#ryekandarkane

[turningtummyrubs]

LOVE the last piece you wrote on Ryek and Ark, thank you! I have an idea, please feel free to decline, but one day, Ryek is compromised during a mission because of another bad stomachache (boy he sure gets a lot of those!) and is in serious danger, but then Ark comes to his rescue! Ark disposes of the bad guy and then takes care of poor, sick Ryek. 🤤

Hehe, I love this prompt! Time to torture Ryek some more the poor bb

(Also sorry for the laaaate reply)

———

Ryek ducks and rolls swiftly out of the way as the tinkling crystals of the chandelier come crashing down like a shower of icicles. He presses himself to the floor behind a tall marble pillar, chest heaving with exertion as his eyes track Target 162, a short woman with a halo of dark hair and fierce eyes. Tami Braysben would’ve been a challenge any day, but with his stomach aching as it’s been for the past hour at least, Ryek has to admit that completing this mission is near impossible.

Tami looks around the grand room, at the ripped oil paintings on the walls and the mess of chandelier glass shimmering on the floor, before promptly turning and heading up the swirling spiral of stairs leading up to the second floor. Ryek has no idea what she might want; all he knows is that he’s supposed to bring her back to headquarters. He groans and flips over onto his back, flinging an arm over his eyes as his stomach squeezes with another cramp. He can feel glass dust pricking his back through his expensive dress shirt. He’s certain it’s stained with blood by this point.

Ryek tells himself to rise. Tells himself to follow Tami and do as he’s told and bring her back in, but even the thought of standing leaves him nauseous. In the heat of the moment, the pain in his abdomen had been an afterthought, but now, feverish cheek pressed to the cold marble floor, it’s impossible to overlook. It twists and churns with a queasy fervor, gurgling sickly every so often as something strains at his insides.

A low moan scrapes at his throat as he miserably curls onto his side, wrapping an arm around his stomach as something tightens with a sharp intensity. His vision has begun to go blurry, only the most vibrant of colors standing out. The blood red of the drapes, the turquoise strips of painted canvas torn up on the floor, one of Tami’s bright yellow heels dangling off the banister of the stairs. 

Realistically, the pain in his stomach shouldn’t be enough to render him so... useless, especially not with the amount of training he’s had, but something’s been off with him all week. For one, he hasn’t had a true conversation with anyone in ten days. Then there’s also the fact that as winter draws near, his giant house only grows colder and lonelier. He hasn’t slept properly in ages and he longs for human contact and the anniversary of his grandmother’s death passed only a few days ago and—

Things just haven’t been great for Ryek lately, and he knows if this stomach ache hadn’t come along, something else would’ve toppled him off the thin line he’s been walking. 

He curls his knees up and lets his tired eyes fall shut, sweat blazing at his temples as he resigns himself to potential death at the hands of Target 162.

Ryek is unsure how long he lies there. It feels like a day but, logically, it was probably around six minutes. That is, until he feels the cool press of a callused palm against his hot cheek. He would’ve recoiled in fear or confusion if it hadn’t been for the immediate cinnamon and ash smell accompanied by the touch. Ark.

He musters up everything he has and forces his eyes open, pulling his face away from Ark’s questioning hand. Ark’s staring at him, eyes dark with worry and face open in a way it usually wouldn’t be. Ryek suspects the manic flush to his cheeks and the delirious haze clouding his eyes has probably lowered Ark’s guard, and rightfully so. How is he even here right now?

As if Ark heard his unspoken question, he murmurs, “HQ sent me. Apparently, you weren’t answering your comms.” His eyes rake over Ryek’s shuddering body. “Are you injured?”

Ryek shakes his head, looks down at himself as if to check, then shakes his head again. Ark crouches down beside him and returns his hand to Ryek’s cheek, thumb brushing lightly over his fevered cheekbone.

“Jus’ don’t feel good...” Ryek whispers dazedly, eyes slipping shut again as he instinctively leans into Ark’s touch.

Ark’s voice sounds full of worry as he says, “You don’t look good either, Marriano.” He pulls his hand away and Ryek is startled at the way his eyes sting immediately at the loss of contact. He’s even more touch-starved than he’d thought. The miserable feeling only grows as his tummy clenches and a piercing grumble gurgles up from his gut. “Look, I’ll take care of 162, and then I’ll come right back, okay?”

No, Ryek thinks. Stay. “Okay.”

Ryek shrinks into a ball and tries to block out the sound of Ark’s fading footsteps. True to his word, at least, Ark returns quickly. Ryek can hear muffled screaming noises, probably from Tami, before she’s thrust out the door and supposedly handed off to another member. Ryek strains to hear Ark’s murmured conversation with what sounds to be one of the lower-grade captors.

