The gardener had been putting off planting the carrots, first to take care of his wife when she came down with the stomach flu, and then because the weather was lousy. Now the weather was cooperating, she was recovered and back at work, and he had to get the seeds in the ground today if he hoped to have them sprout during the optimal season.

The only problem was, he was pretty sure he was coming down with what his wife had had. Aches and chills shot through his body, and his breakfast was sloshing around like a pool in a hurricane.

He went to the garden anyway, hoping he could get work done before it struck him full force. He planted a row and a half while battling increasing discomfort in his belly. One time he knelt with his eyes closed, feeling hot acid trying to creep up his throat. No, he firmly told his body. Get these planted, then be sick, if you have to.

Bending over made his stomach feel worse, but there was no way to complete his task without doing so.

An unexpected cough tore from his throat, and his eyes widened in panic as the burning feeling began to rise. He clapped a hand over his mouth and locked his jaw shut, tightly closing his eyes. A muffled "GLURP" noise announced the arrival of vomit in his cheeks, but he gulped it back down somehow.

Great, now his eyes were watering and he had a foul taste in his mouth.

Next time I'll let it go, he thought. I might feel better afterward.

He got another four seeds planted, all the while listening to his stomach churn. If he simply opened his mouth, he was pretty sure he would barf, but he wasn't ready to surrender just yet. His hands began to shake as he dug a spot for the last plant in that row, and he felt his throat tighten in preparation for a heave.

He threw down his tools and staggered into the underbrush a short distance away. All right, fine. Get it over with.

A croaking retch lifted his tongue, and he bent over with his hands on his knees as a scorching flood of cloudy liquid flowed out of his mouth and onto the dirt. He pressed on his belly, hoping to rid himself of everything in one go, but the spasms stopped before anything solid came up.

He swore, spat, and wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. Fine. He did that.

He staggered back to the garden and resumed planting. Pain continued to squeeze his midsection as he did his best to continue working. Once another six seeds were in the ground, he covered his mouth with a gurgling belch and turned aside to spew an arc of vomit onto the ground barely past the furrows. He stepped in that direction and bent over with an angry-sounding retch that brought up another splatter of puke. He spat repeatedly before returning to work.

Surely that was all that was left in his stomach from breakfast, right?

He finished that row and stood for a minute, rubbing his aching stomach.

Do we really need more carrots than that? he wondered. Probably not, but he needed to make back his investment on the seeds.

Very well. He crouched down, frowning at the way this enhanced the pain, and planted another. And another. And another. And then dashed off to the side to throw up a little bit more. He moaned, coughed, and clutched his gut.

Not much longer now, he told himself. He was able to control himself until the last eight seeds were in the ground, then stumbled over to sit on a bench. Okay, now he could give in to the illness.

He folded his arms across his stomach and bent forward with a cough. It didn't take much to get it started again. Thick clumps of vomit fell from his mouth and collected in the grass. This time he didn't hold back, and hurled up the rest of his breakfast with loud, unrestrained heaves. There was more left down there than he had thought, and it took a while to get rid of it all.

The viceroy sat at his desk, trying to concentrate on the battle plans for the upcoming attack on an enemy city-state despite the sour stomach that had been worsening since lunchtime. He had taken an antacid, but that seemed to do nothing. He slowly massaged his forehead, wondering if he was imagining a fever there. Cold sweat made his shirt stick to his skin as his belly made a loud sloshing noise.

Damn, he thought. I feel like I'm coming down with something, but I don't have time to be sick. There's so much to do…

He kept shuffling papers while the vague discomfort in his middle intensified into actual pain. Minutes ticked by as he felt worse and worse, until he pushed his chair back from his desk with a quiet moan. He really, really didn't feel good.

He sat with his eyes closed for awhile, fighting denial and nausea. His mouth began to water and a peculiar feeling took over the bottom of his throat.

Shit, I'm starting to think I might puke, he realized, pressing the back of his hand against his lips. I can't be that sick, though…can I?

A tremor similar to both a gag and a hiccup made him gulp audibly.

Yes, he finally admitted. I can be that sick. And I am.

He began to consider his options. He could be sick in the garbage can by his desk, or he could try to make it to the men's room down the hall.

The latter would make less of a mess, assuming he made it to the toilet. As his stomach roiled, he seriously doubted that he could hold it down that long. Bending over to pick up the can wasn't a great thought, either, but it was the only option. He reached for the garbage, a wicker basket with a plastic bag inside, and lifted the can into his lap.

Pulses of strong nausea made him sway slightly, and acid stung the back of his throat. Like it or not, he was definitely going to throw up.

There was no point in fighting it. He let his mouth fall open, and coughed shallowly as bubbly slime drained from his mouth and hung, dangling from his lower lip. Just when he thought he couldn't possibly feel any worse, he did.

Please, he begged his body, get this over with.

His tongue lifted in a silent gag, then a slightly less silent one. He coughed and doubled over from the tight pain in his middle. Any second now, surely…

A hollow burp issued from deep in his gullet, and he felt his abdomen clench. Hot mush began to surge up his throat, and he bent even closer to the can as it flooded out of his mouth. The plastic bag in the can rustled as fat chunks of his former lunch landed inside. His shoulders jerked with heave after heave as his body rejected his last meal. He could barely catch his breath in between upwellings of sickness, and he began to feel light-headed. A strong coughing fit didn't help matters as he sprayed flecks of vomit all over the inside of the bag.

It had to be a stomach bug. He hadn't heard of any going around, but that didn't mean much. He had been traveling back and forth between the capital and the warfront nearly every week, so he could have picked it up anywhere along the way.

A horrible gurgling noise arose in his throat a split second before he spewed out an especially copious round of thick barf. It seemed to coat everything on the way up, and he coughed and choked as he tried to dislodge the sludge.

There was a knock at his office door, but he couldn't speak to respond. After a few seconds of violent retching, he saw the door open out of the corner of his eye. A soldier who was working security poked his head in. "Sorry to intrude, sir, but should I summon a doctor?"

The viceroy's fevered cheeks burned further with embarrassment. "Water," he managed to rasp between heaves.

The guard returned after a minute or two with a bottle of water and hesitantly entered the room to set it on the desk. The viceroy made sure his face was hidden inside the garbage can so his underling didn't see the way his face was contorted in misery, nor the lumpy gunk that still spilled from his mouth when he retched.

"Here's your water, sir," the soldier said awkwardly. "Are you sure you don't want a medic?"

The viceroy waved him away without lifting his head from the can. He waited until the door shut and he sensed he was alone again before reaching for the water. During the next lull in his sickness, he swallowed some and immediately threw it back up. He knew that would happen, but hoped it would rinse the viscous slime from his throat. Judging by the gobs mixed in with the liquid when it came back up, it worked.

He continued to gag and cough for awhile after his stomach was empty, but only had to suffer a few true dry heaves before composing himself.

Well. That wasn't how he wanted to spend his afternoon, but it seemed he had no choice. He rinsed his mouth and spat into the can, then blew his nose and dabbed the traces of vomit off his face. Ugh. He hadn't been violently ill like that since last winter. Terrible timing.

you click the coffee machine on, already pre-loaded for your usual two cups since yesterday evening. you take the bowl of overnight oats out of the fridge. you eat a few spoonfuls while waiting for the coffee but something about it tastes wrong. maybe the yogurt you used was off. you didn't think so, but either way, the thought of finishing the bowl turns your stomach so you throw it away and just drink your coffee with some crackers.

it's 7:24 and just a bit over 1,5 hours before your work day officially starts, you're grumpy, disappointed with your breakfast and the general state of the world this morning so you decide to go back to bed until it's work time.

you close your eyes and suddenly it's 9:48 and you wake up to three missed calls from your manager and a long enough rant on whatsapp that it makes your eyes glaze over trying to read it. "sorry," you type in a reply, "missed my alarm. fever. going back to sleep." you're not actually sure you have a fever but you're starting to accept that something's not right, and the way you're starting to feel shivery makes it a fair bet that fever is not far off. the thought of going to the bathroom to find the thermometer feels like a herculean task, so you just mute notifications on your phone and curl up tighter under the duvet.

you try to fall asleep again but the room keeps spinning in lazzy, sickening circles around you and it gets worse every time you're about to drift off. the cats have positioned themselves around you, one in the crook of your knees, one next to your belly, one on the pillow behind your head. usually you don't mind them in your bed--and good luck keeping cats out of bed anyway--but now the purring warmth pressing against your stomach is making you aware of a vague, formless sense of dread that isn't quite nausea yet but you can imagine by now that it's headed that way.

it's 10:37 when you give up on trying to sleep and relocate to the couch. the cats happily occupy the space you left behind.

you arm yourself with supplies. blanket and pillows, bottled water, ginger mints, a box of tissues. trash can, though you hate puking in anything but the toilet, because you have to clean it up yourself anyway. by now you're definitely feeling queasy, and when you tug the waistband of your yoga pants down a little to ease the pressure on your stomach, you're surprised to see how bloated you've become.

you settle in to read a little but you can't focus on the words on the screen of your e-reader. your stomach is giving the occasional ominous gurgle, and as you press your hand lightly against it, you can feel the movement under your palm. you give up on reading and just close your eyes, your heart beating fast and your breath coming in quick and shallow.

it's shortly before noon that the burps start. you cover your mouth as a tiny bubble of air forces its way up, silent and acidic and bringing little relief. you take a sip of water to rid yourself of the taste, and immediately regret it as the next burp brings the water bubbling up the back of your throat, not all the way into your mouth but too close for comfort. you swallow it back down, torn between resignation and denial that this is how it's going to be.

you spend the next thirty minutes or so fighting the inevitable, shifting every so often to find a position that might feel better but there isn't one. the pitifully small sip of water feels cool in the back of your throat with every increasingly wet burp, and the coffee and the few spoonfuls of oatmeal you had for breakfast seem to have turned into a rancid mess of sick in your bloated belly.

the shift from anxiety to inevitability is so subtle you could almost miss it if the inevitability itself wasn't so overwhelming. you body shifts gears from 'oh god am i going to be sick?' to 'okay, i'm going to be sick' and suddenly you're not anxious anymore. you get up and make your way to the bathroom because you do hate having to rinse the trash can after vomiting. you walk a little hunched over, with the exaggerated steadiness of someone who feels anything but, one hand cradling your middle and the other hovering over your mouth as if it's going to stop the inevitable.

you kneel in front of the toilet, thankful for the soft bath mat cushioning your knees from the cold tile floor. you shiver as you lean over the toilet bowl. your breath hitches as your stomach lurches in a weak false start. an especially foul burp works its way out, and for a ludicrous second you feel the relief and think maybe that was it, maybe you're not going to, after all...

the dry heave that clenches your core immediately proves such thoughts wrong. you're gripping the toilet seat with both hands, trembling and breathing too fast. thick saliva drips from your open mouth into the clear water below. just as you're thinking about how gross it looks, the next heave seizes your body. this time a small trickle of your stomach contents surges up your throat, burning every inch of the way and tasting absolutely vile. you spit, but almost before you can prepare yourself, your stomach heaves again.

and again.

and again, and finally a more substantial amount of the vile sludge that used to be coffee and oats comes up and splashes into the toilet with a force. you draw a shuddering breath, catch a glimpse of something that looks uncomfortably like undigested oats in the no-longer-clear water, and then you're heaving again.

you're not sure how long it lasted--probably not as long as it felt like, your rational brain feels the need to point out--but finally you sit back on your haunches, trembling, wiping tears of excertion from your eyes and wishing you had the foresight to bring the water bottle with you. your throat is burning, your sinuses are burning, and your stomach doesn't feel much emptier than it was before.

you may be done for now, but you're not done.

you spit some more, blow your nose for what good it does. you get up on shaking legs, flush the toilet. wash your hands and face before making your way back to the couch. you walk slightly hunched over, with the exaggerated steadiness of someone who feels anything but, yet the motion of your careful steps makes your remaining stomach contents slosh and swirl uncomfortably.

Dimi pushes into the next chamber, but it’s mostly empty. The third chamber, however, has an altar at the center. His werewolf eyes can tell, even in the dimness, that there’s an offering there. There’s several plates set out. One has a slab of roasted meat, dark around the trim, edges glistening with cooled fat. Another has a loaf of dense, pale bread, its crust cracked and multicolored. There’s another plate of small, round things— maybe pastries?— that are sticky and shining with something that catches the dim light his werewolf eyes can catch in the cavern. Beside them is a clay jug with a cork stopper in it.

Dimi’s stomach growls with hunger. He stalks forward in his werewolf form, pushing his sharp nails into the hunk of meat, grabbing it up, bringing it to his face, sniffing it.

He can’t tell what sort of meat it is, or where— or when— it’s from. His mouth fills with hungry saliva as he lunges to the altar, claws scraping when he grabs the hunk of meat fully and shoves it into his mouth. A huge bite tears free with a thick, wet, fibrous resistance. Grease and salt and meat fill his mouth, laced with the strange sweetness he can smell in the air.

It’s just so good. His wolf-self loves it so much. He doesn’t chew much— he doesn’t really need to. As a wolf, Dimi can swallow huge, thick, heavy gulps of unchewed meat. He barely pauses between bites, tearing into the next piece over and over and over. The slab of greasy, fatty meat disappears quickly, with a strange sense of urgency.

When it’s gone, he turns on the loaf of bread. He bites into it with his wolf teeth, sinking through the dense, thick crust. His jaw has to work hard to chew at it. It’s thick and dry, so he doesn’t want to spend too much time on it. He forces it down in large, uneven, mostly-unchewed chunks, swallowing them thickly down into his belly.

The bread is gone in a few huge bites. The pastries are next, and they’re softer, but maybe too soft. It’s easy for him to swallow them down. They’re honey-sweet and extremely rich, sticky and coating his mouth with sugar as he gulps them down. He lets out a rumbling belch, then dives back in, pushing all the pastries into his mouth until they’re gone.

He feels parched. When he lifts up the jug and uncorks it, he pushes the mouth towards his own. It’s wine, thick and sugary, leaving a film over his tongue, inside his mouth, and down his throat as he gulps it all down.

Dimi eats until there’s nothing left to eat. Then, he licks the dirty plates clean. It’s only then that he finally stops feeling so ravenously hungry.

Instead, he just feels a little full.

The front of the altar has some writing on it in a language Dimi doesn’t even recognize, let alone speak. He examines it with confusion from his wolf-eyes before he decides to move on. The food is gone, and he has a job to do, technically, even though it seems like the caverns are not currently occupied.

His stomach packed full with his impromptu meal, Dimi keeps moving through the caves. He's searching, but still not finding anything, shuffling into the next chamber, and the next, and the next.

Over the next couple of hours, though, as he hunts through the caverns, the weight in his stomach gets more and more and more uncomfortable. It could be indigestion. It’s all just sitting there in his belly in a huge lump, full but strangely still and unmoving. He starts to suspect it’s too still and unmoving, strangely quiet and like he’s not really digesting what he ate. The pressure is getting more and more intense with every passing minute, his belly feeling like it’s stretched slightly with everything he ate.

After a while, he starts to feel a little uneasy, wondering why nothing is happening inside his stomach at all. Everything he ate should be moving by now, but his belly isn’t really doing anything. There’s slow gurgles now and then, but otherwise, it’s all just sitting there.

He tries to give himself a little more time, rubbing his upset stomach as he moves through the caverns, but it still doesn’t seem like it’s working. His stomach feels more and more heavy, more and more stretched out. It’s becoming bloated against his ribs, packed tight with everything he’d just forced into it.

Nothing is moving still, though.

Nothing he ate is starting to digest even a little bit. It’s not shifting, not settling. After a while, it feels like his stomach has given up on trying completely, and everything he ate is congealing into one disgusting mass, jamming up the pit of his stomach and making his upper belly bloat horrendously.

Everything is just sitting in there for way too long. The lack of movement is making him a little nervous; it feels ominous to wait for his belly to shift and never feel anything really move in any significant way. It’s like everything he’d eaten before has combined into a huge, dense, unmoving weight under his ribs, refusing to digest— or even budge.

Dimi comes to a slow stop in the next chamber as his stomach continuously gains heft and weight and discomfort. The weight of his belly comes to a stop with him, but it does so sluggishly, as if it’s dragging behind him, a still, heavy anchor that refuses to move through him.

Frustrated, his wolf shakes himself, trying to activate his body into digesting the offerings.

