Mickie

---------

Madix’s stomach tried its hardest to digest the sludge of food that he had forced down his throat all that day. It wasn’t his fault—the nachos had such bubbly warm cheese that called his name, and the burger had caramelized onions that begged him to approach. Now all the grease and sugar goated his gut in a layer of grime. His tummy burbled sickeningly as it attempted to deal with the overwhelm that a day at the fair had caused.  

He staggered next to Dakota who seemed to be dealing with the food expertly. He had been a fool to think that he could keep up with his best friend. The man was a pro at putting away every dish they came across. 

Poutine, easy. Ice cream, no problem. He simply sighed contently after every bite that got Madix feeling more and more like a zombie. 

It was a struggle to pick up his feet, but he had to keep up, or else Riley and Blair would run off into the crowd, never to be seen again with their significant others. 

At least Dakota hung back with him, even if it was because he kept getting distracted by the food vendors and not because he noticed Madix’s deteriorated state. He jumped excitedly in line for a beaver tail. 

Madix swallowed thickly as he came to stand next to his friend. The Canadian treat gave off the sickly-sweet aroma of syrups and cheesecake. The people around them carried their oversized pastries that dripped with thick white frosting or a drizzling of rich chocolate. 

“I think I want the brownie one!” he said, pointing to the sign ahead. “It has Nutella on it! Do you want to split it with me?” 

Madix moaned and jammed his head into Dakota’s shoulder. “…. Ugh.” 

“Okay fine, jeez? How about the strawberry cheesecake?”

"Noooo..."

He gave his arm a jerk. “Why you sound so mopey, Maddy?” 

“Too much food…” he slurred out. His chest hitched with a hiccup. The nausea made all his muscles stiff. “I don’t feel good. How can you still be hungry?” 

“Classic mistake.” Dakota pulled his greenish friend into a side hug. “We’ve moved beyond our primitive needs. Hunger has nothing to do with it anymore. It’s all about the experience.” 

“Oh, I think I’m in for a doozy of an “experience” any minute now.” 

Dakota chuckled at first, but then quickly wondered how much Madix was joking. The boy next to him swayed with fatigue. His eyelids were droopy as if his full stomach were weighing every part of him down. Personally, he felt only the beginnings of fullness, but Madix was nearing the end of his limits it seemed. 

He took off his sunglasses, only then realizing how quickly the sun had set. The sky was now purple and pink, and Madix’s cheeks were grey. “You do look pale, buddy. Maybe take a break from the rides and food.” 

“Yeah, I think I have to. I’d like to sit down as well, but I don’t want to lose Riley and Blair.” 

Dakota waved this away. “I’ll text Blair that we stopped for a break. Look, we can sit under that tree, there’s a bench.” 

Dakota ate his pastry happily while next to him Madix wondered what was going on with his belly. He was full, but this level of nausea was intense. If he were at home, he’d most likely be on the bathroom floor by now. Here, he was not sure how far a walk the nearest bathroom was. Instead, he would focus on keeping the food down until he had time to digest. 

Dakota was not helping with the way he devoured the chocolate mess of dough and oil.  

“Ugh, Kota. I want to go home. I think I may actually throw up, but there’s a lot of people here.” He hugged his belly.

“You feel that bad?” The sudden development surprised him. “I’ve seen you eat way more."

“I don’t know why…” Madix burped and let out a nauseous moan. “I just feel really fucking sick.” He glanced at his friend with his glassy eyes. “Would you hurry up and eat that already. It’s dripping onto your hand.” 

Dakota licked the precarious drop of icing. “It’s messy, I’m sorry.” After three huge bites and finger licking, he finished the treat in time to see Madix shudder and gag. 

Madix suddenly stood up on shaky legs. This was bad. He could feel pressure growing in his throat. Rising. 

“Oh God, I can’t keep it down.” He tried to speak through the nausea and the hand that covered his mouth. “One second.” He wandered away from the main road, away from the bench where they sat, and beyond the fenced in grass. 

Dakota quickly followed his swaying friend. 

“Oookay, I guess we’re going on a little excursion.” He grimaced at the retch that tore up Madix’s throat. He grabbed his friend’s arm to steady him. “This is a good spot to let loose, Maddy. I’ve got you.” 

A shower of vomit came gushing from Madix’s mouth. It was orange and frothy. His poor belly squeezed in on itself tighter. Another mouthful of greasy mush added to the puddle at his feet. He felt the muscles in his back tense continuously as the heaves sent him forward. 

A groan of misery escaped him. 

Dakota kept a firm grip on his woozy friend. It was odd to see him so weak. Every gag pushed him around like a puppet dangling on a string. “Kneel here, Madix. You’re swaying a lot and I don’t like it.” 

“Don’t feel good,” he slurred. A hiccup made his chest jump and more slushy vomit splattered onto the grass. The sound gurgled in his throat. “Ugh, my belly. I’m so full.” 

Wave after wave came up from Madix’s upset belly. It was relentless and slow. Whenever he thought he was finished, the nausea shot back through his body. Droplets of sweat coated his forehead, dampening the strands of hair that hung in front of his eyes. 

Dakota brushed the hair off his forehead. It was not a hot night and yet still Madix was melting. “You’re so out it, man. I think you have a fever.” 

Madix nodded lazily. “Yeah probably. This is a lot.” He blinked quickly. “I can’t focus long enough to…to…do anything.” 

“You don’t have to do anything but sit. Wait until you feel better. Do you still need to puke?” 

“I think so.” He rubbed his stomach. “It’s like gurgling, my belly. This was not a good time to eat fair food.” 

Read Part I here: http://georgeh746.tumblr.com/post/102423642793/jen-and-sean-get-a-stomach-virus-part-1

only a few minutes after i sent the ask, i had some chills and felt super sweaty and clammy, and felt the butterflies in my tummy crawl up my throat. i RAN to the toilet but only kind of made it, and projectile vommed a huge brown torrent into the bowl/onto the floor/on myself. wave after wave just kept coming up, everything i'd eaten recently just gushed out of me so violently in waves. the sound of my vomit splattering against the bowl would set me off again and again. i could barely breathe and my stomach contracted and sloshed around so badly. at one point i just went in the shower and threw up all over myself there because i already felt so disgusting. i felt SO sick in my tummy.

i think i probably spent about an hour in the bathroom, and then felt better enough to get cleaned up and go to bed. i slept probably for an hour or so until i woke up and had to be violently sick into a bucket...this (sleeping then vomiting into the bucket) happened probably about 4 times during the night, i filled up the whole bucket. i had a couple more voms the next day — i made it to the toilet for one, and the other came on so quickly (after i tried eating some toast) that i threw up the undigested toast straight onto the floor — but am mostly feeling better now. i have no idea what caused it :(

now however as you listen to (and feel) her stomach gurgling, you realise she was probably not exaggerating at all. she's still asleep and you don't wanna wake her, but as her breathing becomes more rapid and shallow, you wonder if you should, just in case.

