he blinks and takes a moment to process what he’s seeing, Bucky feels his own eyes widen comically when his gaze lands on the way Steve’s gut is suddenly bulging out from his body. The breath gets caught in his throat. His stomach. Woah. It’s… it’s a thing. It’s big. Suddenly, straining the limits of his choking formal attire. His neatly pressed black suit jacket and white dress shirt underneath with the tails of his black tie falling to either side of the hill rising from the middle of his body.

“What the fuck?” Bucky murmurs involuntarily, staring at his best guy and trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. His belly is so pressed outwardly and distended that Bucky can’t see the shiny leather belt that he knows is holding up his slacks. He’s… huge.

With eyes on him, Steve stretches like a cat, arching his back like his belly actually fucking fighting to escape the formal wear and seat belt that he’s wrapped haphazardly around it. His suit looks painted on, so unbelievably tight; his seat belt is curving underneath his belly’s sudden weight and curled over the top of it, emphasizing its heft.

“C’monnn,” Steve whines, high-pitched, breaking his Captain America facade that he uses for these types of events and returning to the punk he really is, “get us out of here already.” He turns his head to the side, his blue eyes glassy.

Automatically, Bucky puts the car in gear and does as he says - he’d do anything for that stupid punk - but, at the same time, he can’t stop shooting glances over to the passenger seat where Steve’s resting, reclining, fully exhausted, in his seat. He sighs heavily again, this time it’s in relief from unbuttoning his suit jacket. Bucky catches an eyeful of it, his dick jumping, trained like a dog to a whistle but the whistle is Steve taking off his clothes. And… if possible… his belly swells outwards another inch. Maybe more.

“Jesus, Stevie,” they come to a stop at a sign, just leaving the parking garage, and Bucky uses the moment to reach over and touch his belly. Just making sure it’s real and he’s not seeing things. Patting him down. Under his palm, it’s very real. Very tight and very real, making a ripe, solid thump sound with each pat-pat he makes.

The collision has Steve stifling an airy belch behind a loosely curled fist, “c-careful, Buck,” he warns.

“Or what, you’ll pop?” Bucky’s teasing but also… he could. He might. Just look at him, nearly bursting out of his clothes. On a goddamn normal day, Bucky can’t deal with Mr. Steve I-Like-Tight-T-Shirts-That-Show-Off-Every-Inch-Of-My-Hot-Bod Rogers. So how is he supposed to deal with Steve when he’s dressed to the nines in formal wear and they’ve just had to deal with a fucking room full of stuffy politicians that frustrate him to the point of wanting to rip out his hair or punch a wall or fuck someone hard? (Preferably the last option, and preferably Steve).

He looks - Bucky licks his lips which are suddenly dry - almost pregnant. Ready to pop alright. Bucky shivers as he shifts gears.

Steve lazily chuckles at him, breathless, explaining his situation away by flapping a hand passively, “everyone wanted to have a toast to or a toast with Captain America,” Bucky nods, trying to listen and barely succeeding, “and you know how it is, I can’t turn anything down when I’m wearing the stars and stripes, it looks bad.” Steve shifts in his seat as Bucky hits the gas, the softest groan falling out of his loose, full lips already driving Bucky insane even before he admits, “so I have no idea how many flukes of champagne I drank.”

As they continue to cruise, Bucky keeps looking over at him, stealing glances, trying but failing to keep his eyes on the road. He’s trying to process the thought of Steve getting fucking wasted in this new century. Sloshed. Hitting glass after glass, bottle after bottle, until he’s flushing pink, and getting stumbly and tipsy and touchy like he used to before the serum when he was the lightest lightweight. Always snuggling up to Bucky, all over him, curling up in his lap like a cat after they went out drinking back in the day, kissing him and clinging to him, begging him with slurred words and dangerously mischievous eyes to fuck him rough and hard. Yanno how I like it, c’moooon, Buck, do meee, Bucky can still hear his drunk voice.

“Christ,” Bucky finally spits out some fucking words, his brain practically smoking, “it’s a good thing you can’t get drunk then, pal.”

“Yeah,” Steve’s breathing is labored as he tries to get comfortable, wiggling around in his seat, pulling at his now open collar and the seat belt cutting into him, “still can get full, though-”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees too quickly, too eager.

“And bloated,” Steve hisses out the tiniest of burps, leaning completely back into the leather seat, flopping back, his hands limp at his sides, “I’m sooo bloated.”

Bucky swallows thickly, “you look it… looks like you’re smuggling a watermelon under that suit.” Bucky’s flesh and blood hand aches with how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel, he’d be worried about breaking it if all his attention weren’t split between making sure he’s not about to crash and Steve.

“Thanks, asshole,” Steve laughs gently, the sweet sound ending in a gasp as he feels the alcohol in his belly swirl, the finger food he ate swimming in it, there’s so much.

“Just look at yourself, baby-” Bucky can’t resist pushing further, teasing and in awe at the same time. That’s what he and Steve do, though, they give each other shit. It’s a love language.

“Mmmmm-hm,” Steve lazily glances down, moving slower with just how overfull he is.

“You were sucking that thing in?” Bucky risks taking one hand off the wheel to reach over and smack his gut. Lightly. But, still, it’s enough to jostle a bigger burp out of Steve. He can’t believe how tight Steve’s belly is. He can’t believe how big Steve’s belly is. It’s making it hard to think. “That whole time? Your poor abs!”

“Uh-huh,” his big chest heaves as he tries to breathe deeply but can’t find the room in his body to fully expand his lungs, his stomach is too big, stretched, taking up all the extra room in his body and more, “Jesus, yeah,” he agrees, “my abs hurt, they’re so stretched-”

Bucky licks his lips, why does that sound so good? To him, and evidently to Steve with his tone of voice… it’s gone all breathy and soft like it does when he likes something. Turned on and weak for whatever it is, unable to put up a fight.

“-But it feels good to let it out, too.”

Christ.

Tease much, Rogers? Bucky wants to bite back.

But instead, Bucky can’t be bothered to be ashamed of himself when he answers, “it looks good, too.” Fucking sue him. He’s attracted to Steve all the time. Constantly. How would this be different? Why wouldn’t he want him like this? Even more of him. He can’t believe how hard that dress shirt is straining to keep his swollen gut covered. There are diamond gaps of exposed pale flesh between every button. It’s as if his belly is dying to get out and swell bigger, needing more space to get larger. And he’s… he’s interested in seeing it get bigger. If Steve can stomach it (ha), at least. He doesn’t want to actually pop Steve. He just wants to push his limits. See how much he can take.

Steve huffs, shaking his head affectionately like he can’t believe it. But he blushes bright pink, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. He’s on the same page, just shier about it, “thanks, pal,” he murmurs, ducking his head, “you know how to make a guy feel special.”

