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this is probably the sickest i’ve been and the worst pain my tummy has ever experienced. I had undercooked chicken at a restaurant yesterday evening and i woke up this morning in so much pain. my tummy is so bloated and it hurts so bad i’ve been throwing up so much and it won’t settle this is definitely the sickest i’ve been it hurts so bad i can’t even describe it
i had tocos for dinner last night but i thought the cheese was non dairy because it usually is but it clearly wasn’t.. i went straight to bed after and thought nothing of it however i woke up this morning in so much pain. my tummy is so bubbly and it hurts so bad i feel really really sick i threw up once but i can’t tell if i need to poop or throw up again and i can’t miss school today so idk what to do i’ll update tmr if i can 😔
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The bucket landed on the table between them, ominous, steaming hot, and covered in sauce so spicy that Nate’s eyes are already watering.
“Jesus Christ,” Darren commented as it landed. He’s served his own basket of spicy wings and onion rings. He pulls it closer to himself as Nate does the same with the bucket, eyeballing it as he tries to decide how best to start tackling it. “That’s huge.”
“Thirty wings in Ninth Circle hot sauce,” the waiter says. It’s exactly what it had said in the menu, too: The Ninth Circle of Hell Challenge, where a customer has to eat thirty hot wings drenched in the restaurant’s hottest hot sauce, Ninth Circle sauce, in under ten minutes. The sauce is reportedly so hot that just being near it is enough to make someone sweaty, which Nate is learning right now, dew beading on his temples. “Finish in under ten minutes and call us over for your prizes.”
“Which are…” Darren checks the menu again. “A coupon book, your meal for free, and your picture on the wall.” He lifts his head to evaluate Nate and the bucket of wings again. “Are you sure you want to do this? That’s not much.”
“The biggest prize is saying I did,” Nate reminds him.
“Or,” Darren suggests, “the biggest prize is not having a horrible stomachache later because you ate thirty incredibly spicy wings in under ten minutes.”
Nate grins at him over the absurd bucket as the waiter leaves. The glossy red-orange wings are piled high inside, each one glistening with the kind of oily, spicy sheen that could peel paint. They might actually be from the ninth circle of Hell.
“You’re actually doing this, aren’t you?” Darren asks, staring down the steaming tower. His tone is skeptical, but not unsupportive, as always. He’s just too good to Nate, Nate thinks.
Smiling, Nate rolls his sleeves up. “Free meal, babe! And a coupon book, and my picture on the Wall of Flame. Plus bragging rights! It’s a no-brainer.”
“It’s a death wish.”
“It can be both.” A few people are watching them now, customers and staff alike. One of the cooks is leaning out the kitchen window with a grin that’s a little terrifying to Nate, while one of the waiters stands by with a milk jug and gloves in case he requests them.
Nate picks up the first wing, Darren sighs and starts the timer on the table, and Nate takes his first bite.
Five wings in, Nate is sweating so badly his face is wet. His eyes are glassy, his cheeks flushed, and he’s panting as he eats. He thinks it might be smarter to just try getting them down, and so he powers through wings six through ten like a man possessed, powering through his speed-eating before a spicy burp rumbles up just after wing ten, burning the back of his throat.
“Still think this is a good idea?” Darren asks, leaning over the table to dap at Nate’s lips for him.
“Yup,” Nate mumbles around a mouthful of wing eleven, eyes watering as his eyes dart down to the timer ticking away. “Tastes like victory.” A burning belch rolls up again. “And lava. Fuck.”
“Be careful,” Darren warns him. “It’s not worth getting sick over.”
“I’m already most of the way through,” Nate argues as if he isn’t only just now dragging wing twelve through the sauce and biting off a chunk. His stomach feels like it’s coated in gasoline in that it’s ready to ignite into flame at a moment’s notice.
With a cough, swallowing roughly, Nate grabs for water before Darren puts a hand out to stop him firmly.
“Water will spread the heat,” he warns. “Bread or milk is—”
“I lose part of the rewards if I have them,” Nate pants. A low belch burns at the back of his throat, his stomach feeling more than a bit tight. “Wings only to win everything.”
By wing fifteen, the sweat has spread down his throat to his chest. It’s soaking through the collar of his shirt. His chest is starting to heave with every swallow, trying to catch his breath. Each belch that pushes up tastes and burns like lava.
Slapping at his sternum once, then twice, harder this time, he burps himself a bit so he can make more room to force down the next fifteen wings.
Oh, God, he’s only halfway there.
“Still good?” Darren asks. Nate nods, biting into the sixteenth. “Be careful.”
Nate nods again, focused on the wing in front of him like something bad will happen if he takes his focus off of it. His stomach is already protesting, Darren can tell. With his next swallow, there’s a sickly gurgle, but Nate stubbornly takes another bite, determined to win.
He shoves the next wing in his mouth, wing seventeen, into his mouth. He feels sticky with sweat and it takes hard work to work all the meat down his throat.
By wing eighteen, he hiccups, loud and sharp, and Darren thinks it sounds painful. A harsh burp follows almost immediately, sounding deep and acidic and wet, and Darren grimaces.
“Oh, God,” Nate croaks, wiping his hands off on a napkin so he can put his head in his hands and breathe deeply for a moment. “My stomach’s a little… a little sloshy. Like, I can hear it moving. I can…” He pants, then lets out a low, breathy burp that clearly indicates he’s trying to hold more back. “I can feel it moving.”
Darren gives him a flat look. “Babe, you’re basically filling your belly with… with molten lava and chicken grease,” he points out, and reaches for the milk for him.
“No, don’t,” Nate protests. His voice is thick. “I… I can do it. I just need to keep going.”
“Nate.” Darren has a note of warning in his tone, but Nate is already tearing into the nineteenth wing.
The timer ticks past the sixth minute mark. The crowd has grown, with more staff and more customers curious to see if Nate will be able to pull this off. Nate seems to be enjoying the attention, but Darren can see the cracks: the way his chest is heaving, the twitch of a muscle in his strong jaw, the aggressive red flush on his face. He keeps moving his hands down as if he wants to rub his belly before remembering he’s both in public and covered in hot sauce and stops himself again.
This is definitely going to be a long night.
Darren knows Nate, though, and this is the person he loves. The guy who takes on wing challenges and doesn’t back down. If that means nursing him through a few bellyaches, Darren thinks the deal is more than worthwhile.
Wing twenty seems like it’s almost a breaking point. He seems half-delirious, his lips bright red, his eyes glossy, his face flushed like he’s running a fever.
The bucket is so much lighter now as Nate gets so much heavier. The mound of wings inside has thinned into a comparatively pathetic little heap of ten. Nate thinks he can survive ten. He’s already survived twenty, and that’s twice that. He can do it one more time. He just has to keep going.
Darren sits tense beside him, scooting his chair closer. One hand braces on Nate’s thigh as if to anchor him. Some drunk college kids in the crowd are chanting now, though Darren can’t tell if the chants are encouraging or bloodthirsty.
Wing twenty-one goes down hard. He’s gulping around every swallow, broken hiccups being choked back. Wing twenty-two, however, is worse. A sloshy burp rides up before he’s even halfway through chewing the first bite, and his throat convulses so painfully that Darren actually flinches.
“Jesus, Nate,” Darren mutters.
Nate is so close, though. He can’t stop, not now.
He tears through wings twenty-three, twenty-four, and twenty-five like a man possessed, as if he can trick his stomach if he’s fast enough. His belly feels like a furnace overflowing with flame, distended tight under his shirt now. Everyone is still encouraging him though. He has to finish.
By wing twenty-six, his stomach forces a gurgle so loud and upset his belly vibrates.
“Oh, God,” Nate groans again. “My stomach is starting to get a little full, babe.”
“Of course it is,” Darren replies, rubbing his thigh to ground him. “You can stop if you want. You only have two minutes left.”
“I can do it,” Nate insists. “I’m so close.”
Wing twenty-seven, wing twenty-eight. The timer keeps ticking.
“I can’t taste it anymore,” Nate whimpers before he takes another bite. “God, my stomach feels hot.”
“You’re basically poisoning yourself,” Darren reminds him. He can’t help but be proud of him, his stubbornness both frustrating and terribly endearing.
Wing twenty-nine is a visible battle. Nate’s face is blotchy with effort. He looks ready to give up and quit, and Darren’s hand shifts to his back, rubbing steady pressure at his spine.
“You’re almost there,” Darren promises softly. “Breathe. Just one more. You can do it, and I’ll take care of you after.”
Somehow, impossibly, though he swears his stomach doesn’t have a single bit of space left and it’s starting to rumble with real anger, Nate shoves the thirtieth and final wing into his mouth, biting off bite after bite, chewing and swallowing until it’s empty and he slams his hand down on the table just as the timer blares.
The watching crowd erupts, the staff cheering, the customers excited for his win. One of the drunk college kids whistles. Nate receives his coupon book almost immediately as if it’s a trophy, and he grins, though when he leans back from the table in his chair his belly is so full it sloshes audibly to him.
“The Wall of Flame,” Nate says, too excited for how sick Darren knows he’s about to start feeling. “I won!” He hiccups sharply, wet and acidic before he belches. “Oh, God. Victory hurts a little bit.” His hand, cleaned from his napkin, rubs at the lower swell of his stomach, so stuffed from how much he ate and bloated from how much he ate it that he can’t believe it really fits inside of him.
The noise in the restaurant is loud, but Nate can barely hear it over his pulse hammering in his ears and the ominous churn in his gut. He tries to relax, smiling, though his whole body is shaking.
A cook claps him on the shoulder hard enough to jostle him forward again. “Hell of a run, man! Thirty wings in ten minutes ain’t easy! And with the Ninth Circle Sauce! You’re a legend!”
