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shion-yu · 7 months

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A Safe Place (part 1) [Day 28]

Cliff shows up at Elliot's doorstep in the middle of the night soaked to the bone. A Cliff/Elliot sickfic heavy on the angst, also ft. Theo. For @monthofsick Day 28: Chaotic body temperature. I know, not me joining in on a writing challenge right at the end but it fit so well. 3,065 words, original work, TWs for homophobia, emeto (neither strong warnings, but the sick will get much sicker in p2).

It had been a long summer. Cliff had spent it working at Theo's law firm again, except this time he wasn't an unpaid intern but a legal secretary. It was a temporary job that they had offered him when his summer break had aligned perfectly with one of the secretary's maternity leaves and Cliff had jumped at the chance to work in such a great environment again. He was happy to see many familiar faces from last year, and to his surprise they were happy to see him too. Although he was mainly working with one of the other partners this time - not Theo - he saw the lawyer nearly every day and was relieved to learn both Theo and his partner, Al, were in good health. Al had gotten a double lung transplant that last Fall, Theo told Cliff. He and his new lungs were doing great.

"What about you?" Theo asked Cliff eagerly. "How did your first year at NYU go?"

Cliff smiled, automatically thinking of Elliot. "It was great," he said. "My classes were interesting but not too hard."

"You look happier," Theo said, surprising Cliff with how true the observation was. "Did something cause that?"

"Yeah," Cliff said thoughtfully. "Someone did."

Being apart from Elliot that summer was difficult. He missed hugging and kissing Elliot every single day. He wanted to talk to him on the phone for hours and hours just to hear his voice and fall asleep with his fingers in Elliot’s curls. But when he was living at home, Cliff knew he had to be the perfect, straight laced child he'd been raised as. In other words, he couldn't be himself. He wore business attire to work every day, but the soft sweaters and cute hair clips he'd amassed over the past year stayed packed away in his college stuff for next semester. He didn't think his parents would appreciate those particular fashion choices he'd been making.

It's not like his parents made it hard to hide things. They hardly ever asked questions, and if they did it was about grades or tuition. Cliff knew he was incredibly lucky that his parents paid his entire tuition, room and board as if it were a given. Elliot's parents weren't able to help much financially, meaning his boyfriend had to take out loans and work part time while in school. This summer he was working nonstop in his dad's auto mechanic shop, saving up money. Often when Cliff video called Elliot these days he was covered in sweat, streaks of black motor oil on his face. It seemed wrong to complain about his parents when it was thanks to them that he was only working this summer because he wanted to, not because he had to. And yet, silently, Cliff thought maybe he'd be happier if he was in Elliot's shoes - without much money but with a place he could really call home. It was a selfish, privileged thought and Cliff refused to voice it, but it creeped in each time he heard Elliot's mom call in the background, "Boys, wash up, it's time for dinner!"

Working was a blessing to Cliff, because if he'd been at home he would've been in that big, lonely house all by himself most of the summer. Being at the law firm was not only a distraction, but comfortable. Despite wearing a suit, Cliff actually felt less tense there than at his parents' house. He stayed long hours, longer than he needed to, because he preferred the sound of printers and fax machines over his parents screaming at each other downstairs. When he was in high school it seemed easier to ignore. Maybe it was because he'd had a break for so many months that returning to it seemed worse than before. Or maybe it was because Elliot never screamed at him like that, and Cliff had started to realize that this wasn't how things had to be.

Around the beginning of August, Cliff caught a cold that didn't seem to go away. At first it was just the sniffles, and then it was a cough that grew progressively deeper with each week that passed. The other employees started asking him if he was alright, and embarrassingly Theo caught him staring blankly at the water fountain one day for far too long. Cliff was so out of it that he didn't even notice Theo calling his name until the older man waved his hand in Cliff's face.

"Oh," Cliff said, rubbing his eyes to try and make his blurry vision clear up. "Sorry, I was just... Daydreaming."

"You look pale," Theo said, and before Cliff could step back Theo had placed a hand on Cliff's forehead while ignoring Cliff's protest that he was fine. "Hmm, you feel a little feverish. Why don't you go home, kid?"

"I'm really fine," Cliff said, wildly embarrassed. "It's just a cold."

Theo looked him up and down, clearly assessing how pushy he should be. "At least go take a nap on the couch in my office, you look exhausted."

Usually, Cliff would say no immediately. He wouldn't even consider showing weakness at the place he was supposed to be making a vitally good impression at for his career. But he felt weak and a little dizzy and found himself saying in a small voice, "...If you're sure."

Theo was sure. He brought Cliff to his office and shut the blinds so there wasn't much light coming through the many glass windows. He even tossed a blanket to the eighteen-year-old. "I sleep here all the time," he reassured Cliff. "You can't work if you're too tired to think. Don't worry about it."

Cliff felt guilty for taking over Theo's office, but Theo headed out for a two hour meeting and Cliff was left alone on the couch. He had half a mind to leave and get back to work at his desk now that there was no one stopping him, but just sitting there made him realize how fatigued his whole body felt. A little nap wouldn't hurt, he reasoned. A really short one. He lay down and fell asleep so quickly that he didn't even remember closing his eyes.

He woke up to Theo gently rubbing his shoulder. Cliff was confused, then his eyes widened in embarrassment and he sat up. Shit, had it been two hours already? Wait, that clock didn't say 5pm did it? - surely he hadn't slept for four hours?!

"Woah, it's okay Cliff," Theo said quickly, "You seemed really tired so I let you sleep. You should go home now, everybody's leaving for the day."

"I'm so sorry," Cliff gushed, face bright red. "I didn't mean to sleep so long. You don't have to pay me for today - please don't, actually."

"Settle down, it's really fine," Theo said in a calm voice that made Cliff remember to take a deep breath like Elliot had taught him to calm down. "We all have off days. You don't feel so warm now, so that's good. Stay home tomorrow though."

"That's totally not necessary," Cliff said, his confident tone supplemented by a very unconvincing round of dry coughs. He waved off the tissues Theo tried to hand him. "Really, I'm fine. I've just been having some asthma since I got sick last winter, but my boy-" Cliff stopped himself, realizing he was about to out himself. "My, um, my roommate got me an inhaler so I just have to use it that's all."

"Your boyfriend," Theo supplied gently. "It's okay to say it, Cliff. You know I have Al."

Cliff wanted to deny the comment outright. He wanted to laugh and say Elliot really was just a friend. But Theo had such an earnest expression, and he was the only successful adult man Cliff knew of who was gay. "I know, but, it's really not, not for me," Cliff found himself saying, voice wavering. "I-I have to go. Sorry I slept in your office so long," he said as he hurried out, ignoring Theo's all too kind voice calling after him. Cliff knew in a certain world that it was okay, but it wasn't his world. Not the world where he still relied on his parents.

Despite saying he'd be back the next day, Cliff did stay home that Friday. His fever was worse and he had chills that left him huddled under the covers. His mom didn't notice he didn't leave the house and he didn't tell her. She didn't need to know, just like she didn't need to know about Elliot. She had never supported Cliff in anything at all, so why... Why did Cliff feel such a strong urge to tell her?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

On the last day of Cliff's work at the law firm, Theo told Cliff if he ever needed a reference, he'd get a glowing one from him. And if he ever needed to talk about anything, anything at all, Cliff could call him too. Cliff knew what he was getting at, and he didn't want to face it. But Theo was such a calm person that it was disarming, and Cliff asked without meaning to, "Is it worth it?"

Theo nodded. He knew what Cliff meant without specification. "Yes, it's worth it," Theo said. "Even if there's nay-sayers and you lose people, you gain much more. It's always worth it to be exactly who you are, Cliff."

Cliff went back to his parents house with those words echoing in his brain. Theo, a successful and respected lawyer, said it was worth it. He had a career and a person who loved him by his side. Was that something Cliff could have, too? Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to be honest, just once?

"Mom," Cliff said over dinner, pushing his phone over to her with a picture of him and Elliot together on the screen. "I want to tell you something. This is my-"

"Don't do this to me Cliff," his mother interrupted before he could finish. "You've already caused enough trouble. He's not - just because you have a thing with another guy doesn't mean anything."

"It's not a thing mom. I love him," Cliff found himself saying angrily. And oh, why did he say that? The first time he finally said he loved Elliot and it was directed at his mom in spite. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

"Cliff, you don't love him. You're too old to be playing this game. Now I'll forget we had this conversation. And don't tell your father."

Cliff saw red. He'd never been so angry in his life. He snatched his phone back and grabbed his wallet on the shelf by the door and went outside. She didn't follow him.

It was pouring rain. Cliff shivered, wishing he'd had the forethought to grab a coat too, but he wasn't going to ruin his dramatic exit by going back inside. Of course his mother hadn't approved. Cliff hadn't expected her to. But he'd expected her to get angry - not to dismiss him all together like he was just a kid with a big imagination. Cliff knew then that she would never really think of him as his own person, and he couldn't do anything to change that. It broke his heart.

Cliff walked for a very long time. He didn't quite know where he was going, only that he wanted to get as far away from that house as possible. He found himself at a park by the water where he beat up a couple of tree trunks that definitely won based on his bleeding knuckles afterwards. The rain didn't let up, and Cliff found himself getting progressively colder. His cough from earlier that month had never gone away and his breath began to catch on what felt like a dry patch in his throat. Cliff realized then that he'd left his inhaler at the house, too. The coughing grew more desperate until he pitched forward and vomited onto the grass he was standing on. He groaned and leaned against the nearest tree he could find, the contents of his stomach mixing with rushing rain water and swept away quickly. He continued to gag for several minutes until the coughing abated ever so slightly. He felt weak and pathetic. And also very, very alone.

He needed to get somewhere dry. Somewhere warm and safe. Cliff only had one place like that in mind. He boarded train after train, shivering in the corner like a wet dog as he made his way all the way to Long Island. He knew Elliot's address because he'd been sending Elliot mail all summer, little love notes and presents that made Cliff think of him. He never included a return address though, because he hadn't wanted his parents to see. Thankfully his phone had enough battery to direct him to Elliot's doorstep despite the wet four hour commute, and he found himself at the front door of a modest suburban home at 3:30 in the morning.

The journey had felt like a daze. Cliff had never done something so erratic, so unplanned. He raised his hand to knock before remembering what time it was, and Elliot had parents and sister who probably wouldn't appreciate him knocking. He called Elliot instead, his phone barely hanging on at 5%. He thought to himself that it seemed unlikely that Elliot would answer at this time of night. But after several rings, by which time Cliff had resigned himself to waiting for dawn under a tree, a very sleepy voice picked up.

"Cliff?"

"Elliot? Sorry to bother you," Cliff said, as if this entire situation weren't incredibly bizarre. "But I'm at your door."

There was a long pause, presumably while Elliot tried to figure out exactly what Cliff meant by 'at your door'. "Like right now? Now?"

"Yeah," Cliff said. "Do you think I could sleep over?"

"I'm coming down," Elliot said, and there was the rustling of sheets and then the thump of footsteps as Elliot ran downstairs. The front door opened and Elliot hung up. Cliff looked at him and thought he was the most beautiful person in the entire world. "Holy crap, you're really here," Elliot breathed. "God Cliff, what happened? No, come in first, you're soaked..."

Elliot pulled Cliff inside and helped Cliff take off his soaked trainers. There were traces of vomit on the front of his shirt and his fingers were still bloody. Elliot brought him to the bathroom, motioning for Cliff to stay quiet with one finger to his lips. He grabbed a towel from under the sink and wrapped it around the shorter boy, who was shivering violently from the marked change in temperature. In the bright light of the kitchen, suddenly his journey seemed a lot less valiant and a lot more stupid. "Sit," Elliot said, sitting Cliff on the toilet. "You're freezing... Can you take your temperature?”

Elliot handed Cliff a thermometer, which Cliff obediently used. After a few seconds it beeped and read ‘96.9.’ Elliot frowned. “Hot shower, okay?" Despite being woken up in the middle of the night, Elliot seemed fully alert. Cliff nodded and peeled off his wet and dirty clothes. He coughed roughly as he did so, a slight wheeze audible on the end of the exhale. Elliot patted his back with a concerned expression. "Do you have your inhaler?" Cliff shook his head no. Elliot grimaced and ran the hot water for Cliff. "You warm up. I'm gonna find you some clothes and I think there's an old inhaler somewhere in the medicine cabinet..."

Elliot moved to leave, but Cliff grabbed his arm before he could go. "Don't wake your family up," Cliff said hoarsely. "I'm okay."

Elliot looked at Cliff in concern and sighed. "Cliff, you just showed up soaking wet in the middle of the night. You live all the way in Newark. I'm gonna be a little concerned. But right now you need to warm up. We can talk later."

"Okay," Cliff said. He took the hottest shower of his life then, and it felt glorious. After a few minutes he started to feel dizzy though and sat on the floor of the tub. Elliot came back and peeked around the curtain, frowning when he saw Cliff sitting there.

"Are you awake?" Elliot asked worriedly.

"Hmm," Cliff hummed in confirmation. "Just feels nice, and I got sleepy."

"Finish up in there," Elliot said. "I've got sweats and a hot water bottle and bed waiting for you."

Cliff obediently finished showering and sat on the edge of the tub as Elliot dried him off thoroughly with two big, fluffy towels. Cliff closed his eyes and remembered how many times he'd imagined being together again over the summer. "I missed you so much," Cliff said, resting his face on Elliot's abdomen.

Elliot stilled and crouched in front of Cliff. "I missed you too," he said softly. "Now arms up." Elliot helped Cliff get into the warmest sweats that he owned and then led Cliff upstairs to his bedroom. The house was quiet, and Cliff hoped that meant he hadn't disturbed anyone else's sleep. He glanced around curiously at Elliot's childhood bedroom, which was decorated in a way that seemed so very Elliot. He smiled at the teddy bear sitting on the dresser that Cliff had bought Elliot at the baseball game they'd been to. It brought back good memories, nothing like the ones that had been swirling around in Cliff's head for the past several rainy hours.

"Bed," Elliot whispered, tucking Cliff under the duvet and several extra blankets. Cliff was still shivering, but less so now. His temperature had blown from low numbers to high and he gazed at Elliot with glassy, feverish eyes. Elliot handed Cliff a very expired albuterol inhaler, which Cliff took a few puffs of. Despite the date stamped on the canister, it still eased the tightness in Cliff's chest a little. Elliot then climbed in next to him and wrapped his arms around Cliff. The feeling and smell of being enveloped by Elliot after all this time brought Cliff to tears and he hid his face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I know I should have called.”

"It’s okay,” Elliot said. “Sleep, Cliff. We can talk tomorrow.” Knowing he was finally in the only place he truly felt safe, Cliff slept.

[Cont. part 2]

#shionwrites #novemetober rescheduled #whump #sickfic #sicknario #tw: emeto #tw: homophobia #prompt: chaotic body temperature #novemetober 2023 #oc: cliff #oc: theo #oc: elliot #fever whump #hurt/comfort #angst #hypothermia #pneumonia

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sicknessbysalem · 7 months

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Novemetober (Rescheduled) | Day Twenty

@monthofsick | day twenty: late caretaker (i think i did this right)

introducing some new ocs to take a break from Novak. meet Lucien, the rookie police officer Vanessa (Willow’s girlfriend) has taken as a little brother almost. lucien is very anti-help and vanessa doesnt care, basically

if you want to see more of this oc or any other, PLEASE SEND ME A REQUEST!

tw for emeto, resistance, fever, sick on the job

It's 4:47p.m.

He should be on his way to the station. The 6 to 6 shift. He didn't drive, he needed to catch the bus, and then the train.

Instead, he's half ready, coughing as he tried to catch his breath while leaning over the toilet, spitting after a sudden round of vomiting he hadn't been expecting to endure.

He hadn't been expecting the headache he woke up with, or the ache in his muscles, or the way that moving made his head spin.

Of course, he couldn't skip out on work. That would put everyone on tonights shift at a disadventage. And he couldn't do that to them.

He was shaking. He could feel the way his whole body was almost vibrating, like he had a current of electricity was running constantly through every vein in his body.

He needed to pull himself together. He needed to get dressed, he needed to catch the bus, the train, get to the station. Regardless of how terrible he was feeling.

Vanessa looked at the clock. It was quarter after six. Lucien wasn't here yet. That was unusual.

She picked up her phone, dialing Lucien's number. The phone rang, and rang, and eventually went to voicemail.

"Hey, Jonah," Vanessa said, grabbing her fellow officer's shoulder as he walked past her desk, "Have you heard from Officer Carpentier?"

Jonah thought about it for a second, before shaking his head, "No, I haven't heard from him. Ask Cap maybe?"

Vanessa groaned, tossing the file she was looking over back onto her desk. "Fine."

She got up, heading to Captain Baxter's office.

SHe knocked on the door.

"Officer McAllister?" Captain Baxter looked up from his own paperwork, "Are you here to get your clearance to go on patrol?"

"First of all, I would love to go on patrol, or literally anywhere that isn't this boring ass office," Vanessa said, "But, no. Actually, I was wondering if Officer Carpentier called in?"

"Not to me he hasn't," Captain Baxter shrugged, "Your rookie's a no show?"

"He doesn't seem like he would be a no show, like on purpose," Vanessa said, "But maybe."

A knock on Captain Baxter's door.

"Hey, Vanessa," Jonah is popping his head in the door, "Carpentier is here."

"Great, yeah," Vanessa said, "So, can I go on-?"

"Yes, Officer McAlliser," Captain Baxter said, "Stay out of trouble."

Vanessa stepped out of the office, offering a welcoming smile to Lucien.

"Ready to go on patrol Luci? Vanessa asked.

Something seemed off. Vanessa always prided herself in her perception of things. But Lucien was a special case. He was good at hiding things. Vanessa knew that.

"Are you feeling alright, Lucien?" Vanessa asked, her tone laced with concern as they parked at the riverside.

Lucien forced a smile. "I'm fine, Vanessa. Just a little tired."

Vanessa didn't buy it. She had known Lucien long enough to see through his facade. But she decided not to press him further, trusting that he would confide in her when he was ready.

As they patrolled the streets, Vanessa couldn't shake off the feeling of unease. Lucien's casual attire, a stark contrast to his usual professional demeanor, only added to her worry. But she chose to focus on their duty, hoping that the distraction would alleviate whatever was troubling Lucien.

Their radio crackled to life, dispatching them to a disturbance at a nearby apartment complex. Vanessa glanced at Lucien, who nodded in response. They arrived at the scene to find a heated argument between two neighbors escalating into a physical altercation.

Vanessa and Lucien intervened, defusing the situation before it could escalate further. As they escorted the individuals involved to their respective residences, Vanessa stole a concerned glance at Lucien, who looked paler than usual.

"Are you sure you're okay, Lucien?" Vanessa asked once they were back in the patrol car.

Lucien hesitated for a moment before nodding. "I'm just a bit tired, that's all. Nothing serious."

Vanessa sighed inwardly, wishing Lucien would open up to her. But she respected his privacy, knowing that he would share if and when he felt comfortable.

They continued their patrol in silence, the only sound being the occasional chatter over the radio. As the night wore on, Lucien's condition seemed to worsen, his usual composure slipping with each passing hour.

Around 2:30, Vanessa figured heading back to the station would be better. They could do their paperwork and then Lucien could be out by six.

As they got to the department, Vanessa got out of the car. It took Lucien a little longer.

“I’m going to use the bathroom,” Lucien told Vanessa, “Then I’ll catch up.”

Lucien started feeling nauseous halfway through the patrol. The nausea that had hit him so suddenly that evening, before he came in, was nothing to how he felt now.

His head spun, his body hurt, and his stomach was gurgling and churning in such a way he hoped Vanessa didn’t hear.

“I’m going to use the bathroom,” Lucien had forced out, if only barely. “Then I’ll catch up.”

Maybe taking a breather in the bathroom would settle his stomach. He was off the next three days. He could be as sick as he liked as soon as he got home. But for now, he had to stay healthy. Or at the very least, appear he was in perfect condition.

The button up shirt he tried to put on before work squeezed his stomach back then, but even the loose Portland police department sweatshirt he was wearing felt like a vice grip on his stomach. He knew Vanessa was already suspicious by his attire, but he was begging internally that she second guessed herself.

As Vanessa and Lucien stepped into the station, Lucien's stomach churned violently, threatening to betray him at any moment. He forced a tight-lipped smile at Vanessa before excusing himself, his steps hurried as he made his way to the bathroom.

Once inside, Lucien's legs gave way beneath him as a wave of nausea washed over him like a relentless tide. He staggered to the nearest stall, collapsing to his knees just in time as his stomach revolted with a vengeance.

The retching sounds echoed off the tiled walls, each heave sending shards of agony through Lucien's body. His forehead beaded with sweat, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he struggled to regain control.

His stomach heaved again, bile rising in his throat like a bitter tide. Lucien gagged, his whole body convulsing as he emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, a silent testament to his suffering.

Lucien’s world was suddenly reduced to the searing pain in his gut and the relentless cycle of vomiting.