Bucky snorts, “sure thing,” they stop at a red light and Bucky indulges himself, finding one of the gaps between his buttons to put two fingertips against his bare skin. Investigating the new landscape of Steve’s mountainous gut. It feels like he has a fever despite being unable to get sick these days, and when Bucky presses his fingers in, just to feel how much give there is in that tight belly -

“Oof,” Steve groans, “be carefu-uuuurpp,” there’s nothing Steve can do to stop the burp that comes barreling out of him.

“Be careful?” Bucky smirks, laughing a little, more breathless than anything, though, he had no idea that a stomach could do that. Could be so tight. He’s felt up Steve’s rock-hard abs plenty. Often, even. But… this is different and it’s exciting. “Or what? What’re you gonna do if I’m not? It seems like you’re having a hard time over there, bud.”

A car drives up behind them, appearing out of the empty night and honking, forcing Bucky’s eyes back onto the road. Ah, the light’s green, it probably has been for a while, too. So, he drives on.

Steve is about to respond, giving him shit right back, he’s sure, when the car hits a sudden pothole, jostling them both. But, poor Steve, it hits him worse. Not just startling him. The pothole is on the passenger side, to begin with, and Steve’s more affected by it anyway with his bloated belly. Despite how tight it is, packed to the brim with carbonated liquid, the dip in the road leaves it bouncing, jiggling, and sloshing violently as the car shakes. Bucky has never so deeply paid attention to the suspension because fuck. The impact seems to send a shockwave through Steve’s whole body, causing him to emit a loud, reckless belch that actually echoes in the tight confines of the car. The last of it turns into a groan as Steve curls his hands protectively around his belly like he can stop it from sloshing around. Meanwhile, Bucky could fucking thank the god-awful Nazis right now for gifting him with super hearing, forgiving all the other torture they put him through, just because he can hear the way the champagne bubbles trapped inside him fizz, tickling his insides almost… pleasurably if the blush spreading over Steve’s face and down his neck is anything to go by.

They’re both breathing harder now.

Not even a minute later after the first cacophonous, obscene accidental moment, Bucky turns onto another road, taking them home on autopilot, leaving NYC and heading towards Brooklyn. On the other road, right after the gut-churning too-fast turn, there’s another polehole, this one worse. Worse not because it’s bigger but because Bucky knows what’s going to happen. He sees it ahead of them and his brain is still processing what just happened, how seeing Steve jiggle and wobble made him feel involuntarily forcing him to picture the way Steve’s ass and tits move when he rides him, the way he groans when his dick bottoms out inside of him, stuffed full, and -

Bucky doesn’t even try to avoid the pothole, he just stares at Steve out of the corner of his eye, white-knuckling the steering wheel.

Steve’s swollen midsection heaves with another burp. Fuck. Bucky might be crazy, he might be seeing things, but his formal shirt, the buttons!, God, they’re almost straining more than they were before.

This time, his burps mix more with his groans and moans of discomfort.

Bucky’s head is spinning.

He feels like he needs to ask, “you alright?” But it’s more excitement than concern racing through him. This is… something about this is hot. Boiling even.

Letting the back of his head hit the headrest, hands supporting the underside of his belly, Steve swallows. Then, he nods weakly, cheeks flushed, “yeah,” he coughs to half-hide another burp, “‘m just gassy.”

Bucky’s gaze lingers on the mesmerizing sight before him, unable to tear himself away. The roughness of the road seems unending, who the fuck is in charge of New York streets anyway? They’re doing an awful job!, every jiggle and slosh of Steve’s belly sends shivers down Bucky’s spine. It makes Bucky’s face hot and tingly, stealing glimpses of his bloat as he takes them home.

Bigger and bigger and bigger.

He’s just filling up more with each shake-up of the contents of his stomach. Gas building. Bubbling.

Reflexively, with each belch and moan that escapes Steve’s lips, Bucky gets more and more aroused. His dick feels as hard as Steve’s belly looks. The tension in the car thickens. Steve tries to apologize for being so noisy and gassy, embarrassed, the manners he was taught holding him back, but Bucky won’t have it. Hastily, he reaches over with his hand not on the steering wheel to massage the roundest, most bulged-out part of his belly, saying, “you gotta let it out, baby, it’s okay. I want you to. Don’t hold back” He digs his fingers in just enough to cause another belch from Steve - a whimper right after - and they both squirm in their seats. “That’s it,” Bucky pats his tummy, encouraging him.

It seems impossible. He’s so full of champagne, so round. And all the sweet, fizzy alcohol is just getting more and more carbonated, more sparkling, more bubbly, more sloshy inside him with every jolt and shake of the car. Despite how much he’s burping, letting some of the gas escape, he just keeps swelling. Little by little, his belly inflates farther, expanding like a balloon. A balloon attached to a helium tank. Bucky is exhilarated by it, and judging by how Steve’s uncomfortable groans have pitched up into sounds that are more like moans of relief chasing each belch… Bucky isn’t the only one.

There’s something so hot about watching him blow up. Inflate. Expand. Swell.

The tension in the air follows Steve’s strained dress shirt, at first, it’s well-fitting, then a little bit tight, then tighter, tighter, until it’s creaking at the seams, ready to burst. The tension is so thick, it could be cut with a knife. Ready to snap. The buttons are threatening to pop off at any moment. All that gas… all the sloshing. The pressure is mounting. Every pothole, speedbump, black-tar snake, and accidental hit curb is a sweet torment for Steve, making him burp and cry out more which in turn torments Bucky. Both of them are wracked with anticipation, crawling with the need to touch each other.

The next time Bucky can take a hand off the steering wheel again and reach out to thump Steve’s swollen gut, Steve lets out a low, guttural moan, his body jerking into the sensation. But at that same risked moment, they hit the deepest, biggest pothole yet and -

Pop!

The first one is so loud and unexpected that it makes both of them jump in their seats, Bucky slams on the break which doesn’t help Steve’s precarious situation.

Pop!

The second one makes Steve whimper, trembling in his seat under the sloshing liquid inside him, swirling around, leaving him aching, the seat belt digging into him harder, feeling as though it’s cutting him in half.

POP!

The third one has Bucky swearing because fuck. Fuck! That’s so fucking hot. Steve is so big, so swollen that the buttons on his shirt, stretched over Steve’s belly have popped right off, flying forward and hitting the dash or the windshield. His shirt is no longer able to contain the bulging dome of his gut. It’s too much to handle, it’s expanded too far for the once perfectly fitted formal attire to hold on.

With each button that bursts free, a pleasurable relief in its own right, Steve’s pale, round, so fucking round, gut spills out into the heated, thick air. No longer held back by his clothes. The audible slosh of Steve’s champagne-and-gas-filled belly swelling suddenly, violently into his lap between the white halves of his now-ruined dress shirt is mouth-watering. With every stuttered breath Steve takes, stunned by arousal and shock, his gut seems to pulse with his overindulgence. Bucky can hear his heart racing and he knows Steve can feel it in his expanded stomach. All that taut, smooth, blushing skin exposed.

Oh, God.

Steve lets out his loudest moan so far, reckless with it. His hands had been braced on the center console and door handle respectively, hanging on as he was sloshed and jiggled. His hands fly up, grabbing his gut now that he isn’t so precariously balanced on the edge, feeling ready to burst with the pressure mounting inside him, forcing burps to come out of his mouth whether he wanted them to or not.

