#illumivomi

[sickandvomiting]

Guess who has a new brainrot? (It’s me, I have a new brainrot.)

I just HAD to draw this scene from a YouTube video, especially after @illnessandinjury and I figured out we were in this shit together haha

#emetophilia #illness #emeto #my art #vomit art #emeto art #vomiting #seasick #motion sickness #illumivomi #this man has my brain in a vice grip. little bastard

[upachucks]

Remember when I planned to write that C/hase sickfic? Yeah me neither. Anyways, myself and @oshii were yelling at each other about various debaucherous things and it ended up turning into a back and fourth about C/hase and Cu/ddy being on a flight and C/hase having a Real Bad Time. Enjoy the pukey sketch it’s inspired <3

(Idk if I need to say this, but this isn’t ship content in the slightest)

#illumivomi #emeto art #emeto #puke.pic #puke.tv show #tv show puke #upachucks.art #upachucks.toast #yes I’m watching house again but can you blame me

[sickstarlight]

if u want drawing prompts, i'm obsessed with /post/686374717978017792/ aiden puking into the trash can

sick aiden (with disgusted leva) for you anon!!

--

requests are free, but if you want to tip me my ko-fi is /jallyns! or, commission something!

#emeto art #emetophilia #illumivomi #ocsick #oc: leva #oc: aiden

[mohini-musing]

Count down (to the end of the day)

Chasing Ghosts

He’s sitting in Steve’s car, waiting outside a club because Tasha called and asked him to come to her. He should go in. He should dance with her. Have drinks with her. Ward off potential hookups for her…

That last one. It’s the thing he hates most about Tasha and clubs. She swears blind that the sex is transactional. Her body for their drugs. Nothing more. James knows why she sees her body as an ATM. He also knows there’s a lot more than a transaction of goods going on. Self-harm takes many forms. Tasha prefers to use other people to hurt herself.

He’s nearly convinced himself to go inside and find her when EMS rolls up with lights blazing. Jump-suited figures race inside with a gurney and James is on his feet and sprinting in behind him. The bouncer at the door doesn’t give him so much as a glance, clearly assuming he’s with the team. He hopes to hell he isn’t, but Tasha is a nightmare. She doesn’t know what limits are these days and the pills and powders she plays with don’t come with dosage guidelines.

He’s unreasonably relieved when the jumpsuits head for the men’s restroom. Not that it’s beyond the realm of possibility that she’s within. But it does reduce the likelihood.

He finds her at the bar, knocking back a lethal looking blue concoction that smells heavily enough of vodka to strip paint. She leans into him, her smile all teeth and no emotion.

“Dance with me,” she commands once the glass is drained and placed back on the oak.

There’s no point in arguing. The next hour is dim lights and pulsing music and Tasha’s body against his. She’s good at this. He’s marginally passable. It’s fun either way and as much as he hates being summoned like a puppy, these nights remind him of the few glorious weeks of freedom the summer before he shipped off to sand and flames.

Home is a study in trying – and failing – to enter quietly. Tasha is drunk and James is sober but tired. He follows her stumbling footsteps to the kitchen, pretends he doesn’t care when she downs a bottle of water and instructs him to wait for her at the table. The only sound from the hall bath is a faint splashing before she’s back, eyes damp but calm. He justifies it by trying to believe that at least this way he won’t be cleaning vomit from the carpet later.

They settle in on the couch with a movie, something that’s supposed to be on the awards list this year and should thus be watched. Its… not stellar. They’re most of the way through when he realizes how unreasonably warm she is against him.

“Tash?”

“Mhmm?”

“You okay there?”

“M’here,” she mumbles back before nuzzling deeper into his shoulder and going still. It’s not an answer to the question he asked her, but it’s answer enough. He drops his head onto the back of the couch and allows the boring film to send him into sleep.

Morning finds them still wrapped up together on the couch, though a blanket has appeared at some point in the night and been draped over the pair of them. Steve’s work, no doubt.

“Tash?” he asks when trying to gently shift her off his body makes her cling like some kind of infant marsupial on the nature shows Steve tries to convince them to watch to wind down. He’s never going to find programs with the possibility of predator vs prey dynamics to be relaxing, but it’s a good effort on Steve’s part.

“G’way,” she mutters at him.

He quirks an eyebrow and tries to make sense of that one. She’s little. Not a hundred pounds if he’s any decent sort of judge. But she’s wrapped around him and shows no sign of wanting to release her grip.

“That’s – not possible right now,” he offers. “You’re on me.”

“I’ll barf if I move,” she mumbles. “Ergo, it’s your job.”

“Ergo?” he repeats and fails at stifling a chuckle. It would be funnier if she didn’t hiccup and promptly dig her angular face into the meat at his shoulder joint. It’s not the one that stops short of being a full arm, but it doesn’t feel great either way.

James casts around in search of a bin. Steve brought a blanket so hopefully he left other provisions nearby as well. Yes, there it is. A stainless-steel mixing bowl that’s never once played host to food not previously masticated. He shifts just enough to grab the thing, pulling them both upright and bending Tasha double so that her now wide stretched jaw is above the thing.

“I hate you,” she whines.

“You’re more than free to hate me as much as you need, you little beast,” he tells her.

She shudders in response but spits into the bowl with a hollow ping as the saliva bounces off the metal. It sounds like medical in the field, like sand dusted paths and blood covered tarps. No – nothing good lies that way. He fights his brain back to the here and now. It’s a present that very clearly needs him to hold her head while she chokes up bile and mucus. It’s somewhere between an eternity and a couple minutes later when she flops backward against him and declares herself to be finished.

James slips the bowl onto the thrift store coffee table and gently rolls Tasha onto her side against the back of the sofa so he can pull his own body out from the space beneath her. She’s already drifting back into sleep as he pulls the blanket to her shoulders. They know this script down to their bones.

Her absolution comes not from the supplications of the faithful in ancient prayers and recitations but in living through that darkness one more time. Much as he hates it, James will guard her like the saints neither of them believe exist. To make sure that last bit happens – even when neither of them quite knows why it should.

#chasing ghosts universe #recreational drug use #alcohol use #emeto #hangover #illumivomi #flashbacks #Steve Rogers #james bucky barnes #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #AU - foster care siblings #found family

[pukeyqt]

   He’s weak and fatigued from hours of being ill. sickly pale besides the dark rings underneath his eyes, his forehead shining with a thin layer of sweat. He’s shivering violently despite the raging fever. Kneeling on the cold bathroom floor in just his boxers, hunched over the toilet bowl. 

   His shoulders roll with an exhausted, breathy gag, only bringing up a thin stream of bile, that burns his throat and makes him cough. A string of spit hanging off his lower lip. 

  He’s extremely tired and delirious, he curls up on the freezing bathroom tile, whimpering miserably, pressing his hot face to the cold tile and going unconscious on the floor.

#sorry I'm thirsty #emeto #nausea #sickfic #sickfic prompt #illumivomi #whump #illness whump #emeto whump #whump prompt

[idv-sickfics]

introduction + rules!

i'm not quite sure how to start this. basically, i've got a soft spot for hurt/comfort and sickfics, and i'm hyperfixated on idv right now, so this blog was born! i don't know what the snz/emeto community is like in this fandom (if it even exists) but i suppose i'll find out. requests are always open, so long as they fall within my rules and boundaries. minors dni.

i will write:

- nsft

- character x reader

- character x character

- snz, emeto, illness in general

- stuffing, belly k1nk

- angst and injury

- omorashi

- sfw age regression

- mommy/daddy k1nk (separate from agere)

i will NOT write:

- noncon

- sexualized agere

- heavy gore/violence

- vore, g/t

- watersports, detailed scat/messing, eprocto

if i think of anything else, i'll edit this post. if this blog is going to make you uncomfortable, please block! i don't want to upset or trigger anybody. i'm quite embarrassed to even be starting this blog. thank you for taking the time to read this post, i hope you have a lovely day!

#how do i tag this #snz #snzfucker #emetophilia #illumivomi #sickfic

[highwaytosickfics]

witcher sickfic w/Sick Geralt

(hey i just finished this so have some sick geralt with a lot of other writing around it)

To say that Geralt’s words during the dragon adventure had hurt Jaskier would’ve initially been an understatement; without context (and a little bit with context) they crushed the bard to his core. He’d worked hard to boost the popularity of the witcher, knowing exactly what kind of treatment the White Wolf received from other people, and that was the thanks he got? A one-sided friendship and a mouth full of hatred? If he were a worse man, he could’ve written a negative ballad out of spite.

Jaskier wasn’t that type of person though, and after hearing the details from the dragon and her bodyguards it wasn’t difficult to forgive the silver oaf in his thoughts; the man had lost the love of his life because he’d preferred her alive, and Jaskier found himself even more irritated with Yennefer than he’d been after the djinn incident. She struck gold in the lovers department with Geralt, a man more handsome than anyone else Jaskier had ever seen, and she dumps him because she thinks their attraction towards each other is magic-based? What fucking bullocks.

Still, the bard knows he shouldn’t hang around the witcher when he’s in this kind of a mood; he’ll give Geralt a couple months to brood, and when they next meet they’ll be back to their same old banter. There probably won’t be a verbal apology, of course; that whole “witchers don’t have emotions” thing seems pretty ingrained in Geralt’s mind regardless of its validity, so he’ll probably hunt something tasty or do something else to make it up to the bard.

At least, that was what Jaskier had thought a few weeks after their separation. It’d been a whole year now and the White Wolf still hadn’t gotten around to finding him, though the war with Cintra and Nilfgaard probably had something to do with it. Rumors circulated that Geralt had finally picked up his Child of Surprise, who was 13 now and running for her life from Nilfgaardian forces. Where they could be was beyond the bard’s imagination, as he spent his days moving from town to town, playing at taverns and romancing maidens. It wouldn’t surprise him if there were some “Jaskier Jr.”s floating around at this point in his life (though no one had contacted him with that sort of news).

The night was going along like any other; “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher” always made wallets shake with urgency, though he didn’t bring that little tune out as much lately, and some of the other hits he’d written post-adventures seemed to bring people to the edge of their seats in shock and amazement. He was so distracted by the cheers and sounds of people putting coins in his case, Jaskier had almost missed the hooded trio coming in from the storm outside and pulling up to the bar. Their conversation went on for about the length of “The Fishmonger’s Daughter” before one handed the bartender some coin as the other two walked towards the staircase that led to the inn rooms. 