Instead, the tastes of the meat and the bread and the honeyed pastries come up immediately. It gives a slight acidic turn with the sugar-wine, in addition to the grease, the salt, and the sickly-sweetness.

A low bubbling sound rumbles in Dimi’s throat. It’s almost a wolfish growl, but not quite. He shifts again on his paws, standing bipedal upright, as an uncomfortable knot twists in his heavy belly.

His stomach still doesn’t feel like it’s digesting at all. There’s no active progression happening yet, even though there should be. He shifts on his paws, one of them coming down to rest against his belly as he lets out a low whine. The wolf should be built to digest things like this— to gorge, to indulge, to consume, to digest, to handle this.

Still, as he rubs his clawed paw over his swollen belly, nothing moves through him.

Dimi takes another step, but his stomach just feels so full and uncomfortable now. It's been getting worse for hours, and getting more upset with every minute. He has to stop. His abdomen feels so tight and crampy, as if he packed himself full and ate way too much, even though his wolf capacity should be more than this.

A faint shift moves in his tummy. It’s a slow, uneven guuuuuuuurgle that rolls through his stomach and then stops as abruptly as it started. His stomach turns, tightening around what he ate from the altar, before a strong, wet, upset ripple moves through his belly.

“Shit,” Dimi curses, coming to a stop. He sits down heavily on the ground and can feel his stomach tightening more, muscles trying to work, but nothing will digest, and it’s aching. Everything he ate is just starting to very slowly churn inside of him as his belly tightens and gurgles again. It’s strange to feel it rumbling like this when everything is really just sitting there in a huge, dense, heavy mass. There’s nothing indicating that digestion is even trying to start happening.

There’s an unexpected pressure building in his stomach. He knows he should be digesting by now. He just feels so unexpectedly full. Stroking across the bottom of his belly, he can feel the muscles contract and cramp slightly, but there’s still no progressive movement. It feels like his belly doesn't know what to do with what he ate, like it’s never digested before, and he groans slightly, leaning forward and kneading at his stomach, trying to encourage it into action.

Something inside him shifts, and his stomach gurgles loudly this time. It echoes off the walls, bouncing back to him distorted and amplified, the snarling growl of his unsettled stomach vibrating around him.

Dimi shivers a little. He had felt so compelled to eat all the offerings, but now, thinking about them, he’s starting to feel a little weird. The meat, the bread, the pastries, the wine— it’s all sitting so heavily in his belly, hot and uncomfortable and thick. He shifts a bit, expecting his stomach to slosh with him, but it just sort of rolls inside him instead.

His guts rumble a little. It doesn’t feel like digestion yet still; it feels like upset pressure and pain that’s starting to grow, expanding and pushing outward against his belly. He blows out a hard breath before his next breath hitches. He puts his hand against his belly as it feels like it pulses, and he groans again before his belly gives a loud, thick, uneasy grumble.

Dimi’s body lurches, hitches, then seizes. He doesn’t know how, but his muscles all move at once to force him back into his human form. His spine arches, his joints crack, and a low, startled, distressed sound tears out of his throat as he starts being forcibly transformed back into a human.

As soon as he’s getting his human stomach back, Dimi’s gut snarls, gurgling and huge. The pressure expands and spikes; everything he gulped down feels heavy and sloshy inside of him all of a sudden, too much to fit in his human belly, too much to digest, apparently.

His bones reshape, and his belly tightens as his body compresses and the contents of his wolf stomach are forced into his smaller human belly.

Dimi’s stomach lurches hard. His legs buckle, and he falls to the ground. Everything that had been sitting in his belly, heavy and unmoving and packed low in his tummy, gets forced more tightly together by the way his abdomen compresses around it. There’s not enough space and no room to settle.

His stomach heaves upwards, and his ribs shorten in length as he becomes a human. His belly gets compressed as the space inside him shrinks, and he groans.

“Ughhhhhh…” His breath hitches again as his stomach growls loudly. “Fuck. Fuck. Mmmm………”

His hands— hands, not paws— hit the ground. He sucks in a sharp breath as a slow churn rolls through his stomach. It’s a heavy surge that roils inside him without actually going anywhere or doing anything productive. It feels like it’s just swirling around in place like a circling whirlpool in his belly.

A deep belch rumbles out of him before his stomach gurgles even more loudly this time. The sounds keep bouncing off the walls and echo back at him, and he clutches his stomach automatically, knowing instinctively that something is wrong.

His belly feels so firm— too firm, without any kind of give, and he tries to knead the bloated upper swell of his stomach to work up some of the upset rumbling or maybe get the food digesting. It doesn’t work, there’s no give at all. He presses harder, trying to stroke firmly down over his whole stomach, down to the distended lower curve and back up, but his belly doesn’t sink in the way it should after he eats something. It resists and pushes back. It’s so tight and packed that he feels like he’s somehow at the limit of what he can eat, even though he really doesn’t think he ate that much.

Something must have been wrong with that food. Maybe the words he couldn’t read meant something. Maybe it actually was really old food that's gone bad. Maybe it was cursed and that's why he felt that he had to eat it—

His stomach lurches again, more aggressively this time. He swallows reflexively over and over as his tummy hitches upwards and saliva floods his mouth, and he groans, clamping his hand over his mouth.

The nausea only keeps growing. It’s just lingering inside of him. There’s a constant, low, wet churning starting to swirl in the pit of his stomach. His belly isn’t moving or digesting in any productive way, not like it should be. It feels more like everything inside of him is just starting to push around and around without actually moving through him in a productive way.

Another gurgle, even louder this time, rumbles through his belly. Dimi clutches his stomach as it gets more upset, feeling it shift under his human hand. A thick, sluggish burble ripples right under his hand, then stops, like his stomach is trying to move and digest and is failing to do so.

“Okay, maybe… Maybe I just ate too fast,” he mumbles to himself. His stomach rolls again, pressing up under his ribs. “Or maybe it wasn’t good. Maybe it was old. Probably stupid to eat food I found in a—” His stomach growls, shifting in place under his hand, and he hiccups, rubbing across the center of his abdomen, bloated and sick. “—a stupid cave.”

His tummy feels packed tight with meat, bread, pastries, honey, wine. It’s a heavy, stubborn weight, like a rock in his stomach, and he tries to take a deep breath that only serves to make a low, wet gurgle bubble through the pit of his stomach.

Dimi’s hand moves instinctively to the lower swell of his belly. He’s still surprised at how round, firm, and bloated he is. Rubbing his stomach slowly, he finds that the pressure and massaging doesn’t give him any relief. It feels more like his stomach is pushing back against him, refusing to digest anything he’s put in it. Everything he ate is turning inside him, rolling in place in increasingly tumultuous swirls.

A soft burble ripples up, and Dimi swallows thickly. His mouth tastes bitter and sweet at the same time.

“Fuck,” he curses again, rocking a little as he wraps his arms around his belly. His stomach feels like a tight, compressed, upset, unmoving orb stuffed full of heavy food and wine.

Dimi swallows thickly again. It’s a heavy, wet sound that rolls down his throat. Every bite of meat, every dense bite of bread, every sticky pastry, every gulp of sweet wine— it’s all packed too heavily into his tummy, too much— and too wrong— to stay down and be digested. His human hand presses tentatively into the lower swell of his belly, and he feels a sluggish, slow, wet, useless roll move under his fingers, attempting digestion that doesn’t seem like it’ll ever come.

An unhappy, churning gurgle rumbles through the pit of his belly. The sound echoes off the cavern walls around him. He tries to rub his belly, kneading the bulge of his stomach in the hopes that the pressure will release a little, but still, nothing happens. His tummy won’t give.

A sudden, violent flip in his belly makes him groan. His stomach contracts and sloshes, rolling in place. A tight, uncomfortable belch bubbles up. It’s thick and bitter, and all he can taste is rancid meat and sickly-sweet dough. The mouthful is sour and acidic, and he groans as his breath hitches.

It had to have been a trap. He got fucking tricked, he ate— he ate so many bad things, and they’re just starting to destroy his stomach.

“Fuck,” Dimi whines. “What the fuck?”

His stomach feels like it's full of gurgling rocks. It churns before snarling angrily, his guts curdling and lower belly coiling tight, and he groans again, pressing his hands hard against his belly.

Dimi slowly sinks down to sit on the ground in the cave he’s found himself in. His hands find his stomach again, stroking in and out over the front. Everything he ate is just sitting there and churning, so packed in that he doesn’t know what to do. He tries to press more firmly in his strokes over his belly, but it’s so full and uncomfortable that nothing really gets better.

A low, grumbling gurgle moves through the pit of his stomach. His hands instinctively hold onto the lower curve of his bloated stomach, clutching his belly before he starts slowly trying to rub it again. The unsettled weight inside of him barely moves, as if the gurgles are coming from far deeper inside of it— or beneath the mass inside him, somehow.

Pressure builds up under his ribs. Sitting on the ground like this, he can look down at his belly and see how round it is, sitting heavily in his lap.

Dimi sucks in and swallows a few gulps of air. Forcing it down into his belly, he’s hoping to work up a belch that might help, but instead, the air just feels like it’s packing him tighter. Dimi shifts, clutching his belly, trying to work it up, and a thicker, louder, deeper gurgle rolls through his lower stomach. He can feel it bubbling under his hand before it stops abruptly, as if it hit something solid and refused to move any further.

Desperate for any sort of relief, Dimi presses down on his stomach, kneading into the lower curve where he felt the gurgling, hoping he can encourage it to push along through his system and give him relief.

“Fuck, I don’t feel good,” Dimi groans out loud to nobody. His words echo off the cavern walls. “What the fuck did I eat?”

His only answer is an upset, sluggish roll twisting in his belly. He can feel what he ate trying to move through him and failing. His stomach feels like a muddy swamp being stirred so, so slowly.

A deep belch forces its way up unexpectedly. His stomach turns, and he groans, leaning forward to massage his belly and coax it up. It’s slow and thick, like it has to fight out of him, and when it finally rumbles out of his mouth, he can taste all that greasy meat and sour wine and sickly sweetness again.

His stomach shifts under his hand as a gurgle pulses through it again. His lower belly cramps before another thick, sluggish churn twists through him. It feels like everything he ate is shifting slightly against itself, pressing and sliding together without actually starting to digest.

A gurgling series of bubbles rumbles through the center of his belly. He kneads into his gut just above his navel, trying to help himself digest or at least to calm it down, but all he succeeds in doing is dragging a louder gurgle through his stomach.

He curls around his belly on the ground, tilting to his side to lay down. He’s starting to feel queasy, and he rubs his stomach harder, groaning, “Come on. Just relax.”

Deep in the pit of his belly, he feels a massive shift. It’s like a slow, heavy flip of his stomach contents as everything inside him is forced to turn over itself. There’s a thick heaviness growling and sour in the lower mass of his tummy, and he kneads at his belly harder.

His stomach snarls. It’s a hollow, gurgling groan, and he shifts a little, sitting up to pull his bag off of his shoulder. He gingerly dresses himself in a tunic and rough trousers, leaving the fastens on the trousers open to make space for his upset tummy.

He keeps digging through his bag, then thinks he knows what he can do to make his stomach settle. He has food and potions in here, too. He just needs to get a couple of them to go down and stay down to make them work.

The first thing he pulls out is his travel biscuits. They’re dried-out and rock-hard. He has to take a steadying breath just to get them in, his stomach growling again, before he chews each small bite for a long time to force them down, and his mouth is already so dry. In his pack he also has some salt pork, tough and chewy and salty. It’s an effort to chew everything right now, and his stomach sends up a violent gurgle, but he forces down the stringy salted meat anyways. He feels compelled to. He just has to eat it.

Between the dry biscuits and the salt pork, he’s feeling thirsty, too. Dimi pulls his flask out and chugs about half of his water, gulping it down into his belly. It rumbles again, and he can feel the water combining with the hardtack to expand in his stomach, absorbing the liquid and becoming a heavy, thick, dense weight, adding to the lumps in his stomach.

Dimi lowers his water flask and takes a deep breath. He looks in his bag for something that won’t be so heavy, wondering what the wolf might like. He’s got trail mix— a small satchel filled with bits of apricots, figs, raisins, almonds, walnuts, small pieces of bread and bits of cheese. It’s probably his best option.

And, for some reason, he needs to eat it.

Dimi pulls out a handful of his trail mix. It’s sweet and hopefully gentle and easy to snack on, and he pushes in bite after bite, unable to stop himself.

His stomach flips again, feeling like everything turns over itself. But he’s so full— he’s so full, he doesn’t know how he didn’t realize, and his stomach is feeling so, so upset. How did he not notice?

Dimi slows down eating the trail mix. It doesn’t really matter; it’s almost gone anyway. Everything he ate is sitting so heavily in his stomach, still refusing to digest. His upper belly feels oily and bloated; his lower tummy is gassy and crampy.

“What the fuck was that?” Dimi asks out loud to nobody. He wishes he could go back in time and stop himself from eating from the altar, but it’s done now.

Maybe he just needs everything he ate to settle down. Or digest. Or just— Maybe he should just get it out.

Dimi digs through his bag again. He’s looking for something different this time, and he pulls out a stomach healing potion. He’s gotten sick enough times as a wolf that he keeps one on himself at all times; he swirls the bottle around, observing the thick, syrupy, prune-thick potion. It’s meant to get things moving and aid digestion, and nothing is really digesting; this is probably what he should be drinking. He just overate. That’s it. That has to be it.

The pit of his stomach feels so heavy and swollen. He slowly strokes across his belly as he uncorks his potion with his teeth. A thick, sluggish gurgle moves through his tummy, and he shifts again, sitting up and scooting to sit back against the rough cavern wall.

His stomach still isn’t really moving that much— at least, not as much as it should be. There’s occasional shifting, random rumbles in the upper swell of his tummy, but it mostly just feels like everything is sitting wrong in his belly in a huge, dense lump. His pack is spilled open beside him, ration wrappers scattered. He can feel everything inside of him, his stomach obviously stretched and packed when he keeps rubbing it. It doesn’t even feel that bloated, necessarily— though there is some bloat— it’s just so full.

A low gurgle ripples through his lower belly, and Dimi exhales slowly through his mouth, eyes closing, head tilting back against the wall. The stomach potion is still clutched in his hand, and he takes a few more deep breaths through his mouth before bringing it to his lips.

The potion is meant to help. That’s what it’s for— moving things along, helping him digest, easing his upset stomach when things don’t sit right.

As he gulps it down, his stomach flips again. Another low churn moves through his belly, shifting everything in his belly from the pit up to his ribs, and then it swirls.

Dimi drops the vial aside. Both of his hands come to his belly now, palms pressing in firmly as he strokes in and out, trying to get the potion to settle and work— trying to get anything in his tummy to settle and work.

A little rumble moves through his stomach again, and a hiccup burps upwards that tastes like fatty meat and fruit and bread and the oily herbal potion. Dimi breathes out again, continuing to rub his belly as the potion hits and the mass inside his stomach lurches.

A loud, rumbling gurgle tears deep through his guts as a violent churn twists his stomach. It’s the most movement he’s felt so far, and he feels a brief moment of flickering relief that something is actually moving.

It’s only a moment of relief, though. Because then he realizes that it’s continuing to move.

His stomach shifts again, and a thick, liquidy gurgle rumbles through him. The next heavy, sluggish rumble snarls through the center of his belly. It drags upwards, burbling through the mass of food inside him and forcing its way up.

And then another gurgle.

And then another.

They’re non-stop, basically overlapping each other. The potion almost instantly makes his stomach start reacting violently around everything sitting inside him, and his guts rumble loudly, a series of burbles and liquid sloshing as some of what he ate is forced to move through his lower tummy.

Another loud snarl ripples through his intestines. Dimi feels a surge of pressure, and he groans again, rubbing below his navel. He can feel so much gurgling and bubbling right there, the potion shoving things through him so quickly. He can't stop it when his tummy rumbles again, churns, and then makes him force out a huge, stomach-turning fart.

“Shit,” he curses as he looks around. It feels like too much to hope that this place would have a privy, but— he is alone.

He doesn't really have an option anyway. His guts gurgle loudly again, pressure racing through them, bubbles popping and snarling thickly through his intestines, and he yanks his trousers down as he rises up into a squat, kneading his belly as it growls angrily at him.

His stomach turns, belly grumbling, before his lower half opens up. A rush of liquid forces itself out of him and onto the ground, his stomach swirling to push up so many more gurgles as it happens.