“Oh. Ohhh,” he can’t stop saying it, as if he’s shocked by what’s happening to him and he is, probably just as much as Bucky is. Somehow his flesh is still so taut. The pressure has alleviated some, but not much. He still feels like a fucking balloon.

Swollen.

Bloated.

Spherical.

Shaking, the blond caresses the surface of his shiny stomach. The heat of his belly pressing down against his thighs, in his lap, sends waves of pleasure through his whole body. He may not be so tightly compressed but the burps keep coming, released between his desperate gasps for breath, “ah, urrrp, oh, ooh, auurp, fuck me. Buurp. Guh. Uhhn. I feel so full!” He whines, “I’m so gassy, and, urrrrrp, God, so round.”

Bucky is amazed that he’s still fucking driving because he isn’t fucking functioning. Watching Steve touch himself, rubbing the dome that is his tight middle and daring to try and sink his fingers into his swollen body for relief from the pressure, Jesus Christ, it’s enough to kill him where 70 years of brainwashing didn’t.

Fuck Steve Rogers.

“Ah, oh, ohhh,” Steve’s voice trembles, “I can’t - URP - believe it. Look at me,” he begs Bucky, turning his head to the side to pout at him.

Fuck Steve Rogers.

“‘M so big! Buck! I’m so big! I didn’t know-oh, I could stretch so much. It aches,” he whimpers, “‘m so stretched! Buurp.”

Bucky stops in the middle of the road. He doesn’t give a shit anymore. It’s nighttime. There’s no one driving behind him anymore. There are other lanes. Anyone who does drive up behind him can fuck off. They can go around - they can go to hell. He needs to get his hands on that gut. Now.

Steve writhes as much as he can under the mass of his gut sitting on top of him when Bucky lunges toward him, “look at me!” he whimpers again, happy under his attention, “it, it… it fills my, my whole lap. Urrrrp, ugh, God, ‘m so bloated!”

His stomach feels so tight that Bucky can’t believe it. He can’t imagine what the pressure must feel like for Steve. The fullness. It has to be unbearable. Like being fucked full of cock but so, so much more. Hell, just looking at him is raw and pleasurable in a way that it shouldn’t be, so he can’t imagine what it’s like for Steve. There’s nothing erotic about this yet everything about it is insanely erotic… how he can’t stop making noises, uncontrolled burping. Sloshing. Belching. Fizzing. The way he’s squirming. The way he’s begging Bucky to help him, relieve the pressure, touch him, massage him, anything!

“Buck, I’m… I’m so full,” he whimpers.

“I know, Stevie,” he growls, his voice low and husky, practically already fogging up their windows he’s burning so hot for this, “but, Christ, babydoll, you look incredible.” He does. His gut is throbbing, red, and shining under the street lights. Bucky can’t stop touching his belly, massaging it worshipfully. Thumping it to hear how much his body sounds like a drum. “We should keep you like this,” he’s already salivating at the thought, his hips jerking forward to grind into nothing but thin air. He wants him so bad when he’s like this, stuffed full, exposed, and incapacitated by the sloshing weight in his big, sexy belly.

“Unnngh,” Steve whines, nodding, “it, it feels so good,” he pants, “urrrp, aarrp, ‘m so fuckin’ full, Buck.”

“You’re like a balloon,” Bucky whispers, leaning over awkwardly in the car to say the words into his mouth, kissing him desperately, “so tight you’re about to pop.”

Steve’s eyes flutter shut, shivering, “keep, keep touching me, I need-” he cuts himself off, burping right in Bucky’s face with a flare of embarrassment so strong it makes him squeak. Mortified.

Bucky won’t have it, though. He bites Steve’s lower lip hungrily and digs them deeper into the debauchery, “I bet we can find a liquor store that’s still open, you wanna see if we can get a few more bottles into this tanker?” Then, he slaps his gut to make him convulse, curling around his pulsing, throbbing, aching belly.

Steve can’t take it, moaning, “yes! Yes, Buck! Please! I wanna be bigger. Fill me up until I can’t take any-ah-ahh, URP, any more!”

“Do you think I should wear black pants instead of jeans?” he asked innocently.  He took a step closer, and watched as Jeremiah’s eyes dropped to his waist - and then a little lower, to where the boxer-briefs he was wearing hid nothing.

“Why do you have to wear either?” he asked softly.  He reached out and rested his hand against Drew’s hip.  “I can think of any number of ways we can celebrate right here.”  

Drew let himself get caught up in Jeremiah’s mood and for several long moments continuing to dress was forgotten in favor of getting undressed again.  Drew pushed Jeremiah backwards until he was sitting on the bed and then stood in between his knees, touching his chin to get him to look up.  “We have reservations at L’Etoile at 7:30, so keep that in mind when you decide how carried away you want to get.”  He raised his eyebrows.  “Should I get on my knees?  That won’t take long at all.” 

Jeremiah snorted.  “Feeling pretty cocky and confident there, aren’t you?”  He reached out and grasped Drew’s erection.

Drew hissed with pleasure.  “Cocky is certainly the right word for it.”  With the greatest of effort, he stepped away from his boyfriend’s ministrations. “But it’s your birthday, so you get to be the one to climax first.”  He lowered himself down to the ground.  Jeremiah grabbed some pillows and shoved them behind his back so he could lean back and still watch Drew work.  Normally they kept things rather fair in the bedroom but Drew intended to fully indulge Jeremiah this weekend, and had told him so.  Now he was pleased to see that he’d listened.  

“Make sure you’re still hungry for dinner,” Jeremiah murmured.

*********

 L’Etoile, the French bistro where they’d gone for their first real date, was still a favorite of theirs, and as they ate they laughed in remembrance about how the menu had confused them that first visit.   Jeremiah had still been a med student then, and Drew in his first months as a nurse. Both of them had been on their best behavior, still not quite believing that their weeks of flirting, not to mention getting mutually vomited on by two different patients, had finally led to the two of them, dressed in real clothes and not scrubs, sitting across from each other talking, and talking, and talking.  Drew had known as soon as dessert arrived that this was going to be something more than a casual hookup; Jeremiah took longer, but when he finally fell, it had been hard, Hard HARD.  

And now it was more than three years later.  Jeremiah was Dr. Gable, almost in his second year of a surgical residency, and Drew was one of the most in-demand nurses at the hospital. They’d lived together for almost a year and neither of them got vomited on as much anymore.  Not at work, anyway.  

*********

Saturday had been spent hiking with Rory and Noa, and then Gabriel and Logan joined them in the evening at Jeremiah and Drew’s cozy home with its pocket-sized backyard; a rarity in the city.  Jeremiah grilled steaks and then they all sat drinking and talking and laughing around the firepit until nearly midnight, singing Happy Birthday more than once and finishing the night with an enormous coconut cake, Jeremiah’s favorite.  Gabriel, of course, had to tease.

