my name is frankie!! :) i'm 21 and use they/them pronouns, i identify as queer/homoflexible but don't feel super strongly about using labels for myself 😊
🌈 all are welcome!! ...unless you're homophobic, transphobic, racist, sexist/misogynistic, a terf, ableist, fatphobic, etc., or if you support/tolerate any of the above: this is not a place for you
🌟 this blog is mainly emeto/sickfic focused!! i'm big on all sorts of whump & illness, but stomach issues are my all-time fav ❤️ i will also probably be talking about some irl stuff i've experienced teehee
💜 trying to get into writing for ocs lately, but in the past i have written for musicians/music groups like stray kids, ateez, and blind channel (to name a few). feel free to check out my ao3 if you want to see more!! -> @ xHeyKYJx
feel free to reach out with asks/requests/fantasies, or if you just want to chat!! i can't promise i'll get back to you, especially over dm (i'm shy lol), but i'll try🫶
i'm anti-anti -> it's called fanfiction for a reason, y'all
🩷🔍on this blog, you can expect to see...:
stomachaches
nausea
stomach noises
emetophilia (and some emetophobia--i'm a bit of both lol)
burping
caretaking
non-graphic scat
fanfiction—if you’re curious about fandoms, don’t hesitate to ask!!
there may be some kink/BDSM-type stuff, but everything will be tagged and forewarned accordingly!! <3
❌NO:
minors
sexual dms/asks/etc.
vore
there's more that i can't think of, probably... if you aren't sure about something, don't be afraid to ask me!! i will Not bite your head off for being polite <3
🌟 if you don't like what i post, feel free to block/blacklist and move on. i try to tag everything accurately, but please feel free to let me know if i've ever missed anything!
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i highly recommend having your partner chug beer while on top of you
their one hand between your legs, the other tipping the can to the sky, higher with every thick swallow, exaggerated juuust a bit for you, followed by a knowing grin because it had exactly the intended effect—likely another gush of lubrication coating their fingers
and you get to rub big circles over the round swell of their stomach that has just a bit of give, maybe tracing a bit of that sinful happy trail, as a treat
maybe if you’re lucky you’ll feel some of the sloshing under the surface, occasionally requiring them to pause, taking a deep breath with a hand on their belly since the constant movement jostles the contents under pressure
bonus points for a hearty belch relieving some of the tightness and making room for more
and once you’re finished and panting, they heave their heavy stomach forward to lay completely on top of you, pressing your knees to your shoulders, out of breath and sweating, and kiss you open-mouthed so you can taste the alcohol on their breath while they finish what they started
so for context, my crush is my boy best friend and he’s a kinda cold person. he’s not shy but very introverted so he talks little around others. he’s sarcastic af too so some people don’t like him for that or are intimidated BUT he is super nice, and really hot btw 😭. he also talks a lot when we’re together, since we know each other well ig
anyways, we were in my house watching movies in the living room and this boy isn’t talking at all. like mouth shut, not a single cheeky comment, nothing. mind you we’re used to sitting right next to each other so i can feel him shifting around a lot.
he didn’t look happy either so i was like: either he’s mad or sad. SPOILER IT WAS NONE OF THOSE 😍
after i saw he fr had sth going on i asked him if he was okay and he just shook his head. he was looking at me with the cutest droppy eyes and frown i was meltinggg
so then i ask what’s up and he tells me he doesn’t feel good and his stomach hurts and i just 😭
i didn’t really know what to say because like, the shock, so i just told him ‘that sucks’ and ruffled his hair which tmi is so soft, and he nods and LAYS HIS FUCKING HEAD ON MY SHOULDER LIKE WTF YOU CAN’T JUST DO THAT TO ME
and then i’m trying not to blush but also not be an asshole because hello?? he’s clearly feeling bad and i’m over here finding it cute
so i ask him if he wants painkillers or wants to go home and he tells me he already took pills and doesn’t feel like leaving yet, and just stays there looking pretty and using me as a pillow
at some point tho i could tell he felt worse because he was hugging his stomach and had his eyes closed, so i thought: it won’t hurt to play with his hair, right? DAMN RIGHT. i start doing silly little braids on his hair—it’s black and pretty and reaches just above his chin—and he just about falls asleep on me
in the end i walked him to his house because the situation was obviously not getting better and as much as i loved it i didn’t want my crush dying at mine 😍
that was it why did this turn out so long 💀 anyways i’m not complaining because i know people will enjoy this AND ALSO I HAVE MORE STORYTIMES LIKE THIS WITH HIM I SWEAR HE’S A WALKING SICKFIC
thanks for listening to my rant 😭
~crush anon
ohhhhh….. my…… GOD
anon you’re so real for this and also Wow having scenarios like this Happen? In Real Life??? i-
literally would’ve had me foaming at the mouth, like this guy sounds like such a cutie AND he had a tummy ache and openly admitted it and let you play w his hair??? you lucky duck
thank you for sharing this, it gives me hope that i’ll have more situations like this someday🙏🙏🙏
can we share irl stories?? i have some with my crush and they’re so 😭
omg yessss please please please feel free!!! this is a safe space and i’d love to hear whatever it is you (or anyone seeing this!!) might like to share :)
for him to curl into me, warm and soft and sleepy. to feel his lips on my ear as he mumbles, so shy and sweet, those four words that drive me crazy--
"i don't feel good."