Dimi groans, planting one hand on the ground and using the other to stroke his lower tummy, trying to get everything moving through. He closes his eyes and another waterfall of diarrhea comes out of him as he moans.

At least, he hopes this will make his stomach feel better. Just get it all out.

His stomach squelches before he bears down, forcing out another wave of diarrhea in liquidy chunks. It smells horrible, but he keeps stroking his belly firmly across the swell, trying to make everything come out.

Once his belly snarls and seems to come to a stop, Dimi takes a deep breath.

It’s hard to take a deep breath.

Confused, he rubs slowly across his belly again. It doesn’t feel like he just got a lot out. Somehow, despite how much he expelled it doesn’t feel less full at all; if anything, he feels more full. For a second, it felt like he’d been able to release something, but now his stomach is bulging again, fuller and tighter and heavier than it was before he started shitting.

“What the hell?” he curses, stroking slowly across his belly as it churns again. When he bears down again, he manages to push out even more, but his stomach just still feels so swollen. There’s barely any sense of relief before his stomach is just so full all over again.

A sick belch rumbles up out of him. His insides swirl, sloshing as he tries to shakily stand up. His tummy is so full, so upset, and he moans before another queasy burp rumbles out of him, tasting salty and bitter and thick.

“Fuck,” he curses again, rubbing hard at his upset stomach. He definitely must have ate too much. His stomach hitches under his hand, lurching upwards, and he swallows it back down before hiccuping.

With another groan, Dimi shuffles away from the mess he’s made on the ground and kneels down on the other side of the room, leaning against the wall. He massages his belly, feeling it rumble under his hand; he feels so stuffed, and his stomach definitely isn’t digesting. Maybe it just needs to come out another way. He definitely feels queasy enough for that to be a possibility.

The potion is definitely getting things moving inside him. It feels like his entire belly is churning now, swirling constantly and sending out a non-stop string of gurgling rumbles. He can feel it continuously rippling under his hand, he’s packed so tight.

His stomach lurches upwards again with a nauseating belch. Dimi leans forward, gagging, then spitting up a trickle of vomit onto the floor. He sniffles, then gags again, trying to cough the contents of his stomach up so this torture will end. His insides are churning, nauseating swirls in his belly as it rolls again. There’s so much pressure inside of him, his guts cramping again at the same time a violent snarl ripples up to his throat.

Dimi kneads into his stomach. It feels like everything inside him is moving now but refusing to digest, like he ate three dinners’ worth of food in one go, and it’s too upset, shifting around and around and around, burbling non-stop.

He catches himself against the wall as he slides to the side. His stomach sloshes, all the food in him refusing to settle even after everything he forced out the other end. As he finds his way to the ground, he gets onto his knees, his hands clutching his thighs, leaning forward over his stomach and panting. His mouth keeps filling with saliva that he lets drool out of him onto the stone and dirt below, unwilling to keep swallowing it into his packed belly.

His stomach roils, lurching upwards again, and he clutches it in one hand with a groan as he leans further forward. He can’t get as far as he expects to be able to. His middle feels huge, taking up the space in his lap. It feels like his belly is bulging, and he groans, rubbing harder across the middle of it as everything inside pitches from side to side like sloshing, gurgling waves.

There’s barely enough room for everything in his belly. When he burps again, it’s more of a retch, and he feels everything in his stomach lurch upwards. He tries to cough and retch harder to help it along, pushing into the center of his tummy.

A loud, squelching gurgle glugs upwards, his stomach rumbling under his hand as he feels it hitch up again. This time, he feels the thickness in the back of his throat, and he bows forward, clutching his stomach, to vomit up a huge, chunky wave of puke onto the ground. It’s barely digested, clumps of food sitting in the soupy mess of wine and water and bile and potion, and he pants, vomit dangling from his lips, before his belly lurches upwards again and he leans forward again, a fountain of vomit pouring out of him without much effort at all this time.

“Gods,” Dimi groans, clutching his stomach as it continues to churn, forcing up another belching gush. The puddle on the ground is getting bigger and bigger, but he can’t get himself to move as his stomach jerks under his hand, gurgles loudly, and he gags, choking up another rush of vomit onto the ground, tasting like bitter wine and sour meat and moldy bread.

The contents of his stomach just won’t stop moving now. He has a brief sensation of his belly emptying as he coughs and retches up another huge waterfall of sludgy vomit from the pit of his stomach. It’s almost a relief.

Then, right under his hand, he can feel his stomach expanding.

Dimi looks down, confused and shocked, to see his belly stretching. Inside, it feels like his stomach is getting full again— or more full than it even had been, even though he’s not eating anything more. He should be emptying out, not filling up.

Everything sort of starts to click together as his belly churns, massive pressure building under his ribs and around his navel while his tummy expands just to try and take the sheer amount of dense food and liquid rumbling and appearing and multiplying inside of him. His stomach quickly gets round and firm under his hand, so full that the food inside him is barely able to swirl around like it has been.

The food he ate— it had to have been cursed. He can’t think of any other explanation. And he thinks it might be cursed to keep going back into his stomach after it comes out— maybe to even double or triple or something every time it does, based on how extraordinarily full he feels comparatively. There doesn’t feel like there’s any room left in his belly anymore.

A violent, aggressive gurgle forces its way through his middle. There’s barely any space for it to even be churning, he’s so full.

His guts gurgle again, loud and wet and thick. He groans, pushing his hand into his lower stomach, trying to knead his cramping belly. His nausea surges again at the same time that a huge rumble of pressure burbles through his guts, but he shakes his head, clenching tight and clamping his hand over his mouth.

The more that comes out, he thinks, the worse it gets— so he can’t let anymore come out. He just needs to— to keep everything inside until it digests, and then the curse should be broken. Right?

Dimi wraps his arms around his stomach, rubbing hard at the sides of his swollen belly. It feels so full, and it’s churning so much, even though there’s just not enough space for everything. His nausea spikes again, his guts gurgling, and he strokes in firmer sweeps of his hands, still bent on his knees, trying to keep everything inside of him and stop it from moving and swirling and sloshing so much.

A liquidy burble rumbles through his belly, squelching as it gets higher up towards his throat and he has to forcibly swallow it back. The liquid must be multiplying, too; he’s stuffed with all the food and wine, sloshy and so nauseated his vision is kind of splotchy and patchy.

“Mmm…” he groans, rubbing hard in and out over his belly with both hands. His nausea is only growing more by the moment, as is the pressure building up and bubbling in his guts. When his belly flips once more, turning over and over and over itself, his lower belly cramps hard again.

When he shifts, his stomach audibly sloshes again. He groans, letting up a small, rumbly burp that does nothing to relieve the pressure. His guts feel like a boiling pot of stew about to spill over, burbling and bubbling constantly and audibly inside of him.

He shakes his head, breathing out a harsh breath. He has to keep swallowing down thick, sour, bitter saliva when it fills his mouth, his body preparing to eject everything again— but that’s just because it thinks it’ll make him feel better. He can’t convince it of what he knows, that it will only make everything worse.

His stomach cramps hard, and Dimi tries to massage his aching belly to keep everything inside. His lower belly snarls again, though, and a sick fart gurgles out of him. When his tummy grumbles angrily, so full and bloated that he doesn’t even know how it’s all fitting inside him, he makes a small whimper of a sound, massaging his stomach, trying desperately to get it to just calm down.

Instead, everything inside him lurches upwards again. Dimi clamps his hand over his mouth. A long, low belch churns upwards and bursts out of his mouth, and he groans again as his nausea spikes.

“Fuck, I don’t feel good,” Dimi whines, rubbing his belly as hard as he can. It churns in a slow swirl, refusing to digest anything, barely able to move anything inside his stomach. He’s scared of what will happen if he can’t keep everything down, if he’s already this full now.

He looks to his bag, wondering if he can even make it over to it without erupting from one end, or the other, or both. Maybe there’s another potion he can try, one that will get rid of the curse and all the hexed food and bubbling wine inside of him. Burbling pressure snarls through his guts, and he huffs, pushing himself back up to his feet.

His stomach swirls again, everything inside of him turning over itself with a thick gluuuuuuurp that spins in his tummy. He groans, another sick belch rumbling out of him. All the pressure keeps trying to force its way out of him in both directions, but he clenches hard, making his slow, nauseated way back to his bag.

When he gets back to it, he falls down to his knees again. His stomach sloshes, bringing up a thick, heavy burp that almost turns wet at the end.

“No, stop,” Dimi complains, clutching his belly as it hitches upwards again. A huge belch rips out of him, and he whines, “Mmmnnmmm…”

It’s so hard to keep it all inside of him. It wants to come out so badly— it has to come out, he can’t keep it in. He’s so nauseated, he can feel the vomit sitting in the back of his throat, his stomach practically undulating as it tries to push everything up and out. At the same time, his intestines gurgle with the wet thickness snarling through it, and he has to clench again, bending over double, his forehead nearly touching the ground as he clutches his churning stomach and internally begs his body not to throw up or shit.

Panting, Dimi drags himself forward enough to dig through his bag again. He’s got a few options that might help; the Digestive Elixir, which is meant to kickstart digestion in an upset stomach and make everything digest and break down faster; the Purification Tonic, which is supposed to cleanse his body of any toxins and reject anything bad inside of him; or he could try the Warming Draught, meant to soothe cramps, help digestion, and warm his belly like it’s a hot water bottle.

Considering his options for a second too long means that Dimi’s stomach starts to cramp again. There’s no way it can digest everything on its own well enough for him not to get sick again, and if he does get sick again out of either end, he thinks he might just burst in the aftermath.

Dimi grabs for the closest bottle, the Purification Tonic. It’s teal-colored and sharply minty when he uncorks it and brings it up to his mouth. His stomach lurches just thinking of adding anything more into it, but he has to do something, and this will get the cursed toxins out of him. He hopes.

Taking a deep breath, Dimi brings the tonic up to his mouth and chugs it. His throat immediately tightens, his belly lurching and threatening to heave everything back up as soon as the potion slides into him. There’s just no room for it, and he groans, dropping the vial so it smashes on the ground as he swallows over and over and kneads hard across the huge swell of his belly, trying to get the potion to stay down.

The next noise his stomach makes is a snarling gurgle so loud it echoes off the walls again. Dimi pushes his hand over his mouth, burping thickly into his palm, tasting mint and meat, feeling it almost turn into a wet retch at the end. His stomach swirls as he forces everything back down, refusing to settle or digest—

Right, digesting.

Dimi reaches back into his bag and grabs the Digestive Elixir. His belly won’t stop growling, forcing gurgling burps and hiccups up in a continuous train before his guts grumble and he releases another sick fart.

Nothing feels like it’s emptying his stomach. He feels so huge and so sick and so full, he can’t stand it.

Breathing hard, he pulls out the stopper for the Digestive Elixir. He just needs to digest what he can, let the other potions work, get everything out— including the curse— and then he’ll be fine. He has to be, because he doesn’t know any other options here.

The elixir has a fruity scent when he brings it to his lips. It makes him gag again, but he swallows thickly before tossing it back. He has to hold his breath, and still, his gorge rises, trying to push it back out of him. Throwing that empty vial aside, too, Dimi grabs his stomach, rubbing hard across the center to try and get the potions to stay down.

It feels like the strawberry-flavored Digestive Elixir is sitting at the back of his throat. He groans, another heavy gurgle rolling through his belly in a wave as it tries to force it up, but he shakes his head, kneading into his belly right above his navel.

“Stay,” he whimpers before he burps again. A little bit of the elixir comes up in a splash in the back of his throat, and he gulps it back down with a harsh swallow of air that makes his stomach snarl at him.

Dimi sits on the ground with his legs spread, his belly heavy as he strokes in firm circles against the sides, trying to get everything to digest and encourage the potions to work so the curse will leave him.

That’s when, underneath his hands, he can feel his swollen stomach almost tighten, becoming a hard, snarling bulge beneath his palms. He hiccups as another burble rises up, bubbling in the back of his throat.

“What the fucking hells?” he groans as his entire abdomen cramps. His belly is churning inside, non-stop bubbling and gurgling, and now his muscles are contracting tight around his stomach as it tries to force and rush digestion. “Get out of me.”

Another sick belch rolls out of him, tasting like the potions and the food, a nauseating mixture of prunes and mint and strawberry and meat and wine and honey and stomach acid, the burning taste of bile in his chest and throat. Before he can stop it, another rumbling burp comes up.

“Please,” he begs his stomach. “Please. Just relax. It’ll only get worse if—”

He interrupts himself when his belly gurgles, his guts churn, his intestines pop and bubble with gas, and a huge fart rumbles out of him. He reaches back, checking if he started to shit himself, but breathes a sigh of relief when his fingers come back dry.

Dimi’s trousers are undone, but his stomach feels so full that it’s constrained by them anyway. It’s hard to get his hand past the loose waistband, so he moves his hand around to the front and pushes his trousers down. He shouldn’t have bothered putting them on in the first place; he strips them all the way off and stuffs them in his bag. His belly is so bloated and huge that his tunic is tight against it, and he pushes the hem up, rubbing underneath his distended stomach before he strips the tunic off altogether and tosses it to join his trousers and the remaining contents of the bag.

Without any clothes on, Dimi shifts to curl up on the ground again, his legs coming up as high as they can and his arms wrapping around his sloshing, sickly belly. He has to keep swallowing as his mouth floods with saliva over and over and over again. His stomach is gurgling more angrily now as he forces the potions to stay down.

The first potion, the stomach healing potion, has done what it’s meant to do and got things moving— though it doesn’t seem to be aiding digesting too well. Or maybe it is doing it too well, he thinks as his lower belly gurgles again, his intestines ready to burst.

The second potion was meant to cleanse his body of toxins and reject everything bad inside him, and the third was meant to make everything break down faster. Together, the three have got everything in his stomach churning violently, preparing to attempt to digest everything inside of him, but— but he doesn’t think it’s working.

His tummy gurgles angrily again, his middle sloshing around and around as his guts grumble loudly. It’s difficult for his lungs to inflate all the way when he breathes; with every strained breath, he feels his stomach contract. When he continues to rub his belly, he brings a deep, low, wet burp out that almost makes him puke again.

“No,” he groans. “I feel so sick, I don’t…” His churning stomach snarls again before another loud fart comes out. “I don’t feel good, I don’t, I don’t feel good, I—”

He’s cut off by another belch, bigger this time. He keeps trying to rub his belly as hard as he can, desperate in the circles he’s kneading into it, trying to encourage the potions to work and his stomach to digest and the curse to come out. He’s got no idea what to do, he doesn’t know how to overcome this curse as his insides shudder with another gurgling stream of bubbles.

Dimi rubs harder against the side of his stomach, trying so hard to encourage it to digest and calm down. He feels huge as he burps again, a deep belch followed by a deeper fart, and he moans out loud, turning his face into the dirt ground.

“I can’t be sick, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” he chants weakly as his stomach keeps furiously shifting back and forth, bubbling inside of him. “Please— Please—”

It feels like his body is preparing to expel everything in him. Maybe the potion that was meant to get the bad stuff out has— has decided that everything is bad— and everything feels bad, so it’s not like he can blame the potion for that— but he does, now that it’s trying to make the entire contents of his stomach revolt and purge out of him instead of processing through him.

His stomach roils again. Everything inside of his belly feels like it keeps shoving itself around, too full to be moving so much, and his nausea spikes again, refusing too leave.

Once again, his stomach lurches upwards, and he groans, clamping his mouth shut, swallowing forcefully. His lower guts grumble at the same time, everything trying to move upwards and downwards at the same time, and he doesn’t want anything to come out, he doesn’t, but his stomach hurts so badly and it’s so hard to keep everything inside of him.

“Gods, please,” Dimi groans before another sick burp rumbles up. His insides keep lurching, trying to heave upwards, and he belches again before he shifts onto his hands and knees. He doesn’t want to be sick, but he’s not sure he can control this situation anymore, can’t have what he wants.

His mind is panicking as he knows— he knows— that everything that leaves his belly will come right back in and doubled, but he really can’t stop it. His stomach is so full and upset that he knows it can’t stay down, or in.

“I shouldn’t have eaten that, I’m sorry,” he begs. “Please, just— just stop, I’m so full, I can’t be sick again, I can’t, please, just let me go.”

He doesn’t even know who he’s talking to. Basically, he’s begging the universe, and every god that has ever existed, and— and his stomach, all at the same time. The nausea and pain are getting so severe that he feels like he’d trade anything to have this end. It feels like he’s going to burst, and he’s not sure he can stop himself from getting sick again.