“Coconut, seriously dude?  Haven’t you heard of chocolate?”  

“I haven’t, no,” responded Jeremiah without a hint of a smile.  “Maybe when it’s your birthday and you get to pick your cake you can introduce us all to that flavor.”  

“Touche,” said Gabriel easily, holding up his glass in a toast.

“I love coconut,” said Logan drowsily.  Her legs were draped casually across her boyfriend’s lap.  “And I don’t get it enough because my boyfriend always wants chocolate.”  

They all laughed again and Rory burst into yet another version of Happy Birthday, this one in rap form.  Drew felt a tiny thrum of satisfaction that Rory felt relaxed enough to let loose here.  He was private and could be somewhat intense - until he got to know you.  After that, if he liked you, he was fiercely loyal and generous, and funny as hell.  Jeremiah had been Rory’s “big brother” in their college fraternity and the two were so close Drew had wondered at first if one of them had a crush on the other  Jeremiah had laughed for a full minute when Drew had finally asked, assuring him that Rory was both straight and had been madly in love with Noa since he was sixteen, and that he and Jeremiah would have probably killed each other after more than a day or two of trying to date.

“He’s not remotely my type, anyway,” Jeremiah had said.  And then he leaned in and showed Drew exactly what his type was.  

********

And now it was Sunday morning. Drew had been careful not to eat or drink to excess the night before and after watching him carefully, Jeremiah had followed suit even though Drew hadn’t told him anything about his plans for the next day.  It was one of the many things he loved about Jeremiah and what made him such a good doctor.  His quiet observations had saved more than a few lives at work, and he knew how to take care of Drew’s needs often before he even knew what they were himself.  When they’d gone into their bedroom, Jeremiah pulled off his clothes and wrapped his arms around Drew and it had taken all the man’s willpower to put his hand on his boyfriend’s chest to stop things from progressing.   

“I . . . I’m leaving early tomorrow morning,” he explained, certain Jeremiah could hear the hitch in his voice.  “To plan the rest of your birthday.  I won’t be at home when you get up.”  

Jeremiah raised one eyebrow.  “May I ask where you’ll be?”  He didn’t seem put out in the least to stop for now, easily grabbing a pair of pajama pants and pulling them on before following Drew into their bathroom.  

“You can ask, but I’m not going to tell you.  I should be back by 11.”  Drew picked up his toothbrush. “I’ll leave you bagels and coffee to have before I get home.”  

Jeremiah hadn’t questioned him any more, but by the small smile that kept playing around his mouth Drew knew he was intrigued.  He waited until they were both in bed, about to turn off the light, before he gave his final instruction.  

“Oh, and be sure to be wearing your white coat when I get home.”  In the silence of the room he could hear Jeremiah blow out a breath. 

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” he said softly before kissing Drew gently on the lips. 

******

It was 10:54 when Drew walked slowly up the front walk to their house.  Behind him, the Uber drove off down the street, already hurrying to pick up its next passenger.  He slotted his key in the lock to the front door and shivered, although not from cold.  

Inside, he pulled off his jacket and walked into the living room.  His heart was beating faster than normal and he wondered if he was imagining that he could actually hear it.  He and Jeremiah had done things like this before, but not to the extent Drew had planned and not without both of them being involved in the planning.  While he was pretty certain his boyfriend was going to enjoy it, Drew couldn’t quite shake the nerves that maybe he should have confirmed a few more details with him first.

He realized immediately that his worry had been unnecessary.  Jeremiah was wearing his doctor’s coat as promised, seemingly oblivious to Drew’s arrival while he looked intently at a page of notes on a medical clipboard.  He’d also set up the portable examination table he used in the mobile clinic in the middle of the room and Drew couldn’t hold back a shudder, both from his growing nausea and a sudden spike of arousal.  He cleared his throat and Jeremiah finally looked up. 

“Can I help you?” he asked politely.  He had his stethoscope around his neck and was wearing his scrubs underneath his coat; by the look of things Drew was pretty sure Jeremiah wasn’t wearing anything under the scrubs.

“Do you have time for another patient?” he asked thickly.  “I . . . I don’t have an appointment.”

Jeremiah’s gaze swept up and down Drew’s body, stopping an extra moment at the space where his t-shirt covered the unnaturally rounded dome of his stomach, and he sucked in a quick breath.  “I do,” he nodded.  “I had a cancellation.  Why don’t you come in and tell me what the problem is?”  He gestured Drew towards the exam table, which he’d covered with a white sheet.

“I’ve got a stomach ache,” he admitted. “It’s kind of bad.”  A burp began to work its way up but before Drew could even swallow, the air fell back on its own.  He puffed out a small groan.  

Jeremiah nodded.  “Come lie down; I'll need to examine you.”  He touched Drew’s forehead.  “No fever,” he said.  “Are you in pain? Cramping?  Nausea?”  

Drew had to gather himself for a second.  “Umm, all of those, but mostly nausea.  I thought maybe it was just indigestion from breakfast but then I started actually feeling sick, and it got worse in the Uber.  I’m really uncomfortable.” 

Jeremiah’s nostrils flared in sympathy.  “Take off your shirt,” he ordered.  He watched as Drew slowly obeyed and then his voice softened.  “Do you think you can lie flat for me?”  

Drew suspected it wouldn’t feel good to lie down when he was so stuffed, but he wanted to do anything Jeremiah asked.  He nodded.  “I . . . I think so.”  He lay down slowly on the table and felt the food in his stomach shift - when it didn’t crawl all the way up his throat he made a soft sound of agreement that he was okay.  Jeremiah stood over him, his demeanor completely professional, save for a slight tightness around his mouth that Drew was pretty sure only he could recognize. He began the standard abdominal exam, first palpating lightly across each quadrant of Drew’s stomach.  

“You feel a bit bloated,” he commented.  “What did you eat today?”  

These first touches were light, and they did more to increase Drew’s arousal than his nausea. He closed his eyes and focused on the feeling of Jeremiah’s soft hands moving over his skin. “Too much, I think,” he said after a moment.  He blew out his breath and exaggerated the discomfort in his tone a bit.  “I was doing a - hic - a food review of breakfasts in the West End for my blog.  Went to a bunch of places.”  He took a deep breath.  “Chicken and waffles at the first diner, biscuits and sausage gravy on an egg skillet at the second.”  He paused to take another breath before continuing.  “Caramel and banana pancakes with a side of bacon at the third, plus a chocolate filled churro while I was walking from the first diner to the second, and then I ate a couple of cream-filled fried donuts from that truck on Terry Street in the Uber; have you ever been there?”  

Of course Jeremiah had; he’d introduced Drew to the place.  One of the first times the two of them had explored their mutual interest in all things stomach-related had involved Jeremiah eating a dozen of the donuts on a dare. Drew had promised that he’d cook dinner and clean up every night for as many minutes as Jeremiah could hold them all down. They’d walked around the neighborhood, Jeremiah burping uncomfortably under his breath and doing everything he could not to throw up while Drew tried to hide how aroused he was, dragging Jeremiah into a store and watching him try to carry on a conversation with the salesperson.  He’d lasted 22 minutes - the last few of those spent desperately trying to find someplace at least semi-private to get sick - finally ending up in an alley where Jeremiah vomited into a garbage can while Drew had fondled him through his jeans.  They’d made out in the car before Drew felt enough in control of his body to drive them both home - Jeremiah continuing to burp up more of the donuts along the way.  

