I just saw a post about “puking the wine out”. Would you write a prompt about Noa or Logan getting too wine drunk and needing to puke to feel better?
I needed a break from the heavier stuff I've been writing, so this was a lot of fun. I hope you don't mind that I went a little light and silly with it, anon, but I just love Noa and Rory being fluffy and cute when no one else is around.
RED WINE
Rory knew right away that Noa was buzzed. Even if her red cheeks and wider-than-normal grin hadn’t made him suspect, the slight sway of her body as she stood with her group of coworkers was a dead giveaway. Noa was a tennis player and her regular stance was balanced and set when she stood still. Except when she’d been drinking.
Of course, the fact that she’d just spent two hours at one of those wine bar painting places may have also been a clue.
“Rory!” One of the women standing with Noa gave him a big, tipsy smile. “Are you here to pick up your girlfriend? That’s soooo adorable." She gave him a suggestive wink. There were murmurs of agreement and Rory gave a tight smile. Another woman - one of the newer therapists in the clinic, he thought - touched his arm. “Did you walk here? You’ll have to carry Noa’s painting home; but I’m sure you can handle that.” She squeezed his bicep and Rory tried not to roll his eyes. Noa was still talking to her boss and he didn’t want to interrupt, no matter how much he’d rather be talking to her himself.
She caught his eye and gave him a tipsy grin, swaying a little more on her feet, and he had to hold back from rushing over to steady her. The other therapist touched his arm again.
“Or maybe we can all share an Uber - are you having friends over later or something? It’s still pretty early.” She gave a little giggle. “It would be fun to keep the night going, wouldn’t it?.” The woman spoke with a familiarity that Rory found annoying. Still, he kept his voice polite.
“Noa and I are going out to dinner; I haven’t seen her all day.” He glanced again at his girlfriend, just as she put her fist to her mouth to muffled what looked like a hiccup or small burp. Getting her food sooner rather than later was probably a good idea. “But maybe another time, umm . . .”
“Daphne,” she supplied helpfully. “That sounds like a plan - I’ll set something up with Noa.”
“You . . . do that,” said Rory vaguely, eyes now fully on his girlfriend, who was swaying into the wall every so often. The next time she pushed herself upright he was relieved to see her pick up her canvas. That was his cue.
“I’ve got that,” he said, taking it from her and leaning in for a quick kiss. It was a sunny beach scene with crashing waves and palm trees that looked fairly similar to the paintings everyone else was holding too, but he made an appreciative sound anyway. “Beautiful.”
“We’ll hang it in our bedroom,” she said with a devious grin. “It’ll go great with our decor.”
It would clash horribly with their decor, and they both knew it. But before he could make another joke, Noa hiccupped again. He grasped her arm.
“You need to eat,” he said. “We’ll prop the painting on a chair at the restaurant so everyone can admire it.” He turned her towards the exit, done caring about keeping up any friendly banter with people he mostly didn't know.
“Sounds. . . hic . . . sounds great. ‘Scuse me.” Noa giggled drunkenly and said goodbye to her coworkers, leaning on Rory as they left the wine bar.
“La Familglia sound good?” he asked as they walked down the street. “You said earlier you wanted Italian and it’s only about a twelve minute walk.” Or it would be a twelve minute walk with a sober girlfriend. With the way Noa was swaying and hicupping, Rory suspected it was going to take a little bit longer to get to their destination. Not that he cared; he had Noa alone after a long day and quite frankly, it didn’t matter to him what they did next. But she clearly needed some food in her and he'd found the closest Italian place he could.
“Sounds yummy,” she said happily, swinging his hand in hers. She gestured at the canvas he was holding in his other hand. “We don’t have to . . . hic . . . keep it. I was teasing about . . . hicuurrrp . . . putting it on our wall. Oof.” She rubbed at her chest. “The wine’s making me burpy.” She smushed her face into his chest and belched again. “Don’ usually drink red.”
He chuckled. “How much did you have, exactly?”
Noa shrugged. “I think I almost finished a bottle but not quite.” She snuggled into his side. “Too much, probably.” She rubbed at her middle until it worked up another burp, which she blew out in a shaky-sounding exhale. “My belly’s all sloshy now.”
Rory tried not to show his surprise. “That’s a lot of red wine, Noe.” He wrapped his arm more firmly around her waist and could feel it gurgling beneath his palm. No wonder she was burping so much. “Are you feeling okay?” He started mentally revising their dinner plans to find some place closer by. There was a convenience store across the street and he tugged Noa to a halt.