i want him to open himself up to me, let me under his shirt to rub his chest and his sides and his belly, let me kiss his hair and hold him close and ask what i can do to make it better.
i want to hold the trashcan for him while he hiccups and drools and spits, terribly nauseous but struggling to find relief, to really let go, so i can whisper reassurances to him, it's just me, let him know i'll happily take care of him and he's safe with me
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for him to curl into me, warm and soft and sleepy. to feel his lips on my ear as he mumbles, so shy and sweet, those four words that drive me crazy--
"i don't feel good."
i want him to open himself up to me, let me under his shirt to rub his chest and his sides and his belly, let me kiss his hair and hold him close and ask what i can do to make it better.
i want to hold the trashcan for him while he hiccups and drools and spits, terribly nauseous but struggling to find relief, to really let go, so i can whisper reassurances to him, it's just me, let him know i'll happily take care of him and he's safe with me
two ocs, jack & andy!! jack has been briefly featured before, but now it's andy's turn to suffer😈
jack uses he/him pronouns, andy uses they/them :)
tw for not-super-graphic depictions of nausea under the cut!
“I don’t feel good,” says Andy's voice, as soon as Jack picks up. Even over the background chatter and phone static, he can detect the quiver in their voice. Uh-oh. Andy is never so forthcoming about how they’re feeling, at least not physically. It’s a sore point for them, even with Jack. He tries not to be too hurt about it because they’re like that with everybody, even with Elle, who’s their best friend in the world. Secretly, though, he savors those rare, fleeting moments when Andy allows themself to be vulnerable. Those moments happen more and more lately, and as much as Jack hates for them to be in any kind of pain or discomfort, he’s grateful that Andy is finally starting to let him in.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, already reaching to close and put away his laptop. He has a four-page paper to write for German—in German—that’s due in two days, but God forbid he lets it get in his way of being a good boyfriend. God forbid he lets anything get in his way.
“Um, I–I had a burger for lunch earlier, and y’know how sometimes they make me feel kinda sick? But, like, lately it’s been fine, so I just got one, whatever. But now my stomach hurts and it’s—I’m—I feel like I’m gonna puke, like I can feel it, but I don’t—it’s—I dunno. It hurts and I don’t wanna be sick, and usually I feel like shit right after eating it but it’s been five hours and I feel terrible.” Andy sounds like they’re on the verge of tears, and Jack’s heart aches. He hates that this happens to them so often.
“Sorry,” Andy blurts suddenly, before he has the chance to respond. “Sorry, it’s—like, I’m fine. I’m literally totally fine, I dunno why I’m freaking out, I just…” They pause, and Jack doesn’t think it’s his imagination when he hears a tiny, queasy hiccup, the sound of spitting. Then, in the smallest voice, “I just don’t feel good. And… and I want you.” Jack’s already shoving the last of his things into his backpack and slinging it, unzipped, over one shoulder. He walks with purpose toward the library exit and asks, “Where are you? I’m on my way now.” Andy sniffles wetly. Jack thinks he can hear what sounds like a toilet roll being unraveled, if the metallic clinking in the background is anything to go by.