The forgotten figure seemed to have a stumble in his step, his moves were sluggish and obviously plagued with exhaustion. Despite this, the man (obvious now from his frame) practically dragged himself back outside, immediately getting re-drenched from the ongoing downpour. A lock of silver escaping the cloak made Jaskier heart stutter, quickly gathering his stuff together and leaving the crowd to a younger bard as he went to follow what he hoped was his witcher.

He was rewarded when he entered the stables and found Geralt slumped against one of the pens. Roach was nuzzling her master in a worried manner, trying to get him a bit dryer to no avail. Jaskier was cautious in his approach, even though he knew the witcher had long sensed his presence.

“Been quite a while since I saw you, Geralt.” The bard began, carefully lowering himself to the cold, dirt ground. “Though I expect that was more your doing than mine.”

The other man just huffed, he was never much of a conversationalist.

“So how’d you get stuck in the pens? Have an argument with the Lion Cub of Cintra?”

“She seems more bonded to Yen than me.” Geralt finally grumbled, revealing a slight rasp to his voice. “Was told that ‘ladies need proper rest’.”

“Like you don’t?”

“Hmm.” the hum turned to a cough the witcher failed to suppress, a small fit that Jaskier found to be quite unexpected. 

The bard turned to Geralt, observing him properly for the first time. The bags under his eyes weren’t new but definitely more prominent from the last time they’d met; there was a slight tremor in his limbs and a struggle in his breath. Even his eyes, which normally sparkled like topaz in the sun, were dulled by fever. He looked less like a dangerous wolf and more like a drowned pup, the comparison only intensifying when the poor man failed to stifle a series of sneezes.

He’tchuu, het’chu, ‘chu!

“Ooh, Geralt.” The bard felt his heart skip in concern, his hand moving unconsciously to check the man’s temperature. The witcher tried to snap back, but it was more a reflex than anything and Jaskier was able to avoid it and feel the skin boiling under his palm. “You’re this sick, and they still sent you out?”

“They-*cough* they don’t know-”

“How could they not?! You’re burning alive here, Geralt!”

“Didn’t want them to.” He grumbled, obviously resisting the urge to lean into Jaskier’s touch. “Have to protect Ciri from Nilfgaard.”

“Nilfgaard’s been pushed back by the wizards now, Ciri will be safe for quite a while.”

“Could-*cough* still send bandits-*cough cough*”

“Which is why Yen is protecting her tonight, right?” Jaskier stood slowly, lifting Geralt up with him. They stumbled slightly from the weight, but managed not to crash. “Come on, you can sleep in my room tonight.”

“Jaskier…”

“Don’t ‘Jaskier’ me! You’re not sleeping out here tonight, it’s far too cold out. And I know you haven’t gotten a bath in ages now - gross, is that ghoul guts?”

“Cemetaur.” the witcher clarified as his bard rolled his eyes.

“Of course you’d be picked to fight the most dangerous kind of necrophage in this state.”

“Hmm.”

The men stayed relatively quiet for a while, as Jaskier and Geralt made it up to the room the bard had splurged on. There was only one bed, of course, but that certainly wasn’t new for the pair (in their early days, they were often too poor to afford much else). The bath was drawn quickly for them upon seeing the witcher’s tremors, and Geralt soon found himself sinking into warm water that seemed much too cold to his fevered skin. He didn’t complain though; a bath was a bath, and warm water was often better at reducing fever than anything too hot or cold.

It wasn’t long before Jaskier found himself sitting down in the bath as well, next to the man who’d never apologized for his cruelty towards him. Somehow he didn’t really mind it; In fact, he found himself much more amused than angry, as he watched Geralt slowly loosen the grip on his tough facade. With silent permission, the bard took gentle care into unraveling the witcher’s hair from the well-worn tie that kept it together and he began to wash the dirt and guts out of it. Geralt relaxed quite easily under Jaskier’s touch, so much so that it was difficult to pull the tired man from the bath and into clean, dry clothes. 

The undershirt and pants were actually the witcher’s size for once, as the bard had (stolen) forgotten to return them at different points in time. Geralt took a vial from his pack and downed it straight, making a face of disgust at the bitter taste of what he said was a cough suppressant. Jaskier laid Geralt down slowly, and the witcher seemed confused at just how much care the bard gave towards him. The words escaped his tired form before he could even process them.

“I’m sorry.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened for a moment, before he gave a small smile laid down next to Geralt.

“I forgave you so long ago.”

The smile that Geralt gives him back makes his heart skip again for different reasons than concern.

“Thank you.”

#sickfic #witcher #witcher sickfic #sick geralt #witcher spoilers #my post #illumivomi

[misharuu]

Sake ; One Shot

Fandom: Naruto Shippuden (no fandom knowledge is needed for this fic)

Pairing/Characters: Sasuke x Naruto, Shikamaru x Naruto (brief), Sakura

Warnings/Tags: NSFW ; yaoi, whump, hurt/comfort, emeto, sickfic, alcohol abuse, angst, first time, naruto is grieving, and drinking, sasuke is in denial about his feelings

Summary: Sasuke returned to the Village after absorbing Orochimaru. After a few weeks of interrogation and house arrest he’s free to roam. Sakura forgives him quickly but Naruto is pissed and grieving Jiraiya’s death, leaving him broken hearted and impulsive. One night at the bar Sasuke is left taking care of a blackout drunk Naruto, and one thing leads to another.

Word Count: 5,666

A/N: Okay so this has been sitting as a draft for way too long! I hope it’s alright! Feedback is loved!

AO3. FF.

Sasuke’s arms were folded over his chest, his long fingers wrapped around his upper arms, knuckles white. He narrowed his eyes as he watched Naruto drunkenly lean over a table, chatting with Shikamaru, who in his opinion was being much too courteous, enjoying the conversation much more than he should have been. Everyone knew Naruto was an obnoxious drunk; he drank too much too quickly, he never tried to pace himself, he was a flirt, and he couldn’t handle his alcohol. Being around him in this state was a complete hassle. It was way too much effort to wrangle him in at the end of the night and force him to go home. ‘But I don’t waaaannnaaa,’ he’d whine, eyes all glassy and unfocused, ‘can’t we go to another bar? The one up the block is open for another hour!’ Sasuke couldn’t help but roll his eyes, even the thought of Naruto’s insufferable whining enough to set him off. And what was Shikamaru playing at? Why was he acting like Naruto’s drunken ramblings were so entertaining? A bubbly laugh pulled Sasuke out of his thoughts. He glared as he watched Naruto and Shikamaru talk, standing way too close to each other due to their lowered inhibitions... and was that Naruto’s hand lingering on Shikamaru’s shoulder? ‘Pathetic,’ Sasuke hissed in his head, turning around on his stool to face the bar.

Sakura was in the stool next to him, completely oblivious to the fact that he wasn’t listening to her, ranting on and on about some book; or maybe about training? He couldn’t remember. “Yeah, that’s great,” Sasuke mumbled, offering some sort of reply every now and then to keep up his facade. He hated bars. Hated alcohol. Hated not being one hundred percent in control of himself. He sipped on a light beer, the tangy sourness bubbling over his tongue. And there was that damn laugh again. How could Naruto feel so comfortable letting his guard down like that? How could he be so carefree and uninhibited? He was basically sitting in Shikamaru’s lap at this point; they were in separate chairs but they were so close their knees were rubbing together. The display sickened him, awaking some sort of emotion deep inside the pit of his stomach. Anger? No, that wasn’t it. Disgust? Partially, but not quite. Jealousy...? That’s ridiculous, he didn’t have anything to be jealous of, right?

Sasuke glared as Naruto picked up a bottle, pouring out two shots less than carefully, clear liquid spilling onto the sticky table. Some sort of cheer was called out before they downed their shots, slamming their glasses on the table. Naruto didn’t even flinch, immediately reaching out for the bottle and taking a long swig. Shikamaru grabbed the bottle from Naruto, clearly unimpressed by his desires to get blackout drunk, and placed the bottle back on the table. Naruto was displeased, his eyebrows furrowed before he snapped at Shikamaru. Shikamaru laughed it off and took Naruto by the hand, pulling him up out of his seat. The sudden movement made Naruto stagger on unsteady feet, his hair was a mess and his face was flushed pink; totally wasted. A smirk grew across his lips, slightly pointed canines glinting, his whiskered cheeks dimpled. Sasuke growled deep in his throat as he watched Shikamaru drag the drunk boy into the bathroom. His fist clenched in his lap and he took another sip of his beer, glowering.

”Sasuke?” he heard a voice slur lightly next to him, dragging him out of his thoughts again, “I was thinking you could come back to my house tonight...” Sasuke glanced at Sakura, placing his cup on a coaster.

”I’ll be right back,” Sasuke barked as he got up from his stool swiftly, ignoring Sakura’s advance. She clearly deflated as he sauntered away, carefully gliding through the large, rowdy crowd. He wasn’t sure why but he felt like he had to see what was going on. Once he got to the restroom he didn’t bother knocking, pushing right through the door. Naruto was sat on one of the sinks with Shikamaru standing between his legs, orange clad knees pressing against his hips. Their mouths were locked together and Naruto’s hand gripped the back of Shikamaru’s neck as he grinded against his hips. Sasuke felt like all the air was sucked out of his lungs and his heart dropped into his stomach. He felt completely furious. He wanted to pull them apart. Just as he was about to speak he realized that he was being ridiculous. Why did he care? It was none of his business. But seeing Naruto’s arms draped over Shikamaru’s shoulders, his legs wrapped against his hips...

“Can’t you see we’re busy here?” Shikamaru snapped, glaring at Sasuke as he held Naruto up. Naruto was clearly on the verge of a blackout, his head lolled onto Shikamaru’s shoulder as soon as the jonin moved, unable to hold himself steady, his eyes sliding closed.

Sasuke rolled his eyes, “this is still a bathroom, correct?” He walked over to the urinals and unzipped his pants, trying to concentrate on pissing and not the sounds Naruto made as he clung onto Shikamaru’s vest. He heard the sound of a zipper before Naruto gasped, and that was his breaking point. Sasuke pulled up his pants and flushed, spinning on his heels. “Get a fucking room,” he spat after he washed his hands, quickly leaving the restroom and letting the door slam behind him. He swiftly made his way back to his stool, obsessively watching the bathroom door, seeing how long it would take for the door to open. It was only a few moments later that the pair left, Naruto barely on his feet and Shikamaru guiding him to a chair, murmuring something into his ear before standing back up, gazing around the room as if he was looking for someone. Shikamaru caught Sasuke’s line of sight and immediately started to walk over. ‘Great,’ Sasuke sarcastically thought to himself, trying not to glare.