Just the thought of that day, and the quiet desperation on Jeremiah’s face as he’d struggled to hold down the sweets, made Drew shiver with need.  They didn’t do these things too often; as medical professionals both were protective of their health and avoiding risks.  It had been a while since Drew had been able to indulge his boyfriend so purposefully, as opposed to when one of them was actually sick.  But he didn’t say any of that, just watched his boyfriend’s eyes blow wide and then wider as he ticked off all the food he’d eaten.  “Oh, and two cups of black coffee and a Coke,” he finished.

“Black coffee?” said Jeremiah. “But that . . .” He stopped and shook his head.  Boyfriend Jeremiah knew how much black coffee upset Drew’s stomach but Dr. Gable did not.  He put his stethoscope in his ears and leaned over Drew’s abdomen, listening intently.  “Your digestion sounds sluggish and disorganized,” he said.  “It could mean a few things.”  He kept his hand on Drew’s stomach and Drew could hear Jeremiah’s own breathing increase.  This was clearly affecting him too and Drew almost smirked and made a comment that maybe the doctor could reach his stomach better if he straddled him, right there on the table.  But he didn’t want to break the roleplay - yet - so he just squirmed a little..  

“What kind of things,” he asked.  It was getting more uncomfortable to lie flat, but he knew he could last a little longer before having to move.  His stomach gurgled but the air inside seemed to just want to swirl around and not move up.  

“That depends,” said Jeremiah. “Did you start feeling nauseated in the Uber or before?  And do you generally have a problem with motion sickness?”

Drew took a deep breath.  “I . . . I was feeling sick before I got in the car,” he said.  “But it got worse on the way home, I mean here.”  He flushed and Jeremiah flashed him an amused smile at his goof before turning serious again.  

“Worse in the same way, or was there anything different?” It wasn’t a standard question - normally knowing a patient was nauseated would be enough -  but Jeremiah knew how Drew’s body worked, and he clearly wanted to hear his boyfriend describe all of his symptoms.

Drew thought for a minute.  He’d forced himself to eat one of the donuts at the start of the Uber trip, too late realizing that the closest exit back onto the highway was closed for construction and they were going to have to zig-zag through a number of congested side streets.  He’d tried to eat the second donut but could only manage a couple bites while the car was starting and stopping and making all the food inside him slosh around.  

“I get carsick,” he admitted.  “And the ride made me nauseous and dizzy, but . . . “ he swallowed down the saliva sitting in his throat.  “. . . but I was already feeling nauseous before I got in the Uber.  He swallowed hard.  “My stomach’s churning..”

“Mmhmm,” murmured Jeremiah.  His lips were pressed tightly together and Drew couldn’t miss the way his free hand swept across his waist, and then down to subtly adjust himself. Then he shook his head kind of to himself and cleared his throat.  “I umm,  I need to do a deeper palpitation now.”  Drew could hear how his boyfriend’s voice was unsteady and it sent a jolt of heat to his groin - and a nauseating twist to his stomach.  Jeremiah took another deep breath and his next comment was steadier, back to business. “Let me know if it gets too uncomfortable, but if you’re able to let me finish, please try to do so.”  He pulled up a chair to sit in this time and set his hand, fingers together, over the lowest left part of Drew’s stomach, pushing in gently, but deeper than before.  

It was uncomfortable and Drew couldn’t hold back a groan when a prickly wave of nausea rolled over him.  Jeremiah’s hand stopped.  “Are you okay? Do you need an emesis basin?”  

Drew swallowed.  “I’m okay . . . for now.  I’m not going to get sick.  It just . . . hurts a little.”  It hurt more than just a little, but he wasn’t ready to give up everything yet.

Jeremiah nodded.  “I’m sorry it hurts, but I need to officially discount a few things.”  He moved his hand and pushed again.  This time Drew hiccupped, and then a second time.  The air and food shifted inside and a fresh wave of nausea washed over him.  The hand stopped again, but Drew just shook his head, determined.    The rest of the exam was delicious torture; Drew kept swallowing down his groans and Jeremiah ran his hands over his boyfriend’s skin in a way that was definitely not entirely professional. Finally he leaned back.  

“I think it’s more than indigestion,” he said.  “Although that’s definitely a part of it.”  He tapped the side of Drew’s bloated stomach.  “You ate a lot of fried and rich foods, and all that grease is blocking your ability to digest. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of it’s not sitting well, and the motion sickness isn’t helping either.”  He rested his hand on Drew’s stomach and gave him a gentle smile.  “You seem to have created the perfect storm for an upset belly, pun intended.”  He raised the end of the bed and Drew gave half a sigh as the food in his stomach settled back down from where it had been sitting in his throat. 

“I want you to try to burp for me,” Jeremiah instructed. “To see what kind of relief it gives. Do you think you can do that?”  He moved his hand to the center of Drew’s stomach.  “There’s a lot of air trapped here around your umbilicus.”. His voice went fully into the medical mode Drew found so sexy.  “It’s contributing to your discomfort.”  He lightly percussed the area and Drew had to swallow hard as his nausea spiked again. “Have you been holding them in?”

“Yes,” Drew groaned. Hearing Jeremiah talk about all the grease in his stomach suddenly made him hyper aware of just how much he’d eaten and how uncomfortable it was making him feel.  And his comment that some of the food likely wasn’t sitting well had a lot of truth behind it; Drew wasn’t exactly sure anymore how much he was playing up his symptoms.  “I was . . . in public.”

“Ahh,”  Jeremiah tapped again.  “Holding down your need to burp for so long got the air trapped under the heavy food.”  He paused for a moment.  “And how do you generally handle black coffee?”  

“It gives me indigestion,” Drew admitted.  “And makes me nauseous.”   

“I thought so.” Jeremiah’s hands moved up the sides of Drew’s stomach and then down.  His thumbs brushed across the center of Drew’s abdomen where the bloat was the worst and then continued slowly lower until they weren’t on his stomach anymore at all.  “You should take off your jeans,” said Jeremiah thickly.  “Release . . . release some of the pressure.” He cleared his throat.  “Doctor’s orders.”  

As swiftly as his aching gut allowed, Drew undid the button and zipper on his jeans and pushed them down.  When he bent over to take them off something wet climbed up his throat.  He hiccupped and it turned into a shallow gag, and then another.  “I . . . ulp . . . ulp.”  He struggled to get control of his stomach.  Jeremiah squeezed his shoulders.

“Small breaths,” he instructed.  “Pant a couple of times and then take a slow, deeper one.  Pull in air through your chest.”