"babe?" you say softly, nudging her gently. she moans, and a trickle of drool drips from her lips as she does so. alright, you think, so this is happening... "babe, wake up..."

her eyes flutter open and you can see the sleepy confusion turn into dismay into panic into resignation... "mmmgonna puke," she mumbles.

"alright," you reply, trying to think. "it's alright, babe." you move as swiftly as you can, while trying not to jostle her too much and hasten the inevitable. you help her sit up (and wince in sympathy as you see how bloated her stomach really is) and look around for a solution.

your gf lets out a miserable groan accentuated by a wet burp, and her body slumps forward. there's no way she's making it into the bathroom. "gonna... *urrp* puke..." she repeats, as if you didn't realise that already.

you finally spot the trash bin and lunge for it, and place it in her lap. you sit next to her and put your arm around her. "it's alright, babe," you say again, trying to offer some reassurance.

still, it takes several minutes for anything to happen beyond the increasingly sickly burps that erupt from her lips. she's so nauseous she's shaking in your arms, clutching the trash bin with both hands, and you want to help her find release so you rub her bloated belly, applying gentle pressure that makes her whimper out loud...

She should've been home two hours ago, but nooo... Her belly growled, loudly, and Bella placed a hand over it, pressing on it to shut it up, cheeks burning as the old woman next to her politely pretended not to hear.

Lucas got home much sooner than her, so it was to her absolute dismay that she opened the door to find him hunched over his university books, nose buried in one, and no smell of food in the air.

He raised his head when the door shut and then glanced at his watch, "Bell? What the hell, it's almost 10..."

"Ugh, I know, some kid caused a minor crisis," Bella dumped her school bag near the door, kicking off her combat boots, "I'm starving."

"Ah..." Lucas cringed, "I was waiting for you to order in, so I didn't-"

"Uuuh," she whined loudly, but she wasn't exactly pissed at him. It was sweet he had waited for her and she should've texted, but in all of the mess, it had completely slipped her mind, "pizza always takes a million years to arrive..."

Bella walked straight to the kitchen, knowing he'd follow and too hungry to properly greet him. She opened the fridge in search of leftovers, "I'll just eat whatever's in the fridge."

"We've got nothing in the fridge, we were supposed to grocery shop tomorrow, remember?" Lucas' voice came from right behind her, as she expected and Bella ignored him, pushing away the bottles of sauce and the many many bottles gatorade. Really, who bought Gatorade in bulk? Lucas did.

"Aha!" she straightened up, opening a red plastic container and revealing the mini chimichangas her mother had sent her, "there's nothing you can eat, gringo," she teased him lightly, getting on her tip toes to press a kiss over his lips and then moving for the sink.

Lucas barely reciprocated the kiss, frowning at her container, "Bells, didn't Marisa send this like... Weeks ago?"

"Did she?" Bella dumped the lid inside the sink and then sniffed the snack, "smells fine to me."

"...I don't think this is smart, Bella..."

"You," she pointed at him, putting the plastic container inside the microwave, "worry too much."

"I worry enough," Lucas rolled his eyes, "well, I guess I'll order pizza just for me then."

"Sorry," Bella had the decency of blushing for not waiting alongside him, but he shrugged.

"I really think you should wait for the pizza, babe," then moved back into the living room to find his phone. He didn't come back, so Bella figured he had gotten sucked in by his essay once again.

She waited impatiently as the container stopped spinning inside the microwave, serving herself a glass of Gatorade and then moving back into the living room with her now warm food. Just as she guessed, Luke was once again squinting at the page.

"I think you need glasses," she said, taking a bite of a chimichanga and then huffing as it burned her tongue. She chugged on the cold drink, pushing it all down, but didn't wait another second to take yet another bite.

"Uhm, no," Lucas scoffed, turning the page of his book, "I'm just tired," he rubbed his neck, straightening up on the chair.

"Denial is a river in Egypt," she grinned, kissing his temple and moving away from the dining area and into the living room, sitting down on the couch. Seeing as Luke wasn't paying her any mind, she tunned in her show and started to eat while watching it.

A whole episode later, her tupperware was almost empty and Luke's pizza arrived, so he finally shut the books to come join her. Bella eyed the last chimichanga wearily, debating if she should eat it. She hadn't eaten that much, only four mini ones, but still she felt full already. Probably a result of eating too fast.

"Do you want my last chimichanga?" she asked as Lucas sat down next to her on the couch with a satisfied groan.

He wrinkled his nose, "hell no," then bit on his pizza. She sighed, picking it up and trying to take a bite, but a wave of repulsion ran through her. Bella sighed.

"I guess it's garbage for you, buddy."

Her boyfriend let out an amused snort at her pitying comment and she got up to throw it out in the kitchen. Bella opened her jeans, suddenly feeling squeezed into it.

"I'm gonna take a shower and change, brb," she shouted, poking her head out of the kitchen and then heading for their suite.

By the time she made it back to the living room, twenty minutes later, Bella was feeling dead on her feet. She collapsed on the couch, resting her head on Lucas's arm and glancing at his pizza. Only two slices were gone.

"Are you feeling alright?" Bell yawned, wrapping an arm around his middle so she could use him as a pillow. He hummed, licking on his fingers.

"Yeah, cutting down on carbs since season is ending," he explained and Bella nodded in understanding, even though she thought putting Lucas on a diet was unneeded.

"How was your day?" she asked sleepily and smiled as he promptly launched on a rant about his evening lecture, a rant he probably had been waiting all evening to speak.

She chuckled here and there as he got clearly passionate over the issue, but slowly Bella lost focus on what was being said and fully sank against him.

Lucas must've carried her to bed, because she woke up snuggled against him, hours later. Their room was fully dark, not even the TV was on, and she wondered what had woken her up, all warm and cozy...

Too warm. Her belly gurgled unhappily and she immediately knew. Slowly she pulled away from Lucas, sitting against the headboard and placing a hand on her stomach. It was bloated and sore, a whine answering her soft touch.

Her upper belly felt overly full, as if nothing had digested at all, but she knew it had to be a lie, by how her intestines were cramping. Sweat started to collect over her brow and then a sharp cramp ran through her, painful enough to have her gasping and curling around her belly.

Next to her on the bed, Lucas stirred and turned so he was facing her, still oblivious and asleep. Bella cringed, she was not in the mood to receive Lucas' I-told-you-so. Worse of all, she didn't want to be on the receiving end of his overly concerned glare, he always made such a fuss about health...

She crawled out of the bed, but instead of heading for their suite's bathroom, she tiptoed out of the room and for the guest room's bathroom.