”Hey, uh, Sasuke... I gotta go. Just got word that I’m needed for an urgent mission. Could you possibly... uh, could you get Naruto home safely?” Shikamaru asked, a hand sliding through his hair with sheepish smile.

”You really think I’d be willing to do that?” Sasuke snorted, sipping his beer.

”You know damn well I don’t trust you, but Naruto does and he isn’t in great shape,” Shikamaru glared, a hand on his hip, “don’t do it for me, do it for him.”

Sasuke was about to reject him but Sakura was looking at him furiously, her hands clutched into fists, clearly about to threaten him if he said no. Sasuke heaved out a sigh, glancing beyond Shikamaru’s shoulder to the corner that Naruto was tucked into. The blond’s head was leaning against the wall, he looked like he was slipping in and out of unconsciousness, an absolute miracle that he was still upright. “Sakura, could you...?” Sasuke motioned to Naruto. Sakura just shook her head, disappointment clear on her face. Sasuke groaned, pulling himself to his feet. “Fine, but you owe me one,” he hissed as Shikamaru smiled, throwing Sasuke a salute before heading out of the bar.

Sasuke cautiously walked over to Naruto, pausing a few feet away as he took in the sorry state that he’d gotten himself into. His eyes were open but they were unfocused, his cheeks were flushed and his jacket was partially unzipped and wrinkled. He took a few steps closer, “Naruto?” Naruto slowly turned his head in Sasuke’s direction, his eyes narrowed.

”What’dya wan’,“ Naruto slurred, crossing his arms.

”I’m supposed to be escorting you home,” Sasuke rolled his eyes, not liking the situation any more than his ‘rival.’

”’M not goin’ anywhere with you,” Naruto huffed, “Shikamaru -“

Sasuke quickly cut him off. “Shikamaru apparently got called on a mission. Either that or he’s ditching you,” Sasuke shrugged cooly.

”Wouldn’ surprise me,” Naruto mumbled softly, “wouldn’ be the firs’ time they leave once they get what they want,” his gaze fell to the floor. For some reason that tugged on Sasuke’s heart, softening him a bit.

”Just let me take you home. You’re drunk and I doubt you want to wind up in a gutter somewhere.”

”Why d’you care?” Naruto spat, “not like it matters to you.” Sasuke sighed, gripping Naruto’s shoulder and pulling him out of his chair. Naruto was too drunk to fight him off, a string of weak arguments tumbling out of his mouth as he was dragged out of the bar. After one block Sasuke started to get fed up; Naruto was completely unsteady on his feet and after tripping once Sasuke had enough. He scooped Naruto off the ground and slipped him onto his back piggyback style. “What the fuck -,” Naruto yelled as he was swung off the ground, sitting in a stunned silence once he came to rest on Sasuke’s back. He was out of energy and couldn’t argue anymore, letting his arms slide around Sasuke’s neck, his head resting on his shoulder. Sasuke found himself smiling as he felt Naruto’s relaxed breaths puffing against his neck, warm and tickling. He wouldn’t admit it but he was happy Shikamaru had left. He didn’t want Naruto to make any decisions like that while he was so drunk. He didn’t know if the two had a relationship like that, but he was pretty certain they didn’t considering the things he’d seen Shikamaru and Temari getting up to. Just a drunken one night stand. Disgusting. Naruto was worth so much more than that.

”S’ske?” Naruto slurred, barely audible over the sounds of his footsteps against the road. Sasuke glanced over his shoulder, frowning at the way Naruto’s skin looked so pale in the moonlight.

”Hm?” Sasuke hummed, continuing his trek.

“M’ gonna puke,” Naruto choked out, a hand flying to his mouth.

”Shit,” Sasuke hissed as he ducked into an ally, quickly sliding Naruto off his back and carefully letting him down. Naruto staggered a few feet before letting a hand rest against a brick wall, bending at the waist as his free hand braced against his knee. Sasuke didn’t know what to do so he just stood in place, keeping a calm, unconcerned look plastered on his face. There was a few moments of silence and Sasuke just stood there, watching Naruto’s shaking frame as he clung to the wall for dear life. “Err... Naruto?” Sasuke asked, taking a few steps forward. Just then Naruto started coughing, quickly devolving into gags, which lead to a heave as a stream of alcohol splattered onto the ground. Sasuke winced but he couldn’t will himself to move, torn between trying to help and mocking him for getting himself to this point. He settled on the latter, a weak coping mechanism he resorted to when he felt uncomfortable. “Pathetic. You hold your alcohol worse than girl,” he sneered, crossing his arms, acting totally unfazed. Naruto didn’t answer, his legs shook as he struggled to stay upright, coughing harshly as he dry heaved over the ground. Sasuke sighed, giving up, as he walked over to Naruto, gently placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder, trying to help him to his knees so he wouldn’t fall over but Naruto resisted.

”Do you want to fall on your face?” Sasuke growled, forcing Naruto onto his hands and knees. He knelt on the ground next to him to try to offer some amount of sympathy, a hand reaching out to push his hair off his face but he froze once he saw the tears on Naruto’s cheeks. Naruto coughed and gagged as he brought up another wave of vomit, letting out a choked off sob. Sasuke frowned, pushing the hair off Naruto’s face. “I know it sucks, I’m sorry,” Sasuke soothed, his hand lingering on Naruto’s back, “just get it out.” Naruto was too weak to hold back, freely sobbing between gasping breaths and gags, falling back onto his ass once he was done. His shaky hands covered his face, cheeks red with embarrassment. Of all people he didn’t want to seem weak in front of Sasuke was at the top of the list. Ever since Jiraiya died the only comfort he could find was in alcohol, picking up people at the bar so he wouldn’t have to be alone, at least for a little while. It had been a few weeks and the hole in his heart just seemed to grow, he constantly felt cold and empty, searching for anything to fill the void. The alcohol dulled the ache while the sweet words of his one night stands acted as a bandaid; making him feel better until it was suddenly ripped off the next morning when he woke up alone, leaving a stinging pain in their wake.

Sasuke just sat silently for a moment; Naruto sounded so sad, so broken that it confused him and he didn’t know what to do. He pulled Naruto’s hands off of his face and wiped away his tears. “Come on, you’re gonna catch a cold sitting on the ground all night,” Sasuke murmured, the way that Naruto childishly rubbed his eyes made his heart flip flop in his chest. He scooped Naruto back up onto his back and changed directions, heading back to his house instead, deciding Naruto shouldn’t be left alone. Naruto either didn’t notice or didn’t care about their change of direction; all Sasuke heard was sniffling and hiccoughing the whole trip.

 Sasuke pushed his front door open and walked straight to his bedroom, placing Naruto on his bed while he flipped on the light, quickly shuffling through his closet as Naruto curled up on himself. Sasuke knew there was no point trying to talk to him about his sudden breakdown right now, he was probably too drunk to comprehend anything that was going on. Sasuke grabbed clothes for both of them, spinning around just in time to see Naruto’s face go green. He shot up on the bed, leaning over the side, a hand feebly trying to cover his mouth as he gagged, a dribble of bile dripping between his fingers and onto the floor. “Damn it,” Sasuke grabbed the trash can in the corner of the room and hastily shoved it into Naruto’s hands before he vomited again, wincing at the sound of liquid hitting the bottom of the metal can.

Sasuke quickly shuffled to the bathroom and grabbed a glass and a washcloth, wetting it with warm water before filling the glass with water, hurrying back to his room, helplessly watching as Naruto got sick. “God, how do you even have anything left?” Sasuke sat beside Naruto on the bed, rubbing his back, surprisingly not even mad that Naruto had puked on his floor. At this point he was just concerned and confused, completely out of his element. Emotions weren’t really his forte; neither was taking care of drunk people. All he could do was wait and whisper encouraging words; you’re okay, I’ve gotcha, I’m not going anywhere. Finally Naruto seemed to calm down, trying to catch his breath while lowering the garbage can onto the floor unsteadily.

”S-sorry...” Naruto whispered weakly, his big sad blue eyes making brief contact with Sasuke’s.

”Don’t worry about it right now,” Sasuke mumbled, grabbing Naruto’s hands so he could clean him up with the washcloth, hesitantly reaching up and wiping off Naruto’s face, erasing all evidence of his tears. Naruto just stared in disbelief, unsure or unable to speak, his eyes filling with tears at Sasuke’s tenderness. It made Sasuke’s head spin. He’d never seen Naruto cry, not unless someone was dead. ‘Oh, shit. Jiraiya,’ Sasuke wanted to smack himself; how had he not thought of that sooner. Sasuke sighed as he got up and grabbed a shirt and sweats, handing them to Naruto.

”Think you could manage?” he asked, getting a nod in return. They got changed in silence, their backs facing each other. Sasuke grabbed Naruto’s discarded clothes before helping him lay down, pulling the blanket up to his chin. He picked up the glass of water and handed it to Naruto, frowning at how shaky the boy’s hands were. “Drink this, it’ll help,” Sasuke muttered before he grabbed the can and the clothes and flicked off the light on his way out, bringing Naruto’s clothes to the laundry machine before starting to clean everything up. He headed back to his room with a mop and the garbage can, leaving the can next to the bed before swiftly cleaning the floor, trying to remain as quiet as possible, not wanting to wake Naruto up. Once the floor was clean he padded out of the room and rinsed the mop before heading back down the hallway to the living room, planning to sleep on the couch. As he walked past his room he couldn’t help but linger by the doorway, curiosity getting the better of him. He stood there for a moment, holding his breath, before he peered into the doorway. He saw Naruto’s shivering frame curled up beneath the blanket, his lips curling down into a frown.

“Sasuke?” Naruto’s voice suddenly broke the silence and made him jump.

”Y-yeah?” Sasuke asked, partially pushing the door open.

”Could you... Could you stay here tonight?” Sasuke’s blood went cold and he was confused with himself when he felt almost... relieved?

”Oh... Sure,” Sasuke mumbled, stepping fully into the room. He couldn’t help but notice that his hands were trembling as he pulled the blanket back, laying on the bed as far from Naruto as humanly possible, his heart racing in his chest.