It was a technique Drew himself used with patients at the hospital to try to prevent vomiting.  He’d demonstrated the actions enough times that he barely had to think twice now before he was panting and then inhaling until the worst of the urge to retch passed.  He finally breathed out and slumped against the bed.  

“Okay?” said Jeremiah. He touched Drew’s cheek.  “Let’s get you belching to try to keep that from happening again.”

Drew nodded.  He knew the limits of the breathing exercise and that he was rapidly approaching them.  Eventually he’d be panting over a bucket or the toilet and no amount of careful breathing would be able to stop anything.  For now he needed a distraction.

“What’s the difference between burping and belching, doctor?”  he asked carefully.  Even though it was part of their game, Jeremiah wasn’t wrong about Drew’s need to bring up some air, and soon.  The uncomfortable pressure in his stomach and chest was growing and he knew that if he didn’t burp pretty soon, he was going to vomit instead.  Probably a good idea to say so, he thought.  “Because I really need . . . need to do something - hic - to feel better or I’m going to puke.”  He slowly sat back against the raised end of the table.  “Can you - - - ulp - - - help me, doctor?  I really don’t feel good.”

Drew watched Jeremiah hesitate only a second, and then he was helping Drew off the table and pulling him over to their couch - also covered with a white sheet, Drew noticed now.  He sat Drew down and moved to sit behind him.  It was obviously not proper behavior for a doctor but neither of them cared. Still, Jeremiah continued his explanation as if he was’t currently rubbing himself against Drew’s backside. 

 “A burp is usually shallower, '' he explained.  “It’s air from the top of your gastrointestinal tract.”  He traced circles on Drew’s bare stomach, feather light still.  “A belch is generally deeper, from air lower down.  It can be more relieving, at least for a while, but it can also be a precursor to vomiting.” He placed his hands on Drew’s stomach.  “Burp when I press and swallow more air when I ease up.”  He leaned over and grabbed a water bottle off the coffee table.  “And take sips of this too.  Hopefully we can work up to bringing up some of the deeper pockets of air without causing you to retch.”  He rested both hands on Drew’s stomach and the weight of them made his discomfort spike.

He was so queasy for a moment he couldn’t speak, and then he groaned to his boyfriend.  “I feel so full, Jer,”  He leaned back against Jeremiah’s chest, ready to give up more of the charade in favor of being intimate.  From his position he could tell exactly what this scenario was doing to Jeremiah and it was making him tingle too, despite the nausea.  

Jeremiah chuckled softly.  “I know, sweetheart.  But it's better to try to hold the food down a little bit longer and get some relief this way.  Maybe if you’re able to release some of the pressure you won’t have to vomit.”

They both knew this was a lie; Drew had made sure to eat much more than he would be able to keep down without continuing to feel completely miserable for the rest of the day.  It was Jeremiah’s birthday weekend; of course things were going to end with Drew getting the relief he needed and Jeremiah getting the relief he deserved - just of a different kind.  But holding back the need to vomit was something they both thought was hot, and so Drew intended to keep from throwing up as long as he could, even though he couldn’t deny that he was feeling sicker by the minute. 

Jeremiah brushed his thumb against Drew’s belly button.  “I can’t see your face so you need to keep talking to me, and telling me how you feel.”  

Drew felt Jeremiah’s shiver.  Hearing him try to talk through his nausea was one of Jeremiah’s turn-ons when they indulged like this.  And despite Drew’s growing discomfort, it was another reason he would do everything in his power to hold out and keep his breakfast - well, his breakfasts - down for a little while longer, telling his boyfriend exactly how he felt.

“Okay,” he breathed out.  “Right now I’m both nauseous and queasy; is that medically possible, doctor?”

Jeremiah began to rub lightly up and down Drew’s belly.  “It is,” he said.  He touched Drew on the neck.  “For example, do you feel kind of like there’s a lump in here you can’t quite either swallow down or get up?”  His lips replaced his fingers for a brief second. 

“Uh huh,” Drew groaned.  “It’s a horrible heavy feeling in my throat.”  

“That’s from the carsickness,” explained Jeremiah.  His hands were carefully exploring Drew’s stomach.  “The motion made you queasy.  Let’s see if we can relieve it.”  He pressed firmly into Drew’s belly with his thumb, pushing at a bubble of air, and Drew promptly burped.  A bit of relief followed and he sagged against Jeremiah’s chest.  

“Oh, that helped,” he breathed.  “Do it again.”  He wasn’t worried that burping was going to cure his nausea, but it would buy him some time.  Jeremiah’s hands moved to another spot, pushed, and Drew burped again.  

“Drink some water,” Jeremiah instructed.  He pushed the water bottle to Drew’s lips. “Two big gulps.”  

Drew squirmed.  “I . . . I don’t know if I can,” he managed tightly. “I’m too full . . . i’m barely keeping everything down now.”  He leaned forward a bit and began panting again, although it no longer seemed to be helping keep his stomach under control.

“You need some water in you to cut through the heavy food,” said Jeremiah.  He drummed his fingers lightly across Drew’s stomach in a rat-tat-tat pattern.  “Take one gulp and then let’s try to work up a few deeper belches.  That should give you some relief.”

Drew forced a cough to clear the heaviness in his throat.  “Give me . . . give me a second,” he stuttered.  As soon as it felt safer, he swallowed some water and almost immediately burped again - this one thick and wet from deep in his gut.  Behind him, Jeremiah made a sound Drew usually only heard in the bedroom.  

“How . . . ahem, how are you feeling now?”  His voice was nearly as strained as Drew’s.

In response, Drew took one of Jeremiah’s hands off his stomach and moved it lower.  “I’m feeling really sick,” he said. “Trying to keep the water down.”  He shuffled himself against Jeremiah’s lap and the man let out a soft hiss.  He leaned forward.

“Hold on just a little bit longer,” he said softly against Drew’s ear.  “I think you can manage to drink a bit more.”

Drew’s nausea was starting to overtake him but he wanted to comply with his boyfriend’s request.  “I . . . I don’t know if I can,” he gulped.  He burped, and then again, even without Jeremiah pressing on him, but they were shallow and didn’t offer much relief.  Jeremiah moved his hand up from between Drew’s legs and put it back on his stomach.   

“Slow, even breaths, sweetheart; try to hang on one more minute.”  He held the water loosely in front of Drew but made no move to compel him to drink.  “How are you feeling?”  

“Really . . . sick to my stomach,” Drew said in a strained voice. The nausea was constant now and almost unbearable.  “I’m so close to throwing up.”  He took the water bottle anyway and took a small sip. Jeremiah’s hands twitched suddenly on his stomach and despite his crushing queasiness, Drew smirked to himself.  This was exactly how he’d wanted today to go, and they’d be ending up in the bedroom, of course.  He shuffled against his boyfriend again and Jeremiah’s breath hitched.  Moving as slowly as he could so as not to jostle his belly, Drew turned himself carefully until he was straddling Jeremiah’s lap, facing him.  Even with the care he took, another wave of nausea rolled over him, and he closed his eyes for a moment to focus on keeping his stomach in place for a little while longer.  Jeremiah cupped the side of his face with his hand and Drew slowly opened his eyes.  

