t.homa emeto fic yipee
details: x reader, caretaker reader, sfw sickfic. more t.homa-centric, he has a crush on reader (fueled by my yearning). depictions of vomiting and some burping. 1530 words (i wrote this in one sitting instead of sleeping on time oops)
they say itâs good to try and live a life with no regrets. thoma gets it, but unfortunately falls victim to the late realization that he shouldnât be subjecting himself to near-weekly gastrointestinal torture.
he doesnât exactly know why he continues to put himself through it. he doesnât know why he continues to accept his lordâs absurd food offerings. he doesnât know why he keeps playing his hotpot games and getting lady ayaka to join him (bless her heart, but her ingredient choices are something else).
whatever the reason, he finds himself hunched over, gripping the edge of your kitchen counter, questioning his life decisions. he shouldnât have tried to get competitive with the traveler over a hotpot game, and he shouldnât have ignored the gut feeling that there was something odd about the dairy-based drink lord ayato had given him.
archons, his stomach is killing him. and he didnât have it in him to decline your request for help when you showed up at the yashiro commission headquarters. he was particularly afraid of disappointing you, so with a pained smile on his face, he had simply nodded and followed you to your quaint home.
now, he is paying the price.
âthoma?â you gasp, noticing his posture. âis something wrong?â
he doesnât move, afraid of what might happen. normally, he can ride out the pain and nausea, but this? this was another beast entirely! not to mention, it had hit him hard in such a short amount of time.
âthoma,â you repeat, walking closer to him. âare you okay? do you want to sit down?â
âno,â he mutters. âi-iâm gonna be fine. just give me a moment-â
his stomach chooses that specific moment to let out an ominous gurgle.
âthoma?â you whisper gently, almost like you were afraid to break him. âare you going to be sick?â
heâs about to deny your statement, but another gurgle stops him. this time, it climbs up his throat.Â
âoh. oh, dear. iâm sorry,â you frown, running a hand through your hair. âi should have insisted you come another time. sorry.â
ânot-â thoma presses a hand to his mouth to muffle another gurgle, then grits his teeth. ânot your fault.â
worry starts to course through his body. one, youâre blaming yourself for his predicament. two, heâs inconveniencing you. three, heâs probably going to vomit but he does not want you around to see it. four, the question of where he is going to vomit remains unanswered.
âoh, regardless, thereâs nothing wrong with telling me youâre unwell. you deserve to rest too, you know?â
he isnât looking at you, too focused on keeping it together, but his heart squeezes at your gentle tone of voice. thoma can only muster a weak hum in response, which is immediately followed by a short, wet burp.Â
âiâll get a bucket from the storage room,â you offer, and he hears you walk towards the back. âyou go get comfortable.â
his face heats up at the embarrassment of making these sounds in front of you. the moment he thinks youâre out of earshot, thatâs when he allows himself to wrap one arm around his stomach and belch deeply into his fist.Â
as expected, it doesnât really do anything to helpâhe just feels gross.
âokay, here.â thoma hears your footsteps again, and you stop next to him. âum, do you want to sit down?â
he has no clue. would it help?Â
âthoma?â
âi-â heâs cut off by another belch, and he avoids looking at you. âsorry.â
âthoma, youâre sick. do not be sorry.â thereâs a gentle hand on his shoulder. âtake it easy. youâre not the first sick person iâve taken care of. plus, youâve already done a lot for me the past few months. itâs about time i return the favor.â
thoma whimpers. heâs not sure when he was last given this kind of treatment, but it makes his heart ache a little.Â
you put the bucket on the counter, pushing it towards him. âget it up, okay? whatever makes you feel better.â
saliva starts to coat his mouth heavily. archons, please. his stomach rolls, and he cannot help the guttural belch that escapes his mouth.
âsorry,â thoma says, mouth hanging open as he starts to breathe irregularly. the urge to gag is so, so, strong.