It’s so hard to breathe. His lungs can’t expand all the way, and he grabs his stomach again, not knowing what else to do. His palm doesn’t even begin to cover the side of his huge belly, despite how big his hands are, and he rubs in another slow, firm circle into the packed, churning swell of his belly. His lower guts gurgle loudly again, a heavy, thick roll that burbles through him and refuses to stop.

The next slosh in his belly pushes everything upwards again. His insides release another low, slow guuuuuuuuuurgle, and he groans, rubbing harder circles into the side of his belly, hoping that it’ll just settle down.

This time, though, when he pushes into his stomach, he feels everything inside slosh again. His tummy twists in response to being kneaded that way, and his nausea spikes, and he moans loudly, wrapping one arm around his stomach, the other still planted on the ground to keep himself upright.

Despite trying to keep everything inside, he can’t help but let all the thick, bitter saliva drool out of his mouth. It’s too much, and he just can’t keep swallowing it.

A louder, wetter, angrier guuuuuurble moves through his belly. It just won’t stop churning, and he whines, spitting right onto the ground. The noise gurgling out of his belly is non-stop; he clutches it, feeling another upset burble ripple through his stomach.

Every movement in his stomach is getting more and more violent. There’s just not enough space in his belly for everything to churn the way it is, but that doesn’t seem to stop it from turning over and over and over itself.

“Gods, it’s too much,” Dimi whimpers over the puddle of saliva in the dirt before he spits again. “It’s too much, I’m going to be sick, I can’t, I feel so sick, I’m—”

Another loud, rumbling gurgle moves through his belly. He rubs slowly across his stomach, but it’s more automatic than anything else now. He just wants it all to stop, and he doesn’t know how. The potions aren’t working, and he’s going to be sick, he knows it, so it’ll get worse— and then what happens—

A heavy, loud gllllluuuuuuurp rolls through his belly so thickly. There’s barely any space for everything to move, but it still swirls and churns, the potions making his tummy too active, too upset, on top of everything else—

His mouth floods with saliva once again that he lets drool onto the ground continuously. He tries to roll over again, falling onto his side, clutching his stomach; his other hand, he clamps over his mouth, but it’s wet in moments. He can’t stop the sick spit from continuing to gather in his mouth.

“Gods,” he groans into his palm, choked by nausea. “Please, please—”

Another wet, horrible belch rolls up, his stomach heaving up with it. He scrunches his eyes shut, panting, before another burp gurgles out, then another, then another. His guts grumble loudly, liquid forcing through them; he presses harder into his abdomen, trying to soothe it, but it’s hopeless, hopeless, he’s fighting a losing battle, he can’t win.

It feels like he’s going to throw up and shit himself at the same time. He’s trying so desperately not to, but it just— he just can’t.

Somehow, even though he knows his stomach isn’t really digesting, his guts feel full. His lower belly cramps hard, and he clenches as hard as he can, but he can’t stop it, it’s too much.

“Nooooooo,” he groans as a runny mess of shit rushes out of him. His guts cramp again, all the muscles contracting as too much rushes through his intestines, and another gush of diarrhea bursts out of him. His upset stomach rumbles before a deep, nasty, gurgling burp rumbles out of him.

At the same time that another gush of shit pushes out of him, he gags, his gurgling stomach pushing up another massive burp before he belches a wave of vomit into his mouth. Shaking his head, he swallows it back down, just trying to keep it in, but his stomach snarls so loudly when he forces it down into it that he immediately regrets it.

His stomach won’t stop gurgling as he brings up another wine-red stream of puke. His chest burns as it comes up before his stomach churns again and he heaves up another gush of the cursed food stuffing his stomach at the same time that he blasts a huge mess of shit all over himself, the ground, and the cave wall.

Again, there’s only the brief sensation of relief of emptying his stomach before it starts to fill again. Dimi just barely manages to crawl to the side and topple over as the amount that was just in his belly doubles again.

“No, no—” he cries out before he moans, “Mmmmnnnn—”

The contents of his stomach keep multiplying until it feels like there’s no space left in his belly at all, so unbearably full that it feels solid, it’s just— it’s become just a huge, upset ball bulging out from his middle. The gurgling that keeps running up the back of his belly never actually reaches his throat, and he gasps for air, trying to breathe past the stomachache.

It’s not really a stomachache, though. It’s— It feels like he’s going to explode, it really does, and every gurgle and ripple and churn feels horrible, there’s just no space for it.

His nausea spikes, and he can’t control anything that happens. His stomach is just so full, and he starts vomiting again, clutching his stomach as he leans forward and adds to the huge puddle of puke he’s already choked up. Shifting upwards to kneel on the ground, his belly fills his lap, so huge he’s surprised he hasn’t burst yet.

Part of the curse must be the way some of the multiplying food is rushing through his guts. A wet mess explodes from his ass before he gags, then retches again, surging up inside of him. His belly is churning so violently, and he realizes— he realizes that the food is multiplying, the wine, the snacks from his bag, the water, the potions, everything, everything is multiplying, and his stomach is churning in such aggressive ripples that he can see it lurching under his hand.

“No, no, no,” he groans, his throat raw and pathetic, before he shits onto the ground beneath him again. Still kneeling, he clutches his belly— and that only drives home how huge his stomach has become, because his hands are so much smaller compared to his tummy than they were, and he burps loudly again as his stomach gurgles and pushes up another huge belch after another.

Another devastating spike of nausea surges through him, and he can’t move forward. His stomach has gotten too big for him to lean forward, so he only manages to burp and gush up a waterfall of vomit over his own chest and stomach, dripping off of him onto the ground.

It’s too much, it’s too much, his stomach is already refilling, the contents multiplying further. There’s not even a moment of relief this time, it happens too fast. His stomach expands as he tilts to the side and vomits down over his belly again. It’s so distended, and he keeps trying to rub it, but it’s just so full, it’s too full, and he can’t keep it down, he can’t keep it in, he can’t—

It won’t stop, it just won’t. His stomach just keeps roiling, he keeps emptying liquid shit out of his ass and pouring vomit forward over his own belly as it expands further and further. His brain gets fuzzy, his vision spotty, and he grabs for his bag. It’s almost impossible to move; he keeps emptying himself as he does, unable to stop it, the mess on the ground growing bigger and bigger as he stops being able to control the way everything is erupting out of both ends.

He digs through his bag and finds his sending stone. With his vision splotching, and one hand clutching his belly, the other brings the sending stone up and says into it, “Help, I need help,” and hopes that the message gets to Jorrvaskr— and that help comes from Jorrvaskr— before he actually explodes.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

prompts:

"my prompt is anything dimi and both ends please 💖" (anonymous)

"your fics and your writing are easily some of the best! could we please have some fic, any fic, involving both ends? pretty please?" (anonymous)

"I need you to know that Dimi and his poorly tummy live in my head rent free….. obsessed with the concept of him falling afoul of a curse that means everything he expels from his belly will reappear inside him twicefold. Maybe he doesn't realise at first and is so confused when he uses the privy and only gets more sick and bloated instead of relieved. So he's desperately trying to keep everything inside him, even though he has an urgently sick belly (which has to give at some point)" (anonymous)

"If you're still active and writing- would you ever write something like that again? Like a werewolf absolutely gorging themselves to the point of sickness, but unable to stop, just filling their belly bigger and bigger, as it struggles harder and harder to contain everything? Belly kinks are everything, man!" (anonymous)

"can you do belly rubs, stuffing, and being so inflated that they can barely breathe? any of your OC’s is ok :)" (anonymous)

"hi!!! can you do stuffing and belly rubs with any of your oc’s :)" (anonymous)

“Feeling pretty normal,” she answers. “I didn’t eat much beforehand, just in case. It’ll probably be easier to bring it up after if I don’t have too much in there.”

The message box dings, showing Stewart76 asking what she’s had to eat today.

“Not much,” she tells them. “The last time I ate was, umm…” With a squint at the computer’s lower clock, she says, “Yeah, maybe about an hour ago. I had a couple of microwave corndogs and taquitos with a grape pop to prepare my stomach a little. And, let me think…” She reflects on her day, knowing she ate just enough to tease them as she draws it out. “I got a pizza for lunch, with grilled chicken and broccoli on it because I’m watching my figure.”

Joan slaps her hand against the bare, freckled skin of her exposed belly right below her crop top’s hem. She earns a couple more tips in the process, making her grin. Flange7Flange comments that they’re watching her figure, too.

“Love you guys.” She blows a kiss. “I got breakfast with my sister this morning. Got myself bacon, over-easy eggs, a couple of maple donuts, and coffee. Oh, and I got a side plate, chicken and waffles.” She waves a hand, as if dismissive. “She had the same thing, we’re pretty good at putting food away. That’s a conservative breakfast for me, compared to a normal day, if I’m being honest.”

The fact that you didn’t have dinner is impressive, sends Stewart76.

“Right?” she agrees. “I’m pretty hungry.”

She’s not that hungry, but she’s really not that full, either. She just knows how to put on a show.

“Okay — can you see the timer on the screen?” she asks, and chat affirms that they can for her. A couple more tips even come through as she unscrews the top of the milk jug. “Whole milk for us today, as you can see.” She sweeps her fingers along the condensation gathered on the side. “And still cold. Lucky me.”

With a shift in her chair to sit forward, she stretches and pushes for the timer to start.

“Here we go,” she says as she tilts her head back, bringing in the first thick, cold, creamy mouthful of milk. It’s so cold that she can feel it rush down her throat and into her stomach, can feel exactly where it lands inside her belly. Her stomach sloshes, accepting the inclusion of three gulps that taste sweet and good going down.

They also bring up a hiccup, and she pulls back to muffle it in the back of her hand. She reaches out and pulls her stomach microphone closer to her belly.

“That’s good,” she comments. “Oh, this is going to be easy.”

Her voice is like a radio announcer, steady, confident, a little teasing.

It is easy to lift the gallon jug back up again with both hands, though it is not feeling too much lighter yet. The next few big sips slide down smoothly, the cold liquid slipping to join in with the meals her stomach’s been digesting all day. She can feel the moment when her belly starts filling up more, the milk beginning to pile up. That’s when she pulls the jug away to set down again.

Joan sucks in a deep breath when she can. Afterwards, there’s a grumble of pressure in her belly that brings up a belch. It has a little milk licking upwards with it that she swallows back.

“Mm.” She rubs her hand across her stomach, fingers pressing into the lower curve. She finds a little pocket of pressure that she pushes upwards into another belch. “That feels good. And we’re just getting started.”

A slow hand rubs over the bottom curve of her belly, bringing up one last burp that comes out low and thick with milk. Right after, she brings the jug back up — “No breaks unless necessary!” she reminds the chat — and she takes another big gulp.

Inside, her stomach actually starts to respond for the first time to the swallows of milk. There’s a faint gurgle as the milk packs on top of the semi-digested food and the milk already inside her. She swigs a few times, opening her throat to let it flow in as her throat works around it.

She has to pull the jug away this time when she feels a rumble of pressure rapidly working its way up. Her chest burns with the swell as it belches up and out of her.

“Wow,” she breathes before a smaller, thicker burp comes up. “Wow, there we go.”

A milky squelch sloshes noticeably loudly. She can see by her audio spikes that the microphone caught the sounds clearly. When she presses her hand against the center of her stomach, another growl echoes through it. Joan has to lean forward to rearrange the pressure gathering at the top of her belly.

“Getting there, chat,” she says. She burps again and tastes sweetness, from the milk and — she thinks she can taste maple. After blowing out a breath, she fights against the urge to get up and walk around. Instead, she makes herself lift the jug to her lips again.

With a few more thick swallows — why did she choose whole milk — the cold heaviness filling her up starts to become a bit… dense. Her stomach is starting to feel full. In the camera, it looks full, filling her lap as she rubs across the front of it. Her belly sloshes as it fills with the thick liquid, gulped down until she needs to take another gasping breath.

Checking the clock shows her that only about thirteen minutes have passed. Another hollow growl rolls through her belly, a gurgle following right after it. It’s long and loud when it rolls through her stomach, and she groans.

The faint tickle of unease is starting to grumble in her tummy. Her face feels hot and sweaty, a fact confirmed by SandoSander commenting: Look at how red she’s getting!

“Honey, I’m always red,” she reminds them with a little toss of her hair. Even though it’s in a bun, she thinks the point got across.

Joan is examining her own reflection — her red, grinning face, the jug she’s clutching in one hand, the other hand rubbing across her belly as if doing it all on its own — when a huge roll of pressure growls up into her chest. She prepares for a burp, but nothing comes. Instead, the pressure just pushes itself back downwards. It comes to a rest at the top of her belly, her crop top t-shirt noticeably tighter against the rapid bloating there.

“Oh, shit, that doesn’t feel good,” she comments.

With a rub at her chest with the heel of her hand, she hopes to bring up another belch, but it won’t come. She returns her hand downwards instead, pushing her palm hard back and forth across the top of her bloated belly, feeling the thick gas being shoved around before she actually does manage to lean forward and bring up a huge belch.

“Shit,” she comments again before another burp spills out. This one brings up a mouthful of regurgitated milk. Closing her eyes, Joan swallows over and over to bring it back down. “Wow. Okay. Just…” She blows out another breath, still stroking across the swelling of her stomach as it felt like the upper curve stretched. A churn rolls through her stomach. It’s wet and sloshing with milk, then followed by an immediate snarl that pushes up a small, unrelieving burp.

The timer tells her it’s been twenty-three minutes. With a glance at the jug, she sees she’s about halfway through the milk.

A slow growl rolls through her unsettled belly. She can hear the dings of chat lighting up, but she’s tilting her head back with a groan. Her face is tilted towards the ceiling as she brings up another burp by rubbing her stomach with a hard, unforgiving hand.

Her stomach gave a rumbling protest, but she didn’t think she could burp anymore for the moment. With the way she’s starting to feel and time being almost exactly at halfway, she knows she has to pick up the pace a little.

Her heavy tummy gurgles as she sits up again, and sloshes when she sits forward. Her fingers press tight into her belly, trying to hold it all physically inside.

The chat keeps dinging. She forces her eyes open and her head forward again to read the messages, seeing Stewart76 commenting, Really think you can finish in an hour without bringing it all back up?

“Oh, don’t tease,” she says to him. Her voice is as thick as her throat and the milk — and her stomach. “Just you wait. You know what I’m capable of.”

Every small movement of her body seems to make another glorp echo through her stomach as indigestion and upset start to set in. It’s so sloshy that it keeps giving these squelching, wet grumbles, and the bottom of her belly is starting to feel heavier and heavier while upwards, it’s getting more bloated and gurgly.

One last burp comes up before her next sip. It’s got a faintly salty, greasy edge to it through the sweetness that makes her swallow again and again. A hollow growl rolled its way downwards from the top of her throat all the way down to the pit of her belly, but nothing more came.

“Okay, here we go.” She takes a deep breath before taking the milk up to her mouth again. As she’s starting to swallow it down, her unsettled stomach starts protesting in a low, wet gurgle. It’s getting a little harder to keep swallowing down the milk, and she’s doing it so quickly that her stomach almost seems like it doesn’t know how to react yet — except that it’s starting to get upset.

Another squelch ripples through her tummy. She thinks she can hear the milk hitting more milk in her stomach, glorp-glorp-glorping down into her. A heavy, liquidy sloshing rolls through her slowly, like a slow knead of dough. A nasty rumble rolls through her lower belly that makes her sweat a little more.

She still keeps swallowing until she can’t anymore. Another break forces itself on her with yet another gasp of air. She has to gulp over and over to force down the last swallow. It feels like it’s refusing to go down for a moment before it joins the rest of the mess grumbling in her stomach.

Joan has to move. She puts the milk jug on the desk so she can sit up, placing both feet on the floor. She keeps rubbing over her stomach as she does so, feeling it gurgle inside of her, so she leans forward a little more, taking a harsh breath.

“Holy shit, this was a mistake,” she announces to her audience. Her stomach squelched loudly; her throat is thick, as if the milk is still sitting there, which it sort of feels like it is.

She’s feeling so hot and sweaty now that she rips her cow cardigan off. She throws it back over the back of her armchair to get it out of the way, hoping this will help and knowing that it won’t.