The jostling forces a strangled burp out of him. Nate tries to laugh, but his chest burns, like the sauce is trying to climb back up already.
They take a picture of him for the Wall of Flame, they give them the comped receipt for their meals, and they tell him to come back anytime. Darren keeps an eye on Nate the whole time, and when he knows he’s getting close to no longer being able to interact, he leans in and mutters, “Alright, champ, you’ve proved your point,” low and firm in his ear. “Time to call it a night.”
Nate nods, bringing up a burp so wet he can taste the sauce again. Even worse, Darren can smell it clearly, and his stomach lurches in sympathy.
When the waiter brings over a milk jug to offer before they go, Nate shakes his head. Another hiccup comes up before he says, “I don’t have any room for any more.”
“It’ll probably help with the burn,” Darren suggests. He doesn’t say that it’ll also probably help it come up easier later, but he just doesn’t think that would be very helpful right now, even if it’s true. “You need something.”
Nate sighs, apparently knowing he’s right. He reaches out to take the milk jug with a grateful thank you for the waiter, pouring it into an empty glass. He sighs again when he looks at it, then reaches for the milk and starts drinking it down. Admittedly he manages a good, solid chug before he needs to breathe, and actually finishes the tall glass before he shakes his head and pushes the jug away.
When Nate shifts, his face blotchy and stomach distended, his belly makes this noise, an actual liquid sloshing sound that makes him hunch forward a little over it.
“Oh, God,” Nate groans again. “My stomach’s— Ugh. I can feel them moving inside me, like— trying so hard to digest, it’s just all…” He belches, deep and low. “Ugh. I really can feel it all moving, babe. I think the wings are fighting back against me.”
“Let me get you out of here.” Darren helps him upwards, already steering him towards the door. “Before I have to carry you out.”
The fresh air outside hits Nate like a wall. He doubles over immediately, bracing his hands on his knees. For a second, Darren thinks he’s going to be sick; one of his hands comes up, trembling over his swollen stomach, and he thinks that’ll be it. Instead, though, a long, heavy belch rips out of him, and he groans, his eyes pinching shut.
Darren stays close, rubbing his back. He murmurs low, “Easy. Get it up if you have to.”
Nate shakes his head, then spits onto the ground. His saliva is tinged orange with the sauce, and it burns like spice in his mouth.
“I can make it home.” Nate groans, miserable, rubbing at the grumbling center of his belly where the wings are all writhing, bloating up with the spice to wreck him from the inside out. “Tell the wings they win, I surrender, they just have to…” He burps again. “Settle down and digest. I don’t want to get sick.”
“I think that option’s long gone, babe,” Darren warns him. “Just keep breathing.”
Nate swallows hard, trembling, and somehow manages to straighten, though one arm stays clinging around Darren’s shoulders and the other wraps around his upset tummy. His stomach is audibly gurgling; Darren can feel the reverberations of his belly attempting to digest against his own side as they make it to the car.
Darren opens the passenger door, folds Nate inside, and gets in the driver’s seat himself. A quick glance at Nate shows him slumped back against the headrest, eyes closed, one arm still wrapped tight around his belly. His lips part to allow a soft, pained belch before he groans again.
“I’ll get home as fast as I can,” Darren promises.
Nate nods, keeping his eyes closed. One hand moves on his belly in very slow circles, hoping that he can coax the muscles in his abdomen into relaxing and his stomach into digesting. It’s starting to hurt so much, and he’s grateful for Darren’s hand on his knee to keep him grounded, though it is difficult to focus on anything that isn’t his upset belly.
A wave of dizzying queasiness washes over him. His shirt clings to him with sweat, his hair plastered to his skull. He jerks forward with a wet, acidic burp, his stomach churning miserably to force up a second right after it.
“Ohhhhh, fuck,” he moans, pressing both palms into his belly now, pushing harder at the storm. “It’s… It’s moving. It won’t stop gurgling, it’s getting so upset. I just want it to settle down.” Another rumble works through his belly and grumbles up into a heavy belch. He grimaces before a hiccup-burp tears out of him, and he rubs at his chest with a whimper. “Ow, it burns. It burns coming up worse than going down. That can’t be normal.”
“Nothing about what you did tonight was normal,” Darren points out. He glances sideways with genuine worry, hearing every churn and gurgle from Nate’s overworked and overtaxed stomach as it struggles to digest so much so fast and all at once. “You’re lucky you haven’t spontaneously combust. Or just burst open.”
Nate groans again, his head falling back again against the headrest. “I don’t…” He whimpers, rubbing at a spot high on his belly and working up a snarl in his stomach that burps up out of him. “Oh, I really don’t feel right. There’s— There’s a volcano in my belly. It’s making…” His hand rubs his lower belly then and says, “It’s bubbling. It’s even in my intestines. That’s too fast, isn’t it?”
“You probably ate too fast,” Darren points out. “Plus, all that hot sauce—”
Nate’s lower belly gurgles. He can feel liquid thickly rumbling down there, truly burbling through him. He lifts a curled fist to his mouth, swallowing hard. A burn of thick acid tries to belch its way up, but Nate forces it back down with a guttural belch. “Oh, God, nope. Nope, nope, it wants to…” He swallows down another burp, afraid of it now as his stomach grumbles. “It doesn’t want to stay down. I just— I want to keep it down.”
Darren slows the car, tells him, “Keep breathing,” and Nate pants, mouth open, as they pull up at home.
By the time they’re parked, Nate looks wrecked.
His face is grey under the flush, he’s chewed his lips raw, his eyes are glossy and half-lidded. As Darren helps him out of the car, his stomach makes a bubbling groan, and he leans heavily on him.
“Everything feels so hot inside of me,” Nate complains.
“You drowned it in hellfire sauce,” Darren reminds him as he drags him up the stairs and steers him straight towards the couch. Nate collapses right down with a pitiful grunt, curling right up onto his side, arms wrapping around his gut. His shirt rides up, his belly visibly distended, the taut swell peeking out at the bottom.
“I feel so sick,” Nate says hoarsely, squeezing his eyes shut. “My stomach’s doing this… this churning thing. Like it’s trying to chew the wings a second time.”
Darren crouches in front of him, brushing sweaty curls away from his forehead. “Maybe you should chew your food more yourself next time.” His tone is dry, but his touch is gentle. “You want water? Antacids? Bed, pajamas?”
Nate shakes his head against the cushion. “I’m just…” He belches into the cushion. “I’m just gonna lie here. See if…” His breath hitches as another wet burp forces its way out. “See if it settles.”
“Even if it does, you know you’d be paying for it in the morning instead, right?” Darren reminds him, reaching out to smooth a hand over his side, stroking his storming belly.
Nate manages a faint grin, even as his stomach gurgles ominously under Darren’s palm. “No, it won’t. I can take it.”
Darren presses a kiss to his damp temple, not believing a word.
Beneath him, Nate starts to say something, but he’s cut off with a rumbling burp that makes his tummy ripple under Darren’s hand. He tries to catch his breath after, but another heavy, wet belch tears up, long and violent, and his stomach feels like it’s trying to climb up with it.
“Do you need a bin?” Darren asks.
Nate shakes his head again, reaching to rub at the churning center of his belly. He feels a pocket of gassy bloat move, making his lower guts rumble menacingly again. His chest burns, and his stomach actually hurts, aching and cramping with pressure and pain, never mind the nausea that's swelling with every gurgle and churn inside.
“Well, try to close your eyes, then,” Darren replies. “Rest. Maybe it’ll all digest while you sleep.”
Nate nods, taking a deep breath, closing his eyes.
A while later, the apartment is dark except for the faint glow of streetlights through the blinds. The television’s sleep timer has shut the television off, leaving their home quiet. Darren has dragged a trash bin close to the couch despite Nate’s protest. He also tucked Nate under a blanket, though it ended up kicked halfway off again due to the uncomfortable heat radiating off of him.
For a long while, Nate lies very still, curled on his side, one arm clutched protectively around his gurgling belly. Darren’s hand strokes slow circles in the center of his back, and eventually, Nate’s breathing evens out a little bit. His eyelids flutter shut. Darren sighs, glad to think he has drifted off.
But then, Nate’s stomach burbles loudly in his sleep. A loud rumbling seems to churn through him, and he jerks awake with a wet, miserable burp, his hand grabbing his belly as it gurgles again with a loud, ugly churn that echoes in the dark, quiet room.
Darren props himself up on one elbow, waking all the way up again himself. “Easy, babe. Just breathe. You’re okay.”
“Sorry,” Nate croaks, voice hoarse. He swallows thickly with a grimace, audible in the dark. “My stomach just woke me up, I think.” He belches again. “It hurts so much, God.”
Darren’s hand starts rubbing circles into his back again. “That’s okay. What’s going on in there?”
“Everything’s sloshing so much,” Nate groans, feeling a rumbling force its way through his lower guts as the center of his belly gives a thick, liquidy snarl. “Like…” He tries to shift and curl up closer to Darren, but his stomach flips in protest. “When I roll over, I can feel it all moving inside of me. It’s like I’m full of— of hot sauce soup. It’s—” His body hunches tight as another belch crawls up, burning with reflux, and his throat clicks as he forces it back down. “Ohhhhh, fuck—”
Darren murmurs, “Don’t fight it if it wants to come up. You ate way too much, babe.”
“Not yet,” Nate gasps, shaking his head against Darren’s thigh where his head is pillowed in his lap. His face is sweaty, pale, and flushed all at the same time. “It’s…” Another sick belch rolls up, making a wave of queasiness roll through him. “Ugh. It’s just not ready yet. It’s still kind of… simmering. Still chewing, I can feel it, I just— I feel so sick.”
“Alright,” Darren murmurs, refusing to curse. He keeps rubbing Nate’s back in steady circles. “Try to lie still. Deep breaths.”
