#tender breadbasket

sorry it took me so long to get to this!

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Kirishima wakes at 1:13 in the morning to the sound of his own stomach rumbling. And no surprise there; anything's noisy in the pitch-black silence of his room.

At first, he's disoriented. He doesn't realize where the sound is coming from, worries it might be a threat. (More specifically, a monster hiding under his bed, although being scared of monsters hiding under your bed past the age of nine isn't very manly.) Then his stomach cramps, and he realizes — oh. Not a monster.

He frowns and kicks off the covers, laying an evaluating hand on the side of his belly. It's definitely the one rumbling; he can feel it. The prominence of his digestive movement is disturbing. He doesn't think he's meant to feel his dinner crawling through his intestines.

His knees draw up as another cramp hits, pulsating wicked-slow through the half-digested onigiri. He presses a moan behind his teeth. Had the onigiri gone bad? Is that what this is? Kirishima could've sworn Denki said it wasn't any older than a couple of hours.

He trawls his fingertips widely over the cantankerous expanse of his stomach, and as it burbles and glorps, he realizes with sinking despair that this might be a while. And it's 1 AM, no one else awake, most of him already in varying states of discomfort due to the absolute torture that was today's (yesterday's?) training...

Frustrated but determined not to succumb to the negativity, Kirishima gets out of bed and decides to head down to the kitchen for a cup of tea and some antacids if he can find them.

He keeps a hand solidly palming his belly as he makes his way down the stairs. Acid and the Coke Kirishima drank earlier slosh around the large mass of food clogging up his stomach and intestines. Some of the liquid is thin and splashes with every step, but most of it has thickened enough to churn.

Kirishima flicks on the lights in the kitchen and gets the kettle heating on the stove. It's old, and part of it is dented from when Bakugou got angry at how long it took to boil and smashed it with his fist.

After rooting around in the cupboards, he finds a packet of ginger tea. There's a half-empty bottle of Tylenol hidden behind a bag of flour and some peppercorns, but the expiration date has been rubbed off, and right now Kirishima isn't willing to take any chances.

He sits down on the nearest sofa with his tea and, ignoring his natural instincts, sips it carefully so as to not anger his stomach further. It adds to the sloshing in his belly, but it's warm, and Kirishima can feel his mind growing the faintest bit fuzzy as it worms its way to his brain.

The cushions dip around him as he leans his full weight against the back of the couch. They smell kind of like Cheeto dust, but he ignores that because he'd prefer not to vomit on the rug.

The last few sips of tea go untouched; it's nice, but his stomach is bloating around it, and anything more in there will be too tight a fit for comfort.

He flicks on the TV to something low and distracting and rubs his belly in slow, clockwise circles, hoping to speed along digestion. It's hard to tell whether the shift from noisy rumbles to a tighter, softer grumbling is productive or not, but the pressure of his hands feels good against the unruly ache in his abdomen, so he figures that whatever he's doing is alright.

Once he feels like things are starting to move along, he quits the methodic circles and sets to dragging his fingers from hip to ribs on either side of his middle, occasionally smoothing in to massage against the tightness cinched like a belt around his center belly.

As things progress, his rubs generate ginger-flavored belches, and he groans gently as the release of air softens his tummy from its state of tension. He touches above his navel and marvels at the lack of tender stretch.

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It was the sausage bites that did Si in. Up until that stupid little tray came around the room, they’d felt perfectly fine. More than fine, even. The food was good, the drink was better, and best of all, Ryder was having a blast. It was such a special treat to see that man kick up his heels for once and let his usual serious reserve melt away.

So when Ryder had gripped Si’s arm—a little harder than he normally did, they noticed—and insisted they had to try the sausage bites, which were so good, one of the best things the kitchens sent up—well, Si could not resist humoring him and taking a handful.

In all fairness, the sausage bites were delicious. It was just that they were also greasy, and that Si’s stomach was already very full of a heavy dinner, a number of drinks, and a more party snacks than they’d been able to keep track of. A stretched-out sensation pulsed above their navel as they swallowed the last scrap of sausage, and they placed a hand on it gingerly. Their tummy felt a little like a balloon, taut and rather rounder than they were used to. But it wasn’t so bad.

This took me longer than planned – I loved this prompt and wanted to wait until I had the chance to spend some time and make it good! Please enjoy~

The trouble, as it so often did, all boiled down to bad luck and poor timing

It’d been late on Wednesday night when Ryder had noticed one of the big tonic-brewing pots leaking white smoke from its seams. He’d checked the magic-containment sigil inscribed into its base and found it cracked right down the middle, catastrophically failed from overuse.

The repair would’ve been simple for a scribe-mage. Had there been more time, Ryder would’ve called on the spellshop downtown and had someone come up to fix it. But RAMA was expecting an order of tonic by the end of the week and working a whole day with only one pot in operation wasn’t going to cut it.