A heavy whine forces itself through her as if squeezed through her belly. It gurgles right in the middle. It’s starting to actually churn a little, the milk upsetting the balance she had had before she started gulping it down — and it definitely doesn’t want to stay down. And the bloat — the bloat is horrendous, starting to fill her with so much lactose air that she doesn’t think she’ll ever not feel this bloated and huge.

“Okay,” she admits. “It’s getting a little upset in there, I…”

She can’t finish her thought when her stomach cramps roughly. It’s followed by a symphony of wet gurgles that push up a huge belch without any warning. The belch rolls out for a couple of seconds, being thick and dramatic. It also makes her stomach cramp again. She groans, rubbing hard across the center of her stomach, trying to will everything to stay down.

The next burp is so cold and thick. It’s a strange coldness in comparison to how hot and sweaty she’s starting to feel. Her stomach is rounder than it was, such an obvious bloat even in the camera’s eyes.

“God.” Her insides all groan at the same time she does. “I’m just a… I’m just all milk.”

There’s such a heavy pressure under her ribs. The milk is pooling low, but the bloat keeps raising higher, stretching as the milk churns up another burp. It tastes both sweet and sour this time. She groans, fingers digging into her belly. Another belch rolls up, then another, and she presses the back of her hand to her mouth to keep them in.

“It’s getting really heavy,” she complains to the chat. They’re sending a lot of messages now, but she can’t focus on them. She’s getting too focused on her task. She checks the clock again, though. She is at twenty-nine minutes.

“Okay,” she says, then burps again at the attempt to talk. “Ughhhhh, hold on —”

She sits forward again, pushing the bloated pressure of her belly upwards as she rubs over it again. A snarling gurgle runs heavily through her stomach, angry at the pushing, but she manages to bring up a huge, rumbling belch that pours out of her. It’s followed by a second that is nearly just as thick. The third and fourth right after are smaller and more sour, and the fifth doesn’t feel like it does much of anything helpful.

“Just —” She burps again. “ — Gotta keep it down. Almost there.”

The heavy pressure inside keeps making her stomach cramp in protest. Another churn twists through her gut, a gurgle squirming through after it. She burps again, and again, feeling burbles bubbling up in her belly as she does.

“Okay,” she breathes, then hiccups. Her stomach gives a hollow, heavy rumble. “Okay. Almost there.”

It’s an effort to pick up the cold jug again. Inside of her, her throat tightens and her belly clenches; they clearly already are protesting her swallowing any more, but her swollen stomach doesn’t call the shots, she does.

A slight queasiness is stirring up. A gurgle ripples through her unsettled tummy, but she forces the jug up to her lips anyway and starts to drink once again.

She has to stop and take breaths between every swallow. If her stomach had been digesting what she had eaten today before, it definitely wasn’t anymore. It feels like her whole abdomen is starting to swirl with indigestion and churning up in place. The milk is upsetting everything so quickly.

Pressing a hand over her belly, Joan can feel the milk this time as she gulps it down. Every swig from the jug is felt under her palm, sloshing into her packed and bloated stomach. Her guts gurgled in response, giving another series of bubbling glorp-glorp-glorps as she swallows hard.

Her insides squirm as she lowers the jug to the desk with a heavy thud. Forcing herself to look at it shows her that she has maybe just over a third of it left.

“You must be able to hear that,” she says as a rumbling snarl shifts through her tummy loudly. “Fuck — It’s so loud.”

Her ears are ringing a little. She can tell the chat is dinging so she makes herself look, squinting at it as she leans forward. Both hands rub her stomach in and out, trying to coax up more pressure to make more room — hopefully and not make her sick — as she reads.

The most recent comment is from DildoDaggins, teasing her and telling her: i don’t know, those burps sound rly bad.

“Yeah, I feel really bad,” Joan answers. “You guys are evil for making me do this one.”

More tips. She can’t help but smile.

“I don’t even know if I can get it all down before it comes back up,” Joan keeps talking. “Let alone keep it down for an… an h… Ohhhhhh, fuck —”

Her stomach pushes up another huge belch that tastes sour-sweet. It rumbles again as her queasiness grows, a wave of nausea washing over her.

“Mm.” She shakes her head, curling forward over her stomach a little more again. It sloshes even at that tiny movement, the milk absolutely refusing to settle down. The cramps are becoming more painful as the pressure and bloat get tighter. “God. This hurts.”

Another wave of nausea rolls through her, accompanied by a snarl that works its way upwards from the pit of her stomach. It feels like it’s trying to do something — but the rapid inclusion of far too much volume is just infuriating and upsetting it.

She pushes in on the top of her belly with her fingers. It’s so bloated it just pushes inward, because it’s so gassy and filled with air. That choice forces pressure up her throat and makes her belch again.

Joan keeps one hand resting on the upper curve of her upset stomach and pushes the other one further down. She cradles the heavy lower swell of her belly and does the same thing she just did. However, pushing in here with her fingertips makes her guts grumble angrily. She’s not pushing into air, she’s pushing into semi-digested food and two-thirds of a gallon of milk, and it’s heavy and dense inside of her.

Rubbing her lower belly jostles a series of burbling pops that gurgle upwards. The sensation makes her guts growl, the middle of her belly slosh, and her upper belly knot up with a bloated cramp.

“Just got to burp,” she tells herself. She swallows down a few deep breaths of air, forcing them down into her belly. “Just… Got…”

She keeps kneading at her belly, her palms rubbing now over the upper and middle curves. Her shirt pushes itself up. She just lets it go; it means she can put both hands on her bare belly and rub in harder-pressed circles.

Her stomach does not like anything that’s happening anymore. She’s able to gulp down another few mouthfuls of air before her stomach rumbles so loudly she probably wouldn’t even need her powerful microphone to hear it. Anyone could hear it.

This rumble is accompanied by an unsettled churn that roils through the top part of her bloated belly. The nausea is starting to get unbearable — so unbearable that she’s almost worried that she should have grabbed the bowl when this belch starts coming up. She clutches her tummy in one hand and plants her other hand over her mouth as an explosive belch heaved out of her. It lasts longer than any other has so far; and she has to swallow back the urge to vomit at the end of it. It’s wet and deep and feels like it’ll never stop.

Though that burp eventually stops, another violent, sudden burp comes right after it. She recognizes that kind of burp — and based on the sounds of her chat getting more excited and typing more quickly, they do, too. It’s a nauseous burp that comes with a visible upwards roll of her stomach as it tries to force everything up and out.

“Shit,” she whines. Her stomach cramps so hard she can’t help but groan aloud. Her mouth tastes so thickly of milk and corndogs. It’s an effort to check the clock; she groans again when she sees she’s at thirty-five minutes, and still has the last third to go. If she’s going to make it, she’ll have no choice but to start chugging soon. She can’t keep up the slow swallowing or it will start coming back up sooner than she can finish the jug.

Even just thinking that makes her stomach gurgle angrily, turning over itself as it churns inside of her. The nausea just keeps growing, and she knows it will until this all comes out of her… and will probably last a bit longer beyond that, as well.

It feels like she’s dripping sweat. She grips the edge of her desk and pants for air that feels like it can’t fit inside her chest. Her belly is too huge, bloating upwards so much her lungs no longer feel like they have room anymore. Her heart is pounding.

Her tummy groans with a burble before it snarls angrily. She grabs for the bowl without thinking about it. She just needs it in her lap as she curls over both it and her belly, panting and willing everything to just stay down. She’s so full, she’s too full, there’s no way she can do this.

But she has to. And she will. So she swallows over and over, forcing the nausea to remain in her stomach instead of continuing to rise up into her throat.

“I’m going to…” She stops to let a wet, queasy belch gurgle up. It leaves a bitter taste on the back of her tongue. “I’m…” Another burp, this one bubbling and accompanied by a sloppy growl that makes her guts gurgle. “Okay. Okay, I’m going to chug now.”

The timer reads thirty-eight minutes now. Her throat clenches tight before she hiccups, then lets out another violent belch that almost turns too wet at the end.

Picking up the milk jug again is hard enough. Smelling the milk almost makes her gag. She takes a deep breath that she holds so she won’t taste it, tilts her head back, and forces her throat open.

The moment the first splash of milk hits, her stomach immediately protests. It’s so cold and too heavy as it keeps filling her up with that heavy weight and the horrible, tight, unbearable pressure bloating her oat. Her stomach twists in a churning roll and sloshes with such liquidy burbles as she forces more milk in that she’s surprised she can force more milk in.

Swallowing is becoming so difficult. It’s as if the contents of her stomach want to come up at the same time she’s filling her belly up more, and they have to fight against each other to see who will win the battle. It’s such an impossibly huge load all at once that just shifting her position a tiny bit makes a tight gurgle rumble through her upper belly in fury.

The heavy, liquid swell of milk inside of her is definitely not going to stay down. She tilts her head back and uses the hand that isn’t holding the jug to clutch at her stomach. She keeps kneading it in desperate strokes even though she knows it’s not going to do anything anymore.

Joan’s hands are trembling as she gulped down the heavy, cold rushes. Her stomach turns over itself in a thick, dense, weirdly greasy tide that won’t stop sloshing. Under her hand, she felt the milk gurgling into her, filling her up until the pressure is making it difficult to breathe.

The nausea spikes violently as she’s getting to the very last swallows. She groans through the next gulp, her belly like a furious, pulsating, overfull balloon. The last couple are pure torment, feeling huge as they rush inside of her. They cause waves of non-stop, furious, hollow gurgling. A tight cramp painfully twists her upper belly as her guts snarl. Something in the middle of her stomach gurgles so loudly she can hear it over the chat.

The pressure is unbearable. Her stomach heaves, trying to push a cold, sour lurch of thick stomach contents upwards, but she swallows it back with the second-to-last gulp. Her hand is still kneading automatically, desperately trying to soothe her belly, but it won’t be soothed.

She chugs down the last spill of milk from the carton. It rushes into her as she forces it down in a flood, her hand pressing flat against her gut and digging in in hard circles.

A wet, heavy guuurrrgle rumbles through her belly as she holds the empty milk carton up for the camera, then throws it aside. The timer reads forty-four minutes.

keep it down for sixteen minutes and you win!!!!!!!!! is sent by LeonKennedysLeftAsscheek in the chat. She huffs a small laugh, then groans as her stomach forces her to curl forward around it.

It’s a horrible storm inside of her belly. She’s not even sure the last time she managed to get so bloated so quickly. The pressure pushes at her diaphragm and lungs and makes it hard to breathe as her guts gurgle and another hollow rumble bubbles up from the pit of her stomach upwards.

“I don’t…” She can’t keep talking. It’s impossible. All she can do is groan, “Ughhh…” Then start kneading both hands into her belly in a desperate attempt to keep it down that long. She barely notices as she lifts the bowl and sets it on the desktop in front of her. It does make it easier for her to shuffle forward and lean her head over the rim for when it’s time.

And that time is coming. The furious churning of her stomach has her circling it over and over in attempts to calm it down even a little bit. The pushing of her hands is too much on such an upset and overfull stomach, though, and she whimpers as it tries to force itself upwards with another heave.

She feels this upwards lurch under her hands. Instead of rubbing, she just clutches at it. One hand soars upwards to clamp over her lips as the other hand strokes slowly instead, but it might not be enough.

Over and over and over again, she swallows, forcing her gorge back down. It tastes so strongly of soured milk that she’s almost surprised she can force it back down at all. Her bloating was horrible, making her stomach so taut and tight and uncomfortable. When she starts rocking a little, hoping the movement will help, her stomach forces a deep, hollow gurgle upwards that brings another huge belch erupting out after it.

The liquidy noises her guts are making are barely audible over the sick, rumbling churns that keep rolling through her whole stomach. The pressure is spreading all over, and so is the nausea. She’s so sweaty, so bloated, so sick. Her stomach pulses with every bloated heartbeat.

Her mouth floods with telling saliva. She doesn’t know if spitting that out counts as losing the challenge. So she forces herself to swallow it back, forcing the thick, slimy threads downwards. It’s so thick and heavy with dairy. The back of her throat is growing more sour as more and more wet gurgles slosh upwards through her belly.

Doubling over the bowl a little more, she keeps swallowing thickly. Her stomach lurches upwards again, contracting in a rolling, nauseating spasm that she has to force back down. Her hands are only clutching her belly now, pressing against it as she takes slow, shallow breaths over the bowl.

“God,” she barely manages to say. The word sounds choked as her stomach cramps hard and her shoulders hunch.

A low, wet, frothy burp rolls out of her. There’s no relief accompanying it — if there ever was. A disgusting rumble snarls through her belly, rippling under her hand as she gulps down another few mouthfuls of air and forces up another heavy burp that surges up from the pit of her tummy. It’s followed by a series of bubbling squelches, then another swollen wave of pressure rising to become a wet, massive, heaving burp that makes her guts growl and the nausea surge as her belly lunges upwards.

“No, no, no, no…” she chants breathlessly over the bowl. Another quick look to the timer tells her she’s at forty-eight minutes, with still another twelve left to go. She’s not sure she can keep this up — or, down.

Every inch of her belly felt like it was rolling and churning with each second that ticked past. A sour belch tried to rise; she swallowed it back down with a grimace as her stomach growled in anger at that. All the thick liquid keeps shifting around stubbornly inside her belly as if trying to make sure she knows how mad it is before it comes out of her. Her cramping muscles tense up above as her guts gurgle down below. In the back of her mind, she wonders if she’ll see any of her breakfast come up, or if she’ll be spending time in the bathroom later.

Well — that part might be inevitable.

Joan can only clutch her stomach now and hang over the bowl. She props one elbow on the table so she can drop her cheek against her palm and hold her head up over the rim of the big plastic mixing bowl. Staring into the bottom, she slowly starts rubbing her gurgling stomach against.

“Stay…” she starts trying to say. Her fingers dig into her belly as it bubbles right underneath her hand, writhing with every beat of her heart. It was like her stomach was becoming some horrible storm-tossed sea, pitching and tossing, so thick and furious and liquidy she could no longer just merely be a person with a stomachache. She’s so far beyond that, it’s laughable.

All over Joan’s body, her skin prickles with a cold sweat. Again, her mouth fills with thick, queasy saliva. Inside, her stomach growls loudly before pushing up a sloshy churn that rumbles in a roiling surge. It pitches upwards inside of her, and she claps her hand over her mouth just in time as a mouthful of milk tries to make its way up. She’s lucky it’s not a gush of more of the mess in her belly, because there’s no way she could’ve held that back. She’s lucky enough that she can squeeze her eyes shut and swallow over and over until she forces the mouthful of milk back into her belly.

If her stomach was upset before, it doesn’t even know what to do with its rage now. She almost wants to throw up just so this can be over. It’s such a horrible torment.

Her belly cramps again, hard. She groans, belching into the bowl. She’s unable to keep that one back, and it tastes like milk and eggs so strongly that she hiccups afterwards. Saliva keeps gathering and getting forcefully swallowed back, and her nose is starting to run.

“‘m not…” she trails off. She can’t lift her head to look at the screen; any movement will definitely make her lose her tenuous control and bring everything up. A gurgling burst of pressure rumbles out of her in a nauseating, deep, wet series of burps before she swallows them back again. A string of gurgling burps come up anyway as the nauseated feeling in her jaw grows heavier.

This time, when she gulps down more saliva, it immediately wants to come back up. She gags, just barely keeping it back. It’s right there in the back of her throat. Joan retches, clamping her mouth over her hand, shaking her head as her mouth fills again and she has to swallow it all again. She’s not going to make it, she’s definitely not —

The timer on her computer goes ding-ding-ding at the same time that a snarl churns upwards through her in a huge swell. Her stomach lurches again and she finally releases her mouth to clutch the bowl closer instead. She gags, lets out a huge belch, and pants over the bowl.

“I did…” she tries to say before her stomach heaves and she projectile-vomits up a massive gush of sweet-sour milk that splashes up the sides of the bowl. She barely has to put in any effort. It just comes. “Oh, f —”

The next rush of milk-vomit surges right up after. She has to hold her huge mixing bowl in place so she doesn’t miss her aim. Still clutching her belly as it rolls under her hand and growls loudly, deeply, she coughs, then belches up another effortless, enormous wave of milk.

“This —” She’s rapidly filling the bowl. “Too much —”

She burps up another bellyful of milk. Her guts growl again, and the hand cradling them tries to rub along the lower curve of her churning stomach before she belches out another huge amount of the air and pressure and bloat. When the next series of nauseated belches start coming up, she scrambles to grab her trash can instead. It barely occurs to her to get back to the chair and the cameras with it, but she makes it. She has to push the chair back a little to make room for her recording room’s tall trash can.