”Thanks, Sasuke,” Naruto whispered sleepily, his breath coming deep and steady, clearly falling fast asleep. Sasuke just laid there, staring at the wall, thoughts swirling through his head. Their relationship had always been complicated and confusing. An odd rivalry spurred by a confusion of feelings. There had always been an unspoken tension, more than friends, rivals only in title and action, not in emotion. Naruto never gave up on him when he left the village, constantly searching for him, going head to head with Orochimaru on multiple occasions just to try to ‘rescue’ him. But at the time he didn’t want to be saved. Once he killed Orochimaru he let himself be found. He had to pretend to be angry, had to pretend he didn’t want to come back, but deep down he was tired of running. The way Naruto cried and begged him to return finally made something click, and he returned to the village. The trip back was uncomfortable to say the least. Kakashi tried to act nonchalant. Sakura and Naruto gave him the cold shoulder. It took weeks before Tsunade and the black ops would let him return home on the condition that he spill all of his secrets. News of Orochimaru’s death seemed to calm them slightly, but he was always being tailed. Not trusted. He didn’t expect to be. This was the first night since his return that he’d spoken more than two words to Naruto. Sakura was much easier to appease.

Jiraiya had died right before Naruto set out to find him, trying to cling to some sort of hope that things could return to ‘normal,’ whatever that meant now. Sasuke hadn’t heard of Jiraiya’s death until a few weeks after he returned; he didn’t really know him, he’d heard of him but that was about it. All he knew was that he was Naruto’s sensei. Apparently they had a stronger bond than he had imagined. Sasuke sighed as he rolled onto his back, an arm suddenly being draped across his waist. Sasuke glanced to his side, afraid to move, eyes wide as he watched Naruto cuddle up to him, blond hair tickling his cheek as he nuzzled his head into Sasuke’s chest. Sasuke held his breath, frozen, warm breath puffing against his skin. He knew there was nothing he could do, so he gave in, allowing himself to drift off to sleep, curling his arm protectively around Naruto’s shoulder.

——————————

Sasuke awoke to the feeling of being watched. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes before glancing down, instantly getting caught up in deep sea blue eyes. His arm was sore from being stuck beneath Naruto’s shoulder all night, where it still laid. “Naruto?” Sasuke asked groggily, pulling his arm back and pushing himself up, yawning as he stretched. Naruto didn’t move, confusion flashing across his face, weary and hungover. Sasuke sighed, unsure whether Naruto even knew where he was or how he got there. “Do you remember last night?” Sasuke asked.

Naruto rose up and sat on his feet, blankets pooled around his waist, Sasuke’s shirt hanging loosely around his neck. “Oh, uh... Yeah... Sorry about,” Naruto motioned to the floor, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

”Mmm, always having to clean up after your sorry ass,” Sasuke snorted, getting up to his feet. “Want anything to eat?”

Naruto’s nose wrinkled up in disgust. “Not unless you want me to puke on your bed this time,” he joked, still standoffish and uncomfortable as he sat on Sasuke’s bed, struggling to convince himself this wasn’t a dream.

”Fair enough,” Sasuke chuckled before padding out of the room.

Naruto sighed and fell back onto the pillows, his arms folding beneath his head. He never could have imagined laying in Sasuke’s bed. His scent enveloped him, masculine and strong, safe. Naruto glanced down and realized he was wearing Sasuke’s clothes, adrenaline coursing through his veins. It felt like a dream come true, everything he’d ever wanted. He was expecting to wake up and get yelled at, to swiftly get kicked out and told to get his shit together. The possibility of being offered breakfast in bed never even crossed his mind, giving him whiplash. But Naruto couldn’t complain. He couldn’t take this for granted. He knew he’d have to enjoy it while it lasted, before Sasuke came to his senses and realized what he was doing and reject him like everyone else. Naruto felt his lower lip tremble at the thought; he didn’t know how much longer he could take the loneliness. It was taking its toll, insomnia plaguing his nights, alcohol the only thing that could sing him to sleep.

”Naruto?” Sasuke’s voice made him jump. He spun around and stared up at the older man, quickly wiping his eyes as he realized they’d filled with tears. “Are you okay?” Sasuke asked before kneeling on his bed, holding out a plate of toast and juice for Naruto.

”Oh, uh, yeah... Just don’t feel so good,” Naruto mumbled, avoiding eye contact as he reached out for the juice and toast with shaky hands.

”Well if you’re gonna puke at least try to get to the garbage can this time,” Sasuke joked before taking a bite of his toast. Naruto felt dumbstruck, sipping his juice while staring at the bedspread.

”Why are you being so nice to me?” Naruto whispered, cheeks burning red.

”Seemed like you could use a miracle.”

Naruto didn’t respond; he didn’t know how to respond. He was right. Naruto felt lost. Seeking comfort with random guys at bars. Sasuke had seen that for himself the night before. Even thinking about Jiraiya made him breakdown into tears. Sasuke was never the type to kick someone when they were down, always avoiding the fatal blow.

The silence was deafening, making Naruto feel even more on edge. “Do you always eat in bed? Seems like a great way to get ants,” Naruto joked before biting into his toast, trying to break the silence.

”No; I figured this was a special occasion,” Sasuke commented cooly, finishing his breakfast quickly, taking Naruto’s plate and setting them on the bedside table. Another awkward silence.

”So, uh... I guess I’ll head out now,” Naruto started to get to his feet, “thanks again for everything.

”Oh, so soon?” Sasuke legitimately seemed disappointed, crestfallen. Naruto hesitated, still partially on the bed, staring directly into Sasuke’s eyes. It was intense; he felt so vulnerable yet so intrusive. He couldn’t ignore the look in his dark eyes - it was probably the same look he was giving Sasuke.

”Just say it,” Naruto snapped, “please.” Sasuke couldn’t find the words to say so instead he closed the space between them, grabbing Naruto’s face with both hands, pulling their lips together. Naruto quickly sat back down, a hand snaking it’s way around Sasuke’s neck, heart pounding in his chest. It was even better than he’d imagined, Sasuke was dominating but also so soft, so tender, allowing his fingertips to graze Naruto’s cheek. The sensation sent a shiver down his spine; he parted his lips and had to choke back a moan as Sasuke’s tongue slipped into his mouth, careful and exploratory at first but he quickly gained confidence, their tongues twirling together. Suddenly Sasuke pulled away and Naruto couldn’t help but whine.

”What about Shikamaru,” Sasuke’s eyes were dark, his pupils blown, already panting. Naruto frowned deeply at the mention of his name.

”That wasn’t anything... Anyone I’ve ever been with was a weak attempt at forgetting about you,” he stated breathily, looking away with embarrassment at the confession. Naruto expected Sasuke to be disgusted with him so he was taken off guard when he was suddenly pounced on. Sasuke pinned Naruto to the bed, their lips joining sloppily as Sasuke slid his thighs between Naruto’s legs. The feeling set Naruto off and he couldn’t hold back anymore; he moaned as he felt Sasuke’s erection pressing into his hip, rutting up against him as he gently nipped Sasuke’s bottom lip. Sasuke growled as he slid his tongue into Naruto’s mouth, grinding his hips down forcefully, fingers wrapped tightly around Naruto’s wrists, holding them to the mattress. Naruto felt defenseless; he couldn’t move an inch and he loved it. He’d wanted this for so long, since before Sasuke left. Years and years of desire finally coming to be a reality. Sasuke would never let him know but he’d felt the same, he was just too overwhelmed with vengeance to think clearly. Killing Orochimaru was a release; he was finally able to admit what he really wanted. What he really needed.

Sasuke sat up and flung his shirt off, partially getting to his feet so he could slide off his sweats. He dove back down on the mattress, his fingers curling around the elastic of Naruto’s pants before forcefully pulling them off. Naruto gasped at the sudden movements but complied, pulling his shirt off his shoulders. The second Naruto had his shirt off Sasuke pinned him back down, gliding between his legs, their cocks lining up perfectly. He paused for a second before starting to move, rutting into Naruto’s hips, their precome mixing together and offering lubrication. Naruto couldn’t take his limited movement anymore and gripped Sasuke’s shoulders, turning them both on their sides. He propped his knee up on Sasuke’s hip before continuing to rub against Sasuke’s length. Sasuke reached up and opened his bedside drawer, retrieving a bottle of lube. He flicked the cap open squeezed some in his hand before sliding his hand down between Naruto’s cheeks, a finger teasingly rubbing against his rim. “Ah!” Naruto gasped, his hips stuttering as he pushed back against Sasuke’s fingers, desperate for more. Sasuke smirked as he continued massaging Naruto’s opening for a moment, loving the way it made him squirm, before dipping in a fingertip. Naruto moaned against Sasuke’s lips, his hand grabbing a hold of Sasuke’s waist. Sasuke slid his finger in easily, barely any resistance, gliding in and out as he created a quick rhythm. Naruto could do nothing but pant, his cock hard and throbbing, pressed up against Sasuke’s hip.

Naruto reached down and took hold of Sasuke’s cock, pumping his length before sliding over the head, twisting his hand around it before sliding a finger over the slit. Sasuke thrust himself harder into Naruto’s grip, sliding a second finger into Naruto’s entrance, a coy smile spreading across his lips as he tantalizingly rubbed Naruto’s prostate, eliciting a yell of pleasure from the younger man. Sasuke continued to rub up against his prostate unyieldingly, sending wave after wave of pleasure across Naruto’s body, an almost overwhelming sensation. “Fuck, Sasuke,” Naruto moaned, pushing himself up off the mattress and forcing Sasuke’s hands off of him. Sasuke looked up at him with confusion in his eyes but that confusion was quickly replaced with a groan as Naruto pushed him onto his back, licking and kissing a trail from his neck down to his hips. Naruto’s lithe body slid between Sasuke’s thighs, coming to rest on his knees above Sasuke’s cock. He teasingly kissed the base, kissing and nibbling his way up to the head, a hand wrapping around the base. He flicked his tongue over his slit, smiling as Sasuke’s hands tangled into Naruto’s hair with a barely audible moan. Naruto took Sasuke into his mouth, tongue twirling against the head as he bobbed up and down, slowly taking in more and more of Sasuke’s length. One hand slid up and down Sasuke’s thigh while the other cupped his balls, gently squeezing and rubbing, working Sasuke into a frenzy. “God, how are you so good at this,” Sasuke moaned, softly pulling Naruto’s hair as he fought off the urge to rut up into Naruto’s mouth, not wanting to overwhelm him. Sasuke glanced down and saw Naruto smirk - God, how do you smirk with a dick in your mouth?! - he moaned as he pressed his head back against the mattress, slowly pressing his hips further into Naruto’s mouth.