"I'm so smart," she said sarcastically to herself, shutting the bathroom door and sitting down on the toilet, hugging her sick belly. Her intestines cramped fiercely for a couple more minutes, before a loud gurgle all but doubled her queasiness and then they emptied out quickly.

She was shaky and nauseous as she cleaned herself up, fifteen minutes later, forced to brace against the sink as she attempted to wash the cold clammy sweat from her face. Her hands were shaking and when Bella bent down, a sour burp sneaked past her lips. She groaned, swashing cold water in her mouth and spitting it out, hoping to get rid of the acidic taste that was pushing her closer and closer to puking.

Seeing as it wasn't going to happen at right that moment, she slowly made her way out of the bathroom and back to the kitchen, retrieving one of the many Gatorade bottles - sweet irony - and a mixing bowl, just in case.

Bella curled up on the couch once more, a shiver running down her spine and unscrewed the bottle, bringing it to her lips. However, the sweet scent only made her gag and she didn't have the nerve to drink it.

She settled the bottle back down and wrapped an arm around her angry belly, rubbing wide circles on it. Curse her impatience and stubbornness. Another wet burp rolled up and Bella groaned, eyeing the mixing bowl still on the coffee table. She really didn't want to puke...

Her mouth filled up with salty saliva and she gagged suddenly, scrambling to get the bowl, but despite the fact a nasty burp rolled out of her all, she got up was some orange collared spit. Her throat hurt and her belly was pulsing, gurgling non stop.

"puta chimichanga," she mumbled darkly, coughing to get rid of the taste. Just then Bella heard the soft noise of the bedroom door opening and then Lucas appeared in the hallway, rubbing his eye in a sleepily manner.

"What are you doing in the liv- Aw, Bell..."

"I'm fine."

"I can tell," he snorted, ignoring her scathing glare and stepping closer, "why are you in the living room?"

She didn't have it in her to answer, only whined, curling up forward and Lucas sighed, cupping her forehead.

"Have you thrown up already?"

"No-Oourpe-" she burped mid word and cringed, "I'm so queasy though..."

He breathed in through his nose, raising an eyebrow and Bella glared at him, holding a fist to her mouth as she scoffed, "just say it already, I know you want to."

Lucas snorted, "I told you not to eat those things, Bella."

She huffed, unimpressed and swallowed in another gag, "happy now?"

The little smug smile that was tugging the corner of his lip fell, "I'm not happy you're sick, Bell, c'mon..." Lucas sighed, circling the couch so he could sit behind her and pull her hair up and away from her mouth. It was long enough that he could twist it around itself, no tie necessary.

Bella slumped against him, hugging her stomach, "it hurts, Luke..." she whined, dignity and embarrassment forgotten.

"Will rubbing it help?" He asked, but she shook her head, sitting up straight in order to spit more salty saliva in the bowl.

"Don't touch it, you're just gonna make me puke."

"Okay..." he settled for rubbing her back, cringing at the wet burps rolling off his girlfriend and the gurgles emitting from her belly. She gagged again, bracing against the bowl, but it wouldn't come up, nausea keeping her mouth open regardless.

Lucas reached to grab the gatorade bottle abandoned on the floor, just as he caught sight of Bella shoving two fingers in her mouth. He grabbed her hand, "babe, no, don't do-"

"No, I have to throw up, my belly hurts," she whined, pushing his hand around her wrist away and going for it again. He cringed even more and a second later Lucas heard as she gagged around her hand, barely pulling it away fast enough to vomit into the bowl.

It was red and chunky, smelling strongly of tomato sauce. Lucas couldn't help but gag lightly, looking at a spot over the couch and making sure the bowl was secure in her lap.

"Just let it up, Bells..." he mumbled, as he felt her heave and choke, trying to swallow back down.

"It burns," she whined and he grimaced. He was well aware of how horrible it was to throw up spicy food.

"I know, I'm sorry..." he rubbed at her arm, which was covered in goosebumps. Bella groaned again, then heaved one more time and he had to rush and hold at her forehead, as her whole body shuddered with it. More puke rushed out of her mouth and it went on for a long minute, causing her to pant and cough for air.

"Jesus, Bella..." worry started to eat at Lucas. He was very aware this was just food poisoning, caused by her own hand, but still... "are you done?"

"Not sure," she spluttered, struggling to breathe, "hurts."

"Okay, uhm- I'm gonna empty this..." he said uncertain if it was wise to move, but she didn't complain, so he took it as a hint to get moving, "I'll be right back."

Once he returned to the couch, now with a clean bowl and a blanket, he noted how severely Bella was shaking. She lifted up her blue eyes, a pitiful grimace on her face.

"I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologizing to me?" Lucas scoffed, draping the blanket over her, "you're the one sick."

"...'cause I'm stupid," Bella groaned, making grabby hands for him and he circled the couch, sitting down so she could rest her head on his lap, "so stupid."

"Don't call my girlfriend stupid," Lucas scoffed, stroking her hair, "she's a dummy at best."

It caused her to chuckle, before a cramp hit her again and Bella rolled onto her side on the couch, muffling a wet burp against his thigh. Lucas' hand hovered, ready to grab the bowl.

"Bella?"

She didn't answer him, struggling to swallow the nausea back down. Lucas heard as her belly let out a nasty wet gurgle and he rushed to grab the bowl, just as Bella let out a queasy, "Oh god-" and lurched forward.

She was so harsh that her hair fell out of its knot and Lucas had to quickly switch the bowl from one hand to the other in order to stop her auburn curls from getting coated with vomit. It was a much lesser amount and more liquid this time, but once she finished bringing it up, Bella didn't straighten back up, instead continued to heave emptily.

"Babe," he planted the bowl on the coffee table, "Bells, you're empty, breathe-"

She nodded, breathing in and then being interrupted by another gag. Lucas' hand went for the bowl, but all that came up was a wet burp. Bella sniffled, tears had ran down her face and her nose was red.

He cupped her face, wiping the tears away with his thumb and the drool that still clung to her lips with the back of his sleeve. Bella grimaced.

"You have to start being more normal about puke," she mumbled hoarsely, leaning against him, "I think I'm done-" a wet burp cut her off, "for now."

"...I'm going to get you a hot water bottle, can you drink some gatorade for me?"

"No promises it's staying down," Bella groaned, but took the bottle he passed to her. Her hands were shaking, badly and Lucas frowned.

"Please try to keep it down, baby," he said, voice thick with concern as he once more went to empty the bowl and bring her the hot water bottle.

She was curled up in a ball when he came back, hugging her stomach and Lucas' heart squeezed in her behalf, a tinge of annoyance flaring up as he thought she wouldn't be in such pain if she wasn't so stubborn.