Nate tries to obey. He really does. But every minute or so, his body betrays him, either with another burp, or another wet hiccup, or another boiling churn inside that forces him to squirm and groan again.
At one point, his body jolts with a sudden and involuntary dry heave, but still nothing comes. He collapses back into Darren’s lap with a whimper.
“Something doesn’t feel right,” he whispers, feeling a little panicky and sweaty. “It’s— It’s like my stomach’s flipping over. Physically flipping, Darren. I—” He swallows thickly. “I think I might actually puke.”
Darren gathers Nate closer and uses his forward momentum to reach and pull the trash can into reach. He kisses Nate’s hairline and murmurs, “If you need to, let it happen. You’ll feel better once it’s out. Thirty of the spiciest possible hot wings aren’t ever going to settle down, babe.”
Nate trembles, jaw tight, throat bobbing as another acidic surge rushes into the back of this throat, wet and thick. Swallowing it back, he groans, then grumbles, “No, not yet. It’s still just… Ugh. Sitting there. It’s coming up slow.”
Darren takes in his red face, brushing his damp curls back. “You said it burns coming up?”
Clutching his chest, Nate groans, “Oh, God, yeah. It’s way worse,” with a miserable nod.
Keeping a hand firm at the nape of his neck, Darren holds Nate steady as the waves of nausea roll in and recede. They never crest fully, and he hates that worse than if he actually got sick. The drawn-out torture of knowing exactly where he’s headed, but his body refusing to do anything but drag it out in its miserable indigestion makes him suffer.
Around three in the morning, Nate asks, exhausted, his voice weak and cracked, “Can you— Can you sit up with me?” He belches, his stomach rumbling loudly. “I’m kinda dizzy. And I think I might throw up.”
“I’m not leaving,” Darren promises. He pulls the blanket back up around Nate’s shoulders and tucks him close into Darren’s lap in the couch. Darren puts his hand on Nate’s belly, finding where it’s rumbling non-stop in his guts, and starts stroking slowly. Making sure the bin is close, he tells him, “I’ve got you, babe. You’re not alone. Just get it up and you’ll feel better.”
Nate’s whole body trembles as another wet burp crawls up. His stomach gurgles violently under Darren’s palm. He squeezes his eyes shut, panting through his mouth, waiting for the inevitable.
It’s coming. It has to, they both know it. For now, though, he’s still stuck in this burning, bloated, belching limbo, suffering his nausea one spicy, miserable wave at a time.
Nate melts sideways into Darren’s lap, his head pressing against his thigh, his body curling in tighter on itself. To Darren, the heat radiating off him is unreal. It’s not even a fever, or not even just a fever. It’s mostly the angry glow of capsaicin and the nausea of overeating meat, his skin clammy with queasy sweat. Darren doesn’t think his stomach has stopped making noise since his tenth wing.
A sharp bubble rolls through Nate, making a gurgle that’s audible and visible even through his shirt. Nate groans, palms splaying across his upset belly like he can muffle the noises.
“God, listen to that,” he complains. “It’s like a swamp in there.”
Darren’s fingers drag slowly through his sweat-damp hair. “More like a volcano.”
“Volcanoes don’t gurgle and slosh, do they?” Nate argues weakly. A belch rolls up, and he swallows, winces, then swallows again. When he tries to curl tighter around his belly, he groans, “Ohhhh, fuck, I can feel it all moving every time I breathe, It—” A loud snarl works through him, churning thick through his stomach and into his lower guts, and he whimpers. “Did you hear that?”
“I heard it,” Darren replies carefully. “Are you okay?”
Nate shakes his head, holding back a gag. He swipes a trembling hand over his mouth as his whole body shifts restlessly. His belly surges inside and against him. “It’s— ughhhh, it’s climbing, Darren, I can feel it right here,” he taps miserably at the base of his throat. “It’s hot. It’s like battery acid. Every burp hurts, and there’s so much pressure and so much heat and just—” He belches again. “So much chicken, I shouldn’t have eaten so much.”
Darren presses his palm to the center of Nate’s stomach. It’s not even that firm a touch, but Nate still whines when his belly bubbles in response.
“You’re a mess,” Darren comments. “Thirty wings was suicide.”
“But I wanted to win,” Nate whines. Another wet belch stutters up, burning, and he curls tighter with a shiver. The pressure in his belly is immense. “Ohhhhh. It hurts.” Darren’s hand returns to his belly, stroking in slow, grounding circles even though the miserable churn beneath is refusing to ever quite fully stop. “Everything hurts.”
“Why don’t we go to bed?” Darren asks. Nate groans again. “At least you’ll be more comfortable and we can both try to sleep.”
Nate’s churning belly makes him want to stay immobile, and it takes some coaxing, but Darren finally gets him upright. Nate mutters protests the whole way, but Darren’s patience and firm grip on his arm win out. By the time Nate’s tucked under the covers, damp hair plastered to his forehead, his stomach still grumbling, he at least feels glad that his body is in pajamas, horizontal, and quiet, so he tries to relax.
For a while.
Nate drifts in and out of a shallow, uncomfortable doze. Every time Darren stirs even a little bit, he finds Nate curled tighter in on himself, an arm locked around his swollen, rumbling gut, brow furrowed in restless pressure and pain. The air between them stays slightly sharp with faint spice and sweat.
Darren ends up lying awake longer than he means to after stirring one time, listening to every thick swallow, uncomfortable gurgle, and upset rumble that Nate’s belly forces in the dark. Now and then, he even burps in his sleep, each one sounding heavier and sicker than the last.
It’s a wet, violent gurgle that finally tears Nate out of sleep hours later, long after Darren fell back asleep.
Nate bolts upright, his stomach snarling loudly. A churning burble growls through his lower tummy and his guts before it bubbles up into the center of his knotted-up, heaving belly and groans loudly there. Another fierce cramp tightens his entire lower belly, the rest of it distended with painful, nauseous pressure, and a queasy, wet squelch roils up into his chest and burns the back of his throat with a splashing slosh.
“Ohhhh, fuck, no,” he groans before a heavy, wet belch comes up.
It sounds like he’s going to vomit, or even like he already is, though nothing comes all the way out of him. It just fills his mouth with a burning rush before he’s thickly swallowing it back.
“Darren,” Nate exclaims, his voice high and panicked, and Darren jerks up, squinting at him, still waking up. “Oh, God, I didn’t mean to wake you, I just—” He belches again. “My stomach just—”
He burps again, then again, unable to stop them from coming up in a bubbling string.
"Are you okay?" Darren demands, a little panicked.
Nate's stomach gurgles again, forcing up a thick belch, and he gasps for air afterwards. The next sick burp is wet and heavy and lasts way too long. He's shivering when it ends.
"Nate, holy shit," Darren says. "Are you—"
He's interrupted by Nate's next queasy burp as he rubs at his chest, indigestion and heartburn bloating him and burning him.
"It hurts," Nate gasps out before he burps again, low and rough. His stomach lurches inside of him, then rumbles as he bends forward over it. "Oh, fuck, it hurts, I'm gonna—" His jaw tightens and his eyes prickle. "I'm gonna be sick, it hurts so much, I'm—"
He doesn’t have a chance to finish, his stomach churning upwards again, and he staggers out of bed in a rush. Darren is up in a heartbeat, trailing him down the hall, but Nate is faster, sprinting and barely making it to the bathroom before he’s slamming down to his knees in front of the toilet as his body finally tries to give up.
A deep retch tears out of him, immediate and wrenching. He doesn’t even try holding back, and he feels his entire stomach seems to push upwards inside of him, the whole organ lurching with the deep belch.
“Christ, Nate.” Darren crouches beside him, steadying him as he clutches the rim of the toilet. “Easy. Just let it out.”
Shivering, gripping the porcelain with white knuckles, Nate complains, “It burns,” then heaves, feeling the acidic spice splash upwards and then swallow itself back down again. “Oh, God.”
Darren’s hand keeps rubbing firm circles in his back. The other braces on his waist, hand splayed on his belly, feeling the non-stop gurgling and lurching inside of him. “I know. I got you. Breathe if you can. Just get it up.”
Nate’s eyes screw shut as a helpless, broken sound sobs out of him, his whole body tightening up as his stomach surges, lurching upwards again, belching up a wet mouthful of hot sauce and milk that burns.
The bathroom light feels too bright, the tile too hard, and the world too harsh as Nate hunches over the toilet, arms braced on either side, body drawn tight like a bow. His stomach lurches again, a molten churn, and the sound he makes it wrecked and guttural and comes from the pit of his stomach.
Darren keeps rubbing his back, feeling the unreal heat radiating off of him as his back heaves and arches.
“God,” Nate chokes out between spasming dry retches, his throat raw. “Darren— Darren—”
He drags in a ragged breath, only to catch on a hiccup that becomes a rumbling belch. It makes his belly seize again, forcing another scalding rush upwards. There’s more solid chunks of chewed chicken this time, mostly-undigested with how much his belly refused to process what he ate and how bad his indigestion was, and they hurt coming up almost as bad as the burn does.
Nate spits and coughs, shaking all over. “It burns so bad, it’s so spicy coming back up. It shouldn’t be worse coming back up, should it?”
“Yeah, well, you ate thirty wings in literal hell sauce,” Darren reminds him, quiet and gentle, but his words are enough to make Nate gag again.
Darren sweeps Nate’s sweaty hair off of his face. Pathetic under him, Nate groans as his stomach clenches, and he leans up over the toilet to belch up another thick, spicy wave again.
All Darren can do is hold him as his belly rumbles, upset and tormented, and forces up surge after surge from his tortured belly full of thirty spicy hot wings that he ate in under ten minutes. It burns so badly coming up, thick mouthfuls chunky with chicken and heavy with milk and hot with spice.