“Why don’t we go in there and get you some crackers to nibble on while we walk?” he suggested. “They’ll help soak up all the wine until we get to dinner.”
Noa hiccuped again. “Okay.” Her voice had lost some of its giddiness and Rory frowned, wondering if they should just go home instead. He decided to wait and see how she felt after a couple of crackers; maybe all she needed was a little something in her stomach and she’d be fine.
Inside the store he grabbed saltines and water while Noa waited quietly by the register with that damn painting. Once he paid he didn’t even wait until they were outside again to rip open the package.
“Here.” He shoved a few crackers into her hand. “See if these help.”
Noa made a small sound of assent. “I . . . urp . . . hope so,” she said, frowning at them. “Otherwise I think I’m going to be sick.” She took a small bite and chewed slowly while Rory watched her intently. When she swallowed and then took another bite he relaxed a little bit.
“Better?” he asked. In the fading light of the evening his girlfriend had lost the rosy glow in her cheeks.
“I’m not sure.” Noa took a deep breath and started walking. “Feels like my chest is burning.” She rubbed at it and put the rest of the cracker in her mouth.
“Yeah, red wine will do that sometimes. Did they not have white?” Rory tried to remember the last time she’d had more than half a glass of red. She shrugged.
“Yeah, but everyone else was drinking red so I . . . urp . . . figured I would too. Didn’t realize it would make me so burpy.” She breathed out. “And kind of queasy.”
“Well to be fair, that may be because you had almost an entire bottle, love.” Rory rubbed up and down her back. “That’s likely to upset your stomach no matter what.”
“Yeah, kind of wishing I hadn’t had so much.” Noa belched again and groaned a little as she breathed out. “That one didn’t feel so good.” They were passing a little park on their slow shuffle up the street and she pointed at it. “Can we . . . urp . . . sit down so I can regret all my decisions in private for a minute or two?”
Rory barked out a laugh. “Good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor at least.” They hobbled over to a bench and sat down and he leaned the painting against the seat next to him.
Noa leaned forward and rested her head in her hands. “May not have lost my . . . uhhlp . . . humor but I think I’m gonna lose my lunch.” She spit deep red saliva onto the ground. “Soon.”
Since his girlfriend’s mood didn’t seem to be too dark, Rory joked back. “I guess you could say you’re about to ‘vomit the vino’?”
Noa groaned. “That’s terrible, Ror. And it’s more like ‘‘puke the pinot.’” She belched, a deep, wet sound and he was shocked that nothing else followed it. He began rubbing more firmly up and down her back.
“Come on then, burp up the bottle and you’ll feel better.”
Noa turned her head and gave him a withering look. “Maybe it’s g--g–gag . . . oh fuck . . . Hrrrhk . . .” She was unable to finish her sentence through the retch and then started gasping and trying to catch her breath. Rory thumped her on the back.
“Get it up, hon, you’ll feel so much better.” Noa spit up a mouthful of wine.
“Good,” she panted through several small heaves. “Cause I’m really fucking nauseous right now.”
Rory chuckled again. Noa tended to swear a lot when she was about to throw up; it was her way of dealing with the feeling of being out of control. She retched again and groaned. ‘Fuck.”
“Wait, I’ve got an idea.” Rory grabbed the painting and put it on the ground between Noa’s feet. “Aim at that.”
Noa gave a queasy chuckle. “Perfect.” She gulped down and almost immediately burped up wine and a bit of saltine cracker all over the canvas. Her throat bobbed for a moment and then she lurched forward to throw up a much bigger gush of the bottle of red. “Oh god,” she groaned.
Rory put his hand flat against her heaving stomach. “Another one like that, love. Aim for the palm trees.”
Noa’s snort of amusement was cut off by her next retch. “Palm . . . trees were my . . . ugh . . . favorite part,” she gagged, covering them completely with her next heave. There hadn’t been a lot in her stomach besides wine and it soaked into the canvas, turning the entire scene a kind of sickly pink color.
“Looks like the sun is setting on your painting,” he laughed.
Noa gagged one more time and then leaned back, accepting the bottle of water Rory handed her. “I think it improves it,” she said, swishing the liquid around in her mouth and then spitting it out. “But let’s not tell the wine bar.” She grimaced at her art. “We probably need to dump that in the garbage before we leave.” Her stomach gurgled again and she spit out more wine-tinted saliva. “I’ve got it; it was enough to ask you to carry the thing before it was covered in puke.” She wiped her hand across her mouth and sighed.