“Happy birthday; I . . . hic . . . I love you.”  

Jeremiah slowly pulled Drew’s face to his.  “I love you so much,” he said.  His eyes grew questioning.  “Are you . . .” He stopped and took a steadying breath.  “Do you think I can kiss you?”  

The arousal in Jeremiah’s voice made Drew shudder, but it was the tenderness that had him nodding.  “Gently,” he warned.  They had laughed before about the irony that despite the mutual pleasure they got from this kink, neither of them particularly enjoyed being vomited on, or having to clean it up, if it could be at all avoided.  Of course, sometimes it couldn’t be avoided, and that was okay too. But today Drew intended to empty his stomach into something that would make disposal easy.  Jeremiah gave him an understanding look.

“Give me a bit of warning then, love,” he said. He gestured to the small table at the side of their sofa.  “I have a trash can under there when you need it.”

When Drew needed it, and not if.  They both knew he was getting close, although right now other parts of Drew’s body were demanding nearly as much attention as his stomach.  He shuffled forward on Jeremiah’s lap and confirmed that his boyfriend was in much the same state.  “I love you,” he said again.

Drew always said he’d never kissed anyone as good at it as Jeremiah was.  He’d come out when he was sixteen, and had kissed - and sometimes done more - with a number of partners since then.  He’d even had a semi-long term relationship in college.  But he’d never been in love before, and even before he knew he was in love with Jeremiah, the man’s way with his lips had made Drew nearly dizzy with need.  Now he moved them slowly and deliberately, touching his mouth to Drew’s before moving down and across his jaw.

Drew’s stomach gave a thick-sounding gurgle and Jeremiah stopped.  “Still okay?” he asked, not moving his mouth from its place on Drew’s neck. 

Drew was caught between wanting to grind against his boyfriend and needing to keep from jostling his stomach.  He tightened his legs around Jeremiah’s waist and let all his weight rest on his lap.  “Yeah,” he gasped.  “Keep . . . urp . . .keep going.”  This belch was deeper and tasted of an unpleasant combination of banana pancakes and creamy gravy.   He blew it off to the side and swallowed the urge to let it turn into a gag..

Now Jeremiah groaned.  “You’re killing me here.”  He put his hands on Drew’s hips and adjusted his position until Drew was sitting directly on his erection.  It felt beyond amazing and Drew shuddered, doing his best to focus on that instead of his nausea.

He forced himself to take a deep breath, carefully so it didn’t end in a heave, and then rested his forehead against Jeremiah’s and breathed out slowly.   “I . . . needtothrowupsoon,” he said shakily, the last words coming out in a rush.  “My belly is so upset I … can barely stand it.”   As if in agreement the organ whined again.

Jeremiah moved his hands from Drew’s hips to cradle the sides of his stomach.  “I think that’s the coffee,” he chuckled.  “I can’t believe you drank two cups of it black.  It’s got to be making you feel terrible.”  He stroked up Drew’s side and even that gentle sensation was nauseating.  

Drew gave a jerky nod of agreement. ““Wanted to make myself feel as . . . sick as possible for you,” he gasped, resisting the urge to push Jeremiah’s hands away. Talking was getting more difficult.  Jeremiah could obviously tell; he moved slowly, giving Drew time to stop if he needed to, but he finally fit his lips gently around Drew’s again.  

Drew really needed to burp, he needed to retch, he felt the beginning of a heave, but he pushed down all those needs in favor of kissing Jeremiah.  When his boyfriend’s tongue softly sought entrance, he hesitantly opened his mouth, swallowing down bitter saliva as he did so.  They kissed, gently but with some urgency, and Drew tried not to gag; the feeling of Jeremiah’s mouth on his - and then his tongue in Drew’s mouth - was almost too intense. 

Jeremiah was obviously having trouble keeping himself under control too; his tongue searched a little deeper and then Drew did gag.

Jeremiah moaned with pleasure and his hips bucked involuntarily, causing his stomach to slam against Drew’s. The pressure was excruciating. Drew’s belly flipped and he pulled quickly away, unable to hold back the bigger gag this time.  “B/in,” he choked out, slamming his hand over his mouth.  He felt another belch rise in his throat, this one tasting of fried chicken and fried donuts. 

In an instant, Jeremiah rolled Drew off his lap and settled him on the sofa.  “Don’t vomit,” he commanded.  He reached over and grabbed the trash can from under the coffee table.  

Drew couldn’t speak.  He desperately needed to be sick, and it took all of his effort to resist the urge to retch.  He was only halfway aware of the bin between his feet or that it was catching the saliva he was no longer able to swallow.  Jeremiah sat down next to him and wrapped his arm around Drew’s shoulders, drawing him gently back into a sitting position until he was no longer hunched over the trash can.  “Breathe with me,” he said softly.  “In and out.”  

Drew’s stomach jolted with an aborted heave as he struggled to obey his boyfriend.  He swallowed hard and found his voice, knowing what Jeremiah wanted to hear.  “I’m trying,” he panted.   “Too much . . . in my stomach.”  He gagged over his next words.  “Coffee n-needs to . . . hrrhk . . . come up.”  He could taste it in the back of his throat.  His stomach rolled again.

“It all needs to come up.”  Jeremiah’s voice was soft in Drew’s ear, his breath heavy on his skin.  “But let me help you.”  He held out the water bottle, which still had a few sips left inside.  “Drink this all down,” he ordered.  “It will make vomiting everything up easier.”  

At this point, Drew really didn’t need anything to make it easier for him to throw up. He grabbed the water anyway, forcing it into his protesting stomach.  “Hic - hic - hic,” his body jolted with deep hiccups he couldn’t even try to hold down.  The water came back up immediately and he lurched forward to spit it out.  The position pushed out the belch he’d been trying to hold back, and then he was burping uncontrollably.  Jeremiah’s hand moved back to his stomach.  

“Talk to me sweetheart,” he said in a shaky voice.  Dimly Drew was aware that Jeremiah sounded almost as close to climax as he was to throwing up.  That knowledge, that Jeremiah was trying to hold on too, gave Drew the strength to try to answer, even though he was really past the ability to speak.

“Wh-a-a-t?” He managed, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling in an attempt to use gravity to keep all the food down.  Jeremiah’s hands were trembling as they stroked Drew’s belly.  Drew gave a gurgling retch. 

“Tell me something you ate,” Jeremiah  crooned.  “Something you’re trying to keep down for me.”  His voice suddenly reverted back to his medical tone, which was his way of trying to keep himself in control.  “You won't be able to avoid vomiting for much longer.  The food you ate is moving up from the small intestine back into your stomach in preparation for expulsion.”  He tapped on Drew’s stomach.  “Can you feel yourself getting more full? What’s going to come up first, do you think?”