His stomach can’t stop emptying itself when he starts. Darren keeps rubbing his tummy, and it gets softer, but feels like it’s having a hard time dealing, even with getting so much out. Even though Darren reaches up to flush for him a couple of times, it seems like Nate just can’t stop leaning forward, his stomach gurgling again, before he’s belching up another spicy, thick, orange wave of meat and hot sauce and vomit.
When Nate finally sags forward with a heaving breath, trying to spit and calm down for a second, Darren is ready for him. He steadies him with a palm against his chest, burning with acid reflux and heartburn and indigestion, and eases him back against his own chest.
“Tell the wings they finally beat me,” Nate rasps.
“They won hours ago, remember?” Darren mutters, still rubbing his belly. “You lost the second you took your first bite, you idiot.”
Nate’s throat bobs as he swallows carefully, testing. He takes a breath, and another small, sick burp forces its way out, sharp enough that he grimaces and presses one shaking hand to his acidic chest, the other to his bubbling belly, the rumbling deep in his guts and squirmy in his tummy and low in his chest.
“Everything still hurts,” Nate admits with a wrecked voice as soft as a sick child’s, holding his belly tight, hand rubbing small, slow circles.
“I know,” Darren says. “But it’s done now. You’ll feel better now that it’s all out.”
He tucks Nate in closer, supporting his weight against him when he wobbles, then turns them to lay down right there on the cold tile floor. Nate sighs, not fighting against him for the first time since his eyes landed on the wing challenge, and curls up into his arms.
Darren holds him for a long time, rubbing his sick belly, trying to keep him calm and quiet. When he thinks Nate is capable of moving at least a little bit, Darren gets up to wipe him down gently with a damp washcloth, careful around his blotchy face and sweaty tummy. The worst of everything inside of him is probably out, but the spicy vomit smell still clings, sharp and acidic and bitter.
Nate is pliant now, exhausted, leaning heavily into Darren’s side with his eyes half-lidded as he helps him upright. He rinses his mouth in the sink as instructed, then lets Darren bring him back to bed and lower him down.
“Wanna get some water in you?” Darren murmurs, his voice soft.
Nate hesitates, then nods. His mouth and throat and chest and belly and everything are burning so much, it will probably help.
Darren fills a glass and presses it into Nate’s hand. He realizes he’s shaking, and keeps a hand on the glass with him, helping to guide it upwards so he can take in a sip.
The first sip feels so good and refreshing that Nate tips his head back, taking the glass from Darren to gulp it all down. The glass full slides down into his raw stomach, so much that he can hear it glorp, glorp, glorping into his tummy, and the relief lasts for all of ten seconds before his body feels the need to revolt almost instantly.
A sharp cramp and a bolt of pain flicker through Nate. His stomach rolls queasily, and he clamps his lips shut as his chest tightens with a harsh, tight burn and his tummy bubbling with the inclusion of so much water so fast.
Darren is already moving, tugging the glass away and grabbing the trash bin next to the bed. “Easy. Don’t fight it, it’s okay.”
Nate coughs once, twice, trying to clear the burning pressure rising from his belly through his chest to the back of his throat. He folds forward with a miserable, burbling retch, then belches up a faintly orange mouthful of water and bile and a couple of chicken chunks.
It isn’t violent like before, but it’s just as relentless. The water seems to be just enough thin liquid, chugged down way too fast into his upset tummy, that it helps— “helps”— his belly squeeze up most of the remnants of what it had still been hanging onto from the wing challenge. The taste alone of the last rotten, spicy remains of dinner has him gagging again hard, tears springing to his eyes, belching up another heavy wave from the very pit of his stomach.
The water all comes back up, as does most of what seems to be left in his stomach. Darren doesn’t know how— or, he wouldn’t, if he hadn’t seen the overfull bucket of wings at the beginning of the night. So much going into Nate surely has to mean so much coming back out, too.
When it’s all over— Darren hopes so this time anyway, and so does Nate— Nate is trembling, breathless, clutching the trash bin with his head buried inside like he’s going to fall into the bottom of it.
“God,” he whimpers, his voice wrecked. “I thought I was empty.”
“You were pretty close,” Darren says, rubbing gentle circles into the side of his belly with one hand and firm circles into the base of his spine to ease the pressure with the other. “Guess your stomach still had other plans. Maybe you should've, too.”
Nate lets out a rough, humorless laugh that breaks into another burp when his stomach burbles again. “Ugh. God, It’s still not done. I can still feel something… just. Sitting in there. Waiting.”
It’s not a surprise with how much he ate and how sick he made himself, and so Darren says, “I know.” He squeezes Nate’s shoulder, grounding him, taking the trash bin away. “But you got a lot out. Enough to rest, I think. Lay down, okay? I'll yell at you later, when you're not all pathetic. I think this is punishment enough for now.”
And Nate, wrung out and shivering, lets Darren lay him back down in bed. He takes the trash can away and comes back with it empty, cleaned, and with a new liner. He also has another damp, clean washcloth in hand, and washes his face again, careful, gentle, and sweet. Nate’s stomach gurgles, low and wet, still a molten ache that keeps bubbling in warning that more is likely to come later on, but for now it’s not in a constant pressurized spicy churn that he can’t think past.
Also for now, Darren’s steady hands and low voice are enough to anchor him, and he focuses on him instead of the grumbling in his sick belly. It’s enough that he can drift into an uneasy sleep with Darren watching over him and the ghosts of too many spicy hot wings haunting the insides of him, he suspects for the rest of time.
“The Darren and Nate one is 😍😍😍👏 can you write a super spicy wings challenge with them?” (anonymous)
“Your fics are INCREDIBLE! Can I please request you to write a fic in which Nate overindulges into hot wings and then wakes up with heartburn and is super burpy and has chest pain and it freaks out Darren? So Darren has to console him and even if he scolds him(gently) for being stupid, he takes care of him. :)” (anonymous)
“could you maybe do something where Nate and/or Darren has spicy food and maybe eat way too much of it? and so they end up really achy and crampy, with heartburn and acid reflux. and also a lot of pain and nausea. maybe they can try to sleep it off and wake up when their stomach wakes them up beacuse it can't keep everything down and it's hurting? you could include lines like "I didn't mean to wake you, my stomach just woke me up" and "something doesn't feel right" or maybe "it burns as much coming up as it did going down" please!” (anonymous)
can you do something where luke eats a massive pasta dinner and has a whole bottle of wine or two and eats it really fast and has searing indigestion and ends up so nauseated he can't even sit upright and has to curl up on the couch and try not to barf? just lying there moaning while riley is like "i warned you" lots of stomach noises and full-body clenching pls
Luke leans against the side of the truck as Riley unlocks the doors for them, his cheeks flushed from both the heat of the restaurant they’ve just left and the buzz of two bottles of wine. The night had meant to be a date night kick-off before they both have four days off in a row, a quiet escape after their long shifts lately.
It’d clearly been too long since Luke ate, though. He had charged through the first plate of his bottomless pasta dish like it was an emergency, then the second and the third in rapid order. If Riley hadn’t finished his own single plate meal, he may have even kept going and discovered where the bottom actually is. That was on top of the majority of their first bottle of wine before he polished off a second in a pace Riley still can’t quite believe. It was like he’d never eaten before.
Luke lowers himself to the passenger seat with a slight groan, his stomach definitely feeling stuffed as he moves. Riley glances at him from the driver’s side.
“I warned you,” Riley reminds him. “We both know better. You probably made yourself sick.” It’s fond, teasing, but there’s a thread of concern underneath.
Luke shakes his head, pressing a hand against his stomach as an overfull hiccup bubbles up out of him. “I’m good, I’m good. Really. Just gotta let it all digest, give me a couple minutes.”
Riley examines him with an arched eyebrow. “You ate so much, hon. And maybe you shouldn’t have eaten so fast? Pasta’s not a race, you know.”
“Ha-ha,” Luke replies, rubbing his hand across the front of his stomach. He’s usually fairly toned, with a little bit of a belly. Now, his stomach is swollen, definitely rounded under his hand. He can’t tell how much is food and how much is bloat, but it’s definitely full all the way up. “If it was, I would’ve won.” He thumps on his chest, works up a thin burp that doesn’t offer much in the way of relief from the overfull pressure inside. “I’m good, seriously. You just focus on getting us home, and I’ll focus on digesting.”
Though Riley gives him a skeptical look, he still starts the truck, and Luke leans back in his seat, a contented sigh escaping his lips as Riley starts the engine.
When they do start to drive, the restaurant’s glow fades behind them, and the city lights flicker past the windows in the dark. Luke’s stomach feels… undeniably full, almost painfully so, but he’s not quite fully uncomfortable yet. A little bit, yes, but it’s the sort of heaviness and discomfort that comes from overindulgence— like the three plates of pasta he shouldn’t have finished, heavy with white sauce, and the wine he might have sipped too much of too fast— and a small, guilty shiver runs through him.
A low gurgle rumbles through the center of Luke’s stuffed belly. Riley glances over, his hands steady on the wheel.
“You really did not have to eat all that,” Riley comments. “They don’t mean bottomless as a challenge.”
Luke shifts in his seat with a soft groan, trying to stifle it even as it feels like his stomach tries to shift inside of him, but fails, too full and stuck to do so. “I know—” He hiccups again. “I know. I’m good, I just ate a little fast. And I’m a little full, but I always get bloated after eating a lot. But it was— ughhhh— so good.”
He leans back further in his seat, stretching his arms back behind and above his head, just trying to let the fullness inside settle evenly instead of all lumpy and bloated like it feels now. He still believes his belly might actually behave if he just shifts enough and gets everything inside to settle. The tightness in his stomach makes him hum a little, a mix of contented pleasure from eating so much good food and nervous unease from eating so much good food.