“Said he’s not feeling well... worse than I’ve ever seen him... I know... yeah...”

Ryek can’t help but scowl. He truly must look as pitiful and pathetic as he feels. Even so, he can’t help it. He feels like he’s been run over with a burning garbage truck. His hand presses miserably into his tummy as his breaths grow labored.

Ark returns to his side after a couple of minutes and, before Ryek can say anything, scoops him up into his arms as if he weighs no more than a doll. Ryek knows he’s not that light—looming at well over six feet and roped with muscle, but Ark seems to be completely unaffected. Ryek will admit that the feeling is nice, of being able to turn your face into the soft fabric of someone’s shirt and feel safe. To be surrounded on all sides by warmth and hear the steady thrum of a heartbeat pounding in your ears like a comforting song.

He vaguely takes in the change in scenery as Ark lowers him into the passenger’s seat of his car. Ryek already misses the warmth of his arms. He swallows as his stomach lurches when they begin driving. He muffles a small whimper as everything tilts and swirls and further stirs up the sickness already roiling in his tummy. He feels a heavy hand grasp his shoulder for a brief moment before the comforting heat is gone again.

“Steady now, buddy,” Ark murmurs, and Ryek thinks he can feel the car speed up. If he focuses he can see the blurred whiz of a stop sign and a smear of trees.

It feels like only moments before they’re parked outside Ark’s house—tall, looming brick with white trim. There are flowers on his windowsill. “There are flowers on your windowsill.”

Ark blinks, looking up at the petunias as he helps Ryek out of the car. “Er, yeah.”

Ryek just shakes his head, unable to formulate a proper sentence. Gravel crunches beneath his feet as he slowly makes his way into Ark’s house. The moment Ark’s arm leaves his shoulders, he promptly collapses in the foyer.

“Marriano!” Ark exclaims, looking alarmed. He scoops Ryek back up in his arms and Ryek resists the urge to nuzzle into his shoulder and fall asleep. Instead, he scowls and pretends to be annoyed. “Do I need to bring you to a doctor or something?”

Ryek shakes his head vigorously, expression souring further. “Don’t even think about it,” he says, or wheezes more like it.

He can practically feel Ark frown, but he doesn’t object. Ryek whimpers softly as he’s set down in a cold bed and immediately regrets it as he hears Ark’s low chuckle. A cool hand smooths over his forehead, pushing back his hair, before Ark murmurs, “I’ll be back in a sec.”

Ryek doesn’t have time to protest before he’s gone, footsteps padding softly down the hall. Ryek turns onto his side, knees curling up slightly as he feels something shift weird in his stomach, gurgling low and unsettled.

He slips a hand beneath his shirt, kneading slowly, and his breath hitches as a wave of hot pain coarses through every vein in his body. God. He turns restlessly onto his back, chest heaving as he throws an arm over his eyes and moans quietly with pain.

“Shit,” he hears Ark say when he returns a moment later. Ryek hears the sound of something being set down and a quiet clinking before the mattress shifts and Ark rubs his shoulder.

Ark eases him up into a sitting position and softly says, “Drink some of this.” A warm mug is pressed into Ryek’s hands and he blindly complies, some of the tensed muscles coiled in his abdomen relaxing at the hot tea. A few cramps still linger in his stomach though, twisting and seizing every few moments with renewed pain.

Once Ryek’s finished with the tea, Ark takes the mug and says, “Lie down.” Ryek lies back down again, eyes hazy with fever, and relaxes as he feels Ark’s broad hand smooth over his abdomen. His palm palpates gently at the strained churning in his guts, working away the cramps with warm heat.

They lapse into comfortable silence as Ark rubs Ryek’s stomach, and the last thing Ryek hears before he falls asleep is, “If you ever make me worry like that again, I’ll stab you in your sleep.”

[turningtummyrubs]

I love your OCs Ryek and Arkane! I'd love another massive Ryek stomachache fic with soothing belly rub galore please!

Thank you so much! I hope this meets your qualifications hehe

———

It’s dark out, and chillingly cold, by the time Ryek makes it back home. The brutal sting of the wind leaves his skin pink and tinged with blue at the fingertips.

He turns off the car with a heavy sigh and steps out, eyes shutting momentarily as he leans back against the side. He’s had a stomach ache since noon and with all the physical strain that afternoon had brought, it’s only been steadily worsening with time.

He swallows and commences the long walk up the stairs to his front door, stomach churning like waves lapping against the shore with every small step he takes. He splays a palm over his shirt when his stomach turns in a particularly nauseating manner.