âagain, donât-â
he belches again, much wetter this time; the force takes him aback, bringing tears to his eyes.
âdonât be sorry.â you continue. âjust get it up.â
thoma whines, starting to register his mind and body accepting his fate. he continues to let up a few streams of nauseous burps, his hands progressively moving closer to the bucket.
âugh,â thoma groans. âthis su-â
his stomach lurches instantly, forcing his utterance to morph into another deep belch. thatâs when thoma feels something come up along with it. his eyes are squeezed shut, but he can tell that whatever he had just brought up has hit the bottom of the bucket.
âokay, there we go.â your hand rubs his back up and down. he canât tell what it is about the motionâor perhaps itâs the fact that youâre doing the gestureâbut he lets his body take control.
not even a few seconds pass before more of his stomach contents come up. he tries hard not to think about the taste and texture, because it is absolutely vile.Â
âyouâre doing great,â thoma hears you comment when he finds a moment to catch his breath. he coughs for a bit, hoping to dislodge chunks of whatever in his throat. âhow are you feeling?â
he shakes his head, letting his head hang forward. ânot done.â
âalright, give me a moment. iâll get you some water and tea. hopefully you can stomach them and replenish your fluids.â
âthanks,â thoma mutters, before his upper body convulses again.Â
he hasnât even realized just how close his face has gotten to the bucket beneath him, nor how much more he has curled in on himself. thoma just hopes and prays that heâll feel better after this.
time passes by in a blur. at some point, youâve resumed your backrubs, but thoma eventually moves on to dry heaves, unable to bring anything up. you take this as your sign to help him sit down on the floor as you clear out the bucket. he leans his head against the bottom part of the counter as he waits for your company.
suddenly, thereâs a soft cloth dabbing at his face. his eyes fly open, and youâre kneeling across him. for the first time in what felt like hours, he makes eye contact with you.
âhey,â you give him a soft grin in return, and he cannot understand how you donât seem the least bit fazed by what had just happened. âgot some stuff on your face.â
weakly, he nods; he can only imagine how messy he looksâvomit, sweat, tears, and whatever else. snot, maybe. archons, he should not be letting you do this for him. yet, he doesnât have the energy to protest.
thoma doesnât know when he closed his eyes again, but he opens them in the abrupt absence of your touch.
âhey, think you can stomach some water?â
he blinks at you and the cup in your hand. can he? well, how bad could water be? he is thirsty anyway, now that he thinks about it. slowly, he reaches out a hand to grab the cup you offer.
âsmall sips, okay? just in case,â you remind him gently, which heâs thankful for. he stops drinking halfway through, a tad bit afraid that it could just come back up as quickly as it went down.
âalright,â you take the cup from his hand and set it back on the counter. âso, i have a couch over there.â you point to the main area. âdo you want to lie down for a bit?â
âsure,â thoma responds in a breathy voice. he doesnât expect you to hold your hand out for him, but he takes it; he lets you pull him up and guide him, even if the distance he needs to cross is rather short.
he sighs in relief at the chance to lie down, learning against the arm of the couch. no expectations, no appearances to keep up, no people to please and respond to.
âare you comfortable?â you ask after a few seconds, voice so kind and considerate that he kind of wants to kiss y- uh.
âyes,â he clears his throat. âthank you for everything. i am sorry for the mess andâŚâ
âof course. please donât worry about it, thoma. and the furniture repairs can wait.â you hum for moment. âdo you still feel unwell?â
âiâŚâ thoma pauses and shuts his eyes as he tries to determine what he feels. heâs all wrung out, but he doesnât feel in the clear just yet. âsort of.â
âaw.â he can hear the pout in your voiceâhe sees it when he turns his head to look at you. âi wonder what happened to you?â
he exhales through his nose. âlong story.â
âiâve got time,â you joke, in the hopes of lightening the atmosphere.Â
thoma decides thereâs a reason youâre one of his favorites in inazuma.