Hovering over the pink bin, forearms braced on the edges, she groans out, “This was…” She belches lowly into the bin again as her stomach churns and gurgles again. It feels worse now than it had before she started getting sick, somehow. “Ugh… Mistake.”

The chat keeps dinging and talking to each other. She can hear the chime of tips coming through consistently underneath. All of those sounds are barely audible to her over the loud ringing in her ears and the loud growls from her stomach.

Joan’s chest rises and falls rapidly with shallow breaths. Her stomach gurgles so loudly she forgets why she even did this. It certainly doesn’t feel like she’s won anything, even if she did beat the challenge.

Her guts snarl and feel like they roll over inside of her. A series of thick burbles ripple through her lower belly. She exhales slowly as the nausea thickens again, rising once more, crawling upwards with a nauseating slosh and a painful band of cramping around the middle of her belly. She gags as a tidal wave of pressure rolls backward and forward through her stomach, involving the roiling chunks of semi-digested food from earlier.

On instinct, she presses a hand to her lips as she gags again. Saliva pools in her mouth that she spits out as the writing mess in her belly lurches upwards again with a violent, sloshing rumble that rips through her lower tummy.

“Uh —” she barely gets her hand out of the way as she hunches over the trash and the next surge rips up out of her. It’s mostly more of the gallon of milk, but something solid comes up with it and gets stuck in her throat. She gags, gripping the rim of the trash for support as she coughs and chokes up a mouthful of chewed-up, barely-digested spiced taquito meat.

Already her stomach is heaving again, all the muscles cramping as her belly pushes as much up at once as it can. The huge splash of milk is a little chunkier, and this is mostly-digested eggs that come up this time. When the next wave rips through her, her stomach contracts upwards in a swell under her hand. When she’s choking up the milk that splashes in the can, she belches halfway through, making her choke for a moment and accidentally gulp down the rest of what was coming up.

“Fuck…” she groans, then cries out, “Fuck —” before the next wave of milk and corndogs splatters the inside of the trash can. The milk barely even had a chance to warm up in her belly. It still feels cold as it rushes out of her.

She braces herself with her hands gripping the can. Her arms shake as she belches up a gurgling retch that tastes like sour milk more than anything. Her stomach spasms, cramps again, and a violent, wet belch bursts out of her. Her upper belly gurgles, then sloshes a disgusting wave of milk back upwards and out of her. She doesn’t even have to really do anything. It just keeps coming like she doesn’t even have to put in any effort.

A whimper chokes out of her. Her knuckles are white with effort as she holds herself up over the can and retches. This one becomes another heavy belch in the middle as she chokes up the chunkiest mouthful so far.

There’s definitely still creamy milk gurgling in her belly, but it’s churning up more with the rest of her semi-digested stomach contents now to make her guts start rumbling louder. Her nose is running, and she spits, sweating hard, feeling disgusting. Sometimes —

It’s just that, sometimes, she wishes she had someone else who could do this with her. Someone who could be there for her in these moments that wasn’t on the opposite side of a screen. Someone that could rub her back and hold her hair back. And just — be there.

She keeps swallowing over and over again. She can’t control the reflex as her stomach churns in preparation to bring more up. Instead of vomit, however, she actually lets out a huge, nauseating belch that twists her belly again.

“Oh, fuck, I feel so sick,” she pants into the trash. “I feel so sick, this is awful, I can’t —” A gurgle curls through her stomach. “No, no, nooo…”

Her next heave makes her stomach roll up again as she projectile-vomits another massive, splattering mess. It’s thicker and chunkier with bits of corndog and pizza, chicken and waffles, eggs and bacon. Everything is soured by milk. Her stomach contents are too heavy and liquidy as the nausea takes over her brain and she burps over the can, spitting into the mess weighing down so much of the bottom of the can.

Joan’s head hangs between her arms as she sniffles. Her shoulders jerk and she drops her head down as she belches up another surge that’s mostly milk, followed immediately by another that’s mostly corndogs.

Her chat keeps dinging. Joan spits once, then twice, her stomach rumbling furiously. It gives her a brief moment to belch again. She lifts her head, panting heavily as she stares at the camera.

The chat is lighting up. Her tips are crazy high. Her vision swims as she keeps staring.

“I…” Whatever she was going to say disappears as she instead chokes out, “I’m not done —”

Joan sits down hard on the edge of her armchair. Her forearm braces her over the trash can. Her other hand clutches her stomach as it rolls underneath her with a thick rumble rippling under her fingers. A weird, cramping squelch kind of squeaks tightly along the back of her belly. She tries to slowly rub at her stomach as a gurgle squeezes through after it. It blorps before there’s a thick, warbling churn that forces up another brassy belch.

Joan slumps, her cheek pressed into her forearm. Her stomach rolls, she gags, and she just barely leans as she burps up another rush. Minutes could pass, or hours, as her straining stomach empties itself into the trash can. Her grip becomes weak and her stomach achingly sore as it keeps pushing up what feels like unending amounts of vomit, chunky and mostly-digested at the end, forcing her to make them come up with gagging coughs and retches that make her throat raw.

Every inch of her body hurts by the time she manages to catch her breath. Her belly feels like it’s bruised from aching so badly. A hollow growl snarls through her guts, and she burps, spitting up a mouthful of saliva into the can. Her stomach rolls again under her hand.

“I…” Her vision swims. “I have to lay down. ‘Night.”

She throws her hand forward to end the chat without reading a single message. The movement makes her stomach gurgle as it churns again, and she groans. Tears drip down her cheeks, vomit hangs in strings for her lips, and her belly still feels so bloated and upset despite everything she’s just put so much effort into bringing up.

It would be nice if she had someone else here. But she’ll just have to do it all herself. She’ll get it all up, and afterwards she’ll take care of herself. She’ll be the one to clean everything up and drag herself into bed. She’ll the one who will suffer alone now.

Though Molly had felt a vague queasy fullness before bed, and Georgia had noticed she was uncomfortable earlier for long enough to rub her back as they settled down to sleep, Georgia had fallen asleep quickly, her stomach full but not a victim of the same storm brewing in Molly’s. Her breaths are warm and steady against Molly’s shoulder as she sleeps, and Molly tries to will herself back to sleep, too.

Closing her eyes, she drifts into a sort of half-sleep, willing her nausea to recede enough to allow her to rest. It’s like she can’t fall fully asleep, though. Bubbling pops keep grumbling through her belly as it gets more upset, and as she lays on her side, the fullness in her tummy feels like it’s sliding its thick, chilly way up her throat.

Molly swallows again, and again. Each one feels heavy and thick, like she’s pushing cream and cold back down into her rumbling tummy, more full by the moment because of it.

With her next swallow, still drifting in a queasy sleep, her stomach gurgles, low and wet with a glugging churn.

Molly’s eyes snap open into the darkness, her hands clutching her aching, upset stomach. It feels so full, so swollen and stretched, so heavy and uncomfortable; a slow churning twists the center of her belly, squirming thickly inside of her like a heavy syrup bubbling under her ribs. She tries to breathe in deeply, but she only brings up a shallow burp without relief, making her tummy gurgle again.

Her throat thickens again, and she swallows again. It doesn’t help though.

Her stomach gives another slow ripple through the grumbling lower swell, feeling more and more unsettled as she lays here. A lazy, queasy roll sloshes through her— she can actually feel the heavy liquid sloshing inside the confines of her belly— and she groans, squeezing her eyes shut, rubbing both hands desperately across her lower stomach again in the hopes of getting it to calm down and digest.

Molly shifts, trying to roll from her side onto her back so she won’t be so uncomfortable. Bad idea. Her stomach is so heavy and full that it feels like it’s crushing her lungs instantly, making it difficult to breathe, and thick, cold acid rolls upwards into the back of her mouth. Even worse, the movement makes everything inside her slosh, thick and slow, as a heavy wave of nausea rises violently up her throat.

She clamps her lips shut firmly, breathing fast and harsh through her nose as she wills herself not to throw up. Her gorge rises, and she swallows rapidly. The back of her throat tastes like chocolate and cinnamon, and she burps, a low, rumbling belch that makes her groan and has tears prickling in her eyes.

Her stomach churns again, louder this time in a long, uneasy guuuuurgle that she can hear and feel, both inside and outside. Something thick and restless writhes in her belly, heavier by the second, and her breath catches before she lets out another burp, airy this time and useless.

She rolls back onto her side, hoping to undo the damage she’s caused. Drawing her knees up, she tucks one hand under her cheek like a sleeping child. The other finds her belly again and rubs a slow, nervous circle over her bloated middle. She tries to push in a little to help guide the gas out, but the pressure won’t ease and the gurgling mess inside won’t settle. Something pops thickly in the back of her belly, and her jaw clenches, her hand digging in harder into her squirming tummy.

Another uneasy bubble gurgles up in her belly, rumbles rippling across her lower tummy. She swallows thickly, jaw clenching, waiting for it to pass.

“Molly?” Georgia asks, voice soft and sleepy as a warm hand slides between her shoulder blades. Molly freezes. “You awake? Feel tense.”

Molly’s lower belly squelches loudly, a bloated squirming causing a ripple across her tummy. A squiggling gurgle bubbles through her upper belly. When she rubs her hand there, she feels a few bubbles pop right under her hand, and can feel how rounded her stomach feels, a swell that bloats out starting right below her tits and ending pushed against her thighs. It feels huge as she rubs another series of bubbles into popping under her hand.

“Is that your stomach?” Georgia asks. She sounds marginally more awake. Another thick snarl squirms through Molly’s belly, loud and long like a roll of thunder. “That sounds really upset, baby. Are you feeling okay?”

Molly nods, squeezing her eyes shut and panting through her mouth as another gurgle rolls from the pit of her stomach and up her throat. Nausea is plain in her voice as she chokes out, “I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine,” Georgia disagrees.

As if her stomach is in agreement with Georgia, that traitor, another queasy roll churns through her stomach then, as if a thick wave of undigested milkshake rises and crashes against the front of her belly. She groans at the heavy liquidy sloshing and rumbles up a wet burp.

“I just think I had too much to eat today,” Molly whispers, curling tighter around her sick stomach. “I woke up feeling really full. I’ll be okay once my stomach settles down.”

Georgia’s hand slides down to Molly’s side. She rests it there for a moment before pushing along the swollen curve of her stomach, finding how full and round it is with a hesitant hand. She rubs a little circle into her tummy, making a thick gurgle bubble up right under her hand.

“Your stomach sounds really upset,” Georgia comments skeptically, though softly. “I can feel it moving in there. What’s making you sick? The milkshakes?”

Molly’s stomach gurgles loudly at the mention of the milkshakes again. Squeezing her eyes shut again, embarrassed and nauseated, she swallows thickly to keep the milkshakes in her stomach where they belong, then nods.

“Okay,” Georgia says softly. “Just keep breathing nice and slow. I got you. Want me to try rubbing your belly to help it along?”

A tight, loud gurgle twists in her upper belly. Molly nods again, wanting any sort of relief that she can get right now. If they can get her stomach to calm down enough to work past the nausea to digest the milkshakes, she can hopefully fall back asleep and just sleep the rest of her upset stomach off.

“Okay,” Georgia says again. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

Her hand starts off touching softly beneath the blankets. She pushes Molly’s t-shirt up, allowing her to rub her hand in soft, wide circles on the side of her belly. Her stomach starts reacting almost immediately, a thick, wet series of bubbles twisting in her lower belly and gurgling their way up to bloat her upper stomach.

The motions of Georgia’s stomach rubs are slow and steady, stirring the thick liquid in Molly’s tummy the same way. A thick, slow, undulating wave shifts in Molly’s stomach, snarling upwards towards her chest; she’s worried for a second that she’s going to vomit before a huge belch bursts out of her, thick and wet, making her stomach squirm and growl loudly.

“How’d that feel?” Georgia asks, sounding skeptical again. “You don’t feel any less bloated.”

She isn’t any less bloated. If anything, the huge burp made her nausea spike, and she presses her lips together tightly, breathing harshly through her nose.

As if sensing her tension, Georgia’s hand slows on her stomach, her touch softening further. It wasn’t how hard or fast she was rubbing, though; it was just that anything touching her right now feels like it’s going to move the contents of her stomach around.

Her belly feels like it’s filled past capacity. Her entire stomach is just full of milkshake now that feels like it doesn’t want to stay inside her or digest, bubbling and gurgling and somehow still refusing to leave her belly. Just Georgia putting her hand on her tummy like this makes her realize how overfull and stretched she is. She tries to shift again as her belly glugs queasily, and Georgia’s next rub makes everything in her stomach rise up in another thick wave up under her ribs.

Throat tingling, Molly groans, “Mmhm,” and one hand flies up over her mouth, feeling a hot wave of sweaty nausea wash over her. She swallows thickly several times in a row, trying to force down the thickness she can feel at the back of her throat as her belly rolls inside of her again, wanting to bring everything in it up.

Georgia’s hand stops immediately, pressing flat and warm against her overheated skin. A sick gurgle squelches under her hand at the same time a low growl rumbles through her guts, and Molly groans with it.

“Too much?” Georgia asks, and Molly nods once, jaw tight, eyelashes wet. “Oh, no. I’m sorry, baby.”

Georgia’s gentle hands pull her in against her, pressing her forehead to the nape of Molly’s sweaty neck.

“You’re okay,” Georgia promises her. “If it has to come up, let it come up. It’ll be alright.”

Molly’s breathing through her nose quickens, shallow and fast. Georgia kisses the nape of her neck, shushing her like she’s a spooked horse.

They stay in that position for a while while Molly fights to keep everything inside of her stomach where it’s supposed to be. Her belly keeps rumbling, the heavy mass of milkshakes refusing to calm down in her upset storm of a stomach. It won’t stop gurgling, bubbling, thick squelches squirming through before everything will shift again and she’ll burp, though it never gives her any relief.

Every so often, another thick wave of nausea will wash over her as everything in her stomach gurgles and fights her at once. A thunderous growl will burble up from the pit of her stomach and gurgle into her chest and the back of her throat, and she has to swallow thick and heavy and fast to keep it from going any further than that.

The nausea only keeps getting worse, feeling closer and closer as she tries so hard to keep everything down. Her belly feels like it’s determined not to digest anything at all, though, and refuses to settle down or let the milkshakes actually digest.

Another thick belch is so heavy and thick that Molly groans with a whining edge, feeling near tears. It’s too sweet in her mouth, cloying and heavy.

Molly’s voice is tiny when she asks, “Can you please get me some water?”

There’s a pause before Georgia answers, “Your stomach is really full already. Are you sure?”

“I know,” Molly whispers in the darkness. “but maybe it’ll settle things?” Her stomach shifts in a long, slow roll again, growling as everything turns over itself so heavily. “It all feels too heavy inside me. I don’t know. I thought water could help.”

Her voice is somehow smaller by the end, nauseated to the edge of tears, and Georgia leans over her to brush her thumb under her eye and shush her again, clearly seeing how miserable she is.

“Okay,” she agrees gently. “Try just a sip at first, okay?”

Molly nods as Georgia gets up out of bed. She leaves the lights mercifully off as she heads to their bathroom; Molly hears the water running, and she slowly pushes herself up so she’ll be sitting up and ready by the time Georgia gets back.

The movement immediately makes her stomach protest loudly, a churning gurgle snarling through as it feels like everything moves up and down at the same time. There’s a rippling churning inside of her, as if the after-effects of someone throwing a heavy stone into a thick swamp. A wave of thick nausea and milkshakes surges up her throat, and she swallows it back with a burp that makes her chest burn sharply.

Another surge of nausea rolls through her, a wave rocking through her belly. She rubs at her lower stomach with one hand, the other hand pressing over her mouth as she breathes hard through her nose and waits for everything to settle down.

When Georgia comes back with a cool glass of water, she says, “Oh, no, baby.”

Molly’s stomach is still sloshing at the sudden shifting. Georgia sits beside her, steadying her with one hand between her shoulder blades again, the other one holding the glass out to her.

“Small sips,” Georgia reminds her.

Molly nods and lifts the glass, taking a gulp into her mouth. She lets it sit there for a moment to clear the thickness away before she swallows, feeling it take the thick feeling down her throat with it into her tummy.