Finally, the ordeal came to an end, leaving Lucien trembling and weak, his face drained of color as he slumped against the stall door. He wiped his mouth with toilet paper, his fingers trembling as he reached for the flush handle. But reaching forward, leaning forward, made his stomach lurch again. So, he leaned over the toilet, lips parted as saliva dripped into the bowl.

The shaking started again. The spinning in his head. The occasional clench of his stomach. Everything started again, telling Lucien he was going to vomit again.

Vomit again he did. His stomach lurched, he heaved so hard. Nobody was coming. Just as he liked it. He could puke his guts up, feel temporarily better, and finish the day. No additional concerns necessary.

He heaved, the type of heave he was sure started in the pit of his stomach and roared up his throat. He felt liquid come from his nose, he sniffled between vomiting rounds on instinct and could feel the acid going back up.

He clutched his stomach with his free hand, willing it to be over soon.

As minutes turned into what felt like an eternity, Vanessa's concern for Lucien grew with each passing second. She couldn't shake off the nagging feeling that something was wrong, her instincts as both a police officer and an unofficial older sister kicking into overdrive.

Abandoning her paperwork, Vanessa rose from her desk, determined to check on Lucien. She made her way to the bathroom, her footsteps quickening with each step, heart pounding in her chest.

Pushing open the door, Vanessa's heart lurched at the sight before her. The air was thick with the acrid scent of vomit. Lucien himself was kneeling, leaning over the toilet. Vanessa could see how bad he was shaking. She also saw the way his breaths shook, saliva dripped out of his mouth. She saw everything.

"Lucien," Vanessa whispered, her voice filled with concern as she approached him slowly.

Lucien didn’t look at her. Vanessa could see the way a hand stayed over his stomach, Lucien was trying to gauge whether or not he was going to be sick.

"I'm sorry, Vanessa. I didn't mean to worry you."

Vanessa's heart clenched at the sound of Lucien’s voice. Ripped absolutely raw by vomiting. Without a moment's hesitation, she brushed some bangs away from his suddenly sweaty face.

“You’re burning up,” Vanessa said, adjusting her touch to get a better feel of his forehead and cheeks. “Yeah. You have a fever.”

“I’m sorry,” Lucien tells her again.

"You have nothing to apologize for, Lucien," Vanessa murmured, her voice gentle but firm, she shifted her hands to pet his hair, "You're not alone in this. I'm here for you, no matter what."

But Lucien recoiled from her touch, his shoulders tense with self-doubt. "I don't deserve your comfort, Vanessa. I should be able to handle this on my own."

Vanessa's heart ached at Lucien's words, knowing all too well the weight of his self-imposed expectations. She did the same thing. She was sure it drove Willow up the wall most of the time. But she refused to let him suffer in silence, not when he needed her the most.

"You don't have to do this alone, Lucien," Vanessa said, her voice unwavering. "Let me help you."

Reluctantly, Lucien allowed himself to lean back against Vanessa, his defenses crumbling under the weight of his exhaustion. He felt the warmth of her presence enveloping him like a comforting embrace, soothing the raw edges of his frayed nerves.

“Come on,” Vanessa said, “Let’s head to the break room.”

Lucien nodded.

As Vanessa gently guided him out of the bathroom, her protective instinct kicking into overdrive, she was going through her list of things to grab. To give him.

She led him to the break room, guiding him to the couch. She brought over the trash can, just in case, and grabbed a cup of water for Lucien.

“Here, try this,” Vanessa said, sitting beside Lucien and rubbing his shoulder, “When six comes, you can come home with me, okay? Willow and I will take care of you.”

Lucien's throat tightened at Vanessa's words, a mixture of gratitude and guilt swirling within him. He accepted the cup of water with a shaky hand, taking a small sip to quell the persistent nausea churning in his stomach.

"Thank you, Vanessa," Lucien murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, taking the cup. "But I don't want to be a burden to you and Willow."

Vanessa's expression softened, shifting her hand from rubbing his shoulder to her running her hand through the slight curls of his sweaty shoulder length hair. "You're not a burden, Lucien. You're family. And family takes care of each other, no matter what."

Tears pricked at the corners of Lucien's eyes, overwhelmed by the depth of Vanessa's compassion. Despite his protests, she remained steadfast in her resolve to support him through his ordeal, her unwavering faith in him a beacon of hope in the darkness.

After a few sips of water, he looked at her, and she knew what he was looking for. Vanessa leaned back against the couch, Lucien laid hisbhead on her shoulder.

“I feel sick,” Lucien said, swallowing thick as the water tried to reappear.

Vanessa's heart sank as she felt Lucien's body tense against her, a silent testament to the relentless onslaught of his illness. She wrapped her arm around him, offering what little comfort she could in the face of his suffering.

"I'm here, Lucien," Vanessa whispered, her voice a gentle reassurance amidst the storm raging within him. "Just let it out. I've got you."

With a shuddering breath, Lucien buried his face against Vanessa's shoulder, his body convulsing with another wave of nausea. Then he broke away from her, grabbing the trash can. Vanessa rubbed his back as he heaved, hard. So hard Vanessa wanted to wince.

As Lucien emptied the contents of his stomach into the waiting trash can, Vanessa rubbed soothing circles on his back, offering silent comfort in the face of his suffering. And when the ordeal finally came to an end, leaving Lucien trembling and weak against her, Vanessa knew that they couldn't stay any longer.

"Come on, Lucien," Vanessa said softly, helping him to his feet. "Forget six o’clock. Let's get you home."

“But what about-“

“That cant have a puking officer on duty,” Vanessa shrugged, “And they won’t fire me unless I commit a real felony.”

Despite his protests, Vanessa remained steadfast in her resolve to take care of him, guiding him out of the break room and towards the exit. With each step, Lucien leaned heavily against her, his strength depleted by the relentless onslaught of his illness.

As they stepped out into the cool night air, Vanessa felt a sense of relief wash over her. They may have been leaving work early, but in that moment, nothing else mattered except getting Lucien home safe and sound.

“I texted Willow, she said she has some medicine for you,” Vanessa said, “Just try and rest until I get you to our apartment.”

“I can go back to mine,” Lucien offered.

Vanessa shook her head, “No Luci, you’re coming to ours. Willow and I will take care of you. Just let us, for once?”

And Lucien is too worn out, too nauseous, to disagree.

#emeto #sickfic #emeto fic #emeto cw #emeto tw #fever cw #fever tw #emetophilia #novemetober 2023 #novemetober rescheduled

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dutifullyshamelessearthquake · 8 months

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02. Can’t stop puking and 16. Waking up puking for Heizou please ♥️

And we're officially starting Novemetober Rescheduled! As stated before I am doing the prompts out of order, so we're kicking things off with this request for Heizou!

@monthofsick

Can't Stop Puking + Waking up Puking

Warnings for: graphic descriptions of vomit; Fever; Mentions of passing out

It's been a while since I've written anything for Heizou, and I'm excited to move forward with his story. What's his living situation looking like right now, and how are things about to change? Buckle up, because it's finally time for this arc over the month of Novemetober Rescheduled!

#earthquake author's note #sickfic #genshin sickfic #genshin emeto #emeto #nausea #emeto fic #novemetober rescheduled #Novemetober 2023

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shion-yu · 7 months

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A Safe Place (part 2) [day 7]

Cliff’s cough turns into something more serious. For @monthofsick Day 7 “Too feverish to think” and my @badthingshappenbingo space “Delirium”. Wasn’t expecting this to be more than 2 parts but the boys had other plans! 3,385 words, original work, TWs emeto, references to parental homophobia/abuse. [Part 1]

The night Cliff showed up soaked and feverish on the doorstep of Elliot’s family home, Elliot held him and stayed awake until dawn. Cliff was asleep, his overly warm body in Elliot’s arms. Elliot, on the other hand, was wide awake. He was disturbed by Cliff’s sudden appearance and the shape his boyfriend was in. He didn’t know what happened or how to deal with this. He was nineteen and usually he felt like that made him an adult, but right now all he wanted was to go wake his parents up for help. Of course he wasn’t going to turn Cliff away - he’d protect Cliff however he could - but the lack of context was maddening.

At seven, Elliot’s alarm for work went off. He left Cliff asleep in his bed and crept downstairs where he usually ate breakfast with his mom and dad before heading to work at his dad’s auto shop for the day. It was Saturday, so they were only open in the morning. Elliot never missed a day of work and was extremely reliable, but knew today he’d have to let his dad down - but first he had to tell his parents what happened. His dad was already working on one of the plates of toast on the table and his mom was packing the two of them lunch.

“Good morning honey,” his mom, Rachel said. His dad Giovanni nodded at him around a sip of orange juice. Elliot swallowed nervously, hovering awkwardly instead of sitting down.

“I need to tell you guys something and I hope you’re not too mad,” he said. His parents’ faces immediately grew serious and Rachel wiped her hands off and sat at the table. They looked at him expectantly. Elliot took a deep breath. “You know my boyfriend Cliff? Well... last night, he showed up at our door. He was soaking wet and didn’t have anything with him and I don’t know what happened, but... he’s in my bedroom.”

“You boyfriend’s here? In this house?” Giovanni repeated incredulously. Elliot nodded.

“Is he okay?” Rachel asked.

Elliot shook his head. “I don’t know. I think not really. He has a fever and his breathing sounds bad. I know I should’ve told you last night but it was like three in the morning and, I don’t know. I should’ve come to get you. But I’m really worried about him.”

Rachel just nodded, and Elliot felt a rush of relief that neither parent seemed like they were about to lecture him. At least not yet. “It sounds like he’s sick,” she said, “I’ll go take a look at him.”

“Please,” Elliot said. His mom was a nurse, but more importantly she was a mom and he didn’t know what to do in this situation all by himself. “And um, I’m sorry dad but I don’t think I can come to work today.”

Giovanni stood up and clapped him on the shoulder. “Do what you need to do today, alright kiddo?” Elliot gave him a quick side hug and hurried upstairs with his mom. Cliff was right where Elliot had left him, huddled under several blankets and his noisy breathing audible from the moment they stepped closer.

Elliot crouched in front of the bed and shook Cliff’s shoulder. “Cliffy? Wake up. I want my mom to take a look at you.” Cliff felt even hotter under Elliot’s hand than before, causing a pang of panic to run through Elliot’s body.

Cliff blinked awake sleepily, calm until he noticed Elliot’s mom in the room. Then his face turned to one of fear and he shook his head no, pushing away from Elliot as if the other side of the bed provided far more distance than it did. “No no, Cliff, it’s okay. She’s really nice. I know you don’t like being touched by other people but I think you’re really sick. Please let her look at you. For me?”

It took a few long seconds, but Cliff eventually acquiesced and pushed himself into a sitting position. His arms were shaking with effort and Elliot wrapped an arm around him so he could lean for support. Rachel gave Cliff a gentle smile and sat on the edge of the bed. “Hi Cliff, I’m Rachel,” she said in what Elliot knew to be her nurse voice. “Elliot’s told me so much about you. I’m really glad to meet you. You don’t look like you feel too good though right now, do you?”

Cliff didn’t confirm or deny, but clutched onto Elliot’s hand tightly. Rachel grabbed the thermometer from where Elliot had left it on the bedside table last night and held it up to Cliff. “Under your tongue please,” she said. Cliff obeyed. Elliot could feel him trembling. He watched as the number kept going up until it beeped and settled on a glowing 102.7. Rachel frowned and said, “I think we need to go to the doctor.”

It was as if something in Cliff snapped and his grip on Elliot became painfully tight. “No, no, no hospital,” he said. “I-I can’t go to the hospital. My dad - my dad’ll be mad. Please don’t make me.”

Elliot’s heart broke for Cliff. He knew Cliff’s parents weren’t very nice people, but this reaction seemed extreme. He remembered how Cliff had begged him not to go to the hospital when he had the flu, too. Rachel had a similar pitying expression on her face. “Cliff, honey, we need to make sure you’re okay. We can go to urgent care though, alright?”

Cliff settled down a little, but he still looked afraid. “Hear that Cliffy? Just urgent care. It’ll be super fast and your dad will never know.” It took several seconds, but finally Cliff nodded.

“You boys get ready to go and meet me downstairs,” Rachel told him, leaving them in the bedroom alone. Elliot sighed.

“Cliff... What happened?” He asked. It still felt the wrong time to question his boyfriend, but he felt like he needed to know before this went any further. This felt serious and he couldn’t keep running on speculation. He also doubted that Cliff would tell any doctor the whole story.

Cliff looked at him with exhausted, watery eyes. "I came out to my mom,” he said hoarsely. “It didn't go well."

"Did she hit you?" Elliot asked, feeling like his heart was in his throat. "Did she kick you out?"

"No," Cliff said quietly.

"Then why, in the middle of the night, in the rain...?"

Cliff shrugged. "I just had to get out of there," he said simply. "And I really needed you."

Elliot wanted to know more. He wanted to push Cliff to keep talking. But Cliff seemed so delicate and they really did need to get him to a doctor, so Elliot let it drop for now. “Well, you’ve got me baby. Let’s get you looked at and then we’ll be right back here in bed, okay?”

Getting Cliff to urgent care was like leading a child. He was sluggish and acted a little confused, which scared Elliot. His mom drove while Cliff laid in the backseat with his head in Elliot’s lap. Elliot helped him into the waiting room and then checked him in. The wait was thankfully not too bad, something Elliot was exceedingly grateful for as he listened to Cliff’s breathing become more labored. He had a cough that sounded wheezy and painful, and the secretary waved a mask at Elliot until Rachel grabbed it and helped Cliff put it on.

Cliff sat on the exam table once they were led to a room and had his vitals taken by a nurse. His temperature was 102.9 now and he was shivering. Elliot climbed onto the table next to him and let Cliff rest against him until the doctor came in. Cliff predictably clammed up when the doctor started asking questions, so Elliot explained that Cliff had spent the night in the rain and had asthma. The doctor listened to Cliff’s lungs and ordered a chest x-ray. “You said his temperature was low last night? Rebound hyperthermia can usually cause a fever afterwards, but a cough like this wouldn’t have shown up overnight. How long have you been sick, Cliff?”

“A while,” was the near whispered answer. Elliot squeezed Cliff’s forearm, urging him to elaborate. “Maybe three weeks.” Elliot felt his stomach drop. Cliff had been coughing for three weeks and his parents hadn’t said anything? His dad was a doctor for goodness sake.

The chest x-ray didn’t show pneumonia, the doctor said, but Cliff had definite bronchitis and needed to rest. He was prescribed a 4mg prednisone taper pack and a new inhaler, and then they were allowed to head home. By the time Rachel parked the car back at the house, Cliff’s face was a pasty white with a tinge of green. He stood up, then sat back down. "Dizzy?" Elliot asked. Cliff nodded minutely. "Okay. Just hold on to me and we'll walk really slow." Elliot supported Cliff into the house, wishing urgent care had given Cliff something for the fever while they were there.

It felt like a long way all the way back up to the second floor, but Elliot got Cliff into bed and tucked in before going to get some fresh water and something to eat for himself. His mom was waiting in the kitchen and said, “Okay, let’s talk honey. What’s going on here?”

“Honestly, I don’t know that much,” Elliot said tiredly, sitting at the table heavily. The half-night’s sleep and worry was getting to him. “Cliff said he came out to his mom and it didn’t go well and... I think they were abusive growing up. He’s really scared of them.”

Rachel looked sad and gave Elliot a hug. “Well, it seems like he trusts you more than anyone. Just let us know what we can do and we’ll do it,” she said. “He can stay here until school starts and then you guys can go back together.” Elliot hugged her back, so grateful that he had the parents he had and not Cliff’s.

“Thanks mom,” he said, unable to help tears from filling his eyes. School would start in two weeks. It wasn’t that long.

Elliot ate his now cold toast from earlier and then went back upstairs, expecting to find Cliff in bed. Instead he followed the sound of retching into the bathroom, where he found Cliff kneeling over the toilet seat throwing up quite violently. Elliot winced, glad he hadn’t given Cliff his steroid from the doctor yet. “Oh Cliff,” he sighed sadly, sitting next to him and rubbing Cliff’s back.

“This is gross, go away,” Cliff groaned, weakly trying to shrug him off. Another wave of vomit caused him to launch back over the toilet seat.

“It’s fine,” Elliot said. “You sat with me when I threw up, remember?”

“That was different, we were drunk,” Cliff managed to choke out. He coughed into the bowl, the water making the sound echo a little. He slumped forward, resting his forehead on the edge of the toilet miserably. “Everything’s spinning.”

Elliot wet a washcloth and rubbed it against Cliff’s hot, sweaty neck. Cliff shivered. “I’m right here,” Elliot said evenly. “Take your time.”

It was about five more minutes of Cliff intermittently gagging until Elliot was sure he had nothing left in him and pulled Cliff into his lap. He wiped the rest of Cliff’s face off, and his hands which had some of the puke on them. “Bed?”

“Don’t wanna throw up on you,” Cliff mumbled.

“There’s a trash can. You need to lie down and take your meds.” Elliot helped Cliff stand up, which proved to require some core strength with how heavily Cliff leant on him. They hobbled back to Elliot’s bedroom where Cliff collapsed onto the mattress, panting heavily. Elliot popped out the first doses of prednisone and two Tylenol into his hand and held them out to Cliff. “You’re supposed to eat with these...” He said, “Do you think you can - no, didn’t think so,” he didn’t finish the question when Cliff interrupted him with a loud whimper. “Okay, let’s just hope for the best.”

Cliff took the pills and his new inhaler, mumbling a weak, “Thanks.”

Elliot climbed into bed next to him and spooned Cliff protectively. “Thank you for going to the doctor,” he said. “Now you can rest.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Elliot had never heard someone cough the way Cliff had been coughing and he was extremely worried. In the week since Cliff had shown up unannounced, he’d been weak but after that first full weekend in bed his fever broke and he seemed a little better. He had been eating again and had become less painfully shy with Elliot’s parents. Elliot went to work with his dad the following week and Cliff seemed sick, but well enough to insist on helping out with the chores around the house. Rachel said he was a very good assistant.

Cliff told Elliot a bit about his internship this summer and one afternoon they even drove to get Cliff’s college stuff from his parents’ house at a time when Cliff was sure nobody would be home. There was no incident doing this and Cliff seemed like he was on the mend. It seemed as if their final week of summer vacation was going to be actually spent together having a little fun. Elliot’s father planned to release him from work for the season so he could spend the last week before school started getting ready and relaxing a bit. Elliot thought about all his favorite places that maybe he could bring Cliff, like his favorite state park.

That cough just wouldn’t go away though, especially at night. By the end of the week, Cliff's cough had grown much deeper and he seemed like he was in pain every time he did so. It was just the cough and a low grade fever though, so Elliot still hoped it would go away. That hope was shattered when he came home after work on Saturday at noon to find his boyfriend sitting up in bed, struggling to breathe. Cliff was clutching a fist to his chest and his face was contorted in pain. When he looked up at Elliot his eyes were glassy and unseeing.

“Cliff!” Elliot exclaimed in shock. Cliff had seemed mostly fine when he’d left this morning, what had changed? He pressed a hand to Cliff’s forehead and was able to feel a searing heat in the second before Cliff jerked away from him.

“Don’t touch me,” Cliff gasped. He looked angry, and Elliot felt hurt until Cliff added, “I’ll be good, I can go to school. Don’t call dad.”

“Cliffy, it’s me, Elliot,” Elliot said slowly, climbing onto the bed and holding his hands up when Cliff shuddered away from him. “Your mom and dad aren’t here. It’s just us.”

Cliff looked at Elliot suspiciously, his breathing labored. Elliot could hear that asthmatic wheeze back in his breath, but worse than that a deep, hollowed out noise underneath. “It’s just us,” Elliot repeated. “I promised you I’d never put my hands on you to hurt you, remember?”

It took a while, but finally Cliff nodded hesitantly, like he couldn’t quite trust that memory was real. “I don’t wanna go to school,” he mumbled. “M’tired.”

“Okay, that’s okay, no school,” Elliot reassured him. “Can we take your temperature?” Elliot slid the small instrument under Cliff’s tongue waiting anxiously for a reading. 103.2. Shit. Cliff had barely had a fever the past few days, mostly just a low one at night. Now it was noon and it was higher than ever. This didn’t seem right. Cliff whimpered in pain and wrapped his arms around himself. “What hurts?” Elliot asked.

“Chest,” Cliff said. It made a chill go down Elliot’s body. That was it. There was no begging it off this time, Cliff needed to go to the hospital. The question was how to get him there, because Elliot knew the second the word hospital was mentioned that Cliff would freak out. He racked his brain for a solution. They were the only ones home right now.

Cliff shivered and coughed that horrible deep cough that made Elliot’s stomach twist in pain. He knew Cliff might never trust him again if he did this, but he felt like he had no other choice. Cliff really needed help and he didn’t think urgent care was going to cut it this time. He made his decision. “Alright Cliff, my sweet guy,” he said. “I know you don't feel so good but we gotta go out for a bit.”

“Huh? Where?” Cliff asked suspiciously.

Elliot tried to keep an innocent expression. “Just out. Just for a bit. I need you with me though, can you do that for me?”