“‘m in the cafeteria,” they tell him. “I thought I was hungry, so I was gonna grab food with Elle, but—oh, fuck—” They hiccup again, louder this time, followed by a muffled groan. Jack picks up the pace, shouldering the door open and striding out into the bright sunshine. His eyes burn as they struggle to adjust, but he doesn’t slow his pace. He dodges other students as he hurries toward the dining hall.
“Gonna hang up,” Andy says thickly. “Talking is—I’m—oh, god—” A choked, guttural gag that makes Jack’s own throat burn in sympathy. “‘m gonna hang up,” Andy says again, voice constricted, and then the line goes dead. Jack jogs through the last few seconds of a pedestrian crossing sign and beelines it for the nearest cafeteria entrance. Luckily, there are a few on every side, considering the building is one of the main assets on campus. The cool air from the AC is refreshing as he takes the stairs two at a time and turns a sharp corner to get to the gender-neutral bathroom. When he gets there, the little sign above the handle says VACANT in green, so he knocks once and lets himself in.
idk if you remember but i sent in an irl story last time……. and i have another🫣
soooo the last story was about my friend (who i lowkey had a crush on at the time) being drunk and kinda pukey. this time is also about him, and a key difference is that i highkey have major feelings for him
we’d gone to a movie with a bunch of our friends and he got popcorn. fast forward and we’re leaving the theater—he’s a little slow to put his sweatshirt on, and when we all stop for obligatory bathroom trips he’s the last one out. as we’re walking through the parking lot, he kinda casually goes, “i think i ate too much popcorn” and i was immediately on high alert. but he seemed okay, so we all drove home and the drive was fine.
so he and i decide to hang out in my apt, one-on-one. we’re not inside yet, and as i’m putting the key in the door, he literally lifts up his shirt and looks down at his stomach and says, “goddd, my stomach…” nfksjWNFIWJRNF BRO WHATTTT YOU CANT JUST DO THAT AND EXPRCT ME TO NE NORMAL ABOIT IT HSHFJSJENFKGOAPX
and like YES i lowkey looked over and i saw his happy trail and his belly, which is always kinda soft, and it looked a little bloated. and for the rest of the evening he kept a hand on his tummy🫣🫣
i’m freaking out dude like what universe are we in that this could possibly happen
CHRIST???
SHAMELESS MAN??
Frankie what the FUCK i'd have combusted in flames. Happy trail to boot?? You were in heaven
so. this is heavily inspired by something that happened to me recently. even just thinking about it lowkey makes me feel some type of way, i'm not gonna lie😭
tw for depictions of nausea ahead, under the cut!! 🫶
"i don't fucking care," you're saying, laughing in spite of your words. beside you, your crush is sheepishly holding a dinner menu. the two of you had run a few errands together the other day, and on the way back to your dorm you'd stopped at a drive-thru, where your crush had paid for your food. now, you're out for dinner with them and a handful of other friends, and it's the perfect opportunity for you to pay them back.
"i feel bad," your crush whines, hitting you with some pretty strong puppy-dog eyes. "i was kidding when i asked you to pay for me."
"well, i'm not," you tell them decisively, and you quickly tell the waiter both of your orders: food for you, and food for your crush. they thank you, smiling sweetly, and dinner carries on. the food is delivered eventually and everyone is happy with what they ordered. out of the corner of your eye, you notice that your crush is eating with gusto, spooning bite after bite into their mouth with barely a second between. but they're a pretty big eater, and—at the end of the day—they are an adult. so you say nothing.
fast forward to the end of the meal—the bill has been split evenly (except for you and your crush, of course, because you paid for theirs before they could argue any more about it) and you're all leaving the restaurant. as you step outside, your crush says, sort of casually, "i think i might've ate too much." immediately you're blushing, trying not to squirm or stare as you laugh teasingly. your crush giggles too, and one of your friends makes a quip about them having a rock in their stomach. as you walk through the parking lot, it's impossible not to notice their hand on their belly.
your group came in two cars, so you all bid each other farewell and pile into your respective vehicles. you're sitting in the passenger seat and your crush is sitting in the back, right behind you. it's a short drive back home, but you keep your eyes and ears peeled anyway, waiting for some kind of indicator that your crush is in more discomfort than they'd initially let on. but the ride is largely uneventful, and you're all dropped off outside your building.
as you make for the doors, your crush lags slightly behind you. you almost think it's your imagination when you hear the tiniest burp—this tight, uncomfortable sound that you would've otherwise missed had there been any other noise happening around you. steadfastly, you say nothing. what's there to say, anyway?
you pull open the door and your crush walks through. you're walking up the first flight of stairs when they say, "i'm kinda—i'm kinda nauseous, i think." and—there's no way this is real, but it is—as they're speaking, their throat tightens around a gag, voice going low and tense as they fight off the urge to retch. you're both alarmed and incredibly turned on, and by the time you've made it to the landing they're hiccuping out a genuine gag—it's small but wet, gurgling just slightly in the bottom of their throat. your heart starts pounding.