Riley’s eyes flick toward him again, an eyebrow raised. “Uh-huh. Sure. ‘So good.’ You’re practically vibrating.” His tummy growls again, a grumbly noise to signal a sluggish attempt towards digestion, even as indigestion starts weighing on him and upsetting his stomach. “So’s your belly, it sounds like.”
Luke lets out a small laugh, then winces as his belly sloshes against itself, reminding him that so good and so much good food can have a cost if he’s not careful.
He presses both hands over his belly, trying to breathe slowly and deeply. The wine buzz from the two bottles had him feeling warm and mellow when they first left the restaurant, but combined with the sheer volume of heavy food inside of him, it’s starting to edge toward… something else. Not quite nausea— not yet— just a heaviness, a fullness that’s almost too much. Maybe too much. Could have been too much, possibly— or even probably.
Another gurgle rumbles through his belly before he feels a heavy, pressure-filled weight settling in his belly. His stomach feels stretched taut, as if he swallowed a balloon, and it feels like it clenches as a dull, grinding cramp rolls through his lower belly and a wet, unsettled, liquidy noise escapes. The tickle of nausea crawls up his throat a little bit, and he clears his throat to chase it away.
“I think—” He burps again, a little deeper this time. “I think I might have gone overboard,” Luke admits quietly, his voice low and slightly sheepish. He shifts again, trying to find a position where the pressure eases even a little.
The truck feels like it can’t stop shaking around him, every gentle turn and bump in the road feeling like he’s on a roller coaster, the fullness moving inside of him like a strange liquid weight.
Riley reaches over, squeezing Luke’s thigh. “I thought you might’ve,” he says softly, his tone more fond than chastising. “You have a tendency to go, uhh… all-in. I love that about you, though. Even when it upsets your stomach. Or mine.”
Luke groans again, a low vibration of a sound that comes from deeper than his chest. He tries to sit up straighter now, hoping the motion will actually help redistribute the weight pressing against his belly and slowly churning inside him, but it only shifts the fullness around, a reminder that he might have overdone it.
“I just… wanted to eat it all so much,” he murmurs, leaning back against the seat again, letting his head rest back against the headrest. “It all tasted so good, babe. The pasta, the wine, God.” He burps again, thick in the back of his throat.
“You’re your own worst enemy, honey,” Riley mutters, a small and indulgent smile tugging at his lips. He glances towards Luke again, noticing the way his hands are subconsciously pressing over his stomach, as well as the slight tremor in his hands as he shifts once again in his seat. “Come on, you can make it. Home’s not far, and then you can lay down and digest, okay? Just hang in there.”
Luke closes his eyes, curling his legs up slightly, trying to move and redistribute the weight and pressure in his uneven, increasingly upset tummy. He hums in acknowledgment, feeling the subtle churning inside that comes from a belly stretched beyond its usual limits. Only a little painful now, but moreso aware, insistent, and a little bit alive.
Their truck drives steadily forward, though with every slight movement on the road, Luke’s awareness of the wine and pasta stuffing him grows. He presses his hands lightly into his swollen, knotted tummy, trying to rub deeply enough to stop the slow, relentless rolling of indigestion inside that’s leaving him weak and slightly queasy.
Riley keeps one hand on Luke’s thigh. After a bit, he reaches up, putting his hand on the top swell of his rumbly tummy, a quiet promise of support as he starts to rub a slow, firm circle there to try and help.
“I think I’m gonna be okay,” Luke murmurs, though there’s a slight tremor in his voice, just like there is in his tummy. “Just… Just really full.” Shifting in his seat again, trying to find a spot where his stomach feels less increasingly horrible, stretched, liquid, and alive, he ends up with a low gurgle swirling through. There’s a tight, heavy sensation in the pit of his stomach, and he curls up a little tighter to himself.
Patting his tummy, softly and affectionately, Riley patiently murmurs, “You’ll be fine. Just… try not to move too much. I’ve got you.”
Luke reclines his seat now so he can lean back more fully, hoping that the weight of his meal in his stomach will settle as best as it can. It’s so full and warm right now, buzzing with wine and heavy with pasta.
By the time they pull into the driveway, Luke’s full and sated contentment, only vaguely rumbling and unsettled, has begun to shift. It’s subtle at first— a little bit of gurgling, a soft churn swirling inside, an insistent pressure that refuses to stay in one place. His stomach burbles quietly as he climbs out of the truck, indigestion sloshing in his stomach, twisting with a wet, rolling sensation in the pit of his unsettled tummy.
He still has the buzz of wine shimmering through him, but it’s too tangled up with the rest of the mess in his belly to be pleasant anymore. Instead, it’s adding to the weight in his tummy, giving a liquidy bubbling to everything inside of him.
Riley slips an arm around him as they head up the walkway to their townhouse, steadying him.
“Easy there,” he murmurs to Luke, guiding him inside, through the front door and to the couch. Luke leans against him, feeling heavy and unbalanced, his knees a little wobbly. His stomach shifts oddly with every step, feeling strange and unsettled inside of him.
Lowering him carefully to the couch, Riley sits him down on the edge, then crouches to take off his shoes for him.
“I told you so,” Riley teases softly, his voice warm. “Your stomach’s bothering you, isn’t it?”
Luke groans, collapsing backwards onto the couch and then sideways with a grunt.
“A little bit,” he admits as he curls up, his head resting against the pillow against the armrest. “It feels like everything’s just sitting in my gut. It feels like it’s not really settling so well.” His belly rolls, and he rubs one hand over the middle of the curve of his bloated stomach again. He finds it heavier than he even expected, turning over itself with a slow, rolling discomfort that seems to ripple through his tummy.
Though the blanket Riley tucks over him is comforting and warm, Luke’s stomach insists on making him uncomfortable and upset. It moves against itself, the food inside pressing low and churning like thick dough turning over inside of him in a sluggish motion. An uncomfortable gurgle squirms through his gut, tight and overfull, and he tries to rub his hand harder into the place he can feel an internal swell, trapped air pressing uncomfortably as a hollow growl tears through his tummy.
Luke makes a low, uneasy sound before an acidic burp bursts up sharply. The wine simmers unpleasantly in his stomach, low and gnawing. When a couple of bubbles rise and pop in his bloated belly, a fizzy reminder of the two bottles of wine, he burps again, warm and sour, the back of his throat hot and bitter with the tang of it.
Riley kneels beside the couch, brushing Luke’s auburn curls back and placing a hand against his forehead. “I’ll get you some water in a minute, once you think you can keep it down. For now, just lay here and let your stomach settle, sweetheart,” he murmurs. His touch feels steady, grounding. “You’re okay. Just a little upset stomach, we see worse every day, right? Want to try some Pepto or ginger ale before the water?”
With a shake of his head, Luke tilts his face into Riley’s hand. “No, thanks. Just… ate a little too much, need it to start digesting.” He curls a little tighter in on himself now that the fullness feels like it’s becoming a living, gurgling presence in his belly. It’s so heavy and reminds him of every bite of pasta, every swallow of red wine. Shifting on his side, trying to rub his tummy and redistribute the heavy bricks of weight and sloshing bubbling swamp inside him, he finds only that every movement seems to stretch the tension in his tummy.
Another low moan escapes Luke, and Riley smiles softly, exasperated but fond.
“It’s okay,” he promises him, brushing a loose curl behind his ear. “You’re gonna be fine. Just, don’t fight it. Let it come if it has to.”
Luke closes his eyes, letting the warmth of the blanket and Riley’s hand in his hair soothe him. He hums, low and heavy with discomfort, and tries to readjust when he feels a little queasier. His stomach sloshes slightly, the weight of the meal packed inside him past the point of comfort or even possibility, and he presses down a firm hand instinctively in deep ovals, trying to coax something to move through him in the rolling heaviness.
Every small motion— even turning his head, curling a leg slightly closer, rubbing his tummy— sends ripples of nauseous tension through his tummy. When his tummy churns lazily, slow and heavy with indigestion, he groans again. It’s like his belly refuses to settle, gurgling and squelching with ineffective burbles that give no relief or attempts at digestion. The pressure refuses to be ignored, taking over all his attention.
Riley lets his hand come down to Luke’s shoulder, pushing the blanket down to reveal his abdomen. His swollen belly pushes out against his button-down, and Riley swiftly unbuttons each button, letting his tummy fall out.
Even given space, there’s no relief for his heavy stomach. Riley tugs his undershirt up, revealing his bare skin and bloated belly. Setting his hand on his tummy, he starts rubbing in small, circular motions, feeling the heavy, undigested food in him roll sluggishly, twisting his stomach.
“Oof,” Riley comments for him, grimacing in sympathy. When Luke shifts uncomfortably again, even that tiny movement causes a squishy, uneven sloshing in his overfull tummy, along with a sharp, twinging cramp in his lower gut as it protests the food and wine that won’t settle. “That doesn’t feel so good. Are you feeling queasy, or just uncomfortable?”
Another cramp feels like it tightly winds up Luke’s lower tummy. The unsettled feeling inside makes him squirm a little, fidgeting on his side on the sofa before a deep, acidic burp gurgles up.
“Oh, I felt that,” Riley says. “Want me to rub your belly for you, get a little more up?”
Luke exhales shakily, one hand still pressing low on his belly, against the lower curve. He curls up tighter on himself, feeling the fullness inside him seem to swell up tighter and more uncomfortably, and he nods.
Riley kicks off his own shoes and climbs up onto the sofa with him. Luke shifts again to make room and get comfortable with him— or at least, as comfortable as he can get right now. He’s really starting to regret how much pasta and wine he had now that it’s refusing to settle inside of him; it had tasted so good and seemed like such a good idea going in, but that had been when his eyes were bigger than his stomach and he thought he’d be able to digest it all.