"Bell, open up, let me-" he slowly peeled her arms away from her gurgly belly and placed the hot water bottle against her skin. Her pained frown cleared up minimally.

"It's so crampy," she whined as he sat back down and pulled her to lie across his lap. Lucas sighed, rubbing her back up and down, applying more pressure. It dislodged another burp and it seemed to calm her down for the moment.

"I'm never eating again."

"Maybe just don't eat week's old food," he yawned, causing her to let out a huff and squeeze him a little tighter.

"Be nice to me, I'm dying."

"Uhm," he couldn't help but pull her up, so she wasn't as much resting her head on his lap, but his stomach. Lucas slid down on the couch, legs stretched ahead of him, "I'm not ready to be a widower, so don't die... Try to sleep."

"I'm still really queasy," she sounded uncertain, even if exhausted, "I don't wanna vomit on you..."

He rolled his eyes, stroking her cheek, "I don't mind, just try and take a nap, baby."

"You cannot be serious," Vince groaned, his cheeks puffed out with food and voice muffled because he was holding a hand in front of his mouth in an endearing attempt to be less rude.

Bella draped herself behind Lucas, who was sitting on the couch, so she could plant her chin to his shoulder and wrap her arms around over his chest. To his credit, despite being essentially trapped, Luke didn't pull away, but leaned back into her arms, shaking his head, "but'am," he mumbled, while eating, gesturing with his fork, "he's a horrid quarterback."

Bella had been zoning them out for the majority of the past hour, after finishing her dinner. She had taken one look at the chicken drumsticks and wrinkled her nose, opting for having dessert for dinner instead. Luke ate quicker than Vin, who took his sweet time savoring it, and they had steadily cleared off a bucket by now.

Luke tugged on her wrist, turning his face and rubbing his nose against her arm draped over his shoulder, "come sit with us, Bell."

"Nah, I'm good here," she pressed a kiss to his temple, using the couch's back as support to her torso and smiling as she saw Vin watching them, "you guys wanna watch something?"

Having Vince around sometimes made her feel like she was back in college. It pushed her dynamic with Luke towards more family-friendly than they were used to being, but Bell didn't mind it, she actually really liked enjoying her husband as her best friend, as well as, well... Husband. Plus Vin, of course.

"Uhm, sure," Vince shrugged, "you guys know you don't have to babysit me, right?"

"Fuck off, Vin," Bella rolled her eyes, circling the couch so she could plop herself on Lucas' lap, but first giving Vin's curls a sharp tug and glaring at him, "quit the self pity party and pick something for us to watch."

Luke huffed out a laughter when Bella collapsed onto his thighs with a satisfied groan, wrapping her arms around his neck so she had better support. He spread out his legs, planted his feet on the coffee table and slid down on the couch, causing Bell to jostle on top of him.

Vince picked Emma, which Bella hadn't ever watched and Luke apparently had, because he groaned and threw his head back, "not this bitch again."

Your naked partner has stuffed themselves to the max, and then kept going. Their stomach is hugely distended, swollen to the point of agony. But they keep going. You can hear the heaviness and pain in each swallow as their stomach is completely packed and food is beginning to back up into their throat. You seat yourself so they’re between your legs as you wrap you arms around their swollen midriff, light touches and strokes only. No pressure at all. You want to see how much they can force in, how far they can go before their body gives up.

They pause for a moment, cake midway to their mouths. You feel the ripple of stomach muscles clenching beneath your palm as they snap their mouth shut and hold back a gag. You lightly stroke their tummy and lean in closer, putting your head into the crook of their neck so you can whisper loving praise and soothing reassurances as they battle to keep the food in them a little longer. Their stomach clenches again and they let out another gag followed by an awfully wet burp. Another hard clench constricts their stomach and they pitch forward, still clamping their mouth closed but unable to control the involuntary movement as their body tries to get into prime puking position. You hear the silenced wretch in their throat, deep and wet. They finally drop the cakes slice and slam their hand against their mouth, but another wretch has undigested food and saliva spilling out between their fingers and onto the floor.

“Okay darling, it’s okay, you did so good. Let it out. I’m here.” You soothe them as they finally let go, torrents of undigested food projectile from their mouths, splattering the floor as you gently rub circles on their tummy, wanting to soothe the gut wrenching constriction of their severely bloated tummy. It was like rock beneath your palm, completely and utterly solid. No give, not even the slightest squish to it, just completely solid distended stomach against your hand. You feel your arousal come on hard and fast, and know that despite the vomiting and obvious discomfort, your partner is surely as, if not more so, aroused as you.

There is a small break in the vomiting, and you guide your partner to the bathroom, one hand round their waist and on their tummy at all times. By the time they make it in front of the toilet their stomach is already clenching, still so stuffed with food. Your partner whines, leaning over the toilet, one hand supporting them whilst the other finds its way on top of your spare hand. They guide your hand between their legs, their touch eager, clearly desperate for sexual release. You respond with gentle yet firm touches, then lean your hips into them as they lean over the toilet sickly. You grind against them, pushing your crotch against their ass hard. They groan in pleasure but it’s stifled quickly by a wet belch and a sickly trickle of vomit running into the toilet. Your hand on their stomach can feel the torment beneath it. Their stomach is bubbling angrily, muscle spasms constantly threatening to take over and expel the contents.

More sickly burps, small amounts of saliva and minimal puke follow over the next few minutes. You continue to touch your partner and grind against them, pleased by the wetness you’re both creating and feeling. They turn their head and look pleadingly into your eyes.

“Help me. Help my tummy. Please make me feel better.” They whine seductively.

Lena’s parents did Christmas big. There were candles everywhere, a real tree shedding needles on the hardwood, her mother’s “good” tablecloth, and an absurd centerpiece that looked like a florist had lost a bet. The house smelled like cloves, wine, and the star of the show: a garlic-rubbed pork roast that had been “resting” on the counter for suspiciously long.

Mara eyed it as Lena’s dad carved.

“Did that sit out for a while?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“Oh, just a bit,” he said cheerfully. “Needed to come up to room temp before the oven, then rest afterward. It’s perfect.”

Lena caught Mara’s eye, a flicker of shared concern passing between them.

“Do I want to know how long ‘a bit’ is?” Lena asked.

Her dad waved a hand. “You two doctors worry too much. It’s fine.”

“I’m a psychiatrist,” Lena muttered under her breath. “I worry about different things.”

But the roast did look good. Juicy. Crisp on the outside. Everyone took some. Mara took a smaller slice. Lena, lulled by nostalgia and her dad’s proud grin, didn’t.

⸻

The first sign came right after presents.

They’d migrated to the living room, paper everywhere, carols still looping softly from a speaker. Lena’s little niece was making a Barbie and a dinosaur get married on the hearth. Mara was halfway through a second cup of coffee when she noticed Lena go still beside her.