Elliot held his breath waiting for Cliff to answer, but finally Cliff nodded and said, “For you.” Elliot pushed down the guilt he was feeling and forced a smile at Cliff.

“You're the best,” Elliot forced himself to say with fake cheer. He coaxed Cliff into the car and drove well over the speed limit to the emergency room. He kept one eye on Cliff, anxious to get someone with medical knowledge to listen to that horrible cough that left Cliff gasping. Cliff seemed too out of it to notice when they pulled into the ER parking lot and Elliot took a deep breath, steeling himself for the inevitable fight Cliff would eventually put up.

“Cliff?”

“Hmm?” Cliff's eyes were closed, his face disturbingly pale and his chest heaving with the work of breathing. Elliot grit his teeth and forced himself to be truthful.

“We're at the hospital. I need you to get seen by a doctor.” Cliff’s eyes opened and immediately Elliot could see a mix of pain, fear and betrayal. He felt like the worst boyfriend in the world right now.

“You said we weren't going to the hospital,” Cliff’s voice wobbled. His eyes blurred with tears. “No way, I’m walking home,” he said.

Elliot, knowing Cliff had literally made his way here all the way from Newark last week, was afraid he actually would and grabbed Cliff's wrist. “Baby, please, listen to me. Cliff. You're so sick. I don't know what to do. Just let a doctor see you, we're not even in the city, your dad won't know.”

“He’ll figure it out,” Cliff said desperately, attempting to tug his arm away but Elliot didn't let go. Cliff was too weak to shake him off. “All I do is cause problems for them. I can’t.”

Elliot leaned forward so he was as close to Cliff as possible, his expression and tone begging. “Please Cliff. I’m going to protect you, but just come in with me. I’m scared. For me, please? If nothing else, for me?”

Elliot didn't think it was going to work. He physically slumped in relief when Cliff stopped pulling away and said, “Okay. For you, just this once.”

“Thank you,” Elliot gushed earnestly, squeezing Cliff's hand. “I love you, Cliff.”

“I love you too,” Cliff said, looking at Elliot with watery, exhausted eyes.

Elliot blinked in surprise. He wasn't expecting the first I Love You to come right now, or anywhere close to right now when he had just tricked and then pressured Cliff into going to the one place he was most afraid of. “You do?” He said, his voice high pitched.

Cliff nodded. “I do,” he said hoarsely. He was mostly looking at his lap but gave Elliot a sideways glance.

“Oh,” Elliot said. “Thanks, Cliff.” He wasn't sure what else to say, but Cliff looked embarrassed and was definitely clamming up, so he added, “That makes me happy. And I'm really grateful you trust me enough to get checked out. I’ll be right there the whole time.”

“Okay,” Cliff said. Another harsh coughing fit overtook him that lasted so long that by the end of it, tears were streaming down his face. He breathed sharply through his nose, trying to catch his breath. “Can't breathe, El.”

“I know. That's why we're here baby,” Elliot said worriedly. “Let's go in now.”

“Promise you won’t leave me?”

“I promise,” Elliot swore. “I’ve got you, Cliff.”

[Part 3]

#shionwrites #oc: cliff #oc: elliot #sickfic #whump #sicknario #fever whump #illness whump #sick whump #male whump #emeto #TW: emeto #novemetober rescheduled #novemetober 2023 #bad things happen bingo #hurt/comfort #angst

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danafeelingsick · 8 months

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Novemetober 2023

@monthofsick

Prompt list | Masterlist | AO3 collection

Day 5: Undesirable character

Word count: 1,1k~

CONTENT WARNINGS: descriptions of vomiting, of food, nausea, burping, stubborn sickie

A/N: not too happy with this :( for the record: i didn't like lyney at first, but now i regret skipping him, he's cool and he's highly whumpable. and another thing, i think it's silly the traveler was so cold to him during the trial, but i did like how they grew to trust him and his siblings. and thought it would be cute to write something like this. might've turned out more overindulgent than the angsty comfort fic i had in mind. i might do something more detailed with it in the future!

A shuddering sigh escaped Aether's lips, breaking the silence hanging awkwardly around him and his flying companion, who just shot him an anxious glance. Trying to distract himself from the growing boredom, he traced the outline of the playing card in his pocket, with his finger. Lyney was late.

In the last days they had met inside the fortress of Meropide, that would be a first for him, and while it would be fair to allow him a grace period, several minutes had already passed. What Aether was feeling was a mix of annoyance and a bit of apprehension. He was lending his help in the magician's investigation, and was still being left out like this. And then there was the matter of...

“Ourrp—”, Aether burped discreetly into his fist, tasting his lunch in the root of his tongue. “...yuck”, he muttered under his breath while massaging his chest gently with his fingertips, trying to chase away the heartburn.

“Ugh, don't remind Paimon”, the small fairy groaned, hugging her middle as she floated aimlessly by the traveler's side, like a deflated balloon. “Paimon doesn't wanna think about the horrible lunch we had!”

“I didn't even say anything, you did”, Aether responded, his voice coming from the bottom of his throat. Now he was thinking about it, and his belly wasn't too happy to be reminded. “I don't know why you're being so dramatic. I was the one who had to eat both of our bad dishes...”

“That's exactly why!”, Paimon stomped in mid-air. “We both had bad luck, you ate your seafood soup AND my onion soup! Now Paimon's hungry...”

Aether let out a nauseated groan, loud enough to silence her, he had started to sweat cold. The memory of the suspicious-looking dishes he had forced down came flooding back, fish stench and greasy cheese churning restlessly inside his belly.

“Stop— ugh, we'll get some food for you after this, okay?”, he hurriedly said, through his teeth. ”Just don't talk about it anymore.”

“Really? Oh, you're too nice, traveler, hehe”, Paimon cheered, flying around him, which she only realized was a bad idea as she saw Aether wince with nausea. ”Ah, sorry! Now, if only Lyney would show up —”

Paimon stopped talking as she picked up on footsteps on the metal sheet flooring, turning to their direction. Aether only heard them when they closed in, raising his gaze to find the pair of twins standing there, Lyney already smiling apologetically at him, and Lynette, with an unamused expression.

“Oh, hi two! Some slackers you are, keeping us waiting”, Paimon greeted, briefly cordial as she already jumped to accusations.

”My sincerest apologies, friends. We had some trouble getting to our meeting spot, but we're here right now”, Lyney said, with a small bow.

Lynette simply shrugged, muttering an apology, which Aether took as an opportunity to change his posture, and strategically cross his arms over his belly. While it wasn't the most comfortable position, it was his best shot at hiding the noticeable size of his abdomen. His exposed midriff was nearly pink, the skin stretched over his upset stomach, making his discomfort quite obvious.

“So, what's the plan?” Paimon ushered them, knowing they didn't have much time to talk.

Aether's face scrunched up as soon as Lyney started talking, leaving his companion to lead the whole conversation. The idea of working with a fatui didn't sit right with him, especially one that had lied and deceived him, but at that point it couldn't be helped.

The traveler briefly closed his eyes, his stomach was churning viscously, leaving him disoriented. It was already hard to tell which way was up when all he could see was metal and rust inside that underwater fortress, but now it seemed nearly impossible. The ever present musk of sea salt and humidity was making the nausea even worse.

“Did you get all that?”, he felt Paimon nudge him, bringing him back to the conversation.

Aether grunted, shifting his weight. “Y-Yeah.”

Though he tried to act like he had been paying the least bit of attention, Lyney gave him a curious look, his green eyes pinning him in place. A second of silence hanged in the air he spoke up:

“You seem a bit pale, friend. Is everything alright?”, the magician asked, and at first, Aether took his tone as mocking, seemingly shrinking in place.

“Let's just finish this so I can go back to my — OoUrP!”, he started before a rather loud belch cut him off, his hand flying up to his mouth as a small splash of bile came up with it.

If at that right moment a portal to the abyss opened in front of Aether, he wouldn’t hesitate to jump into it. His face immediately flushed a bright red as he felt the twins’ gaze closed in on him. He swallowed hard, trying to keep down the rush of hot acid pooling over his tongue. Lyney gave him a worried glance, stepping in his direction

“Ah, I suppose we could… take a break? You really don’t look well”, Lyney offered, to which Aether, hand still pressed to his mouth, shook his head vehemently. “Are you sure…? You look like you might —”

A noise akin to a wet muffled gurgle leaves Aether's mouth, unable to protest before he feels his abdomen squeeze, a thick mass of undigested food inching closer to his mouth. He turns on his heels, stumbling a few steps away before he vomits onto the floor.

In between coughing wetly over the puddle of his regurgitated lunch, he hears Paimon shriek, and light steps coming his direction. Lyney appears in the corner of his vision, kneeling by his side. He doesn't hesitate before he reaches out, gathering Aether's hair in his hand.

“You could’ve just told me you weren't feeling well”, he tells him in a playful tone, brushing a few strands before his ear. “Now, try to get it all out, okay?”

Aether scowls, about to argue he doesn't want his help, but he doesn't get the chance. His stomach squeezes again and he leans forward with a harsh retch, bringing up another thick wave of cheesy clumpy vomit. It splatters wetly in front of him, missing his boots by little. Lyney seems disaffected by it, keeping a firm hand on his back.

Aether groans miserably and spits into the puddle, trying to rid his mouth of the sickening taste. He is faintly aware of the stare crawling up his back, though Lyney’s presence somewhat distracts him from it. He rubs his back lightly, his demeanor gentle, almost brotherly, a small chuckle leaving his lips.

“I think we’re done here. You should pay a visit to Sigewinne”, he suggests. “Do you want me to help you get there?”

Aether nods, defeated.

#emeto #vomiting #tw vomit #tw emeto #sickfic prompts #novemetober 2023 #nov(emeto)ber 2023 #novemetober rescheduled #novemetober day 5 #l.ney g.enshin i.mpact #ly/ney gen/shin imp/act #ae/ther gen/shin imp/act #a.ether g.enshin i.mpact

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shion-yu · 6 months

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A Safe Place (part 4/4) [day 24]

Cliff’s past experiences in hospitals have all been bad. For @monthofsick day 24: Panic and @badthingshappenbingo Paralyzed by Fear. 3,698 words, original work, TWs emeto (mild x1), hospital/surgical content, child abuse/trauma. If you'd like to skip the first half which is a childhood flashback, control-find the word “eighteen”.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 - This is the final part! Thanks for sticking with me guys.

Cliff’s fear of hospitals first began when he was three years old. He’d been inside the hospital several times because his dad worked there, but he hadn’t really processed it as anything significant until one day when he went there with his mother, who’d been tasked with watching him because the nanny was off. Cliff had been doing everything “wrong” that day, and Hana Barrows had reached her limit after a spilled glass of orange juice. She dragged him by the wrist to the car and drove to the hospital, swearing loudly all the way there. Cliff was silent because even back then he knew that saying anything would just make things worse.

Hana brought Cliff up to Dr. Claude Barrows’ office without warning, ignoring the secretary shouting after her as she passed without signing in. She yanked Claude’s door open without knocking and found him hunched over a pile of paperwork.

“What in the - Hana! What on earth are you doing here?! Why is Cliff here?”

“I’m not a babysitter!” She shouted as she shoved Cliff towards his father, who would have fallen on his face had Claude not caught him. “You promised me I’d never have to babysit!”

“Keep your voice down,” Claude hissed. He sat Cliff on the chair he’d been sitting on and turned to his irate wife. “It’s one day in his entire life Hana, one goddamn day.”

Hana let out an angry groan of frustration and slapped her hands on Claude’s chest, grabbing the lapels of his lab coat and pulling him forward. “I never wanted this! I’m not doing it!”

They squabbled for another few minutes, young Cliff staring at his velcro-up shoes and distracting himself trying to remember how the last nanny had taught him how to tie laces. He’d forgotten how after his mom fired her, because Cliff had been too attached to her.

“You can’t leave him here Hana, I’m working,” Claude said finally, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Well figure it out, because I’m not taking him home with me,” Hana snapped back. With that she stalked out of the office, not stopping despite Claude shouting after her. He followed her out, and Cliff was left alone in his dad’s office, on his big spinny office chair, with no idea what he was supposed to do now. He was old enough to know that his parents didn’t like him, although he didn’t understand why. He didn’t talk much but they still said he was too noisy. His big sister Moira was nice to him, but that was when she was around. Usually she was too busy with her high school friends and sports to be home much.

Cliff tried to climb down from the chair, but it was really tall and he was afraid of falling. Still, he eased his lower half down, stretching his short legs to try and feel for the floor. He felt it all at once when he fell, smacking his forehead on the hard floor. He bit his lip, trying not to cry. His parents hated when he cried. Still, he couldn’t help it as a few little tears rolled down his chubby cheeks.

“Did you fall, honey?”

Cliff looked up to find a young woman kneeling in front of him. He nodded, wiping his face with tiny fists. “Aw, poor thing,” she said.

“He’s my son. Do you like kids?” Dr. Barrows was back, standing in the doorway - without Cliff’s mom.

“Yeah, totally,” the girl said. “Sorry Dr. Barrows, it’s just I heard a kid crying and the door was open so-”

“It’s fine,” Cliff’s father responded. “Actually, I need you to watch him for the rest of the day.”

“M-me? But, um, I’m a medical student, I don’t think...”

“Part of being a doctor is doing what your attending orders, and I’m telling you to babysit my kid until my shift ends at seven,” Dr. Barrows said sharply. “Is that a problem?”

“No - I mean, sort of, my clinical ends at four, and-”

“Great. I don’t care what you do with him, just keep him out of the way. I’ll pay you for your time.” Dr. Barrows ignored any further protest from the student and shoved two hundred-dollar bills in her hand before leaving.

The student shook her head in disbelief. “Alright, Cliff is it?” She asked. Cliff nodded, clutching the hem of his shirt nervously. “Right. Well, Cliff, I guess it’s you and me until seven...”

The student was nice, all things considered, but she clearly had no interest in babysitting. She had long legs and walked so quickly that Cliff had to run to keep up. A lot of times she’d turn a corner before he did and he thought he’d lost her, but she always found him again. They ate lunch in the cafeteria and she let him draw with a pen and a piece of printer paper while she did work. Cliff honestly didn’t understand what was going on, but he went with it because he was taught not to complain and didn't want to be left behind.

It was around 5pm when the student said, “You’d rather be with your dad, right? He has a pretty cool facial reconstruction starting now. Let’s go watch.” She led Cliff to the gallery, a large room with chairs above the surgical theater with a glass window for an audience. Cliff’s dad was scrubbed in, hyper focused and didn’t notice the spectators. “The surgery will last a few hours,” the student told Cliff. “I’m going home, so just stay here and don’t move until your dad comes and gets you.”

Cliff looked at her, confused. She was going to leave him here by himself? “It’s fine,” she said. “Your dad’s right down there. Just stay where you are and whatever you do, don’t move from this room, got it?” Cliff had no other choice but to nod obediently. Then he was alone.

At first, Cliff was excited to see what his dad did for work. A large woman was lying on the table - sleeping, Cliff thought - and everybody was dressed in funny clothes. His dad was wearing a long mint gown, goggles and a puffy scrub cap, which made him laugh. That laughter died in his throat when he saw his father take a long, silver knife and cut into the sleeping woman’s face.

Cliff screamed, but nobody was there to hear him. He started to panic and it felt like there was no air in the room. There was blood and the sound of a drill. Cliff began to cry, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the horrible scene. His father seemed to be tearing this lady’s face apart, and he did so for two hours before pulling the skin back up and sewing it all back together.

“Wonderful,” his father said in a confident tone. “Good work gentlemen.” Someone was helping him take off his bloody robes. At this moment, he finally looked up at what should have been an empty gallery, but instead he saw his traumatized three year old son. “What the hell? Is that my son?” Cliff heard him say loudly. Cliff was terrified. What if his father got mad and did the same thing to him? He hid under a chair in the corner of the gallery until his father flew into the room and dragged him out.

“I’m sorry, I stayed like she told me to, I’m sorry,” Cliff sobbed. He was so scared, pushing his father’s face away. He kept thinking of how bloody his dad’s hands had been. “Don’t hit me!”

“Cliff, shut up, you’re embarrassing me,” Claude said angrily. “It’s not your fault though, that stupid medical student - her career is over,” he growled. “Come on. Let’s go home.” He picked Cliff up and carried his crying child out of the hospital, and together they went home. They never talked about what Cliff had seen, but for years he had nightmares about it. He was scared of what his father was capable of, and every time Claude yelled at him or hit him, Cliff wondered if it would go further - if he’d end up on that table being cut up next if he didn’t behave.

By the time Cliff reached middle school, he understood that his father’s job was to be a surgeon and that he actually helped people, even if it was scary - and horrible - to see in person. But when he had his stomach ulcer and had to be hospitalized for a few days, his fear of hospitals was renewed and solidified. His parents were furious at him. Even with a fever and in so much pain, his father yelled at him every step of the way. Every time Cliff cried, or threw up, or panicked because he was afraid of needles, it was made ten times worse by his parents’ obsession with Cliff not spoiling their image of what a perfect son should be like. The pressure they put on him while he was in the hospital just made him sicker. It was a terrible experience, and Cliff vowed never to let himself get sick enough to end up in a hospital again.

Unfortunately, these sorts of decisions are not truly one’s own. Now Cliff was in the hospital with pneumonia, and although he was eighteen and told himself he was an adult who knew better, he was still scared. It was a different hospital, but everything smelled the same. The nurses acted the same - nice, but brisk. He felt the same helpless feeling of being surrounded by people who didn’t understand him, and most of all he was terrified of his father finding out he was here. He was sure he’d be furious if he discovered Cliff had ended up here after disrespecting his mother by leaving home. He thought about ripping the IV tubing out of his arm and making a run for it, but he didn’t think his legs would hold him.

When Elliot was next to him, Cliff felt like he could keep it together. After all, he’d never had someone like Elliot to hold on to during these scary moments before. But now Elliot had gone home for the night and Cliff was alone in a tiny room without windows in the hospital, and he was losing it.

Cliff didn’t realize he was having a panic attack until the nurse came in because his heart monitor was going off. She tried to settle him down, speaking to him in hushed tones and reassuring him that he was safe, but he didn’t believe her. All he could think about was his prior bad experiences in hospitals. His entire chest felt tight and he was crying, which made it difficult to breathe in conjunction with his already junky lungs.

“Cliff, you need to slow down your breathing for me,” the nurse said, but Cliff couldn’t. He couldn’t control it. He was just as scared as the day he’d hid under the chair above the operating room from his father, abandoned and afraid to trust anybody.

The thing that did stop him panicking was the uncontrollable coughing fit that came on. All the tears and snot that came with crying choked him, and then he couldn’t stop. He coughed until he vomited onto his lap, tears and mucus mixing into a horrible puddle that he could feel seeping through the sheets onto his legs. He was so disgusting, he couldn’t stand himself. Elliot was right to leave him here alone.

The nurse called the other nurse for backup, and soon they were changing Cliff’s sheets together, changing his nasal cannula to a simple face mask while he was so snotty from crying, and one of them administered something through his IV that made him feel sleepy. Cliff’s nurse asked him if it would make him feel better to call his boyfriend.

“What time is it?” Cliff asked, his voice hoarse from crying and throwing up.

“Eleven,” she told him.

Cliff shook his head no. He had already woken Elliot up enough times this week. “It’s okay. He’s probably asleep.” They hadn't agreed on a time that Elliot was going to come back, Cliff realized. Elliot had said he’d be back in the morning. The morning could be eight, or it could be as late as noon. That was, if Elliot came back at all. No, he'd come back. Elliot kept his word - usually. Then again, Cliff had never expected Elliot to trick him into coming to the hospital. He understood he was really sick and needed help, he did, but the betrayal still stung.

After his nurse did another albuterol treatment through the mask, she changed Cliff back to a new (not snot-clogged) nasal cannula and left him to get some sleep. Cliff couldn’t rest though. Even with the lights off, all the machines cast a glow that kept the room too bright. The faint beeping of his heart monitor and the drip of his IV fluids reminded him too much of the last time he was in the hospital, and he felt vaguely nauseous despite being sure there was nothing left in his stomach. He curled in a tight ball and held his knees to his chest, trembling. He missed Elliot and wished he was here to make him feel safer right now. Instead, all he had was himself and a very long night ahead of him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Cliff woke up drenched in sweat. He didn’t know where he was and immediately began to panic, but then he felt someone pushing him back down and shushing him.

“Elliot?” Cliff blinked in confusion. He’d finally cried himself to sleep in the wee hours of the morning but he hadn’t expected to sleep long enough that it was already within business hours. “What time is it?” His voice crackled, laden with wetness, and he let out a congested, barking cough. It made his sides ache and he gripped them automatically.

Elliot smiled at him and ran a delicate hand through Cliff’s damp hair. “Hi baby,” he said fondly. “It’s about nine AM.”

“Really?” Cliff glanced around, slowly remembering the details of yesterday. “I’m so hot,” he muttered.

“I think your fever broke,” Elliot said gently. “How do you feel?”