Naruto took in Sasuke’s full length, swallowing around his cock, pausing for a moment to adjust before starting to bob his head up and down again. Sasuke groaned as his hips stuttered, fucking Naruto’s mouth as the younger man happily complied. Suddenly Sasuke felt Naruto stop moving, he glanced up to check on him and was stunned at the sight. Naruto was on his knees, his ass in the air as he fingered himself; his cheeks were flushed pink and he was panting, one hand still wrapped around Sasuke’s cock, his head resting on Sasuke’s hip as he lightly moaned and panted, pressing back into his own hand. Sasuke’s eyes widened at the sight, his cock jumping and throbbing, meeting Naruto’s deep blue gaze, his eyes filled with desire and lust. Naruto’s pupils were blown and his eyes were glassy, pink lips parted and slick with saliva, a completed lewd display as he moaned, hitting his prostate. That was all it took; Sasuke grabbed the lube and squirted some in his hand, hastily costing his length as he pushed himself up on the bed. He grabbed Naruto by the waist and spun him down against the bed, the back of his head resting in the pillows. Sasuke took his spot between Naruto’s legs, gripping the younger man’s calves as he forced him to bend his legs around his hips.

Naruto just laid there panting, pressing his ass against Sasuke’s groin, impatient for more. Sasuke chuckled, “can’t wait to feel my cock, can you?” he purred as he lined himself up, teasingly rubbing the head against Naruto’s opening. Naruto whined, pushing back on him, gasping as Sasuke gave in and started to push inside. Sasuke couldn’t help but moan as his cock sank in, balls deep in Naruto’s hot, tight opening. He paused for a moment to take in the view; Naruto’s desperate eyes, licking his lips slowly before gripping Sasuke’s face, teeth clashing together as he forced his tongue in his mouth. Sasuke was too frenzied to start slow, immediately pulling out and slamming back into Naruto, moaning deep in his throat as he felt Naruto clench around him. He plowed him hard, each thrust punctuated by Naruto’s gasps, absolutely keening as Sasuke’s abs pressed against his cock, already close to finishing. Sasuke moves downward slightly and sank his teeth into the fleshy spot in the crook of Naruto’s neck, sucking and nibbling his skin, marking him, claiming him. His. Naruto grabbed Sasuke’s hair and pulled hard, groaning as Sasuke’s tongue danced across his neck, back arching up as he wrapped a hand around his throbbing cock, working up a quick rhythm.

“F-Fuck, Sasuke, g-gonna cum,” Naruto gasped as Sasuke grazed against his prostate, a sly smirk curling over Sasuke’s lips as he pulled Naruto’s legs further up his sides, forcing his dick deeper into Naruto’s tight opening, unyieldingly hitting his prostate as he  stroked him. With one final gasp Naruto came, slick white strings spurting on Sasuke’s chest as he leaned down and nuzzled into Naruto’s neck, relishing in the small sounds he was making in his ear. Sasuke buried himself deep before finally tipping over the edge, groaning as he went slack, collapsing upon Naruto’s chest. They both stayed still for a while, blissed out, overwhelmed, maybe a little afraid of what would come next.

Finally Sasuke pushed himself up on shaky arms, sauntering towards the bathroom completely nude, smirking to himself as he felt Naruto’s eyes watching his ass as he left the room. He quickly wet a washcloth and headed back towards his room, hastily cleaning himself off before kneeling on the bed next to Naruto, gently wiping him off, admiring the rivulets of water dripping down his toned abs. Naruto just laid there silently, trying to allow everything to sink in, struggling to come to terms with the major step they had just taken; he hadn’t even noticed when Sasuke started helping him get dressed, mindlessly lifting his arms to allow him to slip his shirt over his shoulders.

”Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,” Sasuke murmured so quietly that it was barely audible but the words came through to Naruto loud and clear. A feeling of hope - a feeling so foreign and long forgotten - welled in his chest, his heart pounding as his eyes teared up. Sasuke sank back onto the mattress, wrapping Naruto up in his arms, pulling his face to his chest while gently caressing his cheek, allowing his eyes to slide shut as they drifted off into a comfortable afternoon nap.

#naruto fic #naruto fanfic #yaoi #naruto smut #naruto emeto #emeto #whump #hurt/comfort #sick naruto uzumaki #naruto uzumaki #sasuke uchiha #shikamaru nara #angst #naruto one shot #masterlist #misharuu #illumivomi #emetophilia

[sickdaysofficial]

What's your issue with RPF?

Though I have a feeling this is a troll, I'll answer on the off chance it's someone oblivious to the moral issue behind it.

To put it simply and briefly, the subjects are real people who did not consent to being in your content. They aren't fictional concepts to play with like OCs or fandom characters. They're human beings who would likely be very uncomfortable with the content if they came across it, which they very well could if you post it online.

If you still don't see the problem, you're part of the problem. Don't submit RPF to Sickdays, no ifs, ands, or buts.

-Mod J

#info #rules #illumivomi

[sickandvomiting]

It’s been 87 years but I’ve made you some content (thank you @imill for the comm ily)

#vomit art #male vomit #emetophilia #illness #illumivomi #vomiting #g talks #my art #daddy made you some content

[upachucks]

You’ll have to forgive the anatomy and my general lack of understanding of liquid physics, colour theory, and just art in general (you could also go ahead and pretend I know how to draw backgrounds too, if you want), but I spent six minutes shy of seven hours on this damned thing so y’all are gonna have to see it. J/ay Hal/stead, puking his pretty little guts up. It literally came to me in a dream.

Special thanks to @oshii for blowing some major smoke up my ass and compelling me to finish this 💙🤙

#illumivomi #emeto #emeto art #whump #whump art #puke.pic #puke.tv show #tv show puke #my stuff #upachucks.art #upachucks.toast #original toast

[sickstarlight]

new pinned post with better examples for commissions!!

top left, sketch: $5

top right, lineart: $10

+color for either sketch or lineart is +$5 (except for just vomit and/or cheeks colored)

bottom: painted illustration: $25, +$10 for background

nsfw art (exposed genitals or explicit sexual contact between characters) costs $5-10 more.

prices are all per character, will do fanart or OCs (with reference). any gender okay, adult characters only (on this blog).

WILL draw: emeto, stuffing/inflation, wg, bdsm, bondage, blood or light injury, safe vore.

WON'T draw: omorashi or scat, heavy gore, mecha, furry (no offense, i am just bad at or not into them!); also anything nonconsensual should go without saying.

#emeto art #illumivomi #as always feel free to send me prompts for doodles too but i'm unlikely to do more painted illustrations for free lol #at least not any time soon

[builder051]

Whumpmas in July 2022 Day 6: "Hold On"

Don't change your number

Iron man

Pre-Avengers *drug use/abuse warnings* mentions of canon character death warnings*

__________________

Tony knows there are limits. Actually, scratch that, Tony knows there should be limits.

There should be, per se, a top dollar amount that flies out of his inheritance per day. But, since that particular cash is dealt equally to all cash, and immediately hardwired to and from his checking account, it all just feels so... spendable. Available. And it is. For whatever he wants.

Right now, he wants a suit that joints at the shoulder, so he's not stuck in flying squirrel pose whenever he's soaring above the cloud cover. He doesn't want to go full Super Man with fists out in front; god that'd be tacky.

But... a little... swivel?

A little swoosh?

Ten different screws haven't done the job quite yet, but Tony's determined he'll find the answer tonight. Or this morning. He hasn't glanced at the clock in a while.

Tony pauses. Blinks. Wrinkles his nose. Then, "Jarv?"

The computer comes to life, emulating a holographic hand waving to him and straightening a napkin folded over a forearm as the familiar voice replies. "Sir?"

"Yeah, hey..." Tony pokes the screwdriver down where he has just determined it doesn't fit. "Need a pick-me-up."

"Alright," says the AI, a bit of curious exasperation entering his tone, if such a thing is possible.

"Eight ounces of H2O, with ice, preferably not in a red solo cup."

"May we use the china, sir?"

Tony holds off from answering. Much like the screwdriver in his hand, he can't quite tell if it's a joke just there to get in the way.

"Um. Yeah?" He pauses. "And a line of raw crystal. As in, not cut with anything. But if it is, it better not be powdered milk."

Tony sets down the screwdriver, unwilling to admit it's shaking in his hand. He reaches around with the other arm and feels around in his pocket. Relief fills him when he finds a warm and lumpily mis-folded five-dollar bill.

"I'll be ready to snort and go back to work." Tony shoves his swivel chair away from the lab bench, his head thrown back and knuckles deep into the corners of his eyelids. "It's instantaneous, I promise, I promise."

There's a pause.

At first, Tony doesn't notice it.

Then he does. "Ah. Jarv?"

"Hold on."

"The--?" Tony sits back up fast enough to give himself headrush. "What'd'ya mean, 'hold on?'" He blinks away stars and squints accusatorially at the hologram, which is now nervously intertwining its fingers.

"Your cocaine dealer has posted an S.OS. call for more product on the World Wide Web no sooner than 58 minutes ago." Jarvis opens two popups on top of one another, both showing AIM Instant Messenger-era setups with neon pink and green text. Tony has to blink so the colors don't blast holes in his corneas.

"But... what?" Tony takes a lazy slap toward the corner of the desktop. Pull a keyboard. Check the stats. They have a fridge camera. Last fall was the remodel than installed the wall scanner and laser-point cameras take his biometrics? Remind him when he last had a hit of the good stuff? He's in Malibu, right?

Jarvis auto-closes the application before it's fully opened.

"Hey, now!" Tony feels angry. And hella confused.

"The only setting in which I can override you is if you attempt to endanger yourself."

"I can still out-compute you." Tony wipes the sweat off his upper lip. He has more mustache than he likes. There's a manual keyboard with a long tail ending in a usb-cable on a table against the wall. He takes a step toward it and the world tips sideways.

"I still have a factual advantage." Jarvis maintains his measured tone as Tony tries to make sense of sudden contact with the floor with his forehead, two palms, and a knee. It goes reasonably that neither takes in the state of the other.

"The highest grossing criminal salesman of cocaine is currently flying by private jet to pick up product for the last emergency order placed by his most prominent client."

It's as if they're playing Where's Waldo?, only without the picture, and they've forgotten who's asking and who's supposed to be answering.

"Ow," Tony finally says, rubbing the space between his eyes belatedly, sure he's bleeding, but finding, oddly, that he's not.

"I would certainly think so." Jarvis snipes.

"Whoa, wait--" Tony tries propping an elbow that won't stay put. "There's already an emergency order?"

"Yes."

"Who the fuck--?"

"Sir, which two private jets park on your private landing strip?" The computer interrupts. "I'd not suppose you'd like to walk up to the landing and look out the window to see which is currently in its assigned bay."