"dude," you say, laughing nervously, hoping your arousal isn't obvious. "don't tell me you're actually gonna puke." you could almost wish it in your head: please puke please puke please puke, but you quash that train of thought before it fully starts. now is not the time.
"um—" your crush swallows, and you finally let yourself take a good, long look at their face. they aren't especially pale or sweaty, and there's good humor written all over their expression, but there's a touch of nerves there, too. and the fist near their mouth isn't helping matters, either.
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“I’on’feel good,” Nadia says thickly, slurring through the nausea gripping her from sternum to mouth. Frankie palms at the back of her head, right above her neck, gently pushing her forward over the trashcan.
“I know, baby,” Frankie murmurs anxiously. Their free hand hovers over Nadia’s belly like a hummingbird over a flower, quivering with a strange kind of anticipation. Nadia hiccups, belches out a long string of saliva that dangles stubbornly from her lower lip. She sways minutely from side to side, eyes squeezed shut as her body cruelly edges her toward some sort of relief from the all-encompassing wave pool inside of her.
“Goooood, I hate this,” she moans, and Frankie watches her hands curl into fists atop her thighs. “I’m—” She twitches and moans again, wordlessly, hunching further over. Without meaning to, Frankie’s hand is brushing her soft belly, a layer of fat over strong muscle. Nadia belches again, a tight, gurgling thing that bursts up from her throat. Her back muscles tighten, breath hitching once, twice, three times in a row, quick and compulsive.
“Oh, god,” she breathes, hunched and rocking pitifully over the trash can. “Oh, my god, ‘m—I’m—” She hiccups again, and her throat constricts around a tiny, wet gag. “Oh, g—” The next heave is larger, more guttural; has her coughing over the trash. A blob of thick, cloudy saliva plops heavily against the plastic liner.
"'m so sick," Nadia garbles, immediately followed by a thick, hot slurry of vomit. It splatters noisily against the inside of the trashcan, wet and heavy and potent. Nadia sucks in a ragged breath, her entire body twitching with it, then chokes on a mouthful of saliva. Frankie's own throat tightens in sympathy, but it doesn't stop the white-hot coil of desire within them from tightening, either. They press their legs together, chewing on their lower lip as Nadia burps and then vomits again.
This wave is harder for her--it's thick, chunky; can hardly qualify as a liquid--and her throat and jaw work to expel it. Her soft pink tongue lolls a little, slick with spit, as she squeezes her eyes shut against the sensation of her body rebelling against her, the feeling of only partially digested food adhering to her teeth.
that drabble you wrote, with the characters Nadia and Frankie, is so good????? i keep coming back to it because the way you described the heaving with the dialogue and the interaction between the two is so wow.
omg??? thank you so much?????? 😭🙏🤧 this means so much to me actually, you're so sweet!!! 🥹🫶
tw for pretty graphic depictions of puking ahead!! 🫶
“Shit, babe,” Cole hears Jasper mutter, and he turns around just in time to watch Oli vomit over the Target bag clenched in his hands. Cole winces sympathetically, reaching back to squeeze the top of Oli’s head in spite of the awkward angle. He feels bad that his boyfriend is feeling so shitty, but he’s also secretly glad that he called shotgun, even if it means he has to drive next. He deals with vomit just fine, but he’d also rather not end up with his own head out a window just because of the smell.
“Do you think it was something you ate?” Jasper asks once Oli seems to be finished. He’s got one hand tucked up beneath Oli’s t-shirt, rubbing rhythmically at his spine. Oli spits into the bag, face as pale as a sheet, before he sits up enough to lean his head on Jasper’s shoulder. “I d’no,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. Cole, meanwhile, eyes the bag in his boyfriend’s hands warily. This is only the second time it’s been used, but if it breaks or overflows, Cole thinks he might throw himself out of the vehicle, so he turns around to look up the nearest gas station on his phone.