Clearly, that was wrong, he realizes now as he curls up tighter under his blanket, every muscle in his body feeling like it clenches as tight as his tummy. The indigestion turns his tummy over again, and he presses one hand to his stomach as the fullness and bubbling and sluggish rolling inside refuses to settle. The pressure is constant now, churning and sloshing in slow, insistent waves.
Letting out a low hum of discomfort, the sound equal parts frustrated and uncomfortable, Luke shifts back against Riley and Riley just spoons him from behind, wrapping his arms around him, his hands settling big and warm on his upset belly.
“Here,” Riley murmurs, his fingers pressing gentle but firm into Luke’s bloated tummy. “Let me help.”
Luke hums in tentative agreement, sinking slightly into Riley and the couch cushions, allowing him to start firmly rubbing into his bloated belly.
At first, it’s actually comforting. It feels good, even. The heavy, bloated mass sitting in his tummy, sloshing and gurgling with trapped air from the food stubbornly unmoving inside of him, caught mid-digestion along with the gassy bloat of his wine, reacts to Riley’s fingers digging into him. The warmth of his hands, the gentle pressure of his touch, helps coax the tension and the trapped air from his bloated belly.
A deep, rumbling burp comes up from the pit of his stomach when Riley rubs at a pocket of air there. Another comes up with the next pocket, and another, and another. There’s a fleeting sense of relief, and then Riley finds another rumbling pouch of air, digs into it, and works up a belch so deep and long that Luke thinks he can feel some of the tight, bubbly gas leaving his tummy with it.
Luke lets out a quiet, purring hum, letting himself relax backwards against him.
“See?” Riley murmurs softly. “Just what the doctor ordered.” He kisses the back of his head. “Feeling any better?”
Luke nods weakly, lips parted in a soft exhale, hands coming up to rest over the center of his belly while Riley’s still working at a gas pocket near the top crest of the swell.
“Yeah, a little,” Luke admits, a slight wobble to his voice. “Feels kinda good, actually. Relieving.”
The relief is short-lived, though. As Riley continues, rubbing firmly into the burbling gas at the top of his belly until it comes out in a long, gurgling belch, the trapped air still left in his tummy shifts around, sloshing and twisting unexpectedly.
Luke’s soft hums falter, then transform into a low groan as the movements stir the weight inside him. Without the gas and with so much less air, it’s as if the churn inside of him has been amplified, the heavy, queasy feeling in her tummy making it feel as if her belly has turned to lead, a solid, stubborn lump that swells uneasily. A dense, unrelenting weight sits thick inside of him as a sticky, slow-motion churn rolls sluggishly and unevenly through his unsettled tummy.
Though Riley’s still trying to help work up air, the tiny pockets of trapped gas remaining roll and press inside of Luke’s belly, refusing to release. The restless bubbles shift uncomfortably, twisting his tummy, tight enough that another cramp clenches his lower belly as the food resists digestion and threatens to revolt with a thick, growling gurgle that crawls through his tummy.
Trying to get more comfortable again, hoping it will help, Luke finds that every movement only slightly stirs the stuck mass of glued-together, undigested pasta, rolling it forcibly with a squelching wine-induced pressure that makes nausea groan in the pit of his stomach.
The gentle, comforting warmth of Riley’s big hands suddenly makes every inch of Luke’s belly feel uncomfortably upset and tight, gurgling and twisting and more insistently protesting what he’s had tonight.
Riley pauses, noting Luke’s subtle tensing and groaning. “Uh… Okay, maybe we should stop? Is this not helping anymore, hon?”
He removes his hands, and Luke replaces them with his own, wrapping his arms around his belly, hands rubbing into the full, distended sides of his belly. It’s less round in a circular way now, and more round and heavy in a too-full way; he can almost imagine that he can see the outline of the ball of pasta gurgling inside the wine in his stretched, too-big tummy.
Curling even tighter, body clenching tight, Luke lets out a trembly moan, then hiccups.
“It was helping at first,” Luke says, miserable. “Then it just started feeling so much worse— Oh, God, Riley…” Another hiccup shakes him. It’s sharp and bitter with acid, and he closes his eyes again, feeling the fullness and discomfort weighing too heavily on him. Though the circulation of food, air, and liquid inside of him had seemed like it promised a relief from the pressure and nausea for a few minutes, every small motion now seems to grumble thickly and painfully through his overfull belly, no room for anything so much as gas left inside of him. It’s just all rumbling pasta and wine that refuses to settle or digest.
Riley adjusts his hands and pulls back, rubbing more deliberately along his sides and his back, trying to help burp him without touching his stomach directly.
“I got you,” he encourages. “Just breathe.” His voice is calm, patient, indulgent, and teasing just enough to try and keep Luke focused on him instead of the swelling discomfort and nausea of his meal.
Luke hums, a shaky, strained sound, curling up tighter around his belly, knees drawing closer. The churn in his belly grows more insistent, twisting in ways it hasn’t so far yet tonight. Gurgles rise and slosh in quiet but insistent waves. The warmth, the pressure, the relief from Riley’s hands— basically, all the things they both thought would help— no longer do, and he groans again, increasingly miserable.
“God,” Luke groans. “It—” A pathetic, nothing burp rumbles up, offering no relief. “It won’t settle.”
The relief from the air Riley rubbed out is gone now. What’s left is the raw, insistent weight inside of him, twisting and tightening and too much. His stomach gurgles audibly, a low growl that snarls through his lower tummy as ripples of discomfort and fullness burble to press outward, and he lets out another half-groan, half-sigh that’s more like a whine than anything.
Riley kisses his neck, brushing Luke’s curls back with one hand, clammy and slightly sweaty.
“I’ve got you. You okay?” Riley asks, soft and fond.
Luke presses closer back into his touch, trembling slightly.
“I… I think it’s too much,” Luke admits. “Everything is just— Ughhhh, fuck…”
The sensation has shifted inside of him, his stomach flopping uneasily as the mass inside squirmed, each movement edging him closer into his nausea. The heavy, sticky fullness rolled unevenly inside of him as everything refused to settle, acid pressing upwards while painful cramps spasm downwards and his belly gurgles throughout, restless and upset as the fullness moves and shifts and grumbles but never settles.
Shifting uncomfortably, queasiness making him feel tingly and clammy, Luke breathes through his mouth. He tries to rub his belly to work something through, but the food just shifts in wet clumping movements, resisting digestion, just squirming around in the wine as he tries and fails to settle it down.
“I know, it feels rough,” Riley says quietly, unfaltering. His hands keep moving in slow, patient circles on Luke’s back, giving what little relief and reassurance he can. “Just breathe. I’m right here. You’ll be okay.”
Luke doesn’t quite agree, curled up with a stomach this full and upset under his blanket, his legs curled up tight, his hands pressing hard into his rumbling stomach as if that might suppress the increasing distress within.
Every touch and every movement now only seem to be making the churn inside sharper, louder, and more uncomfortable. And yet, through it all, Riley stays holding him, murmuring softly to him, trying to keep him calm and comfortable even though it’s increasingly impossible. All relief is gone; there’s just the growing gurgling as Luke’s stomach twists stubbornly, and Riley really is the only thing grounding him, keeping him tethered to something that isn’t the upset in his belly by reminding him he’s not doing this alone.
“Sorry I’m ruining date night,” Luke apologizes quietly, uncharacteristically abashed. “I shouldn’t have eaten so much.”
“I’m happy any night I’m with you,” Riley answers.
Luke smiles a little as he shifts again, pressing both hands over his upset belly. A heavy, rolling churn grumbles through, the stubborn gurgling seeming to move in cramping waves across every inch of his belly. The pressure feels like it’s stretching him from the inside out, taut and relentless, refusing to come out no matter how firmly he rubs at it. It’s painful and uncomfortable and he tries to dig in harder, but nothing will move; he’s packed too full now.
Riley’s hands still move in slow circles on his back, firm but gentle, trying to coax tension out of his muscles and gas out of his rumbly tummy. A little bit of the remaining popping bloat shifts and eases as he does, and Luke groans; in response, Riley thumps his hand on Luke’s back like he’s burping a baby.
A low, deep, rumbling belch comes up from the very pit of Luke’s belly. He can feel everything packed into his tummy squelch and move in the tight, stuffed space as he does, and there’s no relief despite how much should’ve come out.
Instead, the movement seemed to stir the weight inside of him. A series of little ripples of tight discomfort squirm through his upper belly while his stomach twists and churns, liquids and solids pressing together in ways that shouldn’t be happening, making his undigesting belly gurgle and slosh audibly.
Luke lets out a low moan, turning to curl into a ball and press his face into the couch, as if this will stop the writhing and squirming in his stomach.
“Ugh… Riley, it’s not settling, it just won’t calm down,” he complains. “I’m starting to feel sick.” A thin burp comes up, but it just burns with acid. His stomach feels like it’s coming alive in the worst way— stretched full, sloshing unevenly, gurgling with an uneasy churn he can’t seem to stop or control. Every shallow breath, constricted by his belly and ribs, pushes against the pressure in his stomach, attempting to redistribute the growing unrest and protest inside his tummy.
Frustrated, Luke presses his hands down harder, trying to massage some measure of relief himself. Unfortunately, the heaviness only seems to spread, ignoring his attempts completely, twisting along his sides, pulsing in the pit of his stomach in waves of uneasy, nauseated, rumbling fullness.
“I don’t feel good,” Luke mumbles, shaking a little. He still rubs at his stomach, firmly, and the motion makes the pressure ripple even more, churning stubbornly in his aching gut. A quiet groan escapes him as he tries to force up a relieving burp that won’t come.
“I know,” Riley says. “I did warn you. You’re okay, though. You’re going to be okay. I’ve got you.”