Drew had learned these facts about digestion himself in nursing school, but feeling it happening was an entirely different thing.  “Yes,” he groaned.  He felt unbelievably full and nauseous, more so than when he’d first arrived home, and all he wanted to do was throw up the food in his stomach.  He leaned over the bin and spit, then gave a deep, choking burp.  “I . . .I . . .”  He struggled to answer Jeremiah’s question, but he couldn’t make his mouth work to form the words.  The heavy taste of grease coated his tongue and he gagged again.  The next burp bought up something solid and he instinctively swallowed it back down.

“Oh God,” Jeremiah groaned.  “How are you doing that?  It’s making me want to come right here.”  He cupped Drew between his legs and groaned again when he felt how aroused Drew was before moving his hands back on Drew’s stomach.  “One more time, sweetheart, and then go ahead and bring everything up.” He pressed on Drew’s stomach again and this time held his hand there.

Drew heaved up a mouthful of bitter coffee.  It splattered in the bottom of the bin and led to a deep, greasy burp.  There was food behind it, but it was so thick he had trouble bringing it up.  Jeremiah thumped on his back, and Drew retched again.

“That’s right, babe.  Get it up.”  He released the pressure on Drew’s stomach and then immediately pressed in again.  

Drew didn’t even try to hold back this time.  He vomited a mass of his partially digested breakfast into the bin, caught his breath, and then burped up another mouthful.

“Oh god,” he groaned, mimicking Jeremian, although unintentionally.  He belched and swallowed down bile. “I really don’t feel well.”  He needed to throw up again, but was just able to hold back the urge long enough to tease his boyfriend.  “Will you rub my belly?  I’m so nauseous.”  Despite his plea, he reached out instead to rub Jeremiah instead.  

Jeremiah grabbed his wrist.  “Wait,” he said in a strained voice.  “Not . . . not yet.”  He cleared his throat.  “What do you need?”  

Drew hadn’t vomited enough to give him any relief; his nausea was nearly as intense as before and he knew he didn’t have much time before the next round.  “Bathroom,” he ground out.  He stood up slowly, biting back a gag when his stomach sloshed.  Jeremiah started to lead him to their nearby powder room and Drew shook his head.

“Ours,” he gasped, pointing weakly to the hallway that led to their much larger and more comfortable ensuite bathroom.  He swallowed hard and quickly forced out the next words.  “And take off your coat.”  After all, he was wearing nothing but his underwear at this point.  

Swiftly Jeremiah took off his white jacket and then the top of his scrubs.  He started to reach for the tie to his pants but when Drew retched again Jeremiah grabbed his arm and began steering him towards their bedroom.  Before they’d gone halfway Drew was gagging with every step and he covered the last few feet to the toilet almost at a run. 

Even so, he didn’t throw up right away, just burped and retched and spit into the water until Jeremiah knelt behind him.  “I’ve got you,” he murmured, pressing himself against Drew from the back and snaking his arm around to Drew’s stomach in the front.   “Let go, sweetheart.”  Without waiting, he pressed into Drew’s stomach and he immediately vomited.  

This time, it was harder to stop; he’d punished his stomach for too long and now it clearly wanted to purge as much as it could.  Jeremiah rubbed his back while Drew burped and heaved up much of what he’d eaten, panting hard whenever he was able to catch his breath.  At some point Jeremiah moved his hand down between Drew’s legs, teasing him with feather light touches. He carried on an encouraging stream of comments, softly urging him to breathe, or burp, or that’s right, get it up, as the situation demanded.

When Drew finally got control of his body again, he was still hard, and Jeremiah was too. He leaned back against his boyfriend while he worked on getting his breathing under control.  Jeremiah’s hands trailed up his sides.

“Are you done?” he asked softly.  

Drew hiccupped.  “For now,” he said.

He wasn’t empty, and there was still some lingering nausea at the back of his throat, but it was manageable at the moment.  He leaned forward and flushed the toilet again and stood up on shaky feet to rinse his mouth and then brush his teeth before turning to his boyfriend for a proper kiss.  While his mouth hungrily explored Jeremiah’s, Drew pushed down Jeremiah’s scrubs bottoms and his own underwear, groaning now for reasons that had little to do with nausea. 

“What . . . do you want?”  He asked between kisses.  

Jeremiah’s answer was swift.  “You. Bent over in the shower.”  

Drew sucked in his breath, thrilled by his boyfriend’s words.  He opened the shower door and turned on all the jets while Jeremiah got what he needed from the medicine cabinet.  

This shower was one of the things that had sold Jeremiah and Drew on buying the house.  It was really a small room, with a wide bench at one end and half a dozen jets and nozzles on two of the beautifully tiled walls and ceiling.  The steam was already thick by the time Jeremiah entered and snaked his arms around Drew’s waist.  Drew braced his hands against the opposite wall and for a while, Jeremiah just rubbed his hands over his stomach and kissed his neck and across his shoulders.  It would have seemed as if he was content to go no further if Drew hadn’t been able to feel him, hard against his back.  

By the time Jeremiah’s hands crept lower on Drew’s body and explored for a minute between his legs, nausea had begun to swirl again in his belly, urged on by the humid air and heat of the shower.  He belched wetly and Jeremiah froze.  

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” his hands moved back up to rest on Drew’s stomach just as he felt it flip.  Drew had to swallow before he answered.

“A bit queasy again, but I want to keep going.”  He looked back over his shoulder at his boyfriend and smiled.  “If you do, of course.”

Jeremiah’s hands busied themselves at Drew’s backside.  “Oh, I do,” he said.  Even over the sound of the shower Drew could hear the need in Jeremiah’s voice.  

Drew shivered.  “I may vomit,” he warned.  

Jeremiah rested his hands on Drew’s stomach again.  “Oh, you’re definitely going to vomit.  There’s still food in here that needs to come up, isn’t there? But not until I say.”  Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed Drew’s hips to position himself.  

The motion of Jeremiah rocking against him upset Drew’s stomach even more. He gagged, letting excess saliva drip out of his mouth and wash down the drain. Jeremiah’s hands were heavy on his waist, and when they slipped down to cradle the fullness in his belly, Drew couldn’t hold back a retch. Jeremiah’s hands twitched against his skin.

“Not yet,” he said softly.  His hands worked slowly across Drew’s body.  Drew’s stomach flipped and he groaned.

“Please, I need to throw up.”  He had to swallow over and over to keep down the urge to heave.

Jeremiah nipped lightly at his shoulder.  “You can’t wait just a few seconds more?”  He rocked their bodies in unison and Drew gagged, hard.

“Please,” he begged again.

“You’ve done so well, sweetheart,” said Jeremiah thickly.  "It’s okay to let go,”

Drew couldn’t wait another moment.  He threw up what seemed to be mostly liquid, splattering it against the back wall of the shower, then took a deep breath and burped, bringing up the last of his stomach contents.  He groaned with pleasure this time, finishing with a shudder and pushing himself backwards against his boyfriend.  

Behind him, Jeremiah swore with his own climax, wrapping his arms around Drew’s waist.  He kissed Drew’s neck, and his cheek, and then slowly turned him around so they were face to face.  

“I love you so much,” he whispered.