Tony opens his mouth. Feels sick. Shuts his teeth. Then his lips. Then places his closed fist tightly against his mouth, which he does not plan on opening. For... as long as he can stand it. Once he's fairly sure he isn't going to vomit, he says, "S-six Adderall and a Diet Pepsi should do the trick?"

Tony doesn't mean to stutter. Nor does he mean for it to be a question.

"Do you remember how I answered you last?" For an AI, Jarvis sounds remarkably unemotional.

"Yeah, Croca-gator's on a run..." Tony finds his knees, then, slowly, his feet. "Doesn't mean CVS isn't 24-hour anymore hour." He shrugs and massages the bridge of his nose, which feels remarkably painful for not having hit the floor.

"Anthony." The tea folded napkin disappears from the hologram and the virtual arms cross in front of a faint representation of a button-down shirt and tie.

"That's not my name..." Tony runs out of steam just as he runs out of words to stay.

"Tony." The torso evolves to include a beltline. The arms open. Elbows unfold. With thumbs pointing optimistically upward and fingers giving an impression of reaching for Tony's shoulders, Jarvis looks like a football coach. Or maybe a youth preacher. "I don't know how to get this through to you."

"Don't." Tony sidesteps him. "I already know. I'll climb the damn stairs myself. I'll have Dumm-E crush 'em. Those fuckers are bitter; ask me how I know..."

His keys are...somewhere. The empty bottle on the bathroom counter is useless. His name, license, and phone number, though, which are in his wallet, which is in the waterproof pocket on the lanyard attached to the keychain attached to remotes and valets for the sport scar out front, the truck out back, and the 4-wheeler in the garage...

Tony spots them hanging over the crooked nail next to the lab door. Right where he'll always find them; he slammed that shiner into a split beam with the back of the TV remote as soon as the lab had been finished. The most important thing. His lab, and a way out. Well, and now...

Tony almost has his fingers clasped around the lowest hanging key when he realizes his hand is shaking.

"Are you aware how many refills are left on your account?" Fuck unemotional, Jarvis seems downright accusatory.

Tony sighs, mostly because he needs to breathe. "No."

"Are you aware of laws regulating the dispensation of controlled substances, including prescribed medications, in the state of California?"

"No." Tony swallows. It tastes like a schnoz-full that should have been blown, but went down the hatch instead. Salty and metallic and sick. Cut up inside so the next hit will be so amazing... "Criminal, I'm assuming?" Tony makes a tiny cough. "No good?

"Your fortune is currently paying off the capture and punishment for one drug addiction, sir."

Right. There's no coke. Tony knows that. Shit. He thinks he does, anyway. He knew that. Five seconds ago.

"New billing cycle!" Tony shouts, raising his fist, grazing his knuckles on the unfinished strip of wall, sending his keys swinging wildly, and experiencing a waterfall of cold sweat down his spine. "Or, uh, another doctor! Where's the phone book?"

Phone book? What's a fucking phone book? A whitepages? Or-no, it's Psychology Today, these days, right? Tony feels like he might be operating on another planet. Jarvis might've already informed him of that. He may have forgotten. Another wave of nausea grips him. This is going to be terrible. Or at least embarrassing.

"T-" Hardly a sound comes from the computer program, and the edges of its simulation begin to pixelate.

"Yeahokthatwasdumb," Tony exhales, all in one word. His heart beats. It should, right? All the time? This rapidly?

The rhythm palpates in Tony's chest. Then it's in his throat. His Adam's apple is vibrating. He's going to speak, so that's probably alright.

"You know what, never mind." Tony swallows. There's too much spit in his mouth. It makes him... more than a little uncomfortable. It'll be better when he gets outside.

"I cannot allow you to endanger yourself." Jarvis vanishes and reappears as plain text on the wall beside Tony's keys. Inches beyond is the blank doorframe, then the steps to the landing. A flat of concrete, 6' by 6', the wall, the boring, frameless window. Then the rest of the staircase. The door with then manual bolt Tony and Jarvis can take turns with all day. And then... What?

Forever? Nothing?

"You can't keep me out of my own goddamn backyard," Tony says with about as much spit as he does grace. "

"I know." The text continues to roll.

"You're not smarter than me."

"I know."

Tony's confident. His head is so light he may be floating. His vision is white around the edges. He doesn't even need the keys. Bubbles come up with his words, and he juts his teeth and tongue around them. "He wasn't any smarter than I am."

"He..." Jarvis says slowly. "Was not."

Tony's eyes well up unexpectedly as he clenches his jaw. "We both used you." He points aggressively at the lines of text building on the wall beside the still, swinging keys. "Anything not locked with an actual key is code-locked within your system, so you don't even know it."

"That is true." Jarvis states the words in his usual calm voice.

"Don't fucking talk to me!" Tony shouts. "I don't want to hear from you anymore."

The AI is quiet. There will be no record of this. Or what comes next.

Tony's heart continues to pound. Under his tongue. His teeth chatter. "So once I get outside..." He licks his lips, then presses them together. "It's just...fuck-all..."

The back shed. His father's lab. Everything in storage that came over here after the estate sale, up to and including the now walled-in and roofed-over miniature golf course and oak tree, the one with the false knot and full-size tree house high in the branches. The bunker, simulating Howard's original test space with the Captain America Project, Project PB&J, Pimm shit... All kinds of crap Tony never even got to know about.

Tears fall first. Lashes hit lashes. The want for surface tension is practically audible. It's sickening. "He died without knowing the code."

It's a statement. Wonderment. Idiocy. Brilliance. That fucking worked. Tony's stunned as the rest of them.

But... he's cheated. Stopped short. Flagpoled. Kept away from what aught to be his. From what he absolutely needs. Which, right now, is a stockpile of pre-acquired, already paid for, privately owned, un take-away-able, prescription-grade amphetamines.

And to hold all of that knowledge at once... To know Jarvis holds all that knowledge at once...

A single-note laugh that he does not mean to release fires from Tony's throat. His world hovers over open flame before it catches, ignites, and starts to burn. That's his everything. That's his life. He's destroyed. He's gutted.

Tony's guts twist, and he has less than a second to react before bile winds up mostly on his shirt, though he makes an effort for the trash can by his lab bench. The space in front of it. Close enough.

Jarvis blips. A change of color in Tony's peripheral vision. "Sir, y--"

"I said shut the fuck up---fuUUC--"

He vomits hard. It hurts. He's dehydrated. The last food-like thing he consumed was probably alcoholic. Tony's head pounds. It's more painful to his cranium, but at least it burns a little less if he jams his molars together and gags all the snot and blood and and prickly bits of not-cocaine out with some force.

Once he's down to pink froth, Tony's ears are ringing so hard he can barely hear Jarvis talking to him. Annoyance plays up like another light urge to retch, but Tony's done with that. Beyond done.

He swallows timidly and winces. The likeness his own body tastes to chemically treated raw hamburger is just a little too close for comfort. It's a good thing he's never taken his meat that way.

One of Tony's ears pops. He glances toward the window up on the landing, but it's just reflecting the overhead fluorescent bulbs. Burns his eyes like Pine Sol and fresh spray paint, though.

Was he working on something? Like, before....? Like, ever...?

Then he hears something.

"...-76-309. Next entry. Cleaners, The. Area code (9-- Sir?"

Another light catches Tony's attention, and a pale holographic book quickly shuts and vanishes from the usual monitor display space.

There's a beat of silence.

"Um," Jarvis hazards.

Tony laughs hoarsely at the hesitation in the AI's programming.

"Sir, I--"

"Were you reading the phone book?" Tony ask slowly, and with full honesty.

A white-gloved hand appears, tightly fisted. It shakes down once, signing 'yes' before following with the same vocal answer.

Tony takes a breath. "Ok."

There's another pause. "It's 8:34 AM, sir."

"Ok?" Tony tips his head to the side, considering, and bringing with it a bowling ball of a headache.

Jarvis shows as a digital clock, temperature gauge, and calendar as they may appear beside the seat of a ship's captain. "I thought perhaps you'd like to know, sir, that you'd survived the night."

"Oh." Tony tries not to moves this time. "Yeah. I kind of would."

#wij #wij2022 #wij2022 day9 #hold on #marvel #mcu #fanfic #fanfiction #iron man #tony stark #jarvis #sickfic #drugs #alcohol #addiction #emeto #emetophilia #illumivomi #hangover #intoxication #hurt/no comfort #hurt comfort #illness and injury #angst #death mention #canon character death #pre-avengers #starbucks sunday

[mohini-musing]

Every Promise Empty

Chasing Ghosts ‘verse

~~

Wide eyes and darting irises are par for the course with Tasha on weekends. She likes her indulgences and neither James nor Steve are into conflict enough to challenge it. Which means that the drugged-out stupor on Saturday is met with blankets draped over her as she dozes and the occasional bottle of Gatorade shoved into her hand when she’s conscious. Sunday’s somnolence edges toward the concerning end of things, but she’s willing to down the fluids James offers and smiles a frankly childlike grin when asked if she’s okay.

“M’good,” she trills. “M’happy. Happy good.”

James pats her like a puppy for that one, tucks the blanket around her, and makes note to brace for impact when the hangover from this shit comes knocking.

“Any idea what’s up with Tasha?” he asks Steve over breakfast on Monday. His sister is still one with the couch. There had been a couple hours of near coherence around midnight, during which they watched an Oscar nominated but utterly forgettable film and Tasha dodged his attempts at figuring out just what she was avoiding.

She had finally retreated to her room for bed, a move James interpreted as at least sober enough to be behind a closed door. They don’t have a lot of rules. Don’t lock the door if you’re fucked up is definitely one of them. Hence Tasha’s propensity for being high as hell in the main living space. His attempt at greeting her this morning earned him a nod and a mumble that might have been hello and might have been a language known only to dwarves in dark caves.

“That’s more your area than mine,” Steve offers back, only barely looking up from the textbook spread out on the table. The class has been kicking Steve’s tail for most of the semester. The spiral bound monstrosity has become a fixture at the table and there’ve been more than a few offers to take care of the thing using various combinations of explosives and incendiaries from James when Steve’s glaring holes into it. There have also been multiple suggestions out of Tasha on how exactly to celebrate after the disposal.

“Point,” James admits. Steve makes no secret of his distaste for Tasha’s habits. There’s something under the surface there, but no one’s willing to dig for it and Steve loves James (and Tasha by extension) enough to put up with her.

The thud from the living room ends the discussion.

“Tash?”

No answer has James sticking his head around the corner to check on matters. She’s on the floor next to the couch. Seizing.