One hand comes around to settle on his bare, distended stomach. A gurgling snarl ripples under his palm, and still his thumb just rubs a slow, patient circle into the churn, trying to give any kind of relief he can.
Luke curls tighter, almost fetal around his belly, pressing his face harder into the cushion below. His stomach twists and sloshes with a life of its own, stretched and tense and so horribly upset. Gas squirms in tiny bubbles that haven’t yet escaped, shifting beneath the surface in small waves that push uncomfortably against their hands. Low gurgles keep rumbling through him, unending and reminding him that his belly doesn’t want— and maybe just can’t— digest everything he’d eaten and drunk so quickly at dinner tonight.
“Keep taking deep breaths,” Riley whispers to remind him. “Just let it move through you. It’ll be okay once you can.”
Humming shakily to acknowledge him, Luke closes his eyes. The discomfort and queasiness continue to pulse and roll inside of him, protesting how badly he’s overdone it. His stretched, tense belly rolls against itself, stirring up more movement and more gurgling all on its own, a self-fulfilling cycle.
He presses back into Riley’s warmth and comfort, letting him anchor him as he shakes and fights against the slow, relentless churn of his own unsettled stomach.
“I really don’t feel so good,” Luke mutters, voice muffled by the cushion.
Riley kisses his shoulder, hand stroking slowly over his belly, trying to help quell the restless pressure, the bubbling gas, the uneven churn, the rolling nausea, and the growing audible gurgles that are starting to be non-stop in the center of his tummy. Every breath or twitch seems to set off another snarling ripple in his stomach now, and he lets out a strained groan.
Luke shifts again, curling tighter into himself. He can’t help but press his hands hard into his upset stomach as the fullness, indigestion, and churning seem to intensify. When it first started getting worse, it had mostly been heavy and dense with some liquid sloshing slowly with every movement, but now the pressure and fullness is getting more upset and more insistent, becoming a twisting, restless, rolling gurgle that refuses to stay still but also is barely moving.
His tummy makes a low, wet sound that gets louder as the liquid and gas gurgle together, struggling to grumble their way through the food packed inside of him. Luke groans softly, rocking a little, but the motion only stirs the contents of his stomach further, the sloshing now accompanied by twisting churns that feel like they’re rising and falling in his belly.
“Ohhh…” Luke groans before he burps again, shallow and acidic. “Ugh.” He presses one hand into the center of his belly. There, the heaviness has a pulse of its own, a throb like a heartbeat that belongs only to his belly.
A slow wave of queasy discomfort rolls upwards, stretching him tight from his guts through his belly and up further still, pushing out at his ribs just as much as his lower tummy.
“That sounds awful,” Riley comments. “You’re worse than some of the patients we’ve had, you know that?” There’s a little bit of a laugh in his voice as he reminisces, “Remember that woman who came in because she got food poisoning after eating those two pots of chili with the bad meat? Like one wasn’t bad enough without the other.”
A wet, twisting gurgle burps its way through Luke’s stomach and out his mouth at the reminder, rumbling roughly inside of him.
“Don’t remind me,” he mutters, just as his stomach gurgles again, louder, more urgent now. His cramping muscles nudge the overfull contents inside into new, insistent, upset churns, the sounds now low and wet and continuous. “Oh, God, fuck. I shouldn’t have eaten so much, what is wrong with me?”
“How much time do you have?” Riley asks. Luke pouts up at him, eyes still squinted shut. With a laugh, Riley says, “I’m just kidding, sweetheart. It’s okay.”
It doesn’t feel okay. The sloshing is shifting more now, the packed contents inside seeming to roll uncomfortably over themselves from side to side beneath his rubbing hands. They twist and stretch from inside his upset, squirming belly, as if trying to escape, and Luke presses harder, curling tighter, arms wrapped tight over his grumbling tummy.
The discomfort is sharpening more by the second into something queasier and queasier. A slow, insistent nausea builds from the pit of his guts, through his stuffed belly, up through his chest. Every small twist, sudden pressure, or shifting movement seems to make his stomach pulse thickly, coiling tighter and gurgling more insistently.
With a low moan, Luke trembles, the groan vibrating through him and echoing the churning in his tummy. The insistent fullness is restless inside of him, rising in his throat like a rolling tide before he swallows it back.
A wet, sloshing noise reverberates through him in time with the uneasy quivering of his belly. Each gurgle makes the nausea rise a little higher and a little sharper.
Luke can’t seem to calm his stomach at all anymore. It’s just getting more upset, and no matter how tightly he curls around his tummy, he can’t protect it from how much it’s protesting everything packed inside. The gurgling grows louder, wet and twisting and squelching. The queasiness climbs, thick and insistent and horrible, his belly stretched too much, his muscles too tight and tense, his stomach just far too upset to contain it all.
“Oh, God, I feel so heavy,” Luke mutters, voice small and strained. “My stomach hurts so bad, Riles.”
The motion of indigestion inside refuses to settle now. He almost misses when it was sticky and slow and sluggish inside of him. Now, it’s twisting and churning and wet, his stomach making a string of gurgles ring out with the rising tide of nausea. His belly is making it increasingly clear he can’t keep down everything he ate, no matter how badly he wants to.
Another low rumble pulses through his belly, rippling along through the thick churning contents inside. His next sigh becomes a trembling groan, low and desperate and gurgling as the heaviness presses upward in a wave inside of him.
The gurgling, twisting, sloshing, burbling, and uneasy rolling of his stomach fill his body and mind completely. Every sensation is magnified times a thousand: the fullness, the cramping, the upset, the nausea, everything.
The nausea coils tight in the pit of his rumbly tummy, and Luke shivers slightly, curling more fully into himself, trembling through the next wave of queasiness.
The fullness seems to twist and churn in one slow, wet, heavy wave inside him after another. The heaviness is relentless and horrible, stretching to fill his whole belly, making it slosh with every small movement and roll and twist over itself constantly now.
His stomach gurgles again as it twists, an audible sound that’s low and liquidy at first before it becomes thicker and more insistent, almost urgent, seeming to echo through his ribs and intestines at the same time. Luke makes a groaning hum of a sound, shaky and trembling before it breaks into a low moan just as the nausea rises up again.
The restless pressure inside Luke is impossible to ignore, uneven churns shifting the wine and pasta inside his belly.
Rubbing one hand over the top swell of his belly and the other over the bottom curve, Luke starts to say, “Fuck, I feel so sick,” but he doesn’t make it far before the stubborn sloshing grows louder, making the nausea twist higher.
He presses his hands harder into his belly, trying to rub more firmly into the solid, grumbling mass, but it doesn’t help at all anymore. It only stirs him up, and the sloshing gurgles that writhe through him make him groan and squirm again, unable to stop moving as much as his stomach.
“Every time I move, it feels worse,” Luke complains. “I feel so gross. It’s like my belly is— is bubbling and twisting, I swear, it won’t settle no matter what I do.”
His stomach makes another loud sound, and he grimaces, hating how many noises his belly is making right now. Too upset and too nauseating and too loud, making him feel like a balloon filled with soda and dough that’s been shaking until it pops.
“It is very vocal right now,” Riley comments with a slight smile in his voice.
“Don’t laugh at me,” Luke groans, feeling every single bite and sip inside of him. “It hurts so much. And I’m embarrassed.”
“Oh, you’re embarrassed?” Riley asks. “Because you ate three huge plates of pasta and drank two bottles of wine?”
Said pasta and wine turns over itself with a rumbling gurgle inside of him. A surge of the undigested food squelching around and squirming in his tummy sloshes audibly, attempting to force its way upwards with a deep belch.
Tense and nauseated and desperate for release, Luke presses harder into his tummy, but the sloshing and queasiness refuse to relent. The unsettled gurgle of his stomach churns more heavily, and he groans as it surges inside of him, the worst it’s been so far.
Luke rocks a little side to side, squeezing his belly as his hands clutch at his grumbling tummy, rubbing in a desperate attempt to calm and digest and keep everything down. He can feel himself flushing hot and red, sweat beading as his nausea swells up as much as his tummy. A belch brings a burst of acidic saliva to the back of his throat, and he gasps, lurching upwards as a cramp stabs low and sharp when his stomach gurgles audibly, sloshing violently upwards as everything he ate threatens to make a very sudden reappearance.
“I think—” Luke starts, then burps, deep and brassy and turning wet at the end as it tries to pull something up. “I’m going to be sick.”
“Get up, come on, get up,” Riley tells him. He hastily clambers off of the sofa, grabbing Luke’s hands in his and hauling him upright. The couch creaks under him as he rocks onto his feet, a groan spilling out of him as the nausea surges upwards again and he belches heavily. “You can make it, come on, move with me.”
Luke belches again, then gags. He takes off at a sprint, running for the bathroom as his stomach clenches like a fist and forces up another thick burp that he swallows back down.
The pressure explodes in him, and he barely makes it to the bathroom, shoving up both toilet lids, before the first burst erupts out of him, a hot, thick wave of undigested pasta and sauce and acidic wine burning his throat. The creamy pasta, once so rich and delicious and indulgent, is now curdled into a pale sludge streaked with deep red wine, splattering into the bowl with a sickening splash.
Another deep belch rolls up out of him as another wave pulls with it. Riley finally catches up with him, stroking his curls away from his forehead as he curls forward with another retch, trying to bring more up.
His throat burns as the acidic sludge inside surges upward again. The next convulsion wracks his entire body, an obvious punishment for what he’s done to his stomach. The wine, once so velvety and bold, now tastes sour and metallic as it burns its way back up, coating the back of his tongue in thick, disgusting bitterness. Chunks of half-digested noodles stick in his throat and inside the toilet bowl, his stomach contents swirling inside the toilet water and also inside his tummy in a gross stew.
Luke’s eyes water, his noise stings, and his breaths come in ragged gasps before he heaves, belching up another huge wave of pasta and wine from the pit of his belly.