“You okay?” Mara murmured.

Lena’s hand was pressed flat against her upper abdomen, just below the sternum. “Mm.”

“Mm like ‘I ate too much’ or ‘searing abdominal dread’?” Mara asked.

Lena gave her a tight, humorless smile. “Ask me again in five minutes.”

The answer arrived in three.

A cold, oily wave rolled through Lena’s gut, the kind that made your spine feel hollow. Suddenly the room felt too hot, the smells too loud. The buttery scent of pastries, the waxy tang of candles, the cloying pine—everything hit at once.

She swallowed. Her mouth flooded with saliva.

Mara saw the color drain from her face. “Bathroom,” she said quietly, already setting her mug down. “Now.”

Lena shook her head once like she could will it away—then another, stronger spasm hit, and that was that.

They slipped out of the living room under cover of a story about “getting more coffee.” The moment they turned down the hallway, Lena’s shoulders hunched.

“Oh no,” she whispered.

“Hall bath is closer than upstairs,” Mara said. “You’re not going to make it if we get fancy.”

They barely got the door shut.

Lena went straight to her knees, hands grabbing the rim of the toilet. The first heave tore out of her with no warning, a violent, wrenching spasm that sent a rush of vomit slamming into the bowl. It was loud—echoing off tile and porcelain, wet and forceful, the unmistakable sound of a stomach emptying in a hurry.

Mara winced in sympathy, already moving—hair back, tap on, toilet paper pulled and ready. “Breathe when you can,” she murmured.

There wasn’t much room between heaves for anything but sound.

Lena gagged again, a guttural, miserable noise, and more followed—pale, frothy liquid carrying the distinct smell of rich meat and garlic. It hit the water and splashed up, spots of it flecking the inside of the bowl. Her shoulders shook with each contraction.

“Oh God,” Lena rasped between surges. “That roast is…having opinions.”

Mara couldn’t help it. “Staph aureus is very chatty,” she said. “Keep going. You’ll feel better once your stomach files all its complaints.”

Another heave answered her, more bitter this time. Lena’s fingers were white on the porcelain. Sweat beaded at her temples. She spat, coughed, and then doubled over again with a harsh dry retch that brought up mostly air and a little stringy bile.

“Okay,” Mara said softly after the next pause stretched longer. “Call that Round One?”

Lena stayed folded for a moment, breathing heavily, then reached blindly for the flush handle. The roar of water filled the room, washing away the evidence if not the memory.

“I’m going to kill my father,” she croaked.

“We’re going to educate your father about the danger zone for protein,” Mara corrected gently, wetting a washcloth with cool water. She squeezed it out and pressed it to the back of Lena’s neck. “Can you sit back?”

Lena shifted clumsily, pivoting so her back rested against the side of the tub. Her legs were shaky. She let her head fall back, eyes closed, the washcloth sliding a little down toward her collar.

Mara studied her. Pale. Clammy. No real cramps yet, but that would probably come.

“You think it’s the roast?” Lena asked, voice thin.

“Fast onset, lots of nausea, violently ejecting the main course? Yeah,” Mara said. “Staph loves improperly handled meat. Merry Christmas from microbiology.”

Lena groaned. “This is not the holiday content I ordered.”

A knock sounded at the door. “Everything okay in there?” her mom called, concern muffled by the wood.

“We’re fine,” Lena called back, managing a passable chirp. She glanced at Mara, widened her eyes in mute warning: Do not rat out the pork yet.

Mara answered more professionally, “Food might not be agreeing with Lena. We’ve got it. Can you start some ginger ale?”

“Of course, honey,” her mom said. “Tell her I love her!”

The footsteps retreated.

Lena leaned her head against Mara’s shoulder with a sigh. “This is humiliating.”

“You should see Thanksgiving at my house,” Mara said. “This is downright restrained.”

Lena snorted, then winced as her stomach rolled again.

It didn’t stay restrained for long.

⸻

Within the next hour, the house developed a pattern: someone would go pale at the table, excuse themselves a little too quickly, then the distant, unmistakable sounds of retching would drift through the halls. The downstairs guest bath, the half-bath off the laundry room, the powder room near the front door—every toilet was now in active duty.

Text messages bloomed on Lena’s phone from her brother in the other bathroom:

bro: ugh

bro: why is the pork coming back

bro: tell dad he’s banned from pinterest recipes forever

Lena showed Mara the screen, then had to clamp her lips together as another wave hit.

“Okay,” Mara said, moving fast. “Round Two, let’s go.”

It came just as violently—fast, explosive, unloading the rest of what her stomach wanted no part of. Lena’s whole body shuddered with the force of it. Between heaves, she gasped, “I am never—eating—animal protein again.”

“Yes you are,” Mara said. “You just won’t eat meat that sat on a Midwestern countertop for three hours.”

When Lena finally sagged back, eyes wet, breathing like she’d run a mile, Mara wiped her mouth gently with a damp corner of the washcloth.

“Can you sip a little water?” she asked. “Tiny sips. Just to rinse.”

Lena nodded. Mara passed her a cup they’d commandeered from the hallway. Lena swished, spit, then took the tiniest swallow.

They traded gallows humor while they waited to see if it stayed down.

“On the bright side,” Mara said, “your abs are getting an incredible workout.”

“Great,” Lena muttered. “I’ll die with a six-pack.”

⸻

Mara held out longer.

She’d taken only a small piece of the roast and avoided the jus, but staph toxins didn’t really care about portion size. It was just a question of time.

They’d relocated to Lena’s childhood bedroom to escape the bathroom line—a twin bed, old band posters still on one wall, a bookshelf filled with teenage paperbacks. A big mixing bowl sat on the floor beside the bed in case Lena couldn’t make it down the hall.

Mara sat behind her, back against the headboard, one arm around Lena’s shoulders as Lena leaned against her, eyes half closed.

“This is surreal,” Mara murmured.

“What, being semi-conscious in my old room while my entire family recreates a food safety PSA?” Lena said.

“Pretty much,” Mara said.

She was just thinking, Maybe I dodged this, when the same cold flip she’d seen on Lena’s face earlier clenched in her own gut.

Her mouth watered. The room tilted a fraction.

“Oh,” she said.

Lena’s eyes snapped open. “You too?”

Mara nodded once, swallowing around the sudden lump in her throat. “Yep. Incoming.”

She swung her legs over the side of the bed too fast; her stomach lurched in protest. Spots danced at the edges of her vision. Lena was already on her feet, a little unsteady herself, but determined.

“Bathroom?” Lena asked.

Mara looked at the hallway and did a quick, bleak internal calculus. “Bowl,” she said. “Right now.”

Lena grabbed it, pressed it into Mara’s hands just as the first heave hit.