It’s a nice feeling, and Molly immediately swallows down another sip, then a third. The third sip can be heard by both of them, a liquidy sloshing hitting her stomach audibly. Georgia takes the glass just as Molly groans, a slow, heavy churn rolling through her stomach as nausea swells ominously into the back of her throat once more.

Molly’s hands return to her stomach, clutching as she swallows again.

“Okay, that sounds not so good,” Georgia comments, setting the glass aside. “Just breathe. It’s just water, let it sit. Maybe Pepto would be better?”

Molly groans again, unable to make any other noise. It just comes out of her, a queasy moan as she leans forward, one hand rubbing hard across the swell of her stomach while she presses the back of her hand hard into her mouth, knuckle bones digging into her lips.

Another wave of nausea rises as her belly turns over itself, making a thick, miserable gurgle of a sound.

“Mm,” Molly whines. “Mmhmmmm…”

“Don’t fight it,” Georgia tells her. “Let’s get up and go to the bathroom, okay? I don’t think it’s going to stay down.”

Molly wants to protest just because she doesn’t want to get sick. The nausea is becoming unbearable though, beyond her control. She can feel it taking over in a way that promises she’s going to be sick, that she drank far too many milkshakes before bed and that they were never going to be able to settle and that they are all definitely going to come back out.

She nods, letting Georgia help her stand shakily. Her stomach protests; it feels like the bloat has diminished a little, but her stomach is no less full or rounded for it. In fact, her upper belly feels worse than it had when she first woke up, because now it’s rumbly and gurgly and won’t stop sending queasy bubbles through her. It’s still so heavy she can barely take a deep breath — and nor does she want to, because every time she tries, her tummy rumbles again at the increase in pressure.

The nausea isn’t really coming in waves anymore. It’s constant now, and Molly’s mouth feels full of bitter saliva gathering on the back of her tongue, pooling underneath it before she swallows and makes her tummy churn again.

Every step sends a deep, rolling slosh churning through her upset stomach. She keeps rubbing her stomach even though it’s futile because she can’t think of anything else to do. Georgia guides her forward carefully, and Molly keeps her hand over her mouth, fighting to keep back her nausea as her heavy belly sloshes sickly.

By the time they’re in the bathroom, Molly’s trembling. Georgia carefully eases her down to sit on the cool tile floor next to the toilet, her back against the side of the bathtub. Molly instantly curls her legs up to try and relieve the pressure, but it doesn’t help any, her stomach sitting heavy and round in her lap. A loud, gurgling series of pops rumbles through her upper stomach, and she groans at the spike in queasiness that they bring, everything in her trying to force its way out of her.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Molly confesses, wrapping her arms around her stomach and starting to rock a little. “I really don’t feel so good, my stomach—” Her belly turns, squelching with a loud grumble. “I feel so sick, my stomach’s really upset.”

“I know,” Georgia murmurs. She brushes Molly’s hair away from her sweaty forehead without even hesitating to touch her. “You’re going to feel so much better once you get all those milkshakes out of you. No wonder your tummy hurts, I can’t believe I didn’t realize how much you drank, baby. You must be so full.”

Molly thinks she’s far past full as her eyes sting with shimmering tears. Another roll of nausea pushes upwards, and she shifts with it, moving to push the two toilet lids up and lean over the bowl.

“Coming up?” Georgia asks.

Molly leans over the water, panting. A thick gurgle rumbles through her belly and she lets it, palming at the side of her stomach to force it along. It comes out as a thick belch, wet at the end, and she groans with it.

“Almost,” Molly tells her. Another gurgle rolls up, forcing another thick belch from her. She can feel everything in her stomach lurching, trying to come up, but it won’t. “Can I —” She hiccups. “Can I have the water? And can you rub my belly?”

“Sure thing,” Georgia agrees without question. Molly is so grateful for her as she quickly retreats and returns with her glass of water.

She settles back in beside Molly, sitting on the bathroom floor next to the toilet, facing her. Molly’s hair is already in a braid. Georgia reaches out, rubs her hand over Molly’s swollen and gurgling stomach just as Molly leans her head back to swallow down the rest of the glass of water in three big swallows.

The water sloshes into her stomach all together. A wet wave of queasiness surges through her, and she just barely manages to shove the glass at Georgia and get back over the toilet before another huge burp tears out of her. This one brings up a little bit of regurgitated water at the end that she only just swallowed down. She spits it into the bowl with a whimper.

“That’s it—”

“Keep rubbing,” Molly begs, feeling bad for interrupting her but needing her help. “Please?”

Georgia doesn’t seem offended. She only does as Molly asks. Her hand returns to Molly’s stomach and starts rubbing slowly across the front, but firmly. Her hand digs in as she makes hard circles in Molly’s belly, no longer looking to soothe her stomach but to help her make it better.

Her stomach protests the forceful movements loudly with a wet growl. It’s like Georgia’s stirring her insides up, a big spoon stirring the thick milkshake in her belly. It makes her stomach lurch, and she burps again, heavy and wet over the bowl. It’s closer to vomiting now, she thinks.

Molly reaches for her own stomach with both hands on either side. She rubs vigorously, rising up onto her knees. The shift in movement sends everything inside of her sloshing forwards and upwards, and she gags over the water again.

“Oh, God,” she whimpers, clutching the bowl now.

Georgia puts her arm around her. Her other hand keeps rubbing her belly; under her hand, Molly’s stomach tightens before it releases a long, low, liquidy gurgle, bubbling up from the pit of her stomach, forcing a lurch of all the milkshakes in her stomach upwards. She retches, a wet and ugly sound, her body jerking forward. It feels like the nausea is right at the back of her throat as her body trembles, but nothing comes up yet.

“Okay, okay,” Georgia murmurs. Her hand is rubbing in deep, steady circles on Molly’s sick stomach. “I’m so sorry you’re feeling so sick, baby.”

Molly sobs softly at that. She’s humiliated and overwhelmed and so nauseated, and at the same time, she’s so grateful Georgia’s here with her. She feels flushed and sick all over, her stomach lurching inside her as she gags again.

“I feel so full,” she cries, sniffling. “It hurts so bad, I feel so sick, I’m going to be sick —”

“I know, sweetheart,” Georgia says. She’s always so sweet, so warm, so calm. “You just had too much to eat.”

“Why am I so sick?” Molly cries still, shifting to rub her stomach again. “I feel so sick, how did I —” She belches a deep, low burp that makes the toilet water ripple. She can feel a sick ripple squirm under her hand, and she groans again, burping once more, tasting chocolate and vanilla and strawberry and vomit. “How did I drink so much, I feel so sick.”

“Just get it up,” Georgia encourages her, so sweetly. Her hand presses more firmly into her stomach, rubbing upwards, making her queasy stomach churn and then rumble loudly as her throat tightens and her mouth floods with saliva. Her other hand reaches up and pulls her hair back away from her face.

“Fuck,” Molly curses before she’s jerking forward and belching up a wave of part-sweet, part-sour, chocolatey vomit. It’s so thick and heavy, gushing out of her as she belches and gags before another wave comes up. It’s not cold anymore, heated by her body. She barely has a chance to suck in a breath before her stomach lurches and forces up another huge, thick, liquidy mass of vomit.

“Get it out, that’s it,” Georgia says quietly. Her other hand still rubs her belly, slowly, even when Molly whimpers and her stomach forces up another wave of milkshake-vomit. “That’s it, you’re doing so good. Just let it out, baby.”

Molly retches before she gags productively and vomits up a few more heavy rushes of regurgitated milkshakes. It takes a while before the continuous surges finally ebb and she can catch her breath. Tears stream down her face as she spits into the toilet, trying to clear her mouth and throat. Her stomach gives another hollow gurgle, aching and throbbing inside of her. She’s definitely not done and can feel more of the milkshakes gurgling in her stomach, but she thinks she has a break for now.

“Oh my…” Molly belches again, then spits again. “Oh my God.”

“I know.” Georgia kisses her cheek. “That was rough. Do you think you got it all out?”

Molly shakes her head. She’s still hovering over the toilet, not trusting her stomach. It gives a small gurgle, and she groans, hiccuping.

“I never want to drink a milkshake again,” she mumbles, miserable, then spits again.

Georgia scratches her scalp, tying her hair back with an elastic now that she’s not actively vomiting anymore. “Let’s get you cleaned up and back in bed.”

Molly spits one last time, then nods. “Okay.” She turns her saddest eyes on Georgia. “Help me up?”

Giving one last little rub to her stomach, Georgia says, “Sure thing, sweetheart,” and rises to help her to her feet. Molly goes along shakily, letting Georgia flush the toilet and guide her to the sink to rinse out her mouth with mouthwash before she’s led back into their bedroom to collapse on the bed, curled up on her side again. The act of dropping downwards rattles a belch out of her, and she moans again, wrapping her arms around her rumbling tummy.

“Hold me?” she asks Georgia.

“Always,” Georgia answers, climbing in behind her. She kisses her cheek as she slides into place, one hand running down her side to stroke small circles into the side of her belly. It gurgles under her hand, earning Molly another kiss. “Shut your eyes.”

Molly does as she’s been told, shutting her eyes, trying to fall asleep. It only takes a few seconds before her stomach gurgles loudly again and she can taste strawberry in the back of her throat.

Her chat fills with laughing emojis, encouragement from everyone, and DildoDaggins sending, You got this, Joanie! Eat up!

Joan smiles for the chat as her stomach rolls thickly, a slow and upset shifting of movement inside her. It's accompanied by a low gurgle as her tummy shifts everything around inside, trying to make space that doesn't exist.

Joan sighs heavily, then adjusts in her chair, widening her stance to give her overfull belly a little more room.

She takes another bite, and another, and another.

These bites automatically aren't sitting well. The contents of her belly are dense and rumbling their protest as these bites of pancakes thud into her overstuffed stomach. It's as if her stomach is just piling everything up, not yet starting to digest everything she has eaten tonight.

Joan pushes another huge bite of pancakes into her mouth, chewing slowly. She's becoming more and more aware of how full she is. It's not the silly stuffed feeling from the beginning of her streams, where she can joke about it.

Now, her stomach feels furious, and she knows she's well past her limit. Such is life.

The bloated swell of her belly pooches out from beneath her tight crop top. It feels tight as she takes a breath, then takes another bite. Her stomach grumbles with discomfort, reminding her it's already too full, but she swallows the syrupy, buttery, big bite of pancakes anyways.

“Oh, I'm going to regret all my life choices soon,” Joan complains with a laugh. She sounds better than she feels — until a deep burp rumbles out of her. Her stomach gurgles, and she says, “I swear, I only do this for you guys. Otherwise it wouldn't be worth it.”

Her stomach growls again with churning upset. Nausea licks up into her throat as she forces another massive bite in.

Her chat keeps lighting up, and her stomach answers them with another slow, rolling churn that makes everything in her tummy slosh over itself, tossed in a tidal wave. It snarls, upset, and she palms at the bottom curve as she eats another forkful of pancakes.

Joan's fingers splay on her belly, stroking upwards towards the bare exposed center of her stomach. She can see and feel how full and heavy and bloated she is, her stomach crowded to bursting with breakfast foods.

But she is so close to finishing the pancakes, so she keeps digging in.

The remains of the pancakes slide a little on the remnants of wax paper beneath them. She brings up one of the last bites, focused on herself on the camera as she pushes it down.

Another sick gurgle of unproductive indigestion burbles through her.  Her eyes flick to the chat as they all got excited at the sounds. Chandlerier22 tells her That was the hottest sound ever, and she grins as she reads the comment aloud.

She brings another forkful to her mouth. Her stomach tightens uncomfortably, but she ignores it to choke it down. Only a couple more bites, so she keeps eating.

Joan knows she's definitely slowing down, but she is still determined. She eats in rhythm, shoveling in forkful after forkful. Eat, chew, swallow, smile, read chat, repeat.

Each bite feels like it's making her aching tummy heavier. A huge dense pressure is bloating her belly, as if it needs the help while stuffed with so much food. She can practically feel everything she's eaten in a pile inside of her stomach.

Her tummy is tight and huge, domed out beneath the yellow fabric of her crop top. When she tries to take a deep breath and bring up a burp, she actually meets resistance, her belly pressing hard into her lower ribs and making it ache worse.

A bloated, gurgly rumble spills through her belly. She has to force up a belch despite the pain, or else she thinks she'd feel even worse. If that is even possible.

Joan swallows the second to last mouthful of the firmly-textured pancakes. They take more effort to chew than usual pancakes, but at least it makes for a good show.

As she's reading another comment aloud, her stomach gurgles out a low, hollow glooooorp. It's louder than her voice, stealing the show immediately.

“Okay,” she says, patting her full stomach and coaxing up another huge burp. She likes to think that made room. “Wow. These are… a lot.”

Her fork scrapes the plate as she brings up the last final bite of pancakes. These pancakes definitely have a weird texture, though they're soaked through with syrup and butter. She wonders if maybe she overcooked and burnt them a little as she swallows down the final bite. She can feel it sitting at the top of her belly, practically in her throat.

A tight cramp squeeze through her belly, just under her navel. Her breath stutters as she sets the plate and fork aside and leans back, rubbing both hands slowly in and out over her distended, gurgling belly.

“Done,” she announces lightly to the camera. “You guys proud of me?”

Her stomach answers at the same time the chat does, though they disagree with each other. Chat loves what she has done; her stomach, on the other hand, hates it.

Her stomach is so full and packed that it feels like there's no room to actually digest. Her stuffing tonight refuses to settle properly, another cramp rolling through her belly.

She groans, rubbing slowly over the sides of her swollen stomach. Another uncomfortable, rumbling belch rolls up, and she lets it happen before she tilts her plate to show her audience.

“See?” she says. “All done. I—”

She stops, staring at the plate. It's completely empty. No pancakes, no syrup — and no wax paper, either.

Her stomach gives a slow, ominous roll as she makes her realization. A deep cramp steals her breath before another deep gurgle moves slowly through her belly. She can't stop staring at the empty plate.

“Huh,” she says, looking the plate over for a beat. Then, slowly, she tells her audience, “I think I ate the wax paper.”

Her stomach rumbles as if agreeing with her diagnosis as the chat gets even more excited.

“I didn't do it on purpose,” she complains, rubbing a little more firmly into her swollen belly. “I should've noticed. I thought they tasted w… weird.”

She has to pause for a gurgling belch to roll up and out of her. Her stomach isn't just full, it feels… so weird, trying to digest something that won't cooperate with her belly, on top of everything else she's crammed inside her.

The chat is throwing out suggestions and guesses about what might happen. They also praise her for how much she has eaten and for clearing her plates, even though she's starting to wish she hadn't exactly done that to its fullest extent.

Discomfort swirls low in her belly in a series of tight cramps. The rest of her stomach is full, heavy, and dense, rumbling with indigestion as she tries to rub it.

She takes a deep, careful breath, evaluating the shape and feel of her belly inside her. It feels overstuffed and full to bursting, packed so solidly and tightly it's aching.

The cramps keep coming in pulses, her stomach trying to digest so much food — and now, on top of it all, also something indigestible.

Joan has done this work long enough that she knows the difference between I ate way too much and I ate something that doesn't belong in my belly. And, right now, both are happening at once.

Her overfull stomach churns in slow, heavy swirls as it cramps hard again. She groans, then tells the camera, “Let this be a lesson to you. If your food is on paper, don't eat it.” Her increasingly upset belly rumbles thickly and loudly in agreement. “Cosigned by the absolute mess destroying my stomach right now.”

She flattens her hand against the swollen curve of her belly, as if she can keep everything in place through sheer force of will.

As she slowly rubs her tummy, nausea starts to sink into her aching belly.

A bit of saliva floods her mouth. Her throat feels too warm and thick. A queasy gurgle rumbles up, but then falls back down, not committing to giving her any relief.

Joan shifts in her huge desk chair, slowly trying to find a position that doesn't strain her belly. Another sluggish roll rolls through her stomach, followed by another tight, horrible, cramping squeeze that makes her burp again.

“Wow,” she says, her stomach folding over itself again. “That is… Uh, that is really not sitting right. Shit.”

Her normal remedies for an upset stomach probably won't apply here. The wax paper is already in her belly, tangling up in knots with everything else she has eaten. Her overworked, overstretched, overfull tummy snarls as she keeps trying to rub it, wondering if she can trick it into digesting.

So far, no dice.

She works up another sick belch. Her breathing is shallow as each breath seems to push against her ribs and stir up her tummy. Sitting up and straightening a little, she swallows a thick mouthful of sour saliva and rubs at her belly as it cramps tightly again.