He’s on his knees and shoving a pillow between her head and the carpet in short order. Skinny arms and legs are tightening into a ball and thrashing outward in an ominous pattern. Breaths are shallow and come with a gurgling grunting sound he’ll be well pleased to not ever hear from her again. The seizure itself isn’t his highest concern. The sudden mottling of her skin definitely is.

Her arms are blotches of bright red and ghost white verging on grey. The discoloration is visible on her neck and thighs as well. When her back arches enough to pull her shirt upward, James gets a solid view of the same mottled mess. It’s not new to him. It’s definitely new on Tasha. Last time he saw it was in the barracks.

Steve has his phone in hand when James realizes what he’s about to do.

“No squad,” he tells him.

Steve glares daggers and looks fully prepared to launch into one hell of a lecture. James holds up his hand.

“She’s still in care. Ambulance ride is an automatic call to her worker.”

“Shit.”

James nods his agreement, placing two fingers at the pulse point and verifying what the visibly bounding heartrate already told him. He wasn’t technically trained as a medic. He was trained as an operator. They were expected not to have noncombatants in tow. They were expected to never feel the effects of the things they did. So they didn’t – by whatever means necessary. Some of them stopped feeling anything at all as a result.

“We need to bring her temp down, she’s boiling.” It’s probably an understatement, and when he can manage it he wants a solid read on just how high she’s gone.

Steve scurries off and returns with a couple gallon bags of what look to be the entire contents of the ice maker. James shoves them hurriedly under Tasha’s arms which have gone blessedly still while instructing Steve to go wet down some towels to wrap her up in. He props her on one side with a knee, bringing her chin upward to open her airway as she continues gurgling. A couple sound thumps to her back result in a dribble of saliva and mucus and much clearing breathing.

“Good girl,” he tells her absently.

She’s twitching, her shoulders hitching upward every few seconds. It’s not a seizure exactly. But it’s definitely not normal. Rigors, some largely dormant part of his training reminds him. The body’s attempt to cope with high temp after a spike. She goes utterly stiff, then vibrates while James counts seconds. Steve returns just as her body slackens.

“She’s pretty bad,” he comments.

“Mhmm,” James give him. Calling a squad isn’t an option unless she’s definitely dying. And James has seen enough of that to know that they’re not there yet. He tells Tasha’s he’s sorry before tugging her shirt over her head. The barely there pajama shorts won’t interfere with cooling her, a fact he’s immensely grateful for. She’s too far gone to care, but he very much does.

Once Tasha’s swaddled in wet towels and ice bags, James nearly laughs when Steve produces a thermometer from her back pocket. The thing beeps once before he kneels and slips it into Tasha’s mouth. Steve’s voice is gentle, the parental tone James associates with waking from nightmares and that one hellish bout of flu.

Bright red numbers flash over the screen. “Hot damn, that’s up there,” Steve comments, and James has to agree. It’s not brain damage worthy. But it’s not okay.

That’s when Tasha’s stomach chooses to pull inward tightly enough to show off every rib she has before James finds himself in the path of a completely unreasonable volume of stomach acid and sludge.

There’s nothing for it but to shuck off the jeans that probably ought to now be burned before tugging her mouth open enough for the last of the vomit to ooze out the side. She’s whimpering, and the sound is painful to hear. She’s definitely not coherent enough to know what’s happening, but she’s also just aware enough to not like it.

“You’re okay,” James lies to her, smoothing her hair away from her sweaty face. Skin that ought to be pale is bright red. He’s marginally relieved that she’s not gone grey on him, but the flushing combined with the mottled rest of her doesn’t do his adrenaline levels any favors.

Her eyes are mostly open but staring off into nothing. She groans, her throat working a few times before more sludge drips from her lips.

“I’ve got you,” he tells her, taking the paper towel Steve offers him to wipe the mess from her face.

She’s still twitching intermittently, and James is just about to tell Steve something not exactly comedic about at least she’s not seizing again when she goes rigid, head arching back hard and every limb ramrod straight. He can hear Steve muttering the seconds under his breath as they wait for her to stop. She doesn’t.

“Three minutes same as you?” Steve asks him as they round the corner of the second block of sixty long seconds.

“She’ll kill me if we call a squad.”

“She’ll kill her if we don’t.”

James is ready to admit that he might be right when Tasha finally takes a proper breath and goes still. “There you are,” he coos at her as though she’s an infant. She stares blankly in his general direction.

James continues stroking her hair, petting her cheek, running fingertips over her shoulder. Steve pulls the now warm towels from her skin, hauls them to the bathroom, and returns with them rinsed out and cool.

“What the hell did you take, you fucking nightmare?” James asks Tasha while they smooth the damp material over her torso and around her thighs.

“I’m going with anything that wasn’t nailed down,” Steve grumbles. The irritation in his voice isn’t a good match for the gentle touch of his hands on her still mottled skin, though. He gathers the hand towel from under her face, switching it out for a clean one and wiping a bit of stray saliva from her cheek. Then he puts one big hand on James’s shoulder.

“Does she fuck around with benzos?” he asks him.

“This isn’t benzos.”

“Good.”

James isn’t up for asking where that line of questioning came from. He doesn’t really have time to think about it before Tasha’s shoulders are jerking up to her ears and she’s retching hard enough to bring up a stream of frothy bile.

“Shhh, shhh, it’s okay love. Breathe,” he tells her when she makes a guttural sound he tries hard not to think of as pain. He’s lying. It’s not okay. Not even close. Her temp is still unholy, her body is twitching in fits and starts, and the couple of times she’s opened her eyes are evidence that there is absolutely nobody home.

“I can put her in the bed,” Steve offers.

James nods his agreement. The floor is carpeted, but Tasha is skinny. She’s going to be sore as hell from all the muscle jerks as it stands. Adding bruises to the mix won’t do her any favors. He sits back on his heels as Steve gathers her into his arms, towels and all. A mostly melted bag of ice falls to the floor and James takes it to the kitchen to dump in the sink. When he joins them in his and Steve’s bedroom, Tasha’s in the middle of the bed atop what looks to be a stack of spread out towels. He doesn’t ask how Steve knows what to do here. He’s just glad he does.

Tasha’s still totally out of it, but James can’t stand the idea of not being close enough to touch her. He scoots across the mattress until his leg is against her body, her head against his thigh. Even blitzed, she grips the hem of his hastily donned shorts. Some part of her knows enough to be aware that she’s got an anchor.

“I’ve got you,” he tells her again. It’s a lie. If he had her, she wouldn’t be a hair away from needing a fucking trauma bay.

“This is an overdose, right?” Steve asks.

“Most likely.”

“Anything else we should be doing?”

“Fluids if she’ll drink em, but I’m not sure that’s an option. Not holding her airway well enough to risk it, really. Keep her temp down. Hope like hell she doesn’t keep seizing. Wait until she comes around enough for me to yell at her.”

Steve nods his agreement on all accounts, then disappears through the door into the hall. He comes back with a soda he tosses at James and a Red Bull he pops open for himself. “Gonna be a long day. Might as well caffeinate for it.”

He’s not wrong. Tasha’s still twitching, vomiting up air and bile every time James starts to think she has to be empty. Her eyelids flutter and she whines, babbles in what are probably meant to be words but fall desperately short of being language. She keeps a grip on his shorts, the material wadded tightly in her fist. Steve does the work of switching out towels as they warm, bringing ice and a basin James tries to keep largely wedged between Tasha and the bed. She’s too weak to get up much distance anymore, so it’s less a matter of catching projectile funk and more a matter of collecting what oozes out of her mouth after the retching fits.

James has nearly reached a point of being able to doze off beside her when she goes rigid. It doesn’t last long, 30 seconds, but another comes on its heels, and then a third. The fourth hits and Steve’s there, reaching past James with a plastic tube of buccal versed in hand.

“Open up, love, that’s a good girl,” he coaxes, hooking a thumb between Tasha’s molars. The gel is inserted far back on both sides of her mouth, and it occurs to James that the dose is meant for him and not his barely hundred-pound sister. He sputters as much to Steve, who holds out the applicator and shows him that he’s given her a bit more than half.

For her park, Tasha switches from seizing to retching with every breath. James is more than familiar with the bitter aftertaste of the rescue meds. He’s barfed up his stomach lining plenty of times after needing it. Watching it do the same for Tasha is painful. She’s pale, skin still blotchy, shivering from both fever and cold towels. He pets her hair, wipes her dry lips, rubs lip balm across them to try to stop the cracking. She bleeds anyway.

Ten minutes pass without another seizure. Then ten minutes more. The intermittent twitching continues, but it’s not turning into anything more and James is willing to take it. After thirty seizure free minutes, he tugs Tasha against his chest, propping the pair of them up on pillows and settles in to hold her until she sleeps whatever caused this off.

“I love you,” he whispers in her ear. “I fucking love you.”

#chasing ghosts universe #marvel cinematic universe #Avengers #steve and bucky #Steve Rogers #james bucky barnes #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #emeto #overdose #recreational drug use #seizure #inadvisable medical interventions #au foster siblings #illumivomi #hurt/comfort

[highwaytosickfics]

Sick!Geralt tries and fails to push through an illness

Witchers, despite what the stories around them may imply, do in fact have limits; they can be affected by and even die from poison, untreated wounds, and illness just like anyone else. The difference, of course, was in the severity of damage they could endure. The trials that create witchers improve their body's natural immune system, allowing them to heal faster from things that might leave an ordinary man down for days. Those trials also left witchers a memory of excruciating pain that allowed them to shrug off a certain amount of injury. Because whatever they were experiencing was definitely bad and hurt terribly, but it could never compare to what they experienced in their trials.

These memories were currently being brought back to Geralt, as his head pounded something fierce in the summer heat. He'd been feeling a little under the weather a few days before when traveling through the woods with Jaskier, but had shrugged it off thinking his healing factor would take care of it. Now they were in a rather large town, bustling with noise and smells that overwhelmed his senses and gave him some pretty severe nausea. The harsh sunlight wasn't helping matters, practically blinding his sensitive eyes and making his headache feel even worse. 

When they'd first entered the town, Geralt had wanted nothing more than to stay at the local inn for a few days to silence Jaskier's constant whining (though he mainly just wanted to ride out whatever bug he'd caught, the bard's complaints were actually pretty minimal this time around). Unfortunately, he'd had a job to take care of first; a bruxa (of course it'd had to be a fucking bruxa) was luring people to the woods and draining them dry of blood. It had killed three already, almost four before Geralt was able to decapitate it with a silver sword. The fight had been unintentionally long, the witcher's waves of nausea, pounding skull, and aching joints were slowing down his reaction time quite a bit. He was lucky he hadn't gotten himself (or Jaskier) killed. The bruxa's constant and powerful screaming didn't exactly help matters either, especially when they broke through a Quen and slammed him against a few different trees. The number of potions he'd had to take for that fight certainly wasn't low, and now that the White Honey was starting to kick in his body was screaming at him for it.