It was ugly and fast. Mara bent over the bowl, the world narrowing to the sound and sensation of her body trying desperately to empty itself. The smell of garlic and pan drippings hit the back of her nose on the way up and made her gag harder.

Lena knelt beside her, one hand between her shoulder blades, the other holding Mara’s hair out of the way. “You’re okay,” she murmured. “You’re okay. Just let it out.”

When the wave ebbed, Mara coughed, spit, and rasped, “Remind me why people slow-roast meat for hours and then leave it sitting around like a biology experiment.”

“Tradition,” Lena said. “And hubris.”

Mara gave a breathless huff that turned into another gag. A smaller surge followed, splattering on top of the first in the bowl, the smell intensifying.

“Okay,” Lena said quietly when Mara slumped back, eyes squeezed shut. “Welcome to the club.”

Mara wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist. “This is…not how I imagined my first Christmas with your family.”

“Same,” Lena said. “I was hoping for, like, board games. Maybe mild political arguments. Not a household outbreak.”

Outside the door, someone yelled down the hallway, “Does anyone have any more trash bags?”

“No!” another voice answered, despairing. “We’re out!”

Mara laughed weakly, and even that made her wince. “We should get them all ‘Food Safety 101’ pamphlets next year.”

“Hard no,” Lena said. “We’re deep-cleaning my parents’ recipe repertoire and buying them a meat thermometer.”

They ended up camped in the bedroom for the rest of the night.

A second, smaller episode hit each of them. They took turns stumbling to the bathroom when it was free, but mostly they stayed put—dozing, sitting up when the other one shifted too abruptly, murmuring, “You okay?” and “Do you need the bowl?” like a strange call-and-response.

Sometime after midnight, when the house had gone quiet except for the occasional distant flush and the hum of the furnace, Lena reached across the rumpled blanket and found Mara’s hand.

“Hey,” she said softly.

Mara turned her head, eyes heavy. “Hmm?”

“Next year,” Lena said, “Chinese takeout at our place. No roasts. No buffets. No potluck proteins.”

Mara managed a tired smile. “And bleach wipes as stocking stuffers for your parents.”

“Done,” Lena said.

They lay there in the dim glow from the hallway nightlight, both wrung out and hollow, listening to the house settle. It wasn’t the cozy, picturesque Christmas Lena had imagined bringing Mara home for—but as Mara’s thumb traced slow circles against her palm, Lena realized it was something quieter and maybe just as important:

They kept choosing each other through all of it—through the mess, the mistakes, the biology experiments disguised as holiday meals. Through sidewalk incidents and bathroom floors and now, apparently, contaminated pork.

Staph aureus would be a terrible souvenir.

Mara had done everything “right” that morning. Half a Unisom, her OB-approved antiemetic, a dry cracker before she even sat up in bed. Sipped water slowly. Waited ten full minutes before standing. She’d even sat on the edge of the tub, eyes closed, doing those slow, counted breaths Lena had taught her.

By the time she got to the car, the nausea had eased to a background hum. Manageable. She could do manageable.

She texted Lena from the driveway:

heading in

nausea: 4/10

optimism: foolish but present

Lena replied almost immediately:

Text me if it bumps above a 6

no heroics today, mara

💛

For the first ten minutes of the drive, it almost felt normal—sun just up, radio low, the familiar route to the hospital. She rolled her shoulders, watched the light change on the buildings, tried to think about her first patient instead of her stomach.

Then the wave hit.

No escalation, no warning. One moment she was at a stoplight, the next her gut twisted like someone had reached up under her ribs and wrung.

Her vision fuzzed at the edges. Her mouth flooded with saliva.

“Oh no,” she whispered to no one.

She swallowed hard, one hand clenching on the steering wheel. The light turned green. The car behind her honked, short and impatient.

She managed to ease off the brake and roll forward, blinking fast, breathing in ragged, careful pulls. You are not going to throw up in the car, she told herself. You are not—

Her body disagreed.

The next wave slammed into her even harder. Her stomach clenched, a deep, unstoppable spasm. She felt that horrible, familiar rush up her chest.

Panic flared.

She flicked on her blinker and veered toward the shoulder, heart pounding. The tires bumped over the rumble strip. She jammed the gear into park with more force than necessary, fumbling for the window button with her other hand.

She didn’t make it in time.

Her throat convulsed. Her mouth opened on a helpless gag and it all came up at once.

The vomit burst out in a thick, hot surge, splashing straight down the front of her scrub top and into her lap. It was louder than she expected in the small cabin—a wet, awful splatter against fabric and vinyl. Half-digested water and the ghost of the plain toast she’d forced down, tinged yellow with bile, spread rapidly, soaking into the waistband of her pants and dripping between her thighs.

Some of it bounced off and flew forward in a messy spray, spattering the lower part of the steering wheel and the center console. Droplets hit the radio knobs and the climate controls; a thicker ribbon ran down into the seam where the dashboard met the little storage cubby, disappearing into the place crumbs always went to die.

Mara gagged again, coughing. The car filled with the sour, acid smell almost instantly.

“Oh God,” she choked, eyes watering.

She grabbed blindly for anything—her lunch bag, a napkin, anything—and came up with nothing useful. Another heave rocketed up and she turned her head without thinking. This time it went sideways, splashing onto the door and the plastic baseboard panel by her feet. It ran down in uneven streams, pooling on the rubber floor mat and seeping into the seam where the door met the frame.

When it finally paused, she was panting, trembling, the taste of stomach acid burning the back of her throat. Warm wetness spread under her, soaking through everything.

She sat there, frozen, staring at the smeared mess on the steering wheel and the bright, obscene splashes on the dark dash. It felt like the whole car was tilting around her.

And then, because she was exhausted and pregnant and so, so tired of this, she started to cry.

Her phone buzzed in the cup holder.

She wiped her hand on a relatively clean corner of her scrub leg and fumbled it up.

You at work yet?

need a pre-clinic check in 😈

Her vision blurred. She typed with clumsy thumbs:

pulled over

threw up all over car

all over me

idk what to do

The typing dots on Lena’s end appeared almost immediately.

Where?

Mara glanced at the nearest cross street sign, squinting through tears.

71st just before the 435 ramp, east side shoulder

Seconds later:

Stay put

turn on hazards

crack windows if you can

I’m coming

She stared at the screen.

You’re at work

I’m closer to you than you are to clinic

that’s all that matters

hazards. windows. deep breaths.

Mara set the phone down, hit her hazard lights, and managed to crack the driver’s window a few inches. Cold air slid in, diluting the smell a little. She focused on breathing—not too deep (that made her stomach threaten to rebel again), not too shallow (that made the panic worse).