This next wave is worse— violent and forceful, as if his insides are being squeezed up from the bottom up like a toothpaste tube full of a bubbling, horrible, swampy stew. His knees ache from the tile below, and he grips the toilet bowl for dear life, sweat dripping, belly churning as it tries to empty itself.
“That’s it, just get it up,” Riley encourages him. “You’re okay. You’ll feel so much better so soon, you know it. Just empty yourself out, hon. Almost there.”
It doesn’t feel like Luke’s almost there, nor is his stomach. He grips the bowl like it’s the last stable thing in his spinning, nauseating world; his stomach is a churning cauldron of regret, thick with cream and dough and wine. The next surge of vomit he burps up won’t stop coming, making him feel spotty and dizzy with breathlessness as a torrent of mostly-undigested pasta surges up. It comes up with so much force it splatters against the inside sides of the bowl with wet slaps, the red wine turning everything a grotesque mauve like he’s throwing up a cursed stew instead of so much pasta and wine.
When it ended, he gasped, trying to suck in air as Riley told him, “Just breathe, baby,” but the storm clearly isn’t done.
Another wave is instantly clawing its way up, though this one is slower and more acidic. It burns its throat as it sticks, and he has to cough violently to force it up, the remnants of garlic and cream and pasta plopping into the water.
It keeps going like this, surges and waves that belch up from his belly. It won’t stop rumbling, gurgling the entire time, a boiling and bubbling stew that forces up a heavy burp when he finally sits back after what seems like dozens of waves of vomit.
Riley catches him, holding him against his front and in his lap. Luke curls into him with a groan, rubbing a hand over his upset belly.
So much came up, but not everything. He can feel it still, heavy and stubborn, some of his dinner still sitting in his gut like a huge brick soaked in wine and sauce.
His lower belly snarls, and he lunges up again, his body heaving as he chokes up a thin belch. A dribble of vomit trails down his chin as he groans, his abs aching, his knees sore. He spits, then sucks in a breath before he belches up a stringy mess of noodles, tangled and sour and acidic. They cling to his lips for a moment before he spits them out, too.
Still, he can feel that something remains as he stays there, panting over the bowl, unwilling to try laying back again. A final, mocking lump of pasta sits defiantly in his stomach, liquidy acidic wine gurgling around it. His mouth tastes bitter, acidic, and he hovers over the bowl for another minute, two, just listening to his churning stomach groan inside of him, waiting for the rest of it to finally come up.
“I think you’re done,” Riley finally says, rubbing his back in slow circles.
Luke shakes his head, one hand still clinging to the toilet while the other settles slowly against his sensitive stomach as it squelches again.
“No, I can still feel it,” Luke argues. “There’s still some in there, I still don’t feel good.”
Even when he lingers, the rest still won’t come. He wishes it would, so he could be done with all of this.
His ears are ringing. The room is still spinning, though it’s quiet now. All he can hear beyond the ringing is the sound of his own panting and his noisy stomach gurgling and the bathroom fan over their heads.
“Lean back,” Riley encourages him.
Luke gives up with a sigh, collapsing back against him again. Riley takes him in his arms, flushing the toilet and lowering Luke down to the floor, holding him close as he curls up again right there on the tile floor.
His stomach feels strange still in the aftermath of what just happened. It’s not empty yet, though it’s emptier. It’s still heavy, and now it’s tender and raw from the vomiting and how much effort it took. The queasiness is still lingering, deep and impossible to ignore, low and persistent. It rumbles through him with a slow roll that has him breathing in careful, shallow breaths, like taking too deep a breath will make him vomit up twelve more plates of pasta somehow.
There’s still something left unsettled churning in his upset stomach. A thick, hot weight refuses to move up or down in his tummy, sitting uneasily in the pit.
As he lays there, trying to catch his breath and calm his pulse and steady his stomach, another faint gurgle rises. It’s quiet, wet, strange-sounding. It’s almost hollow, though not quite. The sharpness has become a dull, painful cramping, an unhappy reminder that he’s not quite done yet. The nausea pulses faintly with each beat of his heart, queasy waves coming with each pound still.
Riley keeps holding him, quiet and steady. One of his hands rubs slow circles over the soft, restless, rumbling swell of his gurgling belly. The motion doesn’t fix anything, but it does help just a little bit. It’s grounding at least, and Luke hums weakly, letting his eyelids flutter shut, exhausted and sick and worn out. His muscles ache, his skin is clammy, his head dizzy. His limbs are heavy and his stomach growls. Every part of him is so tired, but his stomach still keeps tugging, shifting, turning, snarling, uneasy, as if still deciding what to do now.
Shifting a little, Riley reaches to grab two towels. He uses one to wipe off Luke’s sweat and the vomit from his mouth and chin before tossing it aside, and the other gets folded up and tucked under Luke’s head as a makeshift pillow to keep his face off the tile floor.
“Just keep breathing, hon,” Riley murmurs, low and soft. “You’ll be alright.”
“Something’s still in there,” Luke complains, hand rubbing low over his grumbling guts. “It doesn’t feel so good still.”
“What’s left’ll settle,” Riley promises him. “Just close your eyes and let it digest. The worst is over.”
Luke hums a faint note of agreement, though he isn’t quite so confident or sure. The queasiness is still curling heavily beneath his ribs and in the pit of his tummy, thick and sluggish and not quite finished with him.
However, the warmth of Riley’s hand, the momentary reprieve, and the quiet room around them help dull the nausea and upset enough that he can drift into sleep, just a little bit.
Luke exhales through his nose, hating the bitter taste in his mouth. A shaky, fluttery sigh escapes him, and he lets some tension escape, melting backwards into Riley. His stomach grumbles once more, uneasy and low, but he doesn’t even try rubbing it this time. Too tired. Riley rubs it for him, and he smiles slightly.
As Luke fades towards a brief doze before Riley makes him move to bed, the lingering heaviness stays in his tummy. It’s the slow, queasy rolling of something unfinished, though softened now by the gentle press of Riley’s hand, the amount he’s managed to bring up thus far, and the promise of a few moments of rest.
“Sleep,” Riley tells him. “I’ll bring you to bed soon, and you’ll feel all better in the morning.”
“Swear?” Luke asks in a mumble.
“Swear,” Riley promises.
Another low gurgle squelches its way through Luke’s tummy, and Riley’s hand chases it, firm and kind. Luke lets himself drift, trying his best to ignore his upset stomach and how much pasta and wine he crammed in it tonight— though the rumbling doesn’t quite let him entirely forget, even as he slips off a little.
Before I ask, just thought I would let you know that wow, you are gifted. Could you work a Free fic with Makoto attending a childrens party with his lil bro and sis and really overdoing it with the kids activities and junk food buffet, later suffering epic bad indigestion and nausea whilst exhusted, que care from your choosing please.
He stood out from the crowd because he was the tallest person there; and that included the handful of mothers hovering anxiously in the background, watching their children play. Makoto was used to towering over people, but this was a bit much.
He wasn’t fretting over his siblings, because he wasn’t that kind of big brother. He trusted them to be able to be responsible, even at a children’s gym like this. With so many kids running around in party hats, it was near pandemonium; but Ran was doing backflips in the bouncy castle, and Ren hadn’t strayed from the rock climbing wall for fifteen minutes.
He wasn’t worried about his siblings, but the sheer pandemonium throughout the gym was raising his anxiety levels in general. Putting so many small children together in the same place was a scary idea.
Okay so I've read all your MatsuHana Fics and I'm a slut for Mattsun. In one of your fics Hanamaki says that digestive issues aren't uncommon for Matsukawa, so could we have some more of that? Like are something that he can't digest properly at a restaurant, and before long, these really gross sounding burps make there way up and are really painful in his chest. Maybe taking place on the way back home from dinner, so in the car? And Hanamaki is just sympathetic but he's driving. ❤
Anonymous asked: matssun with indigestion and an upset gurgly tummy
Okay, so maybe they didn’t go out much for a reason.
It would be unfair to blame Matsukawa for all of it. It wasn’t his fault that he has such a terrible digestive system, or that some foods reacted really badly with his stomach. When he was a mess of cramps and gurgling, releasing low belches into the air, it was hard to blame him.
It was also hard not to be embarrassed when it happened in public.
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So I'm gluten intolerant, not allergic, but it's just really uncomfortable bloating and tension. Usually I'm pretty good at curbing on eating glutinous foods, but today I caved and had two burgers, plus lots of soda.
I regret that every time I lay down I've got acid splashing up my throat and I'm gassy as fuck lol, can't stop burping and my chest hurts like crazy.
May I ask: Does eating gluten bread almost always feel like the bread is "too much"?
Bc it does to me so I was wondering if I might have an intolerance, been avoiding gluten for a few weeks now to see if things felt different. Which I haven't specifically felt anything different, but then I ate a hot pocket and my stomach felt weird and gassy all the next day so I'm like ?? >_>
I just suck so much with understanding and recognizing symptoms lol
Me personally yes, I tend to eat way less if it's gluten cause it makes me feel full and bloated after my first bite. I've completely given up on gluten as of this month and I've never felt better 😅 just generally too, I didn't notice until I gave up gluten that my daily/unusual tiredness also were connected to my intolerance.
It’s been a minute since I posted anything decent; I don’t think this counts a decent but wtv. Ate a shit ton of kbbq today, trying to get back to stuffing myself but moneys tight lol
So I'm gluten intolerant, not allergic, but it's just really uncomfortable bloating and tension. Usually I'm pretty good at curbing on eating glutinous foods, but today I caved and had two burgers, plus lots of soda.
I regret that every time I lay down I've got acid splashing up my throat and I'm gassy as fuck lol, can't stop burping and my chest hurts like crazy.
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