Cliff considered things. He felt significantly less achy than last night and it was easier to breathe. He didn’t feel like his brain was entirely full of sand - maybe just halfway. “Better,” he said. “Can I go home?”

“That’s up to the doctor,” Elliot said. “I ordered you some breakfast though. Do you feel up to eating? I got you oatmeal and toast.”

Cliff grimaced, remembering all the vomiting he’d done yesterday. “I’m not sure.”

“You can see how you feel when it gets here,” Elliot said. “The nurse said your breathing got a lot better after your second steroid injection.”

Only now did Cliff notice the lack of oxygen tubing on his face. He’d fallen asleep with it on and Cliff was shocked he’d really been so passed out that the nurse had been able to give him IV meds, do vitals, and remove his oxygen without waking him up. He must have been truly exhausted.

“Thanks for coming back,” Cliff said suddenly, looking at his hands instead of Elliot’s face.

“Of course I came back,” Elliot responded. “I promised you, didn’t I?”

Promises didn’t always work out, Cliff thought to himself, but he just nodded yes. “Well, I missed you,” was all he responded. “So thanks.”

He was surprised by the quick kiss that Elliot stole from him, even though he hadn’t brushed his teeth since yesterday morning. “E-Elliot,” he stuttered, red faced as he sat back and covered his mouth with his hands in embarrassment.

“I missed you too,” Elliot said. His smile was so kind and genuine. It made Cliff feel so much better. “You did incredible staying here overnight by yourself.”

Cliff understood that Elliot was babying him a little, but he also realized that he was unable to stop himself from smiling into his hands. Something inside him felt so content when Elliot was proud of him. He wanted to feel like that over and over.

Breakfast arrived and Cliff picked at the food, trying to get down a few bites mostly because Elliot was staring at him so hopefully. He really wasn’t hungry, but he managed half of a piece of toast and two bites of oatmeal before he couldn’t manage any more. It was difficult to eat when his cough was still so harsh, overtaking him at random moments and leaving him doubled over in bed, his arms clutching his sides in pain. At least he managed to keep the food down, though.

The doctor came by shortly after Cliff finished eating and examined him. He listened to Cliff’s lungs and cough, nodding along with his own conclusions. “I believe it’s safe to send you home, but you have to promise to rest and do nothing else for several more days,” he said finally. “How does that sound to you?”

Cliff nodded in agreement. He’d gladly stay in Elliot’s bed for another week if it meant getting rid of this awful cough - preferably, far away from any hospitals. Elliot awkwardly raised his hand a little before speaking. “Excuse me Doctor, but we start classes back at school in the city on Monday. Will he be okay by then?”

“Hmm. You’ll have to play that by ear, but as long as he gets proper rest and takes his meds, no fevers, then probably. Do you have to walk far to get to class?”

Cliff shrugged. Sometimes, not always. Elliot answered for him though. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t walk too much,” his boyfriend said confidently.

“In that case, I’m not concerned about discharging him,” the doctor said. “I’ll put in the orders and we’ll have you out of here in a few hours. I do recommend you keep using a nebulizer at home for a few days and as needed, do you have one?”

Cliff shook his head no at the same time Elliot said, “We’ll get one for him, we just need the medicine.”

“You’ve got someone taking good care of you, I see,” the doctor chuckled. “I’ll write scripts for that too then. Make sure you follow up with an asthma doctor as soon as you can.”

Elliot thanked the doctor several times, Cliff echoing the sentiment with a simple thank you, and then all they had to do was wait for paperwork. In the meantime the nurse helped Cliff get back into normal clothes, took out his IV and detached him from all the equipment. He had sticky residue on his finger and chest from the oxygen and heart monitoring leeds that didn’t seem to want to come off, but it didn’t matter. He’d have plenty of time to scrub it off later. Cliff was just relieved to be escaping this place without a longer stay or his father finding out and showing up.

At discharge, Elliot bundled Cliff up in a warm jacket and hat even though it was late August. He pushed Cliff in a wheelchair down to the lobby, then ran to get the car. Cliff insisted he could walk, but he wasn’t entirely convinced of his own strength right now so didn’t push the matter much. He waited patiently for Elliot and waited to feel relieved for when they had officially left the premises of the hospital. It had only been one night, but it felt like a long time. The fresh air felt good on his skin and he took a deep breath, appreciating it even as it made him cough.

Elliot pulled up at patient pickup and helped Cliff into the car, settling him in the passenger’s seat. “My mom’s gonna pick up all your meds and find a nebulizer for you at home,” he explained as he drove. “We’re going to follow all the directions to a tee, get you straightened up before we head back to school this weekend.” He sounded confident about this plan, as if it were foolproof. “Do you want to shower when we get home, or go straight to bed?”

“Shower,” Cliff said. He didn’t want to smell like a hospital anymore. “Sorry about all this.”

Elliot shook his head. “It’s okay. I mean... I was really scared. But you’re going to be fine, so...”

“That’s what I mean,” Cliff said, looking at Elliot seriously. “I’m sorry for scaring you. And being a burden and crying and... I guess what I’m really trying to say is thank you for being there.”

Suddenly there were tears running down Elliot’s cheeks and Cliff panicked. “Wait, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry!”

Elliot pulled over on the curb and wiped his eyes. He sniffled and gave a tiny laugh at the same time, which sounded funny to Cliff. “I’m just really glad you’re okay,” Elliot said, taking Cliff’s hand in his own and squeezing it. “And you’re welcome. But you’re not a burden and it’s okay. I love all of you, Cliff. When you’re sick or scared and lonely... I want to be there for you. Do you understand that?”

Cliff didn’t answer right away, not trusting his own voice not to waver right now. But finally he said, “I’m trying to.” It was more honest than the automatic ‘Yes’ he had very nearly said.

Elliot smiled a little sadly and leaned over to give Cliff a kiss on the cheek. “Okay, as long as you’re trying to,” he said. He looked both fond and sad. “Now let’s get you home and in bed. We’ve got a big school year waiting for us next week and you’re not getting out of that bed until Friday.”

“The nurse said a little exercise is good,” Cliff pointed out.

“Some very light exercise,” Elliot said. “Bed to couch and back is plenty. Got it?”

Cliff smiled. He found it amusing when Elliot got bossy. “Sure,” he said. “You’re in charge, El.”

Elliot grinned and started driving again. “You’re damn right I am.”

Fin.

30 notes · View notes

sicknessbysalem · 7 months

Text

Novemetober (Rescheduled) | Day Sixteen

prompt: waking up puking

hi yes sorry i died for a week. things were rough.

i swear i have other ocs. but something about making novak puke his pretty little guts out makes me happy inside. and i felt like that was a better thing to come back and write.

@monthofsick

if you have any questions, comments, or requests, feel free to send them.

tw emeto, fever, exhaustion, seizure mention (but no actual seizures this time)

Novak stood on the sidelines of the football field, observing the players as they ran through defensive drills. As the defensive coach for the Mavericks, he felt a sense of responsibility to ensure the team was performing at their best. Whether it was the defensive line, the offensive line, or even himself. Novak wanted everyone to perform at their best, even in practice.

For himself, he was desperate to perform at the top of his game, even though he was sidelined. He had to do well. He needed to prove that it wasn't a waste to move him to the coaching position that was open when he couldn't play anymore, not safely anyway. And usually, Novak was good at what he did. He was tough, but not relentless. He was determined for his team to do the best they could do, even in practice, and would hardly accept anything else.

But today, he felt like he was failing them. Novak couldn't shake off the feeling of exhaustion that seemed to weigh him down with each passing minute.

The sun beat down relentlessly on the field, intensifying the heat and adding to Novak's discomfort. Despite the temperature, he felt a chill run through his body, accompanied by a persistent ache in his muscles. Novak rubbed his temples, trying to alleviate the throbbing headache that had been plaguing him all morning.

As the practice continued, Novak found it increasingly difficult to focus on the drills. His movements felt sluggish, and he struggled to keep up with the fast pace of the players. Every step seemed to take more effort than usual, and he couldn't shake off the feeling of fatigue that weighed heavily on him.

Still, Novak pushed through, determined not to let his team down. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep moving, ignoring the protests of his tired body. He couldn't afford to show any weakness, especially not in front of his players. He didn't even know why he felt so... bad. Yuliya had been sick, he took care of her. But surely, Novak told himself, that wasn't what caused that. It couldn't be. Not right now.

He checked his watch briefly. His heart rate looked fine. He didn't feel like he was really at risk for a seizure, so at least that was good. He sighed to himself, before going back to his clipboard and resuming his duties, taking off his sweatshirt in hopes to make himself feel at least a little better.

As practice dragged on, Novak's condition only seemed to worsen. The pounding in his head grew more intense, and a wave of nausea swept over him. He staggered slightly, feeling lightheaded and dizzy.

Despite his best efforts to hide his discomfort, one of his assistant coaches noticed Novak's struggle.

"Hey, Novak, you alright?" Kyle asked, concern evident in his voice.

Novak forced a tight-lipped smile. "Yeah, just a little tired. My girlfriend, she was sick over the weekend. SO I'm just a little worn out. Nothing to worry about."

But Kyle wasn't convinced. "You don't look so good. Maybe you should take a break, get some water or something."

Novak shook his head. "I'm fine, really. I'll tough it out."

With a shrug, Kyle reluctantly backed off, but Novak could tell that his condition hadn't gone unnoticed. He cursed himself for not being able to hide it better. The last thing he wanted, especially after the incident in July, was for anyone to be paying extra close attention to him. Even for a short time.

As practice continued, Novak struggled to keep his focus, his vision blurring at the edges. Each passing minute felt like an eternity, and he counted down the clock until he could go home and crash. Maybe that was all he needed, an early night and he would be fine in the morning.

Novak had hardly stepped in the door when his mom came out. She immediately noticed the fatigue etched on his face and the weariness in his eyes, he could see her worry on her face. The thought made him feel guilty.

"Novak, you don't look well," Marina said, her voice filled with worry.

Novak forced a smile. "I'm just tired, Mom. Yuliya was sick over the weekend, you know... I took care of her. And took care of Elya. I'll probably just go to bed early tonight."

Marina studied him for a moment, unconvinced by his explanation. She knew her son well enough to sense when something was off, and today, Novak seemed more than just tired.

"Are you sure that's all it is?" Marina pressed, placing her hand on his shoulder, "Do I need to call Willow?"

"I'm not going to have..." Novak couldn't make himself finish the sentence, "I'm fine. I'm just tired."

"Alright, słoneczko," Marina said, trying to hide her concern. "Why don't you sit down and rest? I'll make us some tea."

Novak nodded gratefully, sinking onto the couch with a heavy sigh. Marina disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Novak alone with his thoughts, trying to piece together why exactly he felt so fucking exhausted. He was tired, but it was more than that. Something told him it was much more than that.

Before he knew it, Novak's eyelids grew heavy, and he succumbed to the irresistible pull of sleep. Unaware of his own actions, he drifted off into a restless slumber, his body craving the rest it so desperately needed.

Yuliya's hands running through his hair are somehow incredibly comforting and makes his skin crawl at the same time.

He opened his eyes, staring at the living room ceiling. His head was pounding, the living room lights made him cringe and close his eyes again.

"You're sweating..." Yulia said, he heard the sound her her rubbing her hands on her leggings, "Do you feel okay?"

Novak mustered a weak nod in response to Yuliya's question, though he knew it was far from the truth. His body felt like it was on fire, and each movement sent waves of nausea rippling through him. Novak struggled to form a coherent response, his mind fogged by fatigue and the relentless throbbing in his head. He managed a weak nod, though he knew it wasn't entirely truthful.

"Just tired," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just need some rest."

Yuliya's brows furrowed with concern as she observed Novak's pale complexion and the sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. She reached out to touch his cheek, her hand coming away warm and clammy.

"You're burning up," she said softly, her worry palpable in her voice. "I think you might have a fever."

Novak's stomach churned uneasily at her words, a wave of nausea washing over him. He swallowed hard, trying to push back the rising tide of sickness threatening to overwhelm him.

"I'll be fine," he insisted, though the tremor in his voice betrayed his uncertainty.

Yuliya's expression softened with understanding as she gazed at Novak with unwavering concern.

"Let's get you to bed," she said gently, offering him a reassuring smile. "You need to rest."

"I have to get Elya from-"

"Your mom took care of it," Yuliya said, "She's worried. Come on, lets get you in bed..."

Yuliya helped Novak to his feet, supporting him as they made their way to the bedroom. Novak's legs felt like lead, each step a struggle against the mounting exhaustion and dizziness.

Once they reached the bed, Novak sank down onto the mattress with a weary sigh, his body feeling heavier than usual. Novak laid on top of his sheets. He felt entiely uncomfortable, and though he felt slightly cold, he was sure the added feeling of sheets on his skin would send him into an overstimulated spiral.

Yuliya sat beside him, gently brushing her fingers through his hair, carefully detangling the ash blond locks that grew tangled from how wet they were from sweat.

"Do you want to change?" Yuliya asked.

Novak thought about it. And he thought about not changing. Just dealing with it. But, he figured he would probably be more comfortable. So, he nodded, forcing himself to his feet and grabbing a change of clothes. Yuliya looked away, occupying herself by picking things up off the floor. Her clothes, his clothes, she tossed them in the bin.

"I'll probably wash these when you fall asleep, okay?" Yuliya said.

Standing made Novak dizzy, he grabbed his dresser as he pulled on some comfortable clothes. He almost didn't answer, his brain not cooperating.

"You don't have to," Novak said, laying back down.

Yuliya sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing Novak's shoulder. Yuliya was the only exception in terms of his touch aversion. At least, to a degree.

"Try to get some sleep," she said softly, brushing a strand of hair away from Novak's clammy forehead. "I'll be right here if you need anything."

Novak nodded weakly, his eyelids already drooping with fatigue. He closed his eyes, hoping that sleep would offer some relief from the relentless ache in his head and the queasiness in his stomach.

Despite the exhaustion, Novak drifted in and out of consciousness. Each time he surfaced from the depths of sleep, Novak found himself enveloped in a fog of disorientation and confusion. His head throbbed with an intensity that seemed to reverberate through every fiber of his being, pulsing with each beat of his feverish heart.

His room is dark when he finally managed to pry his heavy eyelids open, the world swam in a dizzying haze before him. The room spun around him, tilting and swaying with each movement, leaving him feeling nauseous and unsteady, even as he laid down. He felt the weight of Yuliya behind him, her hand resting on the side of his head, as if she dozed off while lightly scratching the side and back of his head with her nails, as she always did. It was comforting, it made him feel better. Usually.

Now her hand just rested there, a surprinsingly comfortable pressure he could focus on that wasn't the nausea, wasn't the headache.

His stomach churned with a queasy unease, threatening to rebel against him at any moment. Novak clenched his jaw tightly, willing himself to hold back the waves of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. Despite his best efforts, he could feel the telltale signs of impending sickness clawing at the back of his throat, a bitter taste flooding his mouth with each ragged breath he took.

Novak's limbs felt heavy and leaden, as if weighed down by an invisible force that sapped him of his strength and vitality. He longed to rise from the suffocating confines of his bed, to escape the oppressive grasp of illness that held him captive.

But try as he might, he found himself trapped in a state of being unable to muster the energy to move. He tasted saliva in his mouth, swallowing hard and shuddering against it.

The slight shudder must have woke Yuliya. He heard her behind him, heard her hum softly and sit up, reaching over him to turn on his lamp on his nightstand, Yuliya's concern deepened as she watched Novak struggle, his pale complexion contrasting starkly against the rumpled sheets of the bed. She could see the distress etched into the lines of his furrowed brow, the faint sheen of sweat glistening on his clammy skin.

"Novak, are you alright?" Yuliya's voice was laced with worry, her hand brushing over the side of his face, pushing back sweaty hair. He glanced at his watch, his phone was sitting on the nightstand. At least it wasn't that... she figured.

Novak couldn't even bring himself to shake his head at first. His throat constricted with the effort of holding back the rising tide of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. Every slight movement sent a fresh wave of dizziness crashing over him, leaving him feeling light-headed and disoriented.

He tried to will himself to move, to push past the suffocating weight that pressed down on him from all sides. He needed to get up, to run to the bathroom, or to his desk, where his trash can was. Something, anything. But his limbs felt leaden and unresponsive, as if anchored to the mattress by invisible chains that refused to loosen their grip.

As the minutes ticked by, Novak's resolve began to waver, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps as the relentless onslaught of sickness tightened its grip around him.

"Novak.. Novak hey," Yuliya said, "What's wrong?"

Desperation clawed at his chest as he struggled to keep the roiling contents of his stomach at bay, his muscles tensed with the effort of holding back what he tried not to imagine was the remains of lunch and breakfast, and maybe dinner from the day before. He could finally move, briefly, only enough to cover his mouth with his hand.

"Shit," Yuliya said, starting to go to get up and grab something.

Novak shook his head. He needed to move, he tried to move. But he couldn't. That was when the panic started to set in.

Maybe he could just... breathe. Maybe he could settle his own stomach. Maybe, maybe.

But despite his best efforts, Novak could feel the telltale churn of his stomach intensifying with each passing second, a grim reminder of his body's relentless betrayal in the face of illness.

As soon as Yuliya set down the trash can, then he could move. He moved just enough to grab the bin. It was milliseconds vefore he started heaving, his body trying to purge whatever dared make him feel so disgusting.

Yuliya watched with a mixture of concern and helplessness as Novak's body convulsed with each violent heave, his features contorted in agony as he struggled to expel the contents of his roiling stomach.

She moved closer, her hand hovering uncertainly over his trembling form, wanting desperately to offer comfort but unsure of how to help.

"Easy, Novak," she murmured, her voice soft and soothing. "Just let it out. You'll feel better once it's all out of your system."

Novak could only nod weakly in response, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he rode out the storm of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. He clung to the trash can with a white-knuckled grip, his knuckles turning pale with the effort of holding on.

With each retch and gag, Novak felt a small measure of relief wash over him. Each wave of sick made his stomach feel less tense and full.

At one point, Novak stopped briefly to take a breath. His body giving him a split second relief. But when the nausea kicked back up again, this time Novak knew he coulf make it to the bathroom. And make it to the bathroom he did.

He bolted, abandoning the trash bin, knowing there was more in his system. Sure enough, as soon as he was on his knees if front of the toilet he was vomiting again.

Yulia sat it the doorway. Wincing as Novak retched up more and more waves of sludge from his stomach. Waves of gods knew what. Yuliya moved a little closer.

Yuliya reached out a gentle hand to brush the sweat-dampened hair from Novak's forehead, her touch comforting.

Novak continued to heave for what felt like an eternity. But finally, finally he was left gasping, trying to catch his breath.

He looked at Yuliya, who offered a small smile.

“It’s gonna be a long night, my love…” Yuliya said softly. “But, I’ll be right here.”

#emeto #sickfic #emeto fic #emeto cw #emeto tw #fever cw #fever tw #emetophilia #novemetober 2023 #sick novak daskalov #seizure mention tw #novemetober rescheduled

23 notes · View notes

sicknessbysalem · 8 months

Text

Novemetober (Rescheduled) | Day Seven

@monthofsick

day seven: too feverish to think

i started fics for day five and day six but i experienced some offline health issues (ironic, right?) so i’ll either post them later and tag them or just post them on their own after the event. we’ll see.

decided to write another flashback fic. this time of novak in college. totally, definitely, absolutely not based off true events.

this fic happens around novak’s junior year of college.

if you have questions, comments, or requests, feel free to send!

tw emeto, sickness, overwork, stress, panic attack, fainting

Novak sat on his bed, leaning against the wall. He was hunched over his notes, rubbing his eyes in a futile attempt to ward off the exhaustion creeping into his bones.

He grabbed his phone. He checked the time.

3:27AM

Benji stirred in his bunk, his sleep-addled brain registering the soft rustle of papers and the occasional frustrated sigh emanating from his roommate's direction.

With a groan, he rolled over.

"Novak," Benji's voice was exhausted, but he still seemed worried. "You still at it? Have you even slept?"

Novak looked up, "Yeah, just trying to cram for midterms," he mumbled, forcing a smile. "I'll crash in a bit, don't worry about me."

But Benji wasn't convinced. He could see the telltale signs of exhaustion etched into Novak's features, the paleness of his skin, the tremor in his hands as he reached for another textbook.

“Dude, you don't look so good. Maybe you should take a break, get some rest.” Benji said, “Your health is more important than acing these exams."

Novak waved off his concerns, brushing them aside with a dismissive gesture. "I'll be fine, Benji. Just a little tired, that's all. I can't afford to slack off"

“Alright, whatever dude,” Benji said, rolling back over to go back to sleep.

Despite the mounting discomfort, Novak dragged himself to his morning classes, his head pounding and his body aching with every step.

He was freezing when his alarm went off, telling him it was time for class. He slept for maybe two hours, but he felt like he didn’t sleep at all.

Novak pulled himself out of bed, grabbed his sweatshirt, tied back his hair, and grabbed his things.

Breakfast was the last thing on his mind, but the way his head spun and he stumbled into the wall, he knew he had to eat something.