Still, Geralt had refused to gripe about his predicament and was trying to push through. They just needed to get back to the inn, then he could sneak upstairs while Jaskier played for the drunkards and just sleep whatever this was off. He was fine, he'd suffered much worse in the trials. The dizziness spinning his world around and pitching black spots in his vision couldn't compare to when he was too disoriented to get out of bed; the nausea threatening to make itself known was far softer than the weeks of constant vomiting and dehydration he'd gone through; the sensory overload that was distracting him was barely noticeable versus the ones he'd had when he first got his senses, when a speck of light blinded him for a full day and the sounds of wind rustling scraped painfully at his sensitive ears. He was a witcher and he could make it to the inn…

After he paused for a bit, he needed to make sure those spots weren't actually sprites. They didn't seem to be going away; in fact they only seemed to multiply as he got more lightheaded. Maybe this was actually an enemy he could fight-

"Geralt…" The witcher found himself surprisingly startled at Jaskier's low murmur. He'd forgotten the bard was with him, sending alarm bells through his brain. He was so shocked at this development that he almost didn't hear Jaskier continue. "Geralt, I need you to get on Roach, alright? She'll be able to carry you back to the inn."

Geralt focused suddenly and the bard was correct; Roach was sitting, waiting for him to mount. He'd trained her to do that in emergency scenarios, though, was this an emergency? Surely he was fine. Maybe she was sitting for the bard. Had Jaskier gotten hurt? Was he dying? What if he died already and he hadn't saved him-

"Geralt!" Jaskier's (thankfully alive) voice snapped him back to attention, and he automatically mounted Roach. He was surprised when the bard slipped in behind him, though somehow he didn't find it to be unpleasant. "I need you to get Roach moving, alright? I'll guide her back to the inn after that."

He felt his leg swing over the saddle, and suddenly they were moving. Jaskier was behind him, and while normally that wasn't allowed, Geralt didn't complain; the bard was unintentionally (or maybe intentionally?) keeping the witcher steady as they went onward. The scenery kept changing faster than Geralt could process it, and even when he closed his eyes the dizziness kept his head spinning. His energy was draining fast now that he didn't have to walk, and he wanted nothing more than to fall asleep right then and there. He tried to keep himself awake though, and the bard's constant babbling assisted in his efforts. His voice was soft, so as to not bother the witcher's sensitive ears, but it was just loud enough to keep Geralt aware.

The ride came to a stop rather suddenly in his opinion, and it took all of his willpower to move from the saddle. Jaskier seemed eager to help him up (as though he knew something was wrong), and he kept close to Geralt's side as they walked back to the inn. Those twenty steps had been the most difficult challenge he'd had so far that day; the noises and smells alone were enough to make him want to run, and when he mistakenly opened his eyes, he could only see a sea of white with dancing colored spots before he snapped them shut again. 

He focused on keeping himself moving, walking side by side Jaskier without leaning into him (the bard wouldn't have been able to hold his weight). Thankfully Jaskier was taking the lead, guiding Geralt without prompting into the inn and up the stairs to their room. When he opened his eyes next, it was thankfully dark and quiet. The witcher then remembered, with pushed down disappointment, that there was only one bed; it was big enough for the both of them, certainly, but he wasn't sure if Jaskier would be interested in such an idea. He decided to leave the bed for the bard and tried to find a good spot on the floor to rest.

"Geralt, what are you doing?!" Okay, so Jaskier was against the floor plan. Should he try to sleep outside? He didn't want to go back out but if that was what the bard wanted-

Oh wait no, Jaskier was removing his armor for him. It felt nice to have that extra weight lifted off. The bard's touch lingered longer it should've, but the witcher found it to be grounding and didn't instinctively push him off. Jaskier helped Geralt lay down on the bed, cutting him off before he could protest.

"The bed's big enough for the both of us, Geralt. Besides, you look like you need it more than I do." A warm hand brushed hair back from his forehead, and he leaned into the touch before he could stop himself. "You don't have a fever, thankfully, but I know you've been hurting all day."

"'m fine." He mumbled weakly.

"Try to stand up then." He shot up from the bed to prove his health...and all the nausea he'd been feeling suddenly rushed from his gut to his throat. A bucket found its way under his chin at just the right moment.

"Okay maybe that was a bad idea." He heard beside him, a hand tracing down his back as he threw up what hopefully wasn't the White Honey he'd taken earlier. When his heaves turned to shudders, the bucket moved away and Geralt found himself pushed back down onto the bed. He was knocked out as soon as his head touched the pillow.

#sick witcher #witcher sickfic #sick geralt #sickfic #illumivomi #my post

[misharuu]

Alone (Whumpmas in July Day 3)

@whumpmasinjuly‘s day three prompt is love! for this prompt I’m going to be writing a Supernatural drabble. please take all warnings and tags to heart c:

Fandom: Supernatural (fandom knowledge isn’t necessary to enjoy this fic! all you need to know is that Sam’s girlfriend passed away tragically)

Pairing: Previous Sam x Jess, gen

Warnings/Tags: mentions of canon character death, whump, sickfic, emeto, angst, depression, loneliness, grief, mild horror, all hurt no comfort (sorry not sorry) 

Summary: Shortly after Jess’ death and Sam’s reunion with Dean, Sam gets sick. He’s alone, delusional with fever, and desperate for someone, anyone to care for him.

Word Count: 970

A/N: So I really have no idea where this came from! I don’t ship Sam x Jess and have never written a fic about them. When I read the prompt ‘love’ this just instantly popped into my head. I also usually don’t write whump without the comfort aspect... I’m not sure why my muses lead me in this direction. 

Sam sat on the cold bathroom tile, a chill seeping through the marble and up into his legs through his sweatpants. He shivered lightly as he rested his cheek against his arm, bent up over the toilet seat, his breath sending waves across the water. His legs were bent underneath him, toes straining against the ground for leverage, knees aching from the pressure. Sam winced as a cramp tore through his stomach, his free hand clutching his abdomen as he tried to pull himself through the pain, panting shallowly. If Jess had been there she would have been rubbing his back, pressing back his sweaty hair while whispering in his ear, promising him that he’d be alright. That she wasn’t going anywhere; she’d be here no matter what. Tears prickled the corners of his eyes as he tried to push away the intrusive thoughts, struggling to ignore the phantom sensation on Jess’ delicate fingers cradling his cheek. He whimpered involuntarily as images of fire flashed through his mind; Jess’ screams as she burned, suspended on the ceiling, the smell of burning flesh assaulting his nostrils. Sam retched as he relieved her death, remembering the way her blood felt sliding down his cheek, her eyes pleading and desperate, thinking that Sam would be able to save her but he failed. He always failed.

Sam pitched forward as he gripped the toilet seat with both hands, gagging harshly as his mouth filled with saliva. He coughed and spluttered as he struggled for air between dry heaves, tears streaming down his cheeks from the force at which his stomach was trying to turn itself inside out. Sam gagged painfully as he finally burped up a wave of vomit, the foul liquid burning his throat and nose, splashing into the water. He swallowed thickly, trying to fight back the bile rising in his throat before he coughed up another mouthful of vomit, eyes squeezed shut. With one final heave his vision went black, sights and sounds disappearing beneath a thick haze. He felt himself falling, just barely having enough time to hold out a hand before he cracked his skull on the marble. “D-Dean?” he called out pitifully, knowing full well that his brother wasn’t in the crappy motel room attached to the the bathroom. He’d left a few hours ago; at that point Sam only felt a bit hot and dizzy and Dean’s incessant rambling and had set him on edge. He admittedly had been acting a bit short, almost biting off Dean’s head when he called him Sammy, a nickname from their childhood that he was desperately trying to escape. After that Dean had left to head to some dive bar, hoping to pick up a girl for the night.

Sam groaned as he curled up into himself, pulling his knees to his chest, shaking so hard that his teeth were chattering. He was just so cold, so dizzy, so lonely, so unbearably hot. He imagined Jess sitting next to him on the floor, hushing him and rubbing his back, showering him with kisses and encouragement; you’re alright, I’ve got you, you’re doing so well, I love you... Sam whimpered, his fevered mind starting to slip into delusion as he reached out his hand, fingers clenching as he tried to grab hold of Jess’ dusty pink nightgown, her skin glowing in the dim bathroom light, just outside of his reach. He crawled along the tile using his shoulder and knee for leverage, desperately reaching for Jess but every time his fingertips rubbed against her skin she shot out of grasp, so close yet so far away. “J-Jess -” Sam choked as he gazed into her eyes, a small smile curling over his lips, a halo of gold and light radiating from her curls. 

‘I’m here, Sam, I’m not going anywhere,’ her voice was muffled and echoed, wrong. Sam sobbed and let out a choked off laugh, his heart swelling as he stared at his dead girlfriend, tears streaming down flushed cheeks. He tried to push himself up so he could throw his arms around Jess’ shoulders, his arms straining against his weight, feeling like his body was made of lead. As soon as he had himself up he took a moment to admire her beauty; her perfect white smile, dazzling eyes, her rosy cheeks and her velvety skin. “I love you, Jess,” Sam murmured, his heart flip flopping in his chest as he reached out to touch her cheek. Her smile began to grow, twisting and stretching beyond her lip’s natural range, splitting on the edges as her cheeks ripped to contain her wicked grin. Sam gasped and pulled his hand back, flinging himself away from Jess as she began laughing, a deep, cruel sound. Flames erupted around her head, quickly engulfing her body as she cackled, black smoke billowing through the small room, leaving Sam choking. He bent forward, his hands pressed against the ground as he sobbed and coughed. As quickly as she had appeared Jess was gone, leaving nothing in her wake except the smell of burning hair and flesh.

Sam’s sobs quickly devolved into retches, a dribble of spit clinging from his lip to the ground. He doubled up as he gagged over the ground, bile splattering on the tile, splashing back between his hands. He coughed before burping harshly, his throat feeling like it was being scorched, raw and searing. Sam sobbed silently, no energy to try to hold back anymore, allowing the pain to invade his body, letting wave after wave of vomit crash on the ground. He couldn’t hold himself up anymore, letting himself fall to the ground, laying in his own sick as he cried and shook. “D-Dean?” he called out again, desperate for help, his heart shattered like glass.

But no one came.

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