By the time Lena’s car pulled up behind her, hazard lights blinking in sync, Mara had gone from crying to hollow. The worst of the nausea had ebbed, leaving behind exhaustion and a sticky, cooling mess.

Lena’s knock on the window was gentle.

“Hey,” she called softly through the crack. “It’s me.”

Mara reached for the lock with shaking fingers. Lena opened the door carefully, then stopped, taking in the scene.

Vomit down the front of Mara’s scrubs, soaking the seat. Splashes across the lower dash and center console. Yellowish streaks on the plastic baseboard by the door and droplets clinging to the edge of the steering wheel.

“Oh, honey,” Lena said, voice going very quiet.

“I’m so sorry,” Mara blurted, humiliation flaring hot again. “It just—it came out of nowhere. I tried to pull over, I tried to get the window—”

Lena shook her head immediately. “No. You did exactly what you were supposed to do. You pulled over. You stayed safe. The rest is…cleanup. That’s all.”

She crouched beside the open door, trying to meet Mara’s eyes.

“Are you still nauseated or just…wrecked?” Lena asked.

“Mostly wrecked,” Mara said, a little hysterical laugh escaping. “Maybe a five out of ten nauseated. I think my stomach accomplished its goal.”

“Okay,” Lena said. “That’s information. Can you swing your legs out without feeling like you’re going to go for round two?”

Mara swallowed, tested a small shift of her weight. Her stomach protested but didn’t surge.

“I think so,” she said.

“Good,” Lena said. “I’ve got supplies.”

She stood and moved around to the trunk, popping it open. When she came back, she had a roll of paper towels, a half-used container of baby wipes, an old towel reserved for “dog emergencies,” and a small trash bag.

“Been married to a pediatrician before,” Lena said dryly. “Always keep a vomit kit in the car. Occupational trauma.”

Despite everything, Mara huffed out a laugh.

“Okay,” Lena said. “One thing at a time. Can you stand up and step back toward me? We’ll deal with you first, then the car.”

Mara grimaced, then nodded. Lena offered both hands, bracing herself. Mara pushed herself up, feeling the awful squelch of the soaked fabric shifting against her skin. For a second the smell intensified and her stomach fluttered, but Lena’s grip was steady and she managed to plant her feet on the pavement without incident.

As soon as she was upright, Lena draped the towel over the dampest part of Mara’s front, shielding her from the world a little.

“There,” Lena murmured. “Temporary dignity cloak.”

Mara’s throat tightened. “You’re going to be late,” she said weakly.

“I texted my chief,” Lena said. “Told him I have a pregnancy emergency. If he complains, I will invite him to stand in a puddle of vomit on the side of 71st Street.”

Mara made a strangled sound that might’ve been a sob or a laugh.

Lena took a few baby wipes and gently started cleaning Mara’s hands, wrists, and any splatters on her arms. Her touch was careful—not treating Mara like she was disgusting, just…messy, like a kid who’d fallen in a puddle.

“Any in your hair?” Lena asked, peering around her ear and ponytail.

Mara shook her head. “Just all over everything else.”

“Okay,” Lena said. “We’re going to do a field strip. I’ve got spare scrubs in my car. You sit in the passenger seat, I’ll clean the worst of this, then we drive home. Work is canceled.”

“You have patients,” Mara protested, out of reflex more than conviction.

“I also have a pregnant partner who just redecorated her dashboard with breakfast,” Lena said softly. “Trust me, the ethics committee will be on my side.”

She got Mara settled into the passenger seat of her car with the towel over her lap and the window cracked, then turned back to the crime scene.

She stood for a second, just…looking. Vomit on the seat, streaked along the stitching. Globs on the baseboard where the door met the frame. A sticky line dripping down from the dash switches to the little ledge above the cup holder.

“Okay,” Lena muttered to herself. “We’re doing this.”

She pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves from the kit, tore off a wad of paper towels, and started with the biggest, thickest mess. She worked methodically, scooping, blotting, using wipes for the smeared patches on plastic and vinyl. The smell made her own stomach lurch more than once; she paused to breathe through her mouth and shake it off.

Mara watched through the windshield, cheeks burning.

“You shouldn’t have to do this,” she said when Lena came up for air.

Lena leaned in the open driver’s door, resting her forearms on the roof, gloves hanging loose.

“I want to,” Lena said simply. “You think I’d rather be in a windowless room arguing with insurance about someone’s medication refill? This is gross, but it’s ours.”

Mara’s eyes stung. “I feel like I can’t do anything on my own,” she whispered. “I couldn’t even make it to work without…this.”

Lena’s expression softened. She stepped closer, one gloved hand still holding a balled-up wad of paper towel.

“Hey,” she said, voice low and serious. “Look at me.”

Mara did.

“Your job right now,” Lena said, “is to grow a person while your body behaves like it’s on a sinking ship. That is not a small thing. If that means I get to be the designated vomit-cleaner and chauffeur for a while, that’s not you failing. That’s us being a team.”

Mara swallowed hard. “I hate that you see me like this.”

“I hate that you’re suffering,” Lena said. “But seeing you like this doesn’t make me love you less. It just makes me want to fight harder for you.”

Something in Mara’s chest loosened a little at that.

“Okay,” she whispered.

“Okay,” Lena echoed. “I’m going to finish damage control in there. Then we’re going home. You’re getting in the shower and then back in bed. I’m calling your OB about work leave. Deal?”

Mara made a face. “I hate being the patient.”

“Too bad,” Lena said gently. “Right now, you are.”

She went back to work on the car, finishing the dash and the floor mat as best she could with the supplies at hand. It wasn’t perfect, not even close, but it would be tolerable until a professional cleaning.

When she finally peeled off her gloves and tied the trash bag, she slid into the driver’s seat of her own car and glanced at Mara.

“You ready?” she asked.

Mara nodded, looking wrung out but a little calmer. “Yeah.”

As they pulled back onto the road, hazard lights off now, Lena reached over the center console and found Mara’s hand, giving it a firm squeeze.

“New rule,” Lena said. “As long as your stomach is staging a coup, you don’t drive yourself to work. If you’re well enough for clinic, you’re well enough for me or an Uber to take you.”

Mara stared out the window, watching the familiar route in reverse.

“That feels like giving up,” she admitted.

“It’s not giving up,” Lena said. “It’s adjusting to reality. That’s good medicine. You tell your patients that all the time.”

Mara sighed, leaning her head back against the headrest. “You’re very annoying when you’re right.”

“I know,” Lena said lightly. “Occupational hazard.”

They drove in silence for a bit, the air slowly clearing, the worst of the morning’s chaos receding into something that felt survivable.

Mara watched their hands together on the console—Lena’s thumb moving in slow, unconscious circles against her skin—and thought, not for the first time, that there was nothing pretty about this part of their story.