Rory chuckled again. “Are you feeling better then?”
Noa shrugged. “Still nauseous but not quite as pukey anymore.” She stood up and carefully picked up the painting and dumped it in the big metal trash can next to the bench. “Can we order in dinner instead of going out? By the time we get home I might be able to face some plain noodles or something.”
Rory kissed her hair. “As long as you promise not to puke up the pasta.”
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Called mom tonight. She was sloshy after George's funeral today. Buried him in his Nebraska Red coat that he loved to wear at the Nebraska football games. Earl stood up and talked about George’s Nebraska love and how Larry Wentz was one of the trio.
A mess is death.
Dan, tall, was there. He could see the body. Dad wished he had. Dan said no, George had lost so much weight, be glad that you did not see him.
9/25/1988 Doug down to the essential beauty of mom and dad and of their home today.
Mom today, as last night, got soused bad. But, in her delirium, she said of me “You are my child. Zoe and Dan are Wentz’s.” I had said earlier that Zoe and Dan were brutal and “me me”. I also said that they had tempered with age.
Mom said later that she would die before dad because “she had led a hard life.” We talked of funerals because George just died. His death had a big impact on mom and dad. Mom said they are all going now.
End of this part of entries.
George and Earl were two of my Dad’s friends. I think that they had all gone to the university of Nebraska in Lincoln together. They then had moved to California, where they would gather round the TV set at one or another of their houses to watch Nebraska football games. They would wear their Nebraska red blazers. And so, when George died, he was buried in his.
When mom said “They are all going now”, she meant all of Dad’s friends his age were dying. . Dad was 67 then. My mother was 10 years younger than my father.
Dan and Zoe were my younger sister and brother. Larry Wentz was my father.
Mom drank too much at times which why I described her as being soused and sloshy.
Friday, 23 June 2023
I went to bed around 10pm last night, checked my phone and my cost-of-living payment had hit my bank account! It’s not much, £150, but right now, it’s the difference between me not affording the basics in life and affording them. As anyone who has been in this position, they will know that the effect it has on you mentally, is immense. Clouds, weights, and everything else is…
Today’s video features our FemShep getting hammered on the Citadel! Who doesn’t like to cut loose a little when you’re tasked with saving the whole fucking world? We also have another hilarious scene of making a Turian uncomfortable while trying to take a whiz. Check out the video here:
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“Had you been more open,” her anguished words rang in his ears, as they had a hundred times since the day she spoke them. Because that was what it came down to, wasn’t it? At least that was the conclusion he had drawn. Everything she had flung at him, deserved or undeserved. Everything he had written in that fucking opus of a letter. It could have been avoided. If he’d opened himself, been unreserved about his actions and motivations. Truly brought her into his life.
And why hadn’t he just done that? If he talked to his professionals at The Meadows, they’d probably say that it had something to do with his cold, love-starved upbringing or the fact that sharing his thoughts or feelings would have cost him his life at one time. And maybe they would be right. It was certainly difficult for him to let people in — much easier to live life at arms’ length — and the thought of doing it with someone beyond his trusted circle frankly terrified him to his core.
But she’d already been in. Already been closer to him than almost anyone. He just hadn’t shown her that.
He’d lost her over something in his control.
He slammed his glass down on a nearby table and walked toward his closet, pulling his shirt over his head. Wrenching open the door, he grabbed his Quidditch kit and flung it on the bed. Flying was the only thing that could quiet his mind these days. Five minutes later he walked out of his hotel, broom in hand, and launched into the sky.
Wisps of cloud scudded in the dimming slate blue sky and the colors of the trees below were almost surreal - saturated oranges, yellows and reds. He climbed high in a straight, steep line and then pulled abruptly out of his ascent, wheeling over into a backwards dive that was so breakneck he felt gravity pulling hard against him. The ground was rising fast - but the object was to wait it out until the last minute. A good Wronski meant the blades of grass brushed your knees as you pulled up.
He accomplished it once, twice, three times - the steady ascent higher each time, the streaking fall and the last second redemption. But on the fourth, something went wrong. A distraction or miscalculation? Maybe he had been dwelling too much on a memory. All he knew was that he caught something, hit the earth, skidded for several dozen feet and came to unceremonious rest at the base of a very large thorned bush.
He lay flat on his back and laughed mirthlessly. Nothing felt broken, at least - lucky it hadn’t been his neck. He picked himself up, swung back on his broom and flew slowly back to the inn.