They pull over at the next stop, and it takes both Jasper and Cole to carefully maneuver their boyfriend out of the vehicle. Oli sits on the curb while Jasper disposes of the Target bag and disappears inside to grab a few things, and Cole sits up close next to his ailing boyfriend, rubbing his back and shoulders.
Oli hiccups and burps, and Cole snorts. “Good one,” he jokes, and Oli attempts a laugh that sounds more like a grunt. “My stomach hurts.” At this, Cole turns his head enough to get a good look at his boyfriend’s face. He’s still incredibly pale, his eyes half-lidded and his arms curled over his middle. When he notices Cole staring at him, he lifts his head up enough to turn and face him fully. “Am I still pretty?” he asks, and Cole huffs a laugh in spite of the concern steadily growing within him. He’s seen Oli hungover, and motion sick, and after an adrenaline crash, and yet he’s still never looked so… so awful. Cole reaches up to push some of his hair out of his face, and Oli blinks sleepily at him.
“Yeah,” Cole murmurs, tugging him back into his side and letting his head drop onto his shoulder. “You’re still pretty.” They sit like that for another minute or so until Jasper returns, toting another plastic bag.
“I got some extra bags,” he says, shaking a fistful of thin plastic. “And I got you some stuff for your tummy, babe.” He crouches down, rifling through the bag, and a flutter of something warm and light sparks to life in Cole's stomach. There’s something so undeniably hot and adorable about Jasper taking care of Oli. It’s just another thing that Cole loves about him.
Jasper pulls out a bottle of Pepto Bismol and pops open the cap. He offers the entire bottle to Oli, who makes a face but obediently takes it and swallows a generous sip. Cole could swear that his face somehow grows another shade paler, and he snakes a hand down to rest his palm on the warm expanse of Oli’s stomach over his shirt.
“You’re okay, baby,” he soothes, rubbing little circles into Oli’s upset belly until the nauseated expression on his face finally disappears, leaving him just as exhausted-looking as before. Cole is beyond grateful that Oli is keeping the medicine down, even if it’s just for now. He’s hoping that even just a little bit in his system will help.
“Ready to go?” Jasper asks, and Cole nods where Oli just offers a meek thumbs-up.
---
By the time they’re finally rolling into LA, Oli is curled up across the backseat with his head in Cole's lap. Cole has a hand up against his boyfriend’s waist, laid flat against the feverish, gurgling side of Oli’s stomach. He was supposed to be on driving duty next, but after a while Oli began to tearfully complain that his bellyache wasn’t going away and Cole and Jasper unanimously decided that it was Cole's turn to caretake.
Oli’s stomach grumbles beneath his hand and Cole purses his lips sympathetically, eyeing Oli carefully. He appears to be asleep still, face hidden in Cole's stomach, but he's starting to get the foreboding feeling that something not-so-pleasant is about to happen.
picture this: you're hanging out with your crush. you're friends, getting closer and closer by the day, spending a lot more time together. you're at a point in the friendship where you generally feel very comfortable around them, but you haven't necessarily been vulnerable.
you're in their car, driving somewhere--the park, a coffee shop, a bookstore; it doesn't matter--and it's just the two of you. you're in the passenger seat, of course, because it would be a little odd for your crush to drive while you just sat in the back. plus, as all your friends are well aware, you are incredibly susceptible to carsickness, or motion sickness of any kind.
it's been a good day, if a little... off. you tried for breakfast earlier, something small--a banana with some peanut butter, maybe--but it left you feeling strangely full and vaguely queasy. when lunch rolled around, you'd decided to eat something even though you weren't very hungry, just a small salad with some chicken tenders. but that didn't settle well, either. you'd returned to your dorm feeling somewhat dejected and much more nauseous than earlier, and had spent an hour or so laying with a heating pad in bed, doomscrolling on social media. and now you're here, in the car with your crush. and with each minute that passes by, you feel worse and worse.