“Should I turn off the stream and go lay down?” Joan asks the chat. She knows she probably should, but she also knows it’ll get her more tips if she doesn’t. The chat agrees, lighting up with active excitement and engagement with her.

Joan adjusts her position in her chair again as her stomach tightens, squeezing inside. It feels like everything is rumbling in the center of her belly, and she rubs her hand over the front, glancing down at her bloated tummy.

Her stomach doesn’t just feel upset, it just… sort of feels like it’s doing something. Another cramp tightens her stomach, a churn gurgling through her, and she rubs at the quiver under her palm as she swallows thickly through a tight throat. Saliva pools in her mouth, and she groans, rubbing her swollen tummy with both hands.

“Okay,” she says breathlessly. “I’m good, it’s fine. It’s good. We’re all good. Just… Just give me a second.”

The chat is scrolling and updating even faster now. Her stomach suffers through another long roll before it forces up a sick, hollow belch. Maybe if she’d only had an accidental bite or two of the wax paper, it wouldn’t be so bad, but — she had an entire sheet without realizing, and she knows that much is indigestible. Even if her stomach wasn’t starting to get so upset, she’d still know it’s true.

Not only that, but it sits on top of everything else she’d eaten in the last hour. She’d already been stuffed when the last bites went into her belly. The wax paper, coated with its paraffin wax, isn’t digestible, doesn’t dissolve, and she can feel her stomach starting to revolt against the rough fiber, a foreign intrusion into her belly.

Her stomach reacts on reflex as it churns again. It seems like it’s starting to realize it can’t actually digest everything she has packed in, and she belches again, curling up around her tummy. It feels like the queasy, gurgling sensation is radiating through her entire abdomen, as if her stomach is trying to compress around everything inside of it and swiftly finding something inside that refuses to cooperate.

Something scratches in her belly as she belches again. She knows the wax paper won’t soften or dissolve, it won’t digest, and her tummy was already so upset, she can only groan as she shifts again, spreading her thighs further to make space for her belly.

The movement sends a wave of nausea fluttering upwards, and she freezes as it bubbles up into her throat. A nauseating gurgle squirms through her belly; she can feel everything writhing inside of her, and she groans, pressing her fingers tighter into her tummy. The pressure gurgles in her stomach, and she groans, rubbing harder into her belly.

Her stomach is definitely pissed off at her. She’d eaten so much, already so full before she swallowed down the indigestible wax paper. Her stomach feels volatile and unstable, everything sloshing around as it refuses to digest.

“What do I do?” she groans, rubbing her stomach as it cramps again. She has to grip the edge of her desk, breathing hard, her other hand clamped over her stomach. She thinks she might actually throw up on the floor for a second before her stomach works into a tense, roiling churn, turning over itself again. “Oh, shit.”

Looking at herself in her camera view, she sees her face drained of all color. Her eyes are bright and feverish, and she almost looks green.

As she’s looking, her stomach surges upwards inside of her. A thick wave of pressure rolls up and tightens her throat and the muscles of her belly. In another moment, her throat is suddenly thick, her mouth flooding with saliva; her hand flies up to seal over her mouth without thinking.

Though she keeps swallowing, it doesn’t seem to help. The saliva keeps coming in thick, urgent waves, her jaw aching and her bloated stomach groaning loudly. People in the chat are asking if she’s okay, but she can’t bring herself to answer as her stomach sharply cramps again. The nausea spikes sharply, her vision splotching out a bit, and she moans out loud as she rubs at her tummy, realizing it’s starting to reject what she’s forced inside of it.

Another restless gurgle squirms through her belly, and she groans, “Okay… Okay, okay,” and grabs for the bowl she keeps just out of frame. She barely gets it into her lap before her stomach clenches violently, forcing her over the bowl with a deep, wet, unproductive retch.

Get it up!! DwiHard91 messages her. You can’t eat that!!!!!

She blinks at the messages, swimming in her vision, before she ducks her head again and retches harder. The chat explodes as she belches deeply, then burps up a mostly-liquid wave of hot, acidic vomit. It tastes like syrup and butter and eggs as she hiccups, then vomits up another wave that scratches her throat, bits of paper floating in the brown-yellow vomit.

Joan couldn’t get herself to stop streaming if she tried. All her focus is on her stomach as it lurches again, violently and insistently. Something doesn’t want to come up, catching in her belly, and she has to retch with a broken, forceful heave to bring up a thick, soggy mess of half-digested pancakes. Her body is furious about how much she crammed inside, plus the realization of the paper that never should have been in her stomach in the first place.

Clutching  the bowl, another contraction comes and forces up a huge wave of syrupy vomit. She barely moans, “Oh, God, damn it…” before she’s folding over the bowl and belching up another wave, and another, and another.

Once her stomach starts emptying, it doesn’t want to stop. She’s not sure how long she heaves over the bowl before she can catch her breath. When the worst of it passes, she’s left gagging and drooling weakly over the bowl. Strings of vomit hang from her lips, and she spits before sucking in a shallow, shaky breath.

Her belly gives one last, small heave, and she groans as she basically spits up, belching a mouthful of acidic, burning vomit into the bowl. Her forehead meets the rim of the bowl, and she pants, her eyes glossy, her chest heaving, her face flushed.

When she lifts her head again, her chat is going wild.

She’s getting so many messages and even more tips. She swallows, wiping the back of her hand over her lips, trembling.

“That, uh…” She burps again, her hand sealing over her mouth. She breathes deeply before she speaks again. “That wasn’t gonna stay down. Oh, shit —”

She belches again, lurching forward over the bowl as another thin stream of sausage-flavored vomit bursts out of her. It’s colorful from the dyes in the sugary cereal, and she could almost admire it if she wasn’t about to vomit again.

“Sorry,” she tells her chat. She knows they love it, though, as she rubs into her squirming belly and coaxes up another huge belch into the bowl, eyes squeezed shut.

Brian hurries out into the living room to sit down next to him anyways, apparently not dissuaded by the threat. "You should have called me, or something," he says, leaning over to brush Tim's hair back from his face.

"What, to have you come get me?" Tim asks, and manages a shaky laugh. "And do what with my car? Anyways, I pulled off for the worst of it, the rest of the way back wasn't that bad." He'd thrown up a few more times into a plastic soda cup, but not more than a mouthful at a time, and not harshly enough he'd needed to stop.

"I dunno," Brian admits, looking away. "Still."

"I might lay down, actually," Tim adds, leaning back into the couch and tipping his face up towards the ceiling. "I still feel pretty rotten. I should just get this shirt in the wash first."

"Hey, let me do that," Brian says, and takes the bag holding his sick-splattered t-shirt. "You get to bed, I'll be in in a minute."

"You don't have to..." Tim tries to protest, but Brian is already halfway across the room, heading for the washer. "Okay." He sighs and pushes himself back up, slouching down the hall to the bedroom to get some rest.

He doesn't feel like there's much left in him to puke up, but his stomach still feels a little queasy, so he grabs the trash can and drags it over beside the bed before he sits down and starts to undress. He thinks he must have a fever, he's so overheated; his flannel clings to his back, sticky with sweat, as he pulls it off, but the cool air on his skin makes him shiver. He strips down to his boxers and kicks his clothes into the corner, throwing the covers to the other side of the bed so he can drape just the sheet over him as he curls up on his side.

Now that he's home, he expects exhaustion to wash over him quickly and knock him out for a few hours, but he's still awake when Brian comes in a few minutes later and kneels down by the side of the bed.

"Hey," he whispers, and brushes back Tim's untidy hair to lay a cool cloth over his forehead. "Thought that might feel a little better."

"Yeah, thanks," Tim agrees, nodding. "Hey, come lay down?"

"Weren't you gonna sleep?" Brian asks. "I don't want to keep you up."

"Mm," Tim says noncommittally, and shrugs. "Don't know when I will. My stomach doesn't feel great."

"Aw, babe," Brian says, and sets down the glass of water he’s holding before he comes around the other side of the bed and crawls under the covers behind Tim. “You think you’re gonna throw up?”

“Can’t tell,” Tim replies. “Still kinda nauseous, but it comes and goes.”

Brian makes a sympathetic noise and leans in to kiss his shoulder. “Can I?” His hand comes to rest lightly on Tim’s side, but he waits until Tim nods to slide his fingers down to his stomach, tracing gentle circles over his bare skin.

“Thanks,” Tim murmurs, closing his eyes. “That feels nice.”

He tries to sleep, but the uneasy churning in his stomach keeps him from drifting off, even with Brian’s hand slowly massaging his belly, and he starts to wish he would be sick again and just get it over with. It wouldn’t be so awful, anyways, now that he’s home and has the trash can close at hand. For some reason, though, as upset as his stomach is, it’s not quite bad enough to make him puke again.

After a long few moments of lying still without feeling much better or worse, he sits up and reaches for the glass of water on the nightstand to take a few sips. It soothes his sore throat a bit, but it feels ice cold and heavy in his stomach, threatening to come back up at any second. He groans and lies back down to wait for it.

“Poor sweetheart,” Brian says softly, still rubbing Tim’s stomach with his open palm as it gurgles and sloshes unhappily. “Your tummy feels really upset...”

Tim makes a vague affirmative noise, not sure if he should say more when he’s probably about to puke again. Sure enough, a few seconds later his stomach heaves, and he leans over the side of the bed to spit the water back up, mixed with stomach acid and traces of his lunch. The cool cloth slips from his forehead, and he grabs at it quickly, draping it over the back of his neck instead.

“There you go, babe,” Brian tells him, hugging him closer as he catches his breath. “Just get it up, you’ll feel better after you do.”

Tim leans back against his chest, his head tucked under Brian’s chin. “Thanks,” he mumbles, reaching for a tissue to wipe his mouth. “I’m trying.”

As he nestles closer into Brian’s warm embrace, he can feel him getting hard through his jeans, and squirms a little against his hips to tease him. “Hey,” Brian protests breathily, squeezing him a little tighter around the waist. “I thought you were resting.”

“Careful,” Tim warns him with a shaky laugh. “You’re gonna make me sick again.”

“Oh, yeah?” Brian slides his other arm under Tim’s side to press against his stomach with both hands, kneading at his muscles until they contract, making him gag. Tim leans over quickly to cough up a thin, sour stream of vomit into the trash can.

“No, don’t stop,” Tim tells him when he starts to move, and puts a hand over Brian’s to keep him from pulling away. “It’s helping, seriously.”

“Okay,” Brian agrees, and goes back to rubbing Tim’s stomach. Tim settles back against Brian’s chest, eyes closed, waiting for the swirling feeling in his stomach to become bad enough to make him throw up again. It comes and goes in waves, but for the moment, nothing else seems to want to come up.

“Think I need some more water,” he says finally, and sits up halfway to take a few sips. His hand shakes a little as he sets the glass back down, and he swallows hard as saliva pools under his tongue. If he can keep the water down for a few minutes, maybe he’ll be able to throw up more of the thick mass of food still half-digested in his stomach.

“You sure this is okay?” Brian asks softly, his hands warm on Tim’s clammy skin.

“Yeah,” Tim assures him, nodding. “Do you, um — do you wanna...?”

“Do you?” Brian asks, surprised. “I know you’re not feeling great.”

Tim hesitates for a second, tracing his thumb over the edge of Brian’s hand, and then nods again. “Yeah, I do,” he says. “If that’s okay with you.”

“More than okay,” Brian agrees, and pulls his hands away for a moment to wriggle out of his jeans and t-shirt.

Tim sheds his boxers, catching his breath slightly as the waistband pulls over his own growing erection, and lies back down, swallowing a mouthful of thick saliva. A moment later, Brian is next to him again, bare skin pressed to his back and dick hard against his ass. Tim moans, half from nausea and half from arousal.

“You gonna throw up again?” Brian asks softly, sliding one hand over Tim’s stomach.

“Uh-huh,” Tim manages thickly, breathing hard and shallow against the sick feeling rising in his throat. Brian’s palm presses hard into his churning stomach, and he gags. Supported by Brian’s arm around his waist, he leans over the edge of the trash can as he retches and vomits up a mouthful of mostly water, and then another, followed by a thick slurry of sick, semisolid chunks of his undigested lunch splattering into the bottom of the bin.

“That’s it,” Brian murmurs in his ear, still rubbing his stomach as he gasps for breath. “You’re doing great.”

“Brian,” he pants, his voice hoarse from retching. “Fuck me.”

Brian laughs, low and devilish, and pulls away to slick up his fingers with lube before pressing one, and then another, inside of him. Tim keens in the back of his throat, arching his back, pushing his hips down against Brian’s hand. For a moment, he can almost forget how sick his stomach feels as Brian works his fingers deeper into him.

“God, that feels so good,” he breathes, clutching at Brian’s other hand where it’s pressed against his stomach, rubbing circles over his skin. A queasy belch works its way up his throat, bringing with it the sour taste of stomach acid and the chicken sandwich he’d eaten hours ago now. He turns over and gags weakly, his muscles clenching and convulsing under Brian’s gentle touch but bringing up nothing of substance. Brian leans in to kiss the side of his neck, massaging his belly firmly as he burps and dry-heaves over the trash can.

“You need some more water?” Brian murmurs, nuzzling at his throat while he retches unproductively.

He nods, pushes himself up on one arm to reach for the glass and take a few gulps, hoping it’ll help him get rid of the rest of what little is left in his stomach. Brian’s fingers slide rhythmically in and out, gently loosening the tight muscles and making Tim shudder and moan as he rocks his hips. He can feel the water sloshing around in his belly as he moves, and swallows hard against the urge to be sick again, trying to keep it down a little longer.

Brian pulls away briefly, fingers slipping out of him, and Tim whines. There’s the wet sound of Brian applying more lube, and then his cock is pressing into him, hot and firm. Tim gasps and cries out, squeezing Brian’s hand tightly, reaching with the other hand to grasp his own cock and begin to stroke it as Brian thrusts deep inside of him.

It doesn’t take much for the movement of Brian’s hips against him to upset his sick stomach, and a moment later he’s hanging over the side of the bed again to puke, heaving up a wave of chunky vomit, and then another, as Brian holds him close around the waist and fucks him slowly. He’s panting for breath when he’s finished, trembling from exertion and excitement as he leans back against Brian’s chest.

“Is that it?” Brian murmurs in his ear, his voice low and husky. “Are you all empty, baby?”

“Gonna — try — one more time,” Tim manages, breathing hard, his throat tight. “Just let me—“

He reaches for the water again and downs the rest of the glass in a few gulps. The cold feeling in his stomach makes him shiver, and he has to suppress the immediate impulse to gag. Brian’s palm cups his belly gently, his thumb stroking over the tender skin and soothing the sore muscles. Tim moans and bucks his hips, pushing down onto Brian’s hard cock, his own throbbing in his hand as precum leaks from the tip.

“Are — are you — almost there?” he asks between shallow, frantic breaths, swallowing thickly as the water threatens to come back up. Just a little longer, he’s got to keep it down just a little longer.

“So close,” Brian pants out, his hips jittering against Tim’s ass as he moves faster inside him. “God, I’m so fucking close, Tim.”

“Good,” Tim manages, and presses Brian’s hand closer against his stomach. Brian takes the hint and kneads into him firmly, making his gut churn and clench. “Fuck, Brian, I’m gonna —“

He barely manages to turn over in time before he throws up, water and stomach acid splashing into the trash can and onto the floor beside it as he retches. Brian cries out and buries his face in the side of Tim’s neck when he comes, thick and hot and sticky inside him. Tim slumps back against him once he’s done vomiting, and to the sound of Brian’s ragged breathing finishes himself off as well.

“How’re you feeling?” Brian slurs sleepily when they’ve both managed to catch their breath. “Better now?”

“Yeah, some,” Tim agrees, squeezing Brian’s hand as he rubs his aching muscles. “Think I’m all done, least for a while.”

“Good,” Brian murmurs, and leans in close to kiss his cheek. “You get some rest, I’ll clean up.”

“You sure?” Tim asks, turning to look at Brian over his shoulder. “I can help. I don’t feel too bad now.”

“No, I got it,” Brian assures him with a crooked smile. “You’re sick, babe, you need to take it easy.”

“Okay,” he agrees, reluctantly unlacing his fingers from between Brian’s. “But come back when you’re done, alright?”

“Of course I will,” Brian agrees, and gives him another soft kiss before he turns away to get to his feet. “I’ll be right here.”