As he sat in his marketing lecture, Novak struggled to focus on the professor's words, his mind clouded by the persistent throbbing in his temples.

The quick breakfast he grabbed had long settled like a rock in his stomach, a queasy sensation churning in the pit of his stomach.

He tried to focus. He did. Now was not the time to not focus. But, he couldn’t make out what the professor was saying. Let alone take notes or retain anything.

He tried to drink some water, take some medicine. Despite his best efforts, Novak's condition continued to deteriorate. Each step became a struggle? his body weighed down by the relentless onslaught of fever and nausea.

As he stumbled through the halls of his college, Novak's world blurred into a hazy fog of discomfort, his mind struggling to grasp the simplest of concepts.

In class, the words of his professors seemed to float in one ear and out the other, lost amidst the cacophony of pain and fatigue that consumed him.

Desperately, he tried to focus, but the fever had dulled his senses, leaving him adrift in a sea of confusion.

Nausea clawed at his stomach. With each passing minute, the urge to just go back to his dorm room and crash for a week was getting stronger. The desire to escape the suffocating confines of the lecture hall and take a cool shower and just sleep this off.

Novak was still holding out on not being sick. He couldn’t be sick. Especially because being sick was brutal on him, more brutal than it was on others. He had always been that way. And it was horrible.

But if he skipped class he couldn’t go to practice. He couldn’t play.

He had to tough it out. Just until midterms were over.

As Novak made it onto the practice field, the weight of his illness hung heavy upon him, each step a struggle against the relentless tide of fatigue and discomfort.

The sun beat down mercilessly, its searing rays only serving to exacerbate the fever that he was sure he had.

Despite the mounting agony, Novak forced a stoic mask onto his face, unwilling to show any sign of weakness to his teammates or coaches.

Novak clenched his jaw, he pushed himself through the grueling drills and punishing workouts, his body screaming in protest with every movement. If he wanted any chance of going professional, he couldn’t afford to lose out on practice or a single game.

As practice dragged on, Novak's strength waned, his limbs growing heavier with each passing minute. Nausea clawed at his insides, threatening to overwhelm him at any moment.

The coach barked out orders, his voice a distant echo in Novak's ears as he fought to keep his focus amidst the haze of fever-induced delirium.

But as the afternoon wore on and the sun dipped below the horizon, Novak was, for lack of better explanation, fucking up royally.

His vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges of his consciousness as he struggled to remain upright. With each passing minute, the world seemed to tilt on its axis, threatening to make him pass out. Or vomit. Something.

Yet still, he refused to quit. With every ounce of strength left within him, Novak pushed himself to the brink. Every bit of energy he could pull was put into finishing out the practice.

He had to finish.

As Novak stumbled back into the dimly lit dorm room, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion, it was evident to Benji that something was seriously wrong.

“Okay. Study, class, practice, now you can sleep, right?” Benji spoke.

Novak shook his head, “Not even close.” He said, setting his bag down by his desk.

Novak grabbed the sweater from the corner of his bed pulling it on.

“I’m… fucking freezing…” Novak mumbled.

Benji watched in concern as Novak sank into his chair, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead as he attempted to bury himself in his books. But it was clear that the fever had taken its toll, the lines of fatigue etched into Novak's features betraying his struggle to remain upright.

“That’s the sweater your mom sent you,” Benji said, “Are you sure you’re feeling okay? I think the last time I saw you wear it you were stuck in bed with a migraine…”

Novak waved him off with a weak smile, his voice strained with effort. "I'm fine, just a little under the weather, that's all. Nothing to worry about."

But as Novak attempted to focus on his studies, the fever raged unchecked, a relentless drumbeat of pain and discomfort that refused to be ignored. His vision swam before his eyes, the words on the page blurring into a meaningless jumble of letters and symbols.

With a soft sigh, Novak felt his eyelids growing heavy, his body succumbing to the overwhelming urge to sleep. But before he could succumb to the sweet embrace of unconsciousness, Benji's voice cut through the haze, jolting him awake.

"Gwt in bed,” Benji said. Suddenly his roommate was beside him, shutting his marketing textbook.

“Hey I was studying-“

“Novak, you should really get some rest," Benji started. "You look like you're about to pass out."

Novak's stomach churned violently, a wave of nausea washing over him with sickening intensity.

He buried his face in his hands with a soft whine, shaking his head. He could feel his own fever. Could feel the way his stomach churned. God he felt so sick. When did he start feeling so fucking sick?

Novak's heart hammered in his chest, a relentless drumbeat of panic echoing in his ears as he fought to regain control of his trembling limbs. He forced himself to take slow, steady breaths, attempting to make everything feel less overwhelming.

Novak's hands trembled as he fought to suppress the panic threatening to engulf him. His whole body felt like it was buzzing, like despite the fever there was a live wire running through him.

“Novak..?” Benji asked.

"I'm... I'm fine," Novak managed to choke out, though the words felt hollow and insincere even to his own ears. "Just... need a minute."

But even as he spoke, the nausea intensified, a vicious reminder of his body's betrayal. Not only was he sick, but he was sure he was experiencing… something.

His throat constricted, a bitter taste flooding his mouth as he struggled to hold back the inevitable tide of vomit.

With a desperate lurch, Novak lunged for the trash can by his desk, his stomach convulsing as he retched violently into the bin. Hot tears stung his eyes as he emptied the contents of his stomach once more. He felt his nose running.

“Novak… jesus…,” Benji said, pulling back Novak’s hair.

Novak's chest tightened with each ragged breath, the weight of his sickness and panic pressing down on him like a leaden blanket.

The sensation of Benji's hands on his back, trying to comfort him, only served to exacerbate his distress, sending waves of overwhelming stimulation crashing over him.

"Please... just... stop," Novak gasped between heaves, his voice barely audible over the cacophony of his own suffering. "I can't... I can't..."

But even as he spoke, another wave of nausea crashed over him, leaving him trembling and helpless in its wake. He could feel the panic rising within him, a relentless tide threatening to consume him whole.

There was nothing he could do to stop the vomiting. He was sure his fever was making his panic all the worse. But maybe, maybe that he could fix.

Novak did the only thing he knew to do for the panic. He hugged himself, tried to take breaths between waves of vomiting. He clutched his sleeves in his fists.

Benji pulled his hands away, stepped back. Being a psychology major, Benji could see the panic. The overstimulation.

“I'm sorry, Novak," Benji said, taking another step back “I just... I don't know what to do."

But Novak had no answer to give, no solace to offer in the face of his own torment. The fever made the panic worse. The panic made the nausea worse. The nausea was worse. Novak was going to throw up again.

Benji fetched another trash can, Novak braced himself for the next onslaught, his body wracked with pain and exhaustion.

As Novak's body convulsed with each retch, his fevered mind spiraled further into irrationality, the panic gripping him tighter with each passing moment.

The cycle of sickness and distress seemed never-ending, a relentless onslaught that left him gasping for breath and clinging to the edge of consciousness.

Finally, as the last vestiges of bile dribbled from his lips, Novak slumped back in his chair, his body trembling with exhaustion and his mind reeling from the ordeal.

The room spun around him, the walls closing in as if to swallow him whole, and he fought against the encroaching darkness that threatened to claim him.

Benji hovered nearby, his expression a mixture of concern and helplessness as he watched Novak's struggle.

“You really need to lie down," Benji urged, his voice barely audible over the pounding of Novak's heart in his ears.”Can I touch you to help-“

“No… please, please no…” Novak said. The thought of Benji’s, or anyone’s actually, hands on him make his skin crawl.

Novak forced himself to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him as he staggered towards the safety of his bed. Each step felt like he was walking a mile, his vision swimming and his senses overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of his exhaustion.

But just as he reached the edge of his bed, a wave of dizziness washed over him. He felt his head tilt back, felt like his knees might buckle beneath him. He reached for the first thing he could reach, thankfully the edge of his bed. His fingers dug into the fabric as he fought to keep himself upright.

"Novak, are you okay?" Benji's voice sounded distant, as if coming from the other end of a long tunnel.

But Novak could barely hear him over the roar of his own heartbeat, his world spinning out of control as he teetered on the brink of unconsciousness.

He moved one more time. Everything gave out at once. His vision, his body, his hearing, every sensation disappeared instantly.

He felt his head hit his arm as he landed on what he could only hope was his bed.

As Novak slowly regained consciousness, the world around him swam into focus, his senses gradually coming back to life after what felt like an eternity lost in the void. His head throbbed with a dull ache, a relentless pulse that seemed to echo with each beat of his heart.

Blinking against the harsh glare of the overhead light, Novak turned his head to find Benji sitting nearby, his brow furrowed with concern as he poured over his textbooks.

As their eyes met, Benji's expression softened, relief flooding his features at the sight of Novak awake.

"Hey, man, you're finally up," Benji said, his voice tinged with a mixture of exhaustion and relief. "How are you feeling?"

Novak tried to speak, but his throat was dry and everything hurt.

“Like I got hit by a truck," he managed to rasp out, his words slurred with fatigue.

Benji nodded sympathetically, reaching out to gently squeeze Novak's shoulder.

“You've been out for a while," he explained, his voice gentle. "Like a day and a half or something. You had a really high fever and a pretty bad panic attack. I've been keeping an eye on you, making sure you're okay."

Novak's brow furrowed in confusion, his memory hazy and fragmented. He sat up slowly, pulling a knee to his chest, resting his head in his hand and using his fingers to block out some of the light in the room.

“Here,” Benji said. There was a click of a lamp, then Benji got up and turned off the lights, “That should help…”

I don't... I don't remember much," he admitted, his voice tinged with frustration.

Benji sighed, his expression sympathetic. "Yeah, you were pretty out of it," he said, reaching for a bottle of water on the bedside table and offering it to Novak. "You woke up a couple of times to drink or be sick, but you were mostly out of it."

As Novak took a sip of water, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling of unease that settled in the pit of his stomach.

"I still feel... off," he murmured, his hand instinctively reaching for his head as a sharp pang of pain shot through his temples.

Benji frowned, his concern deepening. "You might be dehydrated from being sick for so long," he suggested, his voice tinged with worry. "Is there anything else we should worry about?”

“My head is just killing me,” Novak said, taking another sip of water before lying back down as the room seemed to tilt a little.

“Migraine maybe,” Benji said, “From being so sick and all.”

Novak nodded weakly, his body still heavy with fatigue and his mind clouded with confusion.

“Still tired… somehow,” Novak mumbled.

“Get some rest,” Benji said, “Trust me. You need plenty for all the makeup midterms you need to do.”

#emeto #sickfic #emeto fic #emeto cw #emeto tw #fever cw #fever tw #emetophilia #novemetober 2023 #fainting tw #fainting cw #panic attack tw #panic attack cw #i really just went ham on this poor boy and im not sorry #novemetober rescheduled

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sicknessbysalem · 8 months

Text

Novemetober (Rescheduled) | Day Four

if you have questions or requests, feel free to ask!

@monthofsick

tw emeto, fever, sickness, scat (in conjuction with emeto)

Meadow slowly opened her eyes to the soft glow of dawn filtering through the curtains. Her bedroom room, filled with dreamcatchers and tapestries, usually felt serene.

However, as she sat up, a wave of queasiness swept over her, a subtle disturbance in the tranquility of her morning.

Her stomach, a knot of uncertainty, made its upset known as she swung her legs out of bed. The wooden floor beneath her feet felt cool, grounding her in the reality of the moment.

It was Friday. Friday meant show night. Friday meant the afternoon shift at the Whiskey Creek Tavern, and then grabbing her guitar and playing music for bar goers for extra tips.

Meadow ran a hand through her hair, one of her feather extensions finally breaking free of her hair. She probably needed to redo it today. Take out the old, put on some new ones.

As she stood before the mirror, the reflection revealed a hint of fatigue in her eyes, contrasting the usual sparkle. Meadow's fingers ran through her hair, attempting to shake off the lingering drowsiness.

In the midst of applying gentle strokes of mascara, a sudden spell of nausea struck, causing her to pause.

The nausea made her nervous. It always did. She immediately went into her bathroom, and she was sure an hour passed that she was waiting for the wave of vomit that never came.

The nausea passed. Meadow took a deep breath, willing the discomfort away. She had her windows open, it was spring time and the wildflowers in her yard were freshly in bloom. The scents that Meadow usually welcomed, the flowers and the early morning dew, that were usually so comforting were almost too much for her.

Random spells of nausea continued to tease, leaving Meadow to navigate the morning with subtle panic. She hated vomiting, it scared her.

As she put in some new feather extensions, there were a few dry heaves, each one making the panic worse, which probably did her upset stomach no favors.

She got dressed. Her usually flowy top, her colorful skirt, her floral corset. She put on a few bracelets. She tried to just act like she was feeling totally normal.

As Meadow joined April, Allie, and Arizona for lunch, the familiar scent of homemade dishes filled the air. The restaurant was one of Meadow’s favorites, a small family owned restaurant. It was Meadow’s favorite place when she moved to town.

But today the thought of walking in made her want to throw up. Her stomach felt worse, she was sure because of the anxiety, and the mere thought of putting anything in her stomach made her want to lose it.

"Meadow, sweetheart, you seem a bit off today. Everything okay?" April said at some point.

Meadow, usually bubbly and full of life, managed a faint smile, attempting to reassure April. "Yeah, just a bit tired, you know? I was out late in the field, inspiration strikes at the worst time. Nothing to worry about."

However, April's maternal instincts kicked in, and she couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. Meadow, quieter than usual, picked at her food.

"Sugar, you gotta eat something,” April said, “Its going to be busy tonight, you know how Fridays are.”

“Right,” Meadow said, forcing a chuckle, “I was just zoning out. Sorry.”

Meadow started to eat then. Her stubbornness and disdain for people worrying about her outweighed her queasiness. She started eating more than she probably should, a silent message that she was perfectly fine. Each bite felt like a deliberate effort, the flavors blending with the lingering queasiness that still clung to her. But she continued to eat the food she had.

This was going to be a long night…

The atmosphere at Whiskey Creek Tavern buzzed with the lively energy of patrons and the soulful tunes drifting from the stage. Meadow always started the night by taking orders and delivering plates with her usual charm. However, it felt so impossible to maintain.

As the evening unfolded, Meadow began to feel a mounting discomfort in her stomach. The eclectic mix of dishes she had consumed earlier now seemed to swirl uncomfortably within her. The tight embrace of her corset felt constricting, adding to her unease.

April, perceptive as ever, noticed the subtle shift in Meadow's demeanor. "Sugar, do you need a break?" she suggested, concern etched across her face.

Meadow, determined not to let on, flashed a reassuring smile. "No, April, I'm good. Just a bit tired, that's all."

As she continued to navigate the crowded tavern, the queasiness intensified. The lively chatter around her seemed to blur, and Meadow struggled to focus on her tasks. A conflict brewed within her – an internal debate between the fear of admitting she wasn't well and the growing urgency to find relief.

The sensation intensified, leaving Meadow torn between the need to dash to the bathroom and the fear of attracting attention. A wave of nausea threatened to overtake her, but she fought to keep it at bay.

"April, could you handle the next few tables for me?" Meadow requested, attempting to maintain composure.

April, sensing something amiss, nodded understandingly. "Of course, sweetheart. Take a break if you need to."

Meadow, now feeling the pressure of her corset against her abdomen, excused herself and hurried toward the restroom. The dimly lit corridor provided a momentary refuge, and she took a deep breath, trying to quell the rising discomfort. The struggle continued, a silent battle between her desire to appear unfazed and the growing urgency within.

In the dimly lit restroom of Whiskey Creek Tavern, Meadow leaned against the sink. She could feel her corset seemed to press too hard on her stomach, like she tied it too tight.

As she stood there, Meadow's mind added to her suffering by reminding her of everything she ate earlier. She could almost taste it all over again. The queasiness escalated into a painful reality, and a sudden urgency sent her rushing to the stall.

She pulled down her skirt. Almost immediately she could feel liquid rushing out of her.

The tightness of the corset felt unforgiving. She pressed her hands against her stomach, which sent more out of her.

Every wave made her want to gag. Her throat felt tight, like she was going to puke.

After what felt like an eternity, Meadow emerged from the stall, her complexion paler than before. She washed her hands, avoiding her reflection in the mirror, not wanting to confront the vulnerability etched on her face.

She splashed cold water on her face. She took a deep breath.

The stage at Whiskey Creek Tavern awaited Meadow, her guitar resting against her as she prepared to share her music with the eager audience. The vibrant lights cast a warm glow, and the hum of anticipation filled the air. Meadow, however, felt the familiar waves of discomfort intensify as she took her place under the spotlight.

This was truly Meadow’s favorite thing. She loved getting up here, performing. It was entertaining and most of the time, the people were so nice.

But the weight of her guitar on her stomach, once a familiar comfort, made her feel worse. And moving around as she always did was making her feel like she would lose it one way or another.

The crowd, absorbed in the music, remained oblivious to Meadow's internal battle. With each note, the queasiness intensified, threatening to overshadow the magic of her performance.

She felt her corset digging into her stomach. Meadow knew what was going to happen. The discomfort was low. She felt sweat on her forehead, on her back, as the moments ticked by, her corset felt tighter and her top felt suffocating.

She finished half her set. Maybe she could split it. She could wrap up this half, give someone else a go, maybe step outside a moment to collect herself, and go from there.

That’s what she did. Pulling Houston on stage, letting him do his set. She didn’t hesitate to basically run off.

“Meadow?” Allie is behind her.

The tightness of the corset felt unbearable now, every step intensifying the discomfort. She thought about taking it off, maybe, but she also didn’t want to set it down and forget it or something.

"I just need a moment," Meadow managed to whisper, though her breaths came in shallow gasps.

She stumbled towards the exit, the cool night air promising relief. The world outside the tavern embraced her with a gentle breeze, but the queasiness persisted.

The plan was to catch her breath, but the discomfort had other plans. Meadow rushed towards the restroom, a desperate urgency propelling her forward. The door closed behind her, muffling the distant sounds of the lively tavern.

Alone in the dimly lit restroom, she felt the corset tightening like a vice, her stomach in revolt. She immediately sat on the toilet, in the stall.

The first wave of diarrhea offered a brief reprieve, but Meadow's relief was short-lived. The discomfort lingered, morphing into an ominous prelude. She clutched her stomach, beads of sweat now forming a sheen on her forehead. The once vibrant tie-dye skirt seemed to mock her, a casualty of the evening's ordeal.

Pressing her hands to her stomach, more burning liquid shot out of her. It was horrible. She could feel the way the liquid cascaded out of her. Every cramp in her stomach was a precursor toward

Just as Meadow thought she might be able to gather herself, a sudden surge of nausea overwhelmed her. Panicking, she covered her mouth with her hand, desperately trying to suppress the rising tide of sickness. The corset felt like a cruel accomplice, constricting her further.

Unable to hold back any longer, the contents of her stomach erupted through her hand, catching on the vibrant skirt below. The bathroom became a cacophony of distress as the dual assault continued. Meadow, torn between the toilet and the mess she had unintentionally created, felt the vulnerability of the moment consume her.

Allie, sensing something was terribly wrong, knocked on the restroom door. "Meadow, are you okay?" she called, her voice filled with genuine concern.

Meadow, gasping for breath, couldn't muster a response. The eclectic sounds of the tavern seemed to blur with the retching, creating a surreal symphony of distress within the confines of the restroom. The vibrant spirit that had graced the stage now grappled with the harsh reality of her own physical limits.

As the bathroom door creaked open, Allie's eyes widened at the scene before her. The air carried the acrid scent of vomit, and her concern deepened as she saw Meadow's struggle.

"Meadow, sugar, what's happening?" Allie asked, rushing to her side. The tie-dye skirt, once vibrant, was now stained, a visual testament to the ordeal unfolding.

Meadow, still caught in the grip of her body's rebellion, could only manage a feeble gesture toward the mess she had unintentionally created.

The vomit, once held back by Meadow's desperate attempts, now flowed more copiously, intermingling with the occasional rounds of diarrhea. It seemed like her body was staging a simultaneous revolt from both ends.

Allie sighed, stepping over the mess to stand beside Meadow, rubbing her back.

“Sugar why are you-“ Allie started to ask, but hearing the gurgle of Meadow’s stomach followed by something splattering in the toilet, her question was answered.

"Hold on, Meadow," she said as her eyes fell on the strings of Meadow’s corset, "Sometimes, you need to get it all out to start feeling better."

Understanding that Meadow needed help, Allie got to work. Gently, she began to tighten the corset, untying it and pulling the strings tighter and tighter. The tighter the strings were, the more Meadow would puke up or send out the other end. Tightening the corset was not only providing support but also applying a controlled pressure that prompted Meadow's stomach to force out more.

Through the haze of discomfort, Allie's touch revealed something more alarming. As her hands brushed against Meadow's skin, she sensed an elevated warmth, indicating a fever. Concern etched across her face, Allie continued to tighten the corset, doing her best to provide comfort amid the distress.

The ordeal seemed to stretch on, the bathroom now a battleground between Meadow's body and the determined efforts of her makeshift caretaker.