~graphic depictions of nausea/vomiting under the cut!~
"are you okay?" your crush asks, startling you from your thoughts. you realize you have a hand on your belly, resting firmly against the upper part where you still feel so full and gross. you have half a mind to be embarrassed of it, but your tummy is so tight and bloated, and it's starting to hurt, so you don't bother moving your hand. your stomach has been burbling steadily for the past few minutes, the movement of the car and start-and-stop of traffic only making your nausea worse. god, you really hope you don't throw up.
"no, yeah, i'm good!" you say, trying to sound as convincing as possible. but your crush turns their head, looks you straight in the face for a second before looking you up and down. you don't miss the way their gaze lingers a little on your hand, still protectively resting on your middle.
"are you sure?" they press. they keep glancing back and forth from you to the traffic ahead as things finally start moving again. "we don't have to go, if you don't want to." and then you're both lurching forward in your seats as they slam on the breaks to keep from rear-ending the car that just cut you off.
"shit, sorry," your crush is saying, but you barely register it. the basic laws of physics have officially fucked you over, and the force of your body against the seatbelt has sent the heaviness in your upper belly up to your chest. you swallow convulsively, breaking out in a cold sweat before flashing burning-hot. your legs are shaking, and a phantom finger is pressing relentlessly against the underside of your chin. the saliva pooling in your mouth has a faint bitterness to it.
"are you--?" your crush doesn't even finish the question. "fuck, hold on, um--" you'd almost forgotten where you are. quickly, they twist in their seat, rooting around in the back footwell for something. "i think i've got a bag, just hold on--" a sharp hiccup surprises you, followed closely by a tiny burp. your throat feels tight, swollen, somehow, and your belly jumps with a sudden gag.
there's a rustling sound, incredibly loud in the confines of the car, and then a plastic grocery bag is being thrust at you. "here, here, here," your crush rushes, holding the bag in front of your face. "i'm sorry, i'd pull over, but--" you gag again. your arms have started shaking, too, and you feel frozen. there's no way this is happening. there's no fucking way you're about to puke in your crush's car, in front of them. in front of them. tears prickle unwittingly at your eyes, humiliating you further. you must be coming off as such a fucking baby.
"just--here--" your hands are being guided to hold the handles of the bag. your palms are slick with sweat, and the bag trembles in your grasp. you suck in a panicked breath that comes out as a whimper. your stomach is rolling violently, so bad that your vision is almost swimming. you can't tell if the car is moving again or not as you keep taking in hiccuping breaths, choking down the hot nausea on the back of your tongue.
"'m sorry," you manage, voice thick around the strain of your impending sickness. "i didn't--'m so sorry." and then your back curls with a deep retch that comes from the pit of your stomach, and you can't breathe around the thickness rising in your throat, making you gag again. "oh, g--"
and then you're spitting a mouthful of foamy sick into the bag, throat spasming around another heave. your crush is swearing from the driver's seat, but you can't make out the words over the next retch. a heavy torrent of vomit splatters into the bag, almost dragging it out of your weak fingers. it's thick and chunky and burning hot, and you can still feel some of it stuck up against the backs of your teeth, under your tongue. your disgust mingles with the now all-encompassing nausea and you retch so hard, your muscles cramp. there's more coming, you know there is, you can feel it, but it won't budge, stuck below your sternum as a hard lump you can feel with your hand. you don't think you've digested anything you've eaten in the last 24 hours. fuck, it hurts.
"okay, it's okay..." suddenly, there's a hand on your back. you startle, choking on the copious amount of spit in your mouth, leaving you coughing and choking over the grocery bag. there's some awkward maneuvering, and then your seatbelt has been undone, your crush quickly situating you so that it's out of your way. you only feel marginally better without it. you want to hold your tummy, rub it up and down in some pitiful attempt to comfort yourself. but the flimsy grocery bag is already sagging something awful in your hands, and you're afraid that if you let go of one side it'll spill everywhere.
"is... are--are you done?" your crush asks haltingly. their hand on your back is hesitant but immensely comforting, and you find yourself leaning back into it. your nose is running and your belly is really hurting, and you don't think you're done throwing up for the day. but for the moment, you don't feel anything else threatening to come up, so you sniffle and bring the handles of the bag together to tie it shut.
"yeah," you mumble, voice hoarse. you don't even know what to say. you feel terrible, both physically and mentally. you can't believe that just fucking happened. how did you let that fucking happen?
your crush starts rubbing your back, just a little, these tiny circles between your shoulder blades, and you deflate. "you just wanna go back home?" they ask, and you nod, staring at the floor, holding the soiled grocery bag awkwardly in front of you. worst saturday ever.