But there was something solid in it. Something that smelled like bleach and ginger and car freshener and love.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, breaking the silence.

Lena glanced over, the corner of her mouth lifting.

“Always,” she said. “You’d do it for me.”

“Yeah,” Mara said, thinking of norovirus Thanksgiving, of bathrooms and basins. “Yeah. I already have.”

“Exactly,” Lena said. “That’s the deal.”

And for the first time that morning, Mara felt a tiny, stubborn flicker of okay-ness under the exhaustion. The car would get cleaned. Work would wait. The pregnancy, messy and brutal and miraculous, would keep going.

thinking about sickie in front of the toilet. on their knees. leaning forward.

thinking about how it's been a long day of feeling... off.

thinking about how the buildup was slow, how the nausea kept growing. thinking about the lunch sickie ate anyway. thinking about the water they drank, hoping something would make them feel less... off.

thinking about the burps that don't really give any release. thinking about the 'oh fuck' moment when they realise where this is going.

thinking about sickie on their knees. in front of the toilet.

leaning forward.

thinking about sickie burping. thinking about sickie panting. thinking about how the nausea is unbearable.

thinking about the water in the toilet. thinking about sickie perhaps closing their eyes because they don't want to see it.

thinking about the first gag. thinking about sickie spitting into the toilet. thinking about the second gag. the third.

thinking about how sickie's body hurts with nausea and the force of the spams trying to rid them of what's causing it.

thinking about that first splash of vomit. how small it is. how sickie has fought to get it out. thinking about sickie spitting. and burping. and vomiting again.

thinking about sickie on their knees. vomiting.

thinking about the sound of vomit hitting the water.

thinking about sickie between each wave. how they spit. how they burp.

thinking about how it finally ends. thinking about how sickie dares to lean away from the toilet. blow their nose. flush.

Yesterday night was the start of it. I’ve been testing out some food intolerances per doctors orders, and seeing what is the worst- needless to say, my tummy has been VERY upset recently. Nausea, bloating, vomiting, you name it. Granted I’m not feeling well, I haven’t been eating a ton.

last night I went out with some friends. My tummy started to hurt after the first few drinks, the world spinning and the booze and liquor sloshing around in my gurgly belly. At one point, I blacked out- I’m missing a chunk of time, but came to with my head out the window of an uber, swallowing back heaves while I fought desperately to keep all the tummy stew down. Eventually, the sickness won- I spewed all down the side of the car, retching and dry heaving until I got to my apartment. Belly churning but much emptier, I fell into bed.

her tight dress is stretched out, her belly so bloated that she struggles to hide it. she shifts uncomfortably in her chair and attempts to hide the loud gurgles and groans that her belly is making as everything brews inside of her... she's also struggling to hide her arousal.

she gives in a bit and reaches underneath her desk to rub her upset gut, feeling every rumble and churn underneath her hand. all the bubbling is driving her insane, and the feeling of all the gas rolling around inside of her swollen belly is almost too much to take. she lets out a short gasp as a loud groan tears through her belly. she bites her lip and clenches her legs together as her panties dampen.

"fuck, my belly is so gurgly" she thinks as she feels more gas bubbling in her stomach. thankfully it's just about time to clock out. she wraps up her work for the day before leaving and heading to her car. once she's settled, she looks down at her insanely bloated, noisy belly and gently rubs it.

now that she's in her car it's like the sounds are amplified. all she can hear is her belly gurgling and bubbling away, begging for a release. she moans softly, her arousal starting to grow once more. she decides she wants to record her upset belly so she can use it later...

she sets up her phone and grabs her mic, showing a good angle of her swollen belly in her tight dress. as she hits record she presses the mic to her belly and every gassy churn and long groan can be heard. at first she tries to contain herself, but it's not long before she's moaning and gasping in the background shamelessly as her gurgly belly turns her on more and more. as she continues to hold it all in, her urge to go gets stronger and her belly gets louder. at this point she has the bubble guts bad, and she can feel all the nonstop gurgling under her hand as she presses the mic deep into her swollen lower belly.

"ohh" she gasps, "it's so loud.. and bubbly..". a loud groan tears through her belly once more, making her realize just how badly she needs to go to the bathroom. she decides to keep holding it, too lost in her own arousal to stop and drive home to relieve herself. she bites her lip as her eyes roll back. the gurgling was getting really aggressive, and she could feel everything burbling against the skin of her round, packed gut.

"mmm fuckkk.." she moans loudly as she starts to lose it. she clenches her legs together once more and pushes the mic further into her belly, desperate to feel every single gurgle against her hand. she then reaches down with her other hand to play with her belly button. she slowly and seductively rubs circles into it as her upset gut continues to churn violently.

she could feel her belly getting more bloated and upset as the time passed. everything had really brewed up inside her poor belly, and needed to be let out. suddenly a long string of loud, aggressive bubbling hit her, making her quickly grip her lower belly and gasp.

"ohhh my god," she moans breathlessly "fuck, I need to go so bad.."

she records for a few more moments, rubbing her upset belly as it continues to gurgle up a storm. as she drives home she presses her palm to her gut, feeling her belly bubbling and churning like crazy before rushing to the bathroom.

A/N: Sorrynotsorry for all the head-hopping/changes in POV here. It just kind of had to happen. Also, this got really long and I had no idea how to end it and I wanted more follow up from Rory and Jeremiah's talk and to see Noa again but I'm out of steam. So it will be in the next fic. Also this is extra unedited.

“Can I tell your girlfriend it’s okay to slow down? I don’t think anyone here cares if the food trays have decorative flowers on them.” Avery plopped himself down next to Rory on the sofa and handed him a beer. “I don’t think she’s stopped moving since I got here.”

“Fiancee,” Rorry corrected him with a grin.  “And, my mom cares.”  He inclined his head towards the kitchen where his mother was talking and gesturing exuberantly at the pizza squares Noa was arranging on a platter. Cindy Landis was an interior designer who believed her talents deserved to be shared with everyone and not only her paying clients. Her style was more formal and embellished than Noa’s preference for clean lines and industrial details, and Noa was a very good sport about all the decor pieces Cindy sent them as gifts. The platter holding the pizza squares was gold-rimmed Annieglass and looked rather out of place next to the hammered iron trays and copper bowls holding the rest of the food.

Rory watched idly as Noa accepted a Diet Coke from Jeremiah and then leaned in to ask him a question. She’d pulled her hair back into a sleek ponytail and was wearing a fitted black turtleneck dress and high black boots that Rory couldn’t wait to get her out of later. It was as if she was a sexy piece of industrial decor herself, he thought, right down to the emerald-cut platinum and diamond ring on her finger. Getting engaged hadn’t changed anything between them - but at the same time it had changed everything. He couldn’t wait to discover what it felt like to actually be married.