Allie, a pillar of support, stayed by Meadow's side, silently hoping that this tumultuous symphony of discomfort would soon reach its resolution.

“Get it out sugar,” Allie said, “We can clean this mess in a bit, alright?”

#emeto #sickfic #emeto fic #emeto cw #emeto tw #fever cw #fever tw #emetophilia #scat tw #scat cw #food poisoning tw #food poisoning cw #novemetober rescheduled #novemetober 2023

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sicknessbysalem · 7 months

Text

Novemetober (Rescheduled) | Day Seventeen

@monthofsick

swear my writing is just getting worse. but i really wanted to write this fic even though the inspo was low. i also wanted to introduce some more characters surrounding novak and crew.

tw for emeto, fever, lying about sickness, mention of chronic condition (lyme disease)

Yuliya loved skating practices. She absolutely loved every minute she was on the ice. She always had.

But today, she really wasn't feeling it. Something felt off. She wasn't sure what it was.

That morning, as Novak was getting Elya ready for school, she did everything she could to dodge breakfast with Novak. But, she could hardly say no to him when he set the food in front of her. He cooked it, she could see her avoidance made him worried. So, she ate. But the food had long settled like stone in her stomach.

Yuliya laced up her figure skates, her fingers trembling slightly as she tightened the knots. The ice rink was her sanctuary, a place where she could lose herself in the graceful movements and precise spins. But today, a faint unease gnawed at her stomach, threatening to disrupt her focus.

Luka noticed her hesitation. With a concerned furrow in his brow, he approached her.

"Yuliya, are you feeling alright?" he asked, his voice filled with genuine concern.

Yuliya forced a smile, attempting to brush off her discomfort. "I'm fine, Luka. Come on, let's get on with practice."

Practice was harder than Yuliya wanted to admit. Her stroking felt laborous. Her spiral work made her feel like she was going to faceplant on the ice. The spins stuck in her head, she was oddly dizzy. And jumps... god, the jumps made her stomach shoot into her throat, forcing her to swallow back acid.

Yuliya landed, wincing softly. One hand rested on her stomach. Another soft whine came out of her throat. She looked at the clock. It was only ten, she was here until noon. Supposed to be, anyway.

She took a deep breath.

"Do you need to stop?" Luka asked her.

Yuliya shook her head. "No, I'm fine."

Luka shrugged it off. He wouldn't push Yuliya one way or another.

But, when Yuliya can barely complete her jump cycle, it's Zalatoi who stops her.

As she landed, she impulsively lifted her hand, close to her mouth. The other hand was back on her stomach.

"Yeah, okay," Zalatoi told her, "I know that look. Luka knows that look from me. You look like you're going to vomit."

Yuliya swallowed, "I'm fine, dammit."

"Yuliya," Zalatoi said, "Maybe you can lie to Luka. You can't lie to me. I can read through that, lyme disease made me extra good at reading people who bullshit their way into convincing others that they're fine."

"Hey, I will be fine," Yuliya said, "I just need to go again."

"Practice is over," Zalatoi told her. Yuliya was kind of embarassed, being lectured by an eighteen year old as a twenty-four year old.

"Practice is over at noon," Yuliya said.

"Practice is over now," Zalatoi said. "Either you tell the truth, or I lie."

"You wouldn't," Yuliya said.

"Are you going to tell Luka you're sick?" Zalatoi said.

Yuliya shook her head, "I'm not sick."

"Okay," Zalatoi said, turning and stroking back to the barrier, stepping off the ice.

"Hey, Luka," Yuliya heard him say, she turned her head to see Zalatoi now sitting on a bench, taking off his skates. She turned away. Instead, she tried to go back to her jumps practice, despite how badly it made her stomach revolt.

This time, when she lands, she's almost dead certain she's going to vomit. She knows, at the very least, that if she tried to continue she would undoubtedly be sick.

"Hey, Yules," Luka said, "Come here."

Yuliya skated to the barrier, a protective hand on her stomach, "Yeah, what's up?"

"Zalatoi's not feeling good," Luka said, "Might be a lyme disease thing? Regardless, do you care if we cut this practice short?"

Zalatoi is sitting on the bench behind Luka. Yuliya glared at him, but he just shrugged.

"No," Yuliya shook her head, "That's fine. Feel better Zalatoi."

Yuliya got off the ice herself. By time she got in her car, she had a text from Zalatoi.

Told you so.

Yuliya sighed. At least she could go home and rest for a little bit before Novak got back from practice. Maybe then she would feel a little better.

Sunlight was pouring in the living room as Novak came home from practice. He took his shoes off at the door. In a few hours, he would have to pick up Elya from school. But for now, he could come home and take a breather. Practice was oddly stressful, the team gearing up for the weekend game. Novak would never admit itm but the linebacker was nervous. He was always nervous about games.

Novak entered the living room, his footsteps barely making a sound as he tiptoed across the room. He had returned earlier than expected from his football team's practice, eager to surprise Yuliya with his presence. But as he approached her sleeping form, a wave of concern washed over him.

Leaning down, Novak gently brushed a stray lock of hair from Yuliya's forehead, his touch light and tender. He intended to give her a gentle kiss to let her know he was home, but as he drew closer, he felt an unexpected warmth radiating from her skin.

Frowning, Novak placed a hand on Yuliya's forehead, his heart skipping a beat at the heat he detected beneath his touch. This wasn't like her; Yuliya rarely fell ill. In fact, they'd been dating for three months and she had seen Novak sick at least twice, and saw Elya sick once. But Yuliya herself had never gotten sick, at least as far as Novak knew.

"Yuliya?" Novak called softly, his voice tinged with worry as he shook her gently. "Wake up, love."

Yuliya stirred from her slumber, her eyelids fluttering open to reveal tired, glassy eyes. She blinked slowly, trying to focus on Novak's concerned face hovering above her.

"Novak?" she murmured, her voice weak and hoarse. "What time is it? I didn't realize I fell asleep..."

Novak rested his hand on the side of her head, kissing her forehead, "Yules, you're burning up, do you feel okay?"

Yuliya attempted to sit up, but a sudden wave of nausea washed over her, causing her to clutch her stomach in discomfort.

"Yules?" Novak called her name.

Yuliya shook her head, she held up a hand. Silently asking for a minute.

Concern etched deep lines into Novak's brow as he helped Yuliya into a sitting position, his worry for her well-being growing with each passing moment. He had never seen her like this before, and the sight of her suffering filled him with a sense of helplessness he couldn't bear. He hated seeing her sick, even if it was the first time.

He sat beside her, holding her from the side.

"You'll get sick," Yuliya mumbled, her voice strained.

Novak rubbed her arm, "I don't care babe. What's wrong?"

"Just... feel... sick to my stomach," Yuliya moaned.

Novak held her from the side, "Do you want anything?"

"No, please," Yuliya said, sounding on a fine line of whether or not she would actually throw up.

Novak just held her close to him, rubbing her arm. A few moments passed, nothing happened. He hoped, maybe, that was a good sign.

Until he heard a gurgling sound beside him. Until he felt Yuliya's body jolt, a sound like a suppressed gag came from Yuliya's throat.

"Let's get you to the bathroom babe," Novak said softly.

Yuliya nodded, but she seemed frozen. Another gag behind closed lips, her cheeks puffed out, Novak heard her swallow hard. Impulsively, he reached over and covered her mouth with his hand, helping her stand.

"I got you, come on..." Novak said, leading her to the bathroom. He kept a careful hand cupped over her mouth, as if it would be reassuring enough to get her to move.

As they reached the doorway of the bathroom, Novak braced himself for what he knew was coming. Yuliya's stomach churned ominously, a cruel reminder of the relentless nausea that had consumed her entire being. And then, without warning, it happened.

Novak felt the warm, viscous liquid seep through his fingers, a sickening sensation that sent a shiver down his spine momentarily. But he didn't flinch, didn't falter in his resolve to comfort Yuliya in her moment of weakness.

Novak's heart clenched in sympathy as he felt the warmth spreading across his hand, the unmistakable sensation of Yuliya's illness overwhelming her. Without hesitation, he guided her into the bathroom, his grip firm and steady as he supported her trembling frame.

"It's okay, Yuliya. Just breathe," Novak murmured soothingly, his voice a steady anchor amidst the storm raging within her. He could feel her body convulsing with each retch, her distress entirely evident in the tense lines of her muscles.

"I'm sorry," Yuliya said through another heave as Novak rinsed off his hand.

Novak knelt beside Yuliya. He wouldn't say anything about it. He didn't mind. After all, he was a father. He'd been through worse.

Yuliya's stomach was writhing. Every breath was painful. She heaved, hard, into the toilet. A thick wave of sludge splattered in the toilet. She felt so sick. And nothing was helping.

"It's okay, love," Novak murmured soothingly, his voice a steady anchor in the midst of the storm raging within Yuliya's body. "Let it out, I'm right here."

Yuliya doubled over, retching violently as her stomach rebelled against her, each heave bringing forth a wave of bile and misery. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mingling with the sweat on her brow as she struggled to find relief from the relentless torment. Her stomach seized. Every time her stomach seized, another wave of vomit came up.

Novak cotninued rubbing her back, holding her hair back. He wasn't sure what would help her, what didn't help her. He wasn't sure. This was new territory for him, but he was willing to do whatever he could to help her.

Novak's heart ached as he watched Yuliya suffer, her body wracked with spasms of agony as her stomach waged war against her. He felt utterly helpless, a bystander in the face of her relentless torment, but he refused to let despair consume him.

"It's okay, Yuliya," Novak repeated softly, his voice a steady reassurance amidst the chaos. "Better out than in, right?"

Yuliya nodded weakly, her breaths coming in ragged gasps as she fought to regain control over her rebellious body. Each heave brought forth another torrent of vile liquid, the sound echoing in the small confines of the bathroom like a cruel symphony of suffering.

Novak continued to rub her back in soothing circles, his touch a gentle caress against her clammy skin. He held her hair back with tender care, offering whatever semblance of comfort he could muster in the face of her overwhelming distress.

Minutes stretched into eternity as Yuliya battled against the relentless onslaught of nausea, her strength waning with each passing moment.

The vomiting continued for a solid half hour, if not more. At one point, Novak texted his mom, telling her shortly that Yuliya was sick. He heard his phone ping, telling him his mom probably responded, telling him she would handle Elya.

Novak kept her hair back, rubbed her back. He just wanted to be there for her in the way she was there for him.

Finally, though, the vomiting subsided. Yuliya was left panting, shaking. Novak was holding her and she all but collapsed back into his arms.

“You did so well my love,” Novak tried to reassure her, kissing her forehead.

“I’m sorry,” Yuliya said, grabbing some toilet paper and wiping her mouth before flushing the toilet, “I didn’t mean to throw up on you.”

“It was just my hand,” Novak shrugged, “Besides, I’m a dad. Nothing phases me.”

Yuliya chuckled softly, “I’m still sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” Novak said, rubbing her arm, “Do you want to get in bed?”

“I don’t have the energy to move…” Yuliya admitted.

“That’s fine,” Novak said, carefully adjusting his grip and picking her up with an ease that started her, “Come on ice princess, let’s get you in bed.”

#emeto #sickfic #emeto fic #emeto cw #emeto tw #fever cw #fever tw #emetophilia #novemetober 2023 #novemetober rescheduled

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sicknessbysalem · 7 months

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Novemetober (Rescheduled) | Day Ten Substitution

@monthofsick | day ten: sick with an audience motion sickness

tw for emeto, anxiety, motion sickness, brief description of crime scenes at the beginning

Not many things bothered Vanessa McAllister.

Vanessa McAllister was an EMT. She was a police officer. She was a behavioral analyst. She saw blood, guts, and gore on a regular basis. She victims with heads bashed in or riddled with bullets. She'd been to highway wrecks. She had crawled in through smashed windows, she had come to murder scenes and domestic calls.

There were few things that bothered or scared Vanessa McAllister.

Except the family of Willow Atkinson. They scared her.

Well, scared maybe wasn't the right word. But when Willow had mentioned Vanessa meeting them someday, that scared her.

Vanessa couldn't shake the feeling of dread that had been creeping up on her ever since Willow had first mentioned the trip to meet her family and attend her brother Walker's season opener race. She had tried to mask her anxiety with excitement, but now, as they drove down the winding roads toward the small town where Willow's family lived, Vanessa's stomach churned with nerves.

As they journeyed down the winding roads, Vanessa attempted to distract herself with one of her crime novels. She figured immersing herself in a world of fictional crimes and investigations would provide a welcome escape from her mounting anxiety, as weird as it may be. But, she always was fond of making fun of the poor executions in books. However, try as she might to focus on the words printed on the page, her mind kept drifting back to the impending meeting with Willow's family.

She couldn't help but replay scenarios in her head, imagining all the ways the encounter could go wrong. What if they didn't like her? What if she said or did something to embarrass herself in front of them? What if they saw through her tough exterior and realized just how nervous she really was?

Willow didn't talk much about her family. Vanessa was sure there was probably some strain on the relationship, there had to be. Vanessa lnew what relational strain with family looked like, she lived it, so she never pressed Willow on it. But, it was understood by both of them that Vanessa needed to meet Willow's parents at least once before the two were set to marry. Vanessa would, in time, introduce Willow to her dad. But, probably not her mom. She really didn't want to take Willow to a maximum security prison. Even though Vanessa knew she could protect her, and knew Willow could protect herself, the idea of her sweet and mostly innocent fiancee entering a maximum security facility was almost laughable.

Vanessa glanced over at Willow, fidgeting with her engagement band, who was humming along to the radio, seemingly oblivious to her partner's inner turmoil. How could someone be so calm and composed in the face of such a daunting prospect? Vanessa couldn't help but envy her fiancée's seemingly unshakeable confidence.

But try as she might to emulate Willow's cool demeanor, Vanessa couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at her from within. The closer they got to their destination, the more her stomach roiled with nerves.

Suddenly, the car swerved around a particularly sharp bend in the road, jolting Vanessa out of her thoughts. She gripped the door handle tightly, her knuckles turning white as she fought back a wave of nausea.

"Shit, sorry," Willow said, "No clue what was in the road."

Vanessa shook her head, "No, no it's fine." He voice sounded tense.

"Hey, you okay?" Willow asked, casting a concerned glance in her direction.

Vanessa forced a tight smile. "Yeah, just… not a fan of these winding roads, I guess."

Willow reached over and squeezed her free hand reassuringly. "We're almost there, Nessie. Just a few more hours. Do you want me to stop at the next exit? We could fill up the car and you can take a breather, maybe get some water or something? I think the next one is like, five miles out?"

"Sure," Vanessa said, nodding, "I can run in and get us something to drink?"

Willow nodded, "Yeah, that sounds good."

As they approached the next exit, Willow guided the car smoothly off the highway and into the gas station parking lot. Vanessa felt a wave of relief wash over her at the prospect of a brief respite from the claustrophobic confines of the car.

"Here we are," Willow said, pulling up to one of the gas pumps. "I'll fill up the tank. You go ahead and grab us something, okay?"

Vanessa nodded gratefully, eager to escape the confines of the car for a few moments. She pushed open the door and stepped out into the crisp air, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves.

Inside the gas station, Vanessa decided to take a moment. She felt sick, but maybe if she just splashed some cold water on her face or soemthing, then it might calm her stomach down a bit. She pushed open the door and stumbled inside, collapsing against the sink as a wave of dizziness washed over her.

Closing her eyes, Vanessa took slow, deep breaths, willing herself to calm down. But despite her efforts, the feeling of nausea persisted, gnawing at her from the inside out.

With a frustrated sigh, Vanessa splashed some cold water on her face and forced herself to look in the mirror. She could do this. She had to do this, for Willow's sake if not her own. She didn't want to make the trip any harder for herself or Willow by getting sick..

Feeling slightly more composed, Vanessa made her way back to the front of the store, grabbing a few drinks and a snack for Willow before heading back out to the car.

Willow was just finishing up at the pump as Vanessa approached, a concerned frown on her face. "Hey, you okay? You were in there for a while."

Vanessa nodded, offering her fiancée a weak smile. "Yeah, just needed to use the bathroom. Here, I got you a drink and some snacks."

Willow's expression softened as she took the items from Vanessa's outstretched hand. "Thanks, Nessie. You didn't have to do that."

Vanessa shrugged, trying to play off her earlier panic. "No problem. Just trying to be a good partner, you know?"

Willow smiled, reaching out to squeeze Vanessa's hand. "You're the best partner I could ask for, Nessie. Let's get back on the road, yeah?"

With Willow's hand clasped firmly in hers, Vanessa felt a surge of determination coursing through her veins. She could do this. She could face whatever challenges lay ahead, as long as she had Willow by her side.

"So what is your brother doing?" Vanessa asked, hoping that maybe, possibly, talking would help her feel better. Or at least distract her from feeling so bad.

"Season opener race," Willow said, "He does motocross professionally. This is the start of the season. Like Novak, when he plays his first game of the season."

Vanessa nodded, "Yeah. Okay, makes sense."

"Yeah, our parents didn't exactly like it," Willow said, "But he loves it. So, I'm happy for him."

"But it stresses you out," Vanessa commented.

Willow nodded, "Of course it does. I work in an emergency room. But, he lives his life how he wants, I live mine. And my parents will feel whatever they want about it."

Despite the conversation, Vanessa couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom that hung over her like a dark cloud. And as they continued their journey, the sense of dread only intensified, until it felt like she was teetering on the edge of a precipice, one wrong move away from plunging into the abyss below.

Willow glanced over at her, concern etched into her features. "Hey, Nessie, you okay?"

Vanessa forced a weak smile. "Yeah, just a little queasy. Must be the winding roads."

Willow reached over and squeezed her hand reassuringly. "We're almost there. Just hang in there a little longer, okay?"

"Wills, pull over," Vanessa forced out, "Please."

As they rounded another bend, Vanessa felt the nausea intensify. She pressed a hand to her mouth, willing herself to hold it together. But it was no use. Willow pulled over immediately. With a groan, she pushed open the car door and leaned out, retching onto the side of the road.

Willow reached over, rubbing Vanessa's back carefully.

"Ah, okay, yeah, there it is," Willow murmured softly, her heart aching for her fiancée.

Vanessa moaned softly, tears stinging her eyes as she struggled to regain control of her rebellious stomach. "I… I don't want…"

"Better out than in, Nessie," Willow said, her voice gentle but firm. She knew Vanessa hated feeling vulnerable, especially in front of her. But she also knew that sometimes, it was necessary to let it out.

Vanessa tried to comply, but her body seemed to have other plans. Wave after wave of nausea crashed over her, leaving her weak and trembling.

"Good girl, get it out," Willow murmured, offering words of encouragement as Vanessa continued to retch. She wanted to wrap her fiancée in a comforting hug, but she knew better than to risk getting too close in Vanessa's current state.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the waves of nausea began to subside. Vanessa slumped back in her seat, panting heavily, her face pale and sweaty.

Willow handed her a bottle of water and a pack of tissues, her eyes full of concern. "You okay, baby?"

Vanessa nodded weakly, accepting the water and tissues with a grateful smile. "Yeah, I think so. Just… nerves, I guess."

Willow squeezed her hand gently. "We don't have to do this if you're not up for it. Your health comes first."

But Vanessa shook her head stubbornly. "No, I'll be okay. I want to meet your family. And I wouldn't miss Walker's race for anything."

Willow smiled, her heart swelling with love for the strong, brave woman sitting beside her. "Okay then. But if you need anything, just let me know, okay?"

Vanessa nodded, a flicker of determination in her eyes. "Okay. Let's do this."

#emeto #sickfic #emeto fic #emeto cw #emeto tw #emetophilia #tw motion sickness #cw motion sickness #motion sickness tw #motion sickness cw #anxiety tw #anxiety cw #cw anxiety #tw anxiety #novemetober 2023 #novemetober rescheduled

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sicknessbysalem · 7 months

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Novemetober (Rescheduled) | Day Eight

@monthofsick

i have just accepted being a day behind the prompts at this point. but hopefully this weekend i’ll be able to catch up!

feel free to send any questions, comments, requests, or concerns.

we are back in the normal timeline of novak’s career, but i’m willing to keep bouncing around as i get an idea that seems fit.

*do note that day nine: persistent illness will be a follow-up, continuing of this*

tw emeto (small), migraine, hypersensitivity, character seizure

Novak Daskalov was very smart, really. At least, on paper he was.

He graduated high school in the top ten of his class, even after only attending that specific high school of at least 900 kids, if not more, for only three years. He graduated university, not only with a double major but in three years instead of four. Academically, Novak was certainly quite smart. On paper.

But, as it's early October and Novak is getting ready in his hotel room in Portland, only to find somehow he managed to forget both his migraine medication and his seizure medication, all while knowing Marina is in France for a gallery and Yuliya is babysitting Elya, Novak was well aware that he was remarkably stupid.

Sure, Novak could theorietically go home and get them. He only lived half an hour away.

But that half an hour easily turned into an hour on gameday. And it was Saturday. Everyone was going everywhere. The game started at one. They had to be at the stadium no later than noon. And even though it was a home game, they couldn't slack on that. It would be rude.