Lori presses the back of her hand against her lips when an acidic hiccup reverbs painfully in her chest. The jolt of her shoulders makes her stomach gurgle, and she shifts against the headboard. At the end of her bed, Jesse's still absorbed in her book, sprawled comfortably across the mattress on her front. She seems none the wiser to Lori's growing struggle, which is probably good but also kind of bad. Lori's fucking humiliated by herself and her body, but she also wants attention.
Another hiccup. An air bubble rumbles up right behind it, lodging stubbornly in her chest. Lori rubs distractedly at her sternum, still watching Jesse. She kind of feels like she's gonna vomit.
Hiccup. The gas in her chest bursts out on the tail end of it, a short belch that eases a surprising amount of pressure and leaves her feeling strangely relieved in its wake. At the sound, Jesse glances up at her, one eyebrow raised. She just shaved a slit into the right one. It looks really good.
Lori blushes beneath her gaze. "Sorry," she mumbles, and Jesse smiles, snorting. She readjusts a little, propped up on one elbow. She's nonchalant as she says, "Okay? You've been wiggling a lot." Oh. Lori didn't think she'd noticed. She nods, swallowing down another burp with some difficulty. The acid on the back of her tongue has a distinctly greasy aftertaste, bitter and revolting. Yesterday's pizza, fuck. Gross.
Her throat spasms suddenly, convulsing around a swallow she can't control. It's thick and wet in her throat, clicking on the way down. Jesse looks up at her again, but Lori's too busy trying to keep last night's dinner where it belongs. Her jaw feels numb, pins and needles prickling in foreign harmony with her cheeks. Oh, God, she's gonna puke.
She sits up. "Lo?" Jesse says. Lori reaches blindly for her trashcan, fingers groping at thin air and the legs of her bedside table. She remembers belatedly that it's on the other side of the room, next to her easel. Maybe she can make it in time.
A sudden burp sends a mouthful of foamy spit splattering out of her mouth and down her chin. Her hands move on pure instinct, one cupped beneath her face and the other pressing flat against her bed as leverage to get the fuck up, now, Lorelai, what are you doing?
"Oh, shit," Jesse's saying, book forgotten as she stares at Lori with wide eyes. Another gush of sick bursts forth, hot and slushy. It pools in her hand and dribbles horribly down her wrist, dripping through her fingers to soak in spots into her pajama pants. It sears like red-hot pokers into her skin, and she retches again, more vomit arching violently forward and dousing her bedspread. Jesse hurries to scramble off the bed, away from the spray zone, and the puddle sloshes over the sheets with the movement.
"Fuck, that's gross," Jesse swears, looking on for a moment in horror. Then she turns, whipping her head around for something. By the time she's fetched the trashcan and rushed it over, Lori's already done, face and arm and leg coated in hot, thick, quickly-congealing sick. Her stomach only feels marginally appeased, not nearly as upset as before but now sore and knotted up. She reaches shakily with her clean hand for a tissue, just falling short. Before she can get frustrated about it, Jesse's grabbing a handful and thrusting them at her. Lori mops clumsily at her arm while Jesse uses her own wad to dab at her face.
"Are you okay?" she asks, wiping a trail of vomit and saliva that's dripping down her neck. "That was, like... I dunno. I didn't know you felt sick. You shoulda said something."
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Another underrated action. Sickie's nausea is giving them horrible, wet, hiccup-burps they just can't control. Maybe they've been drinking something carbonated to try to settle their stomach, and now it's mixed with saliva and stomach acid and suddenly, one particularly nasty heave of their stomach brings up a mouthful they absolutely cannot swallow down, so they have to spit it out - into a receptacle if they're lucky, or maybe into a napkin, or the sidewalk, or . . . the floor. And it gets the yuckiness out of their mouth for the moment but they know there's more waiting to come up.
Or . . . sickie ate too much and has bad indigestion. A burp will help, right? So they're forcing them up, under their breath, trying to feel better. But the discomfort in their stomach keeps building, and the next burp comes up on its own, except it brings a little more with it. It's not a full vomit, not yet, but just enough to cause panic to set in, because the next time they spit up, there's going to be a lot more . . .