There was a di-mage equivalent to the containment spell. It wasn’t often used, and when Ryder dug it out of one of the ancient books sitting on his shelf, he realized why. The filling was an intimidating mix of rich dairy products, greasy fried foods, and citrus fruits – the perfect recipe for horrible indigestion. And the spell didn’t call for a small amount, either.

But Ryder hadn’t felt he had much of a choice. So he’d gone into the brewing room with an armload of food and shambled out some time later with a very full, very unhappy belly.

But the brewing pot was working again, and that was what mattered. The discomfort would fade in time.

Or so he’d thought. An hour later, Ryder still felt horribly sick.

He hunched over his desk a little as his stomach rumbled inside him, pushing up a soft, queasy burp. It had been gurgling almost continuously for the past ten minutes, its heavy, viscous contents churning sluggishly. All Ryder wanted was to slink off and be sick – or in lieu of that, to go upstairs, draw the curtains in his bedroom, and take a nice, long nap until his belly settled. But the day was still young, and the spell needed to run, and he had work to do….

“Ryder?” Grayson’s voice floated over from the main area of the room, where he was setting up materials for a researcher who was coming in to cast later. “This cooler thing isn’t working.  What should I do?”

“One moment.” Swallowing heavily, Ryder braced a hand on his desk and pushed himself to his feet. Standing up made him feel extremely nauseated – he had to clench his jaw against a wave of dizziness, and cold sweat broke out on his forehead.

His stomach sloshed and gurgled with each step, but he felt he managed to look relatively normal by the time he knelt next to where Grayson was working.  “Where’s this broken cooler?”

“Here.” Grayson held up the small metal bucket, designed to keep spell ingredients cold. “It won’t turn on.”

“Ah. They’re old. Sometimes they just need a good shake.” Ryder gave the little machine a thump and handed it back to Grayson as it whirred to life.

“Got it. Thanks.” Grayson set the cooler down, running a hand through his hair. “Um – Ryder, can I ask – are you feeling all right?”

Ryder couldn’t keep a stony frown from stealing over his face. “I suppose you can hear my stomach?”

“Uh. Yeah, kinda. Also, you just look sort of… bad. No offense.”

“Well, I’m in the middle of a challenging spell. But it’s nothing to be worried about.” Ryder’s frown deepened as his belly gurgled loudly. He had to stop himself from pressing a hand to the accompanying cramp. “I know it sounds bad, but it’s merely the ordinary inconveniences of being a di-mage.”

Grayson didn’t look convinced. “Maybe you should take some tonic?”

“Not needed. Don’t concern yourself with this, Grayson.” Ryder stood up, swallowing heavily against the lurch of his belly. “Just finish your work and then go get yourself some lunch.”

Back at his desk, Ryder wiped the sweat from his brow and tried to focus on paperwork. He managed a to do a little, but soon he was leaning back in his chair with his hands folded over his rolling stomach, breathing slowly.

There was no denying it – his nausea was getting worse and worse. As sick as he felt, as much as he longed to give his stomach the relief it was pleading for, he had to keep the spell down–

–and then his belly groaned and surged in a way that made him press a hand against his mouth. When he took his fingers away, they were clammy and trembling, and Ryder knew suddenly and clearly that his insides were going to have their way.

He lurched to his feet and walked stiffly out from his alcove. “Grayson? Would you keep an eye on things for a few minutes?”

“Uh, sure.” Grayson glanced up at him. “Are you–?”

Ryder didn’t hear the end of his question. He was already moving purposefully across the room, down the back hall, up the steps to his living quarters.

He had been planning to take care of things in a careful, controlled way – drink some water to dilute the magic before pressing his finger to the back of his tongue – but it was already too late for that. He could feel his stomach fighting to squeeze as he reached for the handle of his bathroom door.

He barely managed to fall on his knees before he was being very, very sick.

Vomiting up an active spell was never pleasant. But even with the intensity of the cramps, the easing of the pain his belly was so immense that Ryder sighed gratefully between retches. It almost felt good to cough up the last of it, to rid his insides of the last vestiges of that foulness. Afterwards, all he could do for a minute or two was sit huddled on the floor and breathe, basking in the warm fuzziness of relief.

He felt so much better.

Eventually, he rose and stumbled to the sink to rinse his mouth and splash some water on his face. He still felt shaky as he made his way back to the Soothing Room – throwing up always made him feel off – but it was still better than suffering through such a full, sick belly. At least he could focus on something other than how awful he felt this way. He’d have to figure out something else with the brewing pot, unfortunately, but that would sort itself out, surely…

He rounded the corner to his alcove and stopped short.

A mug of tea was sitting in the middle of his desk, steam curling lazily from its surface. The spicy scent of ginger hung in the air.

He glanced over his shoulder. The room was empty. The setup Grayson had been working on was completed, and his apprentice himself was nowhere to be seen.

"Huh!” Ryder murmured aloud. “I told him not to worry! But does he listen? No! Stubborn boy!”

He eased himself into his chair, raised the mug to his lips, and took a long draught. The tea settled in his belly, warm and soothing as a blanket.