Novak stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at his reflection with a furrowed brow. The telltale signs of an impending migraine were already creeping in—the pulsating ache behind his eyes, the tingling sensation at the base of his skull. His neck was stiff. He knew what was coming, and it wasn't going to be pretty.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to push aside the rising panic. He couldn't afford to let this get to him, not today. The team was counting on him, his players were counting on him. He already had to abandon them on the field as their linebacker. He couldn't continue playing. So he definitely felt like he simply couldn't bail now.

With shaky hands, he rummaged through his toiletry bag, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, he had some voer the counter medicine tucked away somewhere. But of course, luck wasn't on his side today. The bottle of migraine medication, prescription or otherwise, was nowhere to be found.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, frustration bubbling up inside him.

And the lack of migraine medicine wouldn'tm be so bad on its own. But not having the seizure medication either was... terrifying.

Bracing himself against the sink, Novak closed his eyes and tried to block out the throbbing pain in his head. He could do this. He had to do this. He just needed to make it through the game, and then he could deal with everything else later.

Novak took a moment to gather himself, mentally bracing against the impending storm in his head. He couldn't afford to let his team down, not now, not ever.

With a deep inhale, he pushed aside the nagging ache in his skull and focused on the task at hand.

Quickly dressing in his coaching attire, Novak grabbed his clipboard and headed out of the hotel room. As he made his way down the hallway towards the elevator, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease gnawing at him. He was used to battling opponents on the field, but this internal struggle felt different, more personal.

He just hoped it would work out. Just until the game was over.

Making his way to the team bus, Novak took a seat near the front, trying to block out the noise and chaos around him. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, trying to find a moment of calm amidst the storm raging inside his head.

As the bus pulled out of the hotel parking lot and headed towards the stadium, Novak couldn't help but wonder how he was going to make it through the game. But deep down, he knew there was no other option.

He was a Maverick, through and through, and Mavericks didn't back down from a challenge, no matter how daunting.

With a steely resolve, Novak squared his shoulders and prepared himself for the battle ahead. Today, he wasn't just coaching a football game—he was fighting for his team, his pride, and his very identity. And nothing was going to stop him.

As the team bus arrived at the stadium, Novak stepped off and was immediately enveloped by a cacophony of sounds—the roar of the crowd, the blaring music over the speakers, the chatter of players and coaches. Each noise seemed to pierce through his skull like a dagger, intensifying the throbbing ache behind his eyes.

Novak winced, his head pounding in protest against the onslaught of sensory overload. He struggled to focus, to block out the overwhelming barrage of sound assaulting his senses. But he knew he couldn't afford to let it get to him, not now.

Novak pushed through the discomfort, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. He joined the team on the field for warm-ups, trying to drown out the noise and concentrate on the drills. But every movement sent a sharp jolt of pain shooting through his head, threatening to derail his concentration.

He gritted his teeth and soldiered on, refusing to let his team see any sign of weakness. He couldn't afford to let them down, not now, not when they needed him the most. And definitely not when he wasn't able to be on field with them.

As the warm-up session drew to a close, Novak felt a wave of relief wash over him. He knew the real challenge lay ahead—the game itself—but he also knew he couldn't let his migraine get the best of him.

With a deep breath, Novak straightened his shoulders and plastered on a confident smile. He was still the Mavericks' defensive coach, and he was determined to lead his team to victory, no matter what obstacles stood in his way.

As the first quarter kicked off, Novak found himself engulfed in a whirlwind of chaos. The sounds of the game—the clashing of helmets, the roar of the crowd, the referee's whistle—seemed amplified to an unbearable level, assaulting his senses with relentless force.

Novak gritted his teeth against the onslaught, his head pounding with every passing moment. He struggled to focus on the action unfolding on the field, his vision swimming as waves of pain washed over him.

But despite the overwhelming sensory overload, Novak refused to let it defeat him. He dug deep, drawing upon every ounce of inner strength he possessed, determined to push through the agony and fulfill his duties as defensive coach.

With each play, Novak forced himself to analyze the game strategy, shouting out instructions to his players despite the searing pain in his head. He knew he couldn't afford to falter, not when the outcome of the game hung in the balance.

As the clock ticked down towards the end of the first quarter, Novak felt a sense of relief wash over him. He had made it through the opening minutes of the game, despite the odds stacked against him. But he also knew that the battle was far from over.

As the second quarter began, Novak's symptoms intensified with alarming speed. The relentless pounding in his head morphed into a throbbing ache that seemed to pulse in time with his racing heartbeat. Waves of nausea washed over him, threatening to send his breakfast spilling onto the sidelines.

Novak clenched his jaw, fighting against the overwhelming urge to succumb to the agony pulsating through his skull. Every sound—the cheers of the crowd, the shouts of the players, the blare of the referee's whistle—felt like a knife twisting in his already battered brain.

But despite the mounting discomfort, Novak refused to yield. He gritted his teeth and soldiered on, determined to see his team through to victory no matter the cost. The Mavericks were counting on him, and he wouldn't let them down.

With each passing minute, Novak's vision blurred and his limbs felt heavy with exhaustion. But still, he pushed himself to focus on the game, to rally his players with words of encouragement and strategic advice.

As the second quarter wore on, Novak's resolve was put to the ultimate test. The pain threatened to consume him, to drag him down into a swirling abyss of darkness and despair. But still, he fought on, clinging to the hope that somehow, someway, he would make it through.

As the halftime whistle blew, Novak staggered off the field, his head spinning and his stomach churning. But despite the agony coursing through his veins, there was a glimmer of pride in his eyes. He had made it through another quarter, against all odds.

During halftime, as the stadium buzzed with activity and the players retreated to the locker room, Novak's migraine symptoms reached a peak. The pounding in his head became unbearable, and waves of nausea threatened to overwhelm him.

With a grimace, Novak doubled over, clutching his stomach as bile rose in his throat. He ducked into the trainer’s office.

Novak didn’t want to be sick. He really didn’t. He hated being sick. But… he had no choice. He grabbed the trash by the door and threw up. Not even thinking. Not even registering someone was there.

"Novak, are you okay?" Willow asked, her voice laced with worry. "You look like you're in agony."

Novak forced a nod, attempting to downplay the severity of his condition. "I'm fine, Willow. Just a little headache, that's all."

But Willow wasn't convinced. She could see the pain etched into every line of Novak's face, the pallor of his skin ashen with discomfort.

"You don’t get ‘little headaches’, Novak," Willow insisted, gently guiding him towards a nearby bench. "Let me take a look at you. Something's not right."

"I can't," Novak whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible over the din of the halftime chaos. "I have to finish the game. The team needs me."

Willow sighed, her gaze softening with understanding. She knew how fiercely dedicated Novak was to his team, how much he had sacrificed to be here today. But she also knew that pushing himself to the brink of collapse wasn't the answer.

“Do you at least have that medicine that helps your seizures so you could…” Willow trailed off, seeing Novak shift uncomfortably.

"Alright, fine, listen to me," Willow said, her tone gentle but firm. "I know how much this game means to you, but your health is more important. You need to take care of yourself."

“I’ll be fine,” Novak said, shrugging, “I have to head back out… okay?”

As the third quarter began, Novak felt like he was wading through a sea of noise and chaos. Every sound—the roar of the crowd, the clash of helmets, the shouts of the players—seemed magnified to an excruciating degree, assaulting his senses with overwhelming force.

Novak clenched his jaw, trying to block out the cacophony around him, but it was like trying to hold back a tidal wave with his bare hands. The migraine had turned into a relentless beast, gnawing at his insides with vicious intent.

Despite the overwhelming overstimulation, Novak refused to yield. He gritted his teeth and soldiered on, his determination burning bright even in the face of adversity. The Mavericks were counting on him, and he wouldn't let them down—not now, not ever.

With each passing minute, the noise seemed to grow louder, more deafening, until it felt like his head might explode from the sheer intensity of it all. But still, Novak pressed forward.

As the game raged on, Novak's symptoms only intensified. His vision blurred, his head spun, and a wave of dizziness threatened to send him sprawling to the ground. But still, he refused to give in. He couldn't afford to let his team down, not when victory hung in the balance.

As the third quarter drew to a close, Novak felt a sense of pride swell within him. He had made it through another quarter, against all odds.

He was so close. He could do it.

Willow paced anxiously, her mind consumed with worry for Novak. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was seriously wrong, and her heart ached at the thought of him suffering alone out there on the field.

Vanessa approached her with a furrowed brow, concern etched into every line of her face. "Willow, what's going on? You look like you're about to jump out of your skin."

Taking a deep breath, Willow tried to compose herself, her hands trembling with anxiety. "It's Novak," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm really worried about him. He's been struggling all game, and I don't think he's doing well."

Vanessa's expression softened with sympathy, and she reached out to gently squeeze Willow's hand. "I understand, babe. But we have to trust that Novak knows his limits. He's a tough guy—he'll make it through."

But Willow couldn't shake the feeling of dread that gnawed at her insides. She knew Novak better than anyone, and she could sense that something was seriously wrong. She just needed to find a way to convince Vanessa to help her get him off the field before it was too late.

As they continued to talk, Willow's phone suddenly buzzed in her pocket, startling her out of her thoughts. With trembling hands, she pulled it out and glanced at the notification that flashed across the screen.

Her heart sank as she read the words: "High risk for seizure detected."

Panic surged through Willow's veins, and she turned to Vanessa with wide eyes. "We need to get to Novak, now," she urged, her voice trembling with urgency. "He's in danger, Vanessa. We have to help him."

Vanessa's eyes widened in alarm as she took in Willow's panicked expression. Without hesitation, she nodded, determination shining in her gaze. "Let's go," she said, her voice steady and resolute.

Novak stumbled on the sidelines, his senses overwhelmed by the relentless assault of noise and pain. The stadium seemed to pulse and throb around him, the crowd's cheers reverberating through his skull like thunderclaps. Each clatter of helmets, each shrill whistle of the referee, felt like a stab to his already battered brain.

His head spun with dizziness, and his vision blurred as he struggled to focus on the game unfolding before him. The migraine that had been gnawing at his insides now raged with ferocious intensity, a searing fire that consumed his every thought and sensation.

But amidst the chaos and confusion, another sensation began to creep in—a dull, pulsating ache that radiated from the depths of his being. Novak's limbs felt heavy and unresponsive, as if he were wading through molasses with every step.

With each passing moment, the warning signs became impossible to ignore. A tingling sensation danced along the edges of his consciousness, sending shivers down his spine.

But still, Novak pressed on, his determination unwavering even in the face of impending danger. He tried to push aside the mounting panic, the gnawing fear that threatened to consume him whole. He couldn't afford to give in—not now, not when victory was within reach.

Hands grabbed him from behind. Willow and Vanessa had found him, their faces etched with concern as they guided him towards the athletic trainer's room.

"Novak, you need to rest," Willow said, her voice firm but gentle. "You're in no condition to keep going. Let us help you."

Novak wanted to protest, to argue that he could still make it through the fourth quarter. But deep down, he knew they were right. He couldn't ignore the warning signs any longer, couldn't risk putting himself in harm's way.

With a weary sigh, Novak allowed himself to be led away, his body trembling with exhaustion and relief.

Willow guided Novak gently to the floor of the training room, her movements steady and deliberate despite the urgency of the situation. Vanessa hovered nearby, her expression calm and composed as she monitored Novak's vital signs.

"Easy now, Novak," Willow said soothingly, her voice a comforting presence in the otherwise silent room. "Just lie back and try to relax. We're here with you."

Novak nodded weakly, his breathing labored as he struggled to find a comfortable position on the hard linoleum floor. The quiet of the room was a sharp contrast to the chaos of the stadium, a welcome respite from the overwhelming cacophony that had threatened to consume him moments before.

Willow knelt beside Novak, her hand resting gently on his shoulder as she spoke to him in a soft, reassuring tone. "Novak, can you hear me? Can you tell me how you're feeling?"

Novak blinked slowly, his gaze unfocused as he tried to muster a response. "I... I feel... not great," he murmured, his words slurred and disjointed.

Vanessa knelt on the other side of Novak, her trained eyes scanning his face for any signs of distress. She grabbed his wrist, tilting his watch to get a better look at it.

“He spiked, Wills,” Vanessa said, “Almost 175…”

“Oh… so this… this is happening,” Willow nodded.

“Novak, can you tell me what day it is?" she asked calmly, her voice steady and reassuring.

Novak furrowed his brow, his confusion evident as he struggled to process the question. He couldn’t form the right words, so alo he could do was shake his head.

Willow exchanged a concerned glance with Vanessa, silently communicating their shared apprehension. Novak's symptoms were worsening by the moment, and they knew they had to act quickly to keep him safe.

Suddenly, without warning, Novak's body stiffened, his muscles locking into place as a low, guttural groan escaped his lips. Willow and Vanessa sprang into action, their training kicking in as they moved to protect Novak from harm.

"Seizure," Willow said calmly, her voice steady despite the urgency of the situation. "Hold him steady, Vanessa. We need to keep him safe until it passes."

Vanessa nodded, her hands gentle but firm as she supported Novak's head and neck, ensuring that he wouldn't injure himself during the seizure. Willow knelt beside them, her presence a comforting anchor in the midst of the storm. Making sure that in the midst of it, Novak wouldn’t end up on his back.

As the seizure ran its course, Novak's body convulsed with violent spasms, his breathing ragged and labored. But Willow and Vanessa remained steadfast at his side, their calm demeanor a beacon of hope in the darkness.

Finally, as the seizure subsided and Novak's breathing began to steady, Willow and Vanessa exchanged a silent glance of relief.

As Novak slowly emerged from the haze of the seizure, he felt disoriented and drained, his body aching with exhaustion. The pain in his head still pulsed with a relentless intensity, and he struggled to catch his breath, his throat raw and scratchy from the saliva and acid that had pooled there during the seizure.

Vanessa sat by his head, watching him, petting his hair, just trying to simply be there.

“Wills, call Yuliya,” Vanessa said, progressing to patting Novak’s breath.

Willow dialed Yuliya's number, her voice calm but urgent as she explained the situation.

"Yuliya, it's Willow," she said, her tone steady despite the underlying tension. "We need you to come to the stadium right away. Novak had a seizure, and he needs to get home."

Yuliya's voice crackled through the phone, "I'm on my way," she replied, her words tinged with urgency, there was no hesitation in her voice. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

With a sigh of relief, Willow ended the call and turned her attention back to Novak. Vanessa remained by his side, offering words of comfort and gentle reassurance as she progressed to patting Novak’s back.

"It's okay, Novak," Vanessa said soothingly, her voice a soft murmur in the quiet room. "You're safe now. Just focus on your breathing, okay? Try to cough up whatever's bothering you."

Novak nodded weakly, his eyes wide with fear and confusion. He wanted to speak, to ask a million questions about what had just happened, but his throat felt like it was filled with cotton, his words trapped beneath the weight of his exhaustion.

With Vanessa's gentle encouragement, Novak forced himself to cough, the action painful but necessary as he expelled the saliva and acid that had been choking him. Each breath came easier than the last, and slowly but surely, he began to regain a sense of control over his own body.

Vanessa and Willow both stayed close. Close enough to catch him if a rebound happened. Close enough that Vanessa pulled back his hair. Close enough that Willow patted his back and occasionally took his vitals how she could.

As Novak continued to recover from the seizure, waves of nausea washed over him, leaving him feeling hot and clammy. His head throbbed with a dull ache, and his limbs felt heavy and unresponsive. Despite the efforts of Vanessa and Willow to help him, he couldn't shake the feeling of overwhelming malaise that gripped him like a vice.

Vanessa remained by Novak's side, her presence a calming presence in the midst of the chaos. She continued to offer words of encouragement and gentle reassurance, her hand resting lightly on his back as she tried to soothe his discomfort.

"Easy now, Novak," Vanessa murmured, her voice soft and soothing. "Just focus on your breathing. You're doing great."

With each coughing spell, Novak felt a surge of relief as he expelled the saliva and acid that had been choking him. The action was painful and exhausting, but it also brought a sense of clarity and release, as if each cough was a step towards reclaiming control over his own body.

Willow knelt beside Novak, her expression grave as she monitored his vital signs. She could see the toll that the seizure had taken on him, the way he trembled with exhaustion and pain. But she also knew that with time and rest, he would recover.

"Take it easy, Novak," Willow said gently, her voice a steady anchor in the midst of the storm. "You're safe now. Just focus on resting and letting your body recover."

Novak coughed, spitting onto the towel Willow put close by. Spitting made him gasp, like he was coming up for air after swimming.

As Yuliya rushed into the training room, her eyes widened with concern at the sight of Novak lying on the floor, pale and exhausted. She hurried to his side, her hands gentle as she brushed his hair back from his forehead.

"Novak, oh my god, are you okay?" Yuliya asked, her voice laced with worry. "What happened? Why didn't you call me sooner?"

Novak struggled to find the right words. "I'm... I'm sorry, Yuliya. It happened so fast... I didn't want to worry you."

Yuliya's expression softened with understanding, and she reached out to squeeze Novak's hand in reassurance. "It's okay, Novak. You don't have to apologize. I'm just glad you're okay."

“It was like… a minute, the actual seizing,” Vanessa said, “His watch alerted Willow…”

“I programmed it,” Willow said, “I can do the same for you…”

Novak’s breathing was shaky, punctuated by tiny whines every so often. He was still trying to catch his breath, to handle his senses.

"Let's get you home, Novak," Yuliya said gently. "You need rest and quiet, away from all this chaos."

Novak nodded wearily.

“Can we move him?” Yuliya asked.

It took… longer than Novak wanted to acknowledge. He leaned heavily on Yuliya for support as they made their way out of the training room and towards the exit. Vanessa and Willow also took positions to help him outside.

The migraine that had been gnawing at his insides now raged with renewed intensity, a relentless drumbeat of pain that seemed to echo in every fiber of his being.

As they stepped out into the cool night air, Novak couldn't help but feel a sense of relief wash over him.

“You’re such a remarkable idiot, you know?” Yuliya asked.

“That’s not fair, you can’t harass me when I just had a seizure…” Novak mumbled, leaning back against the seat, ready to crash at any second.

“Fine, I’ll harass you when we get home.” Yuliya said pointedly, taking Novak’s hand in her own before she started to drive.

#emeto #sickfic #emeto fic #emeto cw #emeto tw #emetophilia #sick novak daskalov #novemetober 2023 #migraine tw #migraine cw #seizure tw #seizure cw #novemetober rescheduled

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sicknessbysalem · 7 months

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Novemetober (Rescheduled) | Day Twenty-Seven

@monthofsick | day twenty-seven: head [ache | pain | injury]

i feel like for as much as i mentioned how novak gets migraines (and how novak has seizured with his migraines), i havent really written a fic about novak having a migraine

tw emeto, migraine, hypersensitivity/overstimulation, seizure (at the end)

*author note: novak’s migraine/seizure relationship is based off my own irl experiences

As the sun rose over the sprawling football field, Novak found himself amidst the hustle and bustle of another day at Mavericks Stadium. Dressed in his customary coaching attire, he stood tall, a figure of authority amidst the sea of players clad in their team colors. Novak loved his team. He loved them when he played, and loved them differently now that he moved to coaching.

Today, however, the promise of a routine practice session was swiftly overshadowed by an ominous sensation creeping into Novak's consciousness. A flicker of light danced at the edge of his vision, like a warning sign. Novak had grown accustomed to these debilitating headaches, each one a relentless assault on his senses. It was always his vision before the pain. Then the pain. Then the fatigue. Then the nausea. Then, maybe the seizure.

As the minutes ticked by, the aura intensified, casting an eerie glow over the field. Novak's temples throbbed in rhythm with the pounding of his heart, his vision blurred by shimmering distortions. Every sound, every movement seemed amplified, a cacophony threatening to engulf him.

At a water break, he took a double dose of migraine medicine. But it had already been an hour before he knew it and the medicine was doing fuck all to help.

Novak gritted his teeth, swallowing down the bitter taste of frustration along with the ineffective medication. He knew all too well the futility of trying to stave off the inevitable onslaught of pain. It was a battle he fought time and time again, a battle he knew he couldn't win, but one he refused to surrender without a fight.

With a weary sigh, Novak forced himself back into the fray, his movements growing more sluggish with each passing moment. The players, engrossed in their drills, remained oblivious to their coach's silent struggle, their shouts and cheers a distant echo in Novak's throbbing ears.

As practice wore on, Novak's world began to narrow, his focus narrowing to a single, all-consuming thought: endure. Endure the pain, endure the nausea, endure the relentless assault on his senses until the final whistle blew and he could retreat to the sanctuary of solitude.

But even as he pushed himself to the brink of exhaustion, Novak knew that this was not just about enduring the physical torment. It was about proving to himself, to his team, that he was more than just a victim of circumstance. He was a warrior, a survivor, determined to overcome whatever obstacles stood in his path.

And so, with every ounce of strength he could muster, Novak pressed on, his body screaming in protest with every step.

As Novak trudged through the door of his modest home, the weight of the day's exertions bore down upon him like a leaden shroud. The migraine, once a distant specter, now consumed his every thought, a relentless torment that refused to be ignored.

Yuliya greeted him with a warm smile, her eyes betraying a flicker of concern as she took in his haggard appearance. Beside her, Elya bounced with youthful exuberance, her laughter filling the air like a ray of sunshine amidst the gathering storm.

"Hi, Daddy!" Elya chirped, her voice tinged with excitement. "We're making cookies! Do you want to help?"

Novak forced a smile, her joy was a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within him, but it made him happy.

"Of course, sweetheart," he replied, his voice strained with effort. "I'd love to."

As he joined them in the kitchen, Novak's senses were assaulted by a barrage of sights, sounds, and smells, each one magnified to agonizing proportions by the relentless onslaught of his migraine. The clatter of utensils, the sizzle of butter in the pan, the cloying scent of vanilla—all threatened to overwhelm him as he struggled to maintain his composure.

Yuliya, ever perceptive, watched him closely, her brow furrowing with concern as she noted the telltale signs of his distress.

"Novak," she said gently, placing a hand on his arm. "You're shaking. Why don't you go lie down for a bit? Elya and I can handle things here."

Novak opened his mouth to protest, but a sudden wave of nausea washed over him, leaving him weak and trembling. With a defeated sigh, he nodded, allowing Yuliya to guide him to the sanctuary of their bedroom. He didn't realize it, not at first, but Yuliya was right. He was in so much pain he was shaking.

"Daddy?" Elya asked, "Are you okay?"

Novak forced a reassuring smile, though every fiber of his being screamed in protest. "I'm fine, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice strained with effort. "Just a little tired, that's all."

But Elya wasn't convinced. The furrow of concern deepened on her young brow as she watched her father with wide, worried eyes. "But you look sick, Daddy," she insisted, her voice tinged with fear.

Novak's heart ached at the sight of his daughter's distress, the weight of his own suffering compounded by the knowledge that he was causing her undue worry. With a shaky hand, he reached out, brushing a lock of hair away from her face.

"I promise, sweetheart, I'll be okay," he whispered, his voice barely above a hoarse whisper. "Sometimes Daddy's head just hurts a little, but it'll get better soon, I promise."

Elya nodded, though the uncertainty lingered in her gaze. She trusted her father implicitly, but she couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at her young heart.

Yuliya, ever the voice of reason, intervened once more, her gentle touch a soothing presence amidst the turmoil. "Why don't you finish up the cookies with me, sweetheart?" she suggested, her tone light and playful. "I bet Daddy will feel better once they're ready to eat."

Elya brightened at the prospect, the worry melting away from her features like morning mist beneath the sun. With a final glance at her father, she skipped off to join Yuliya in the kitchen, her laughter a welcome respite from the oppressive silence that had settled over the room.

Alone in the dimly lit bedroom, Novak allowed himself a moment of weakness, the weight of his pain pressing down upon him like a suffocating blanket.He laid back, anxiously grabbing the bedsheets.

With a weary sigh, Novak closed his eyes, surrendering to the embrace of sleep as the world faded away around him, if only for a fleeting moment of respite amidst the chaos of his pain. For though the road ahead was fraught with uncertainty, he knew that as long as he had the love of his family, he would always find the strength to carry on.

As Novak stirred from his fitful slumber, a wave of agony washed over him, dragging him back into consciousness with a cruel, relentless force. Every nerve in his body seemed to scream in protest, his senses overwhelmed by the relentless onslaught of pain.

Blinking against the harsh glare of the bedside lamp, Novak struggled to orient himself, his mind fogged by a haze of nausea and dizziness. Beside him, Yuliya sat in silent vigil, her fingers absentmindedly weaving through his hair as she read her book. This happened nightly. It was so normal. Novak always fell asleep before Yuliya. He was constantly exhausted, and his girlfriend was much like his daughter, constantly full of energy.

But instead of comfort, Novak found only torment in her touch. Each gentle stroke sent shockwaves of pain reverberating through his skull, his hypersensitive nerves recoiling from the slightest contact as though it were a branding iron against his skin. Her hand stopped, she must've gotten invested in the part of the book she was reading, but her small hand felt like bricks pressing against his head, making it hurt worse. He tried to tough it out for Yuliya's sake. But when she started running her fingers through his hair again, he couldn't take it.

"Yuliya," he gasped, his voice raw with agony. "Please... I can't..."

Yuliya's movements faltered, her eyes widening in alarm as she registered the anguish etched upon Novak's features. With a trembling hand, she withdrew, her touch hovering uncertainly in the air as she struggled to comprehend the depths of his suffering.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice thick with remorse. "I didn't realize..."

But Novak shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips despite the pain. "It's not your fault," he rasped, his words a mere whisper against the oppressive silence of the room. "It's just... everything hurts."

And indeed it did. With each passing moment, the migraine tightened its grip upon Novak's body, a vice-like hold that left him gasping for breath. The nausea churned in the pit of his stomach, threatening to engulf him in a tidal wave of sickness.

"Did you take anything?" Yuliya questioned.

Novak forced himself to nod. Even that was killer. It always was.

"It did fuck all to help." Novak said through clenched teeth.

Yuliya sighed sadly, "That always happens to you. Especially after that game."

As the night wore on, Novak's torment intensified with each passing moment, the relentless onslaught of pain merciless in its ferocity. His head throbbed with a rhythm all its own, a relentless drumbeat that echoed through every fiber of his being, drowning out all other sensation.

With each shallow breath, Novak felt as though he were drowning in a sea of agony, his senses overwhelmed by the crushing weight of his affliction.

Every sound, every movement seemed magnified to excruciating proportions, a cacophony of torment that threatened to drive him to the brink of madness. The gentle rustle of the sheets against his skin felt like sandpaper against raw flesh, the soft hum of the air conditioner a shrill scream in the darkness. His own clothes felt like they were burning his skin. Everything felt so bad.

And through it all, Novak remained hyperaware of the world around him, his senses heightened to a painful degree. The cool touch of the pillow beneath his head sent shivers of agony down his spine, the faint scent of lavender, the spray Yuliya kept in her nightstand for specifically this reason, in the air a sickly-sweet reminder of the normalcy he could no longer grasp. When his headaches started, or when his anxiety was winning out those moments he felt alone enough to allow himself to deal with it. Yuliya put some of the spray on her hands and run her hands through his hair. Sometimes it helped. Sometimes it didn't.

Beside him, Yuliya watched in silent anguish, her heart heavy with the weight of his suffering. She longed to offer comfort, to ease the burden that bore down upon him like a mountain of lead, but she knew that there was little she could do in the face of such relentless agony.

And then, just when Novak thought he could endure no more, the nausea struck with a vengeance, twisting his stomach into knots and leaving him gasping for breath. With a choked cry, he stumbled from the bed, his vision swimming with dizziness as he raced to the bathroom.

Barely making it to the toilet in time, Novak doubled over in a fit of dry heaves, his body wracked with spasms of pain. Each convulsion sent shockwaves of agony coursing through him, his senses overwhelmed by the sheer brutality of his suffering.

And as he lay there on the cold tile floor, his world reduced to a blur of pain and nausea, Novak couldn't help but wonder how much longer he could take this.

The bathroom walls seemed to close in around Novak, their stark white surfaces pressing in on him. Every tile, every crack in the grout, seemed to taunt him with their pristine perfection, a stark contrast to the chaos that raged within his own body.

The harsh fluorescent light overhead flickered and buzzed. Each flicker sent a jolt of pain lancing through Novak's skull, his hypersensitive nerves recoiling from the assault with a vengeance.

The air was thick with the acrid stench of bile and desperation. Each breath was a battle, a struggle against the suffocating weight of his own suffering.

The pain was intense. And every wave of pain made him vomit again. Every wave of vomit caused more pain. And the cycle felt like it went on forever.

Novak was hyperaware of the taste in his mouth. The acidic bitterness. The faint taste of the green tea he drank at practice before the headache happened, he never drank coffee. He was sure it would hurt and taste a lot worse if he did.

With a trembling hand, Novak reached out, gripping the edge of the porcelain sink with white-knuckled fingers. The cool touch of the ceramic offered a fleeting respite from the searing pain that consumed him. He shut off the light, hoping that maybe, just maybe, that would help. The migraine, relentless in its fury, showed no mercy, its tendrils creeping ever deeper into the recesses of his mind.

He leaned against the wall, sliding down, eventually laying down on the cold tile.

as he lay there on the cold tile floor, his body wracked with spasms of pain, Novak couldn't help but wonder how much longer he could endure. At the very least, how much more he could take before he had to suffer a seizure from the sheer overstimulation of everything.

Honestly, for as much as the seizures hurt, Novak was hoping one would happen sooner, rather than later. As he ran his hands over his face, the sensation feeling as though his face was coming off from the simple act of running his hands over his skin. But usually, seizures meant the migraine would let up. Like hitting the peak of a mountain and sliding straight down.

With each passing moment, Novak's desperation grew, his body a battleground where pain and exhaustion waged a relentless war. He clung to the fragile hope that relief would come, but with each agonizing second, that hope dimmed like a dying ember in the darkness.

Fumbling with the locket around his neck, Novak sought solace in the familiar weight of the pendant against his chest. It was a small comfort, but comforting nonetheless.

And then the door creaked open, revealing Yuliya's worried face peering into the dimly lit room. Her eyes widened in alarm as she took in the sight of Novak lying on the floor, his body trembling with the effort of his fight against the migraine.

"Novak," she breathed, her voice thick with concern. "Are you okay?"

Novak managed a weak nod, though the effort sent sparks of pain dancing behind his eyes.

"I'm trying," he whispered hoarsely, his words barely audible above the pounding of his own heartbeat.

Yuliya stepped into the room, her presence a beacon of comfort amidst the chaos. She knelt beside Novak, her touch gentle as she brushed a lock of hair away from his sweat-drenched brow. It was brief, she knew it would hurt him if she kept it up, but she couldn't help herself.

Both Novak and Yuliya's watches emitted a soft beep. Yuliya checked it, Novak didn't, Novak knew. Novak was at high risk of a seizure, the culmination of his body's desperate struggle against the onslaught of the migraine. This always happened when they got this bad.

A surge of panic gripped Yuliya's heart, but mingled with that fear was a strange sense of relief. For as much as the seizures hurt, Yuliya knew that for Novak, they also signaled the beginning of the end of the migraine, a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness.

Yuliya reached, nudging Novak in such a way his body would reflexively lay on his side.

"It's going to be okay," she murmured, though whether it was meant for Novak or herself, she couldn't say. For a moment, Novak ran his fingers over his locket. But then, his hands stopped. Yuliya knew.

As Novak's body tensed with the onset of the seizure, a wave of helplessness washed over Yuliya, her heart aching at the sight of his suffering. She had seen it before, this cruel dance of agony and relief, and yet each time it struck, it felt like a fresh wound reopening in her soul.

Novak's muscles contracted with painful intensity, his limbs contorting in spasms of uncontrollable movement. It was a terrifying sight, one that never failed to fill Yuliya with a sense of dread, despite the knowledge that it was a necessary evil in Novak's battle against the migraine. Seizures were so normal, now, for Novak. And yet, they never stopped scaring her.

But even as she watched in silent anguish, Yuliya found solace in the knowledge that this too shall pass. For as the minutes stretched into eternity, the tension in Novak's body began to ebb, his muscles gradually relaxing as the seizure ran its course.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Novak lay still, his body limp and exhausted, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his pallid skin. Beside him, Yuliya let out a shaky breath, her hands trembling as she reached out to brush a strand of hair away from his face.

"It's over," she whispered, her voice thick with relief. "You're going to be okay."

Novak forced himself to nod.

"You're going to be okay," Yuliya said, rubbing Novak's shoulder. "It's over."

#emeto #sickfic #emeto fic #emeto cw #emeto tw #emetophilia #migraine cw #migraine tw #seizure mention tw #seizure cw #seizure tw #hypersensitivity tw #hypersensitivity cw #novemetober 2023 #sick novak daskalov #novemetober rescheduled

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dutifullyshamelessearthquake · 8 months

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Finally dropping another Novemetober Rescheduled one shot! This one I was particularly excited to write, mainly inspired by some of my many "obsessing over Cyno posts!" I had a lot of fun working on it

20. Late Caretaker

@monthofsick

Warnings for: graphic descriptions of vomit and stomach pain

#earthquake author's note #sickfic #genshin sickfic #genshin emeto #emeto #nausea #emeto fic #novemetober rescheduled #novemetober 2023 #nov(emeto)ber #sick Cyno

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sicknessbysalem · 7 months

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Novemetober (Rescheduled) | Day Six

@monthofsick | day six: post-adrenaline puking

once again, i am revisiting some days i missed because im not feeling the last few prompts at this time.

(also once again these characters originally belonged to @simplysickness but they have given the characters to me)

if you have any requests or questions feel free to send (please send)!

tw emeto, caffeine overload, brief/vague mention of mental health issues, bad coping mechanisms

In the dimly lit garage, the scent of motor oil hung heavy in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of sweat as Xavier tinkered with his bike, his hands deftly maneuvering around the engine with practiced precision. The fluorescent glow of the overhead lights cast sharp shadows across his furrowed brow, accentuating the lines of fatigue etched into his features.

"Hey, Cass," Xavier called out, his voice rough from exhaustion as he glanced over his shoulder to where Cassidy sat on the tabletop of his workbench, leaning against the workbench, concern etched into his features. "Hand me that wrench, would you?"

Cassidy stepped forward, handing over the tool with a gentle touch, his eyes scanning Xavier's face with worry. "You sure you're up for this, Xav? You look like you haven't slept in days."

Xavier chuckled, the sound hollow in the confines of the garage. "Just needing a bit of a distraction lately. Not sure why, maybe with you and Amity being in college, need something to fill my time."

Xavier reached beside him, knocking back the last of the can that Cassidy brought him. Probably much to one of his boyfriends' dismay.

"How many of those have you hit today?" Cassidy asked.

"Three, maybe?" Xavier said, "It's my last one, promise. I'm almost done anyway."

Cassidy's expression softened with understanding, though a flicker of concern still lingered in his gaze. "You've been pushing yourself too hard, Xav. Racing every chance you get. Aren't you supposed to only focus on the circuit?"

"I don't have to," Xavier shrugged, "Besides, the more I race, the better I do on the circuit."

"Yeah, and you look like you haven't slept in days," Cassidy said, "If you don't slow down you'll get yourself sick."

Xavier's shoulders tensed slightly, a defensive edge creeping into his voice. "I can handle it, Cass. I've been doing this for years."

But even as he spoke, a wave of nausea swept over him, a harsh reminder of the toll his rigorous schedule was taking on his body. He swallowed back the bile and the sickening sweetness of the last energy drink he had rising in his throat, his grip tightening on the wrench as he forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

Cassidy reached out, a hand coming to rest on Xavier's shoulder, the touch grounding and reassuring. "Just promise me you'll take it easy after this race, okay? Your health comes first."

Xavier met Cassidy's gaze, a flicker of gratitude softening the exhaustion in his eyes. "I promise," he murmured, the weight of his words heavy in the air between them.

Race day dawned with the sky painted in hues of fiery orange and soft pink, the air thick with anticipation and the faint scent of gasoline. Xavier stood at the edge of the track, clad in his racing gear, the vibrant colors of his suit a stark contrast to the pallor of his complexion. Despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins, Xavier felt like maybe, just maybe he did too much in too little of time.

Cassidy stood nearby, a knot of worry twisting in his stomach as he watched Xavier's trembling hands lift another energy drink to his lips, knocking it back like it was a shot of liquor as opposed to an excessive amount of caffeine. The telltale signs of too much caffeine were impossible to miss, the jittery tremors a stark contrast to Xavier's usual steady demeanor. He approached Xavier with a gentle touch, concern etched into every line of his face.

"Xav, maybe you should sit this one out," Cassidy suggested softly, his voice laced with worry. "You're not in any condition to race."

But Xavier's jaw clenched stubbornly, his gaze fixed on the track. "I can't back out now, Cass. I've trained for this, I've worked for this. I can't just give up. I can't let the last month and a half be for nothing."

Cassidy reached out, cupping Xavier's trembling hands in his own. But, it hurt. Or something, Xavier wasn't sure how to explain it.

"I know you want this, Xav," Cassidy murmured, his voice gentle but firm. "But pushing yourself like this, it's not worth risking your health. There will be other races, other opportunities."

But Xavier shook his head, his gaze unwavering as he met Cassidy's eyes with a fierce intensity. "I have to do this, Cass. For me, for us. I need to prove that I can still compete, that I'm not just a has-been."

Cassidy's heart ached at the raw vulnerability in Xavier's words. He wanted nothing more than to wrap Xavier in his arms, to shield him from the relentless pressure weighing him down. And it was all pressure he was putting on himself, Cassidy knew that. But he was putting that pressure on himself as a coping mechanism, Amity explained that many times. Putting race pressure on himself, putting excessive caffeine in his body, it was a coping mechanism to avoid facing his internal struggles. A bad coping mechanism, but a mechanism nonetheless.

"I have to go, race time," Xavier said, knocking back the last of the can he had, handing it over to Cassidy, proving it was empty, making a statement that was the last one.

As Xavier crossed the finish line, a surge of triumph surged through his weary body, the deafening roar of the crowd echoing in his ears like a symphony of victory. But as the adrenaline that had propelled him through the race began to fade, a wave of nausea swept over him with crippling intensity.

The world spun around him in a dizzying blur, his vision swimming with dark spots as he fought to keep his balance. He needed to get off the track, for several reasons.

Cassidy's voice cut through the haze of exhaustion, sharp with concern as he rushed to Xavier's side, a hand coming to rest on his quivering shoulder. "Xav, are you okay? You don't look so good."

Xavier swallowed back the bile rising in his throat, the taste of stomach acid and the energy drink a strange mix of sweet and bitter on his tongue as he forced a weak smile, continuing to walk off to the side with his bike, "I'm fine, Cass. Just need a minute to catch my breath, that's all."

But even as he spoke, a violent wave of nausea tore through him, his stomach lurching with agonizing intensity. Xavier staggered to a halt, his hands trembling as he struggled to unclasp the helmet strapped to his head.With a strangled gasp, Xavier ripped off his helmet, the cool air of the racetrack washing over his clammy skin in a welcome relief.

Cassidy's brow furrowed with worry as he watched Xavier's pallor turn ashen, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he clutched at his stomach.

"Xav, you need to sit down," Cassidy insisted, his voice urgent with concern. "You're not okay."

But Xavier waved him off weakly, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he fought to keep the contents of his churning stomach at bay. "I just... need a moment," he managed to choke out, his voice barely above a whisper.

With a trembling hand, Cassidy reached out, offering Xavier a steadying arm as he guided him to a nearby bench, the cold metal biting into Xavier's aching muscles as he collapsed onto the hard surface. The world spun around him in a dizzying whirl, the sounds of the racetrack fading into a distant haze as darkness threatened to consume him whole.

As Xavier sat on the hard metal bench, the world around him seemed to spin faster and faster, the cacophony of voices and engines blending into a disorienting symphony of chaos. With each passing moment, the relentless grip of nausea tightened its hold on him, a suffocating weight pressing down on his chest.

Cassidy hovered nearby, his features etched with concern as he watched Xavier's condition deteriorate with growing alarm.

"Xav, I told you this would happen," he said softly, his voice tinged with panic as he reached out a hand to steady Xavier's trembling form.

But before Xavier could respond, a violent wave of nausea tore through him, the contents of his stomach rising up with agonizing force. With a strangled gasp, he doubled over, retching violently onto the ground, the bitter taste of bile filling his mouth with every heave.

Disgust and dismay washed over Xavier in a sickening wave as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, the acrid stench of vomit lingering in the air like a foul miasma. Shame burned hot in his chest as he glanced up at Cassidy, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"I'm so sorry, Cass," Xavier murmured, his voice thick with self-loathing. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

But Cassidy's expression softened with compassion as he knelt beside Xavier, a hand coming to rest on his trembling shoulder. "Hey, it's okay," he reassured, his voice gentle but firm. "You pushed yourself too hard, that's all. Let's get you home."

With Cassidy's steady support, Xavier struggled to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him as he leaned heavily on his boyfriend for support. The world spun around him in a dizzying blur, the sounds of the racetrack fading into a distant haze as he stumbled toward his bike. The weight of his exhaustion was draggung him down like an anchor in the storm, but he needed to take care of things before they could go.

“Hey, hey,” Cassidy said, “Here. Let me help. And then we really should get you home… and in bed.”

Xavier glanced up at Cassidy, a flicker of gratitude softened the edges of his despair, a reminder that no matter how far he fell, his boyfriend would always be there to lift him back up again.

“I’m sorry,” Xavier said, “Seriously.”

Cassidy nodded, “Yeah, I know. It’s okay…”

#emeto #sickfic #emeto fic #emeto cw #emeto tw #emetophilia #caffeine overdose tw #bad coping mechanisms tw #tw bad coping mechanisms #novemetober 2023 #novemetober rescheduled

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