Ryek turns the key in his door, ready to go curl up in bed and wallow the night away when he’s greeted with the sight of Arkane Nax lounging on his sofa. His expression immediately sours. He and Ark’s relationship has progressed to a point where they no longer try to trip each other in the halls, but now is quite possibly the worst time for a surprise drop-in.

Ryek strides over quickly, face stern. “What are you doing here, Nax?”

Arkane glances up and smiles a dangerous smile. “Have you forgotten, Marriano? It’s July 24th, team bonding day.”

Ryek’s face goes white as a sheet. Shit. How did he forget that? Every few months or so, the Captive leaders enforce a “team bonding” day. Ryek usually manages to weasel out of it, but this time he was forced to pick a day where he and Ark had to “sort out their differences.”

Ark waggles his eyebrows. “Oh, don’t look so disappointed.”

Ryek sighs and sits down in an armchair in front of him. “Best we get this over with then.”

“And how, pray tell, do you suggest we do that?”

“Quickly,” Ryek says, stiffening slightly as a particularly vicious cramp spreads through his lower stomach. His abdominal muscles twitch and convulse with the intensity of it and it takes all Ryek’s strength not to let the pain show on his face.

Ark claps his hands together and leans forward. “How about this? You tell me what you hate about me and I’ll tell you what I hate about you.”

Well, that sounds pleasant. “Fine. I hate your arrogance, the way you always jump into things without a plan, your shitty humor, the way you always try to weasel into everything, and your face.”

“Wha—you hate my face?” Ark exclaims. “Do you know how many people think I’m hot, Ryek? A lot.”

Ryek looks at him. Skin like burnished gold, jaw like the sharp side of a knife, eyes like something deadly... “That’s not what I meant.”

Ark huffs. “Fine. Well, my turn, I guess. I hate how serious you are all the time, I hate that you look like someone who thinks pop music is overrated, I hate that you have really nice eyebrows, I hate that you’re no fun all the time and I also hate your face!”

Ryek blinks. “I don’t think pop music is overrated.”

Ark’s jaw slackens. “That’s what you took away from that?”

“Well, the rest is true. I’m serious and don’t know how to have fun,” Ryek says. “And I have really nice eyebrows.”

“Okay, now I’m—”

Ark’s cut off as Ryek suddenly grasps the armrest of his chair, face draining of all color. His belly rumbles tightly, something sharp spasming like an electrical wire deep in his tummy. He swallows thickly and presses a hesitant hand over his upset stomach.

Ark’s brow furrows. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy,” Ryek says, but it comes out more of a strained wheeze. He presses his fingers in over a taut convulsion and immediately pulls them away as the pressure only serves to further the pain.

“Yeah, I don’t know if I believe you,” Ark says, leaning forward with scrutinizing eyes. “Are you sick or something?”

Ambrose inhales deeply, wrapping an arm around his belly and biting back a gasp. “Don’t know.”

“Well—shit. Uh, it’s your stomach, right?” Ark says. Ryek can’t recall how, but Ark’s suddenly kneeling by his side, a gentle hand at his elbow.

Ryek nods once, jaw clenching as he slowly leans back in the chair. His tummy gurgles once, audibly, and Ryek can’t help the tiny whimper that leaves his lips.

“Move your shit,” Ark says, and Ryek has no idea what he’s talking about but allows him to move his arm away from where it’s curled protectively around his stomach.

Ark presses a gentle hand over the worst of the cramping, sliding his thumb over the tense surface in warm, soothing circles. Ryek doesn’t even question the action, just sinks into the armchair with a sigh.

Ark tips his hand so the heel of his palm is level with Ryek’s belly and smooths it back and forth across the burbling area just over the intestinal region. A heavy bout of queasiness wells up Ryek’s throat and he muffles a sickly burp into his fist, groaning softly.

Both of Ark’s hands knead at the paralyzing tightness coiled beneath Ryek’s ribs, breaking up the tension with methodic movements. When he slides a heavy palm up the center of Ryek’s tummy, a low pained whine squeals from his stomach accompanied by another wet burp from Ryek.

Ryek’s lower belly is tender and tense as a sack of stones, and when Ark’s fingertips roam the pained surface, he winces.

“Do you have a heating pad?” Ark asks, moving his hand back up to a safer area and massaging with gentle pressure.

“Top shelf in the closet down the hall,” Ryek grunts, trying not to let the disappointment show on his face as Ark’s comforting hands leave his tummy.

“I’ll be right back,” Ark promises, heading down the dark hall. He returns a few moments later with the heating pad, plugging it in and settling it atop Ryek’s lower stomach. The heat immediately eases some of the strain building in Ryek’s cramping abdomen, loosening the wound muscles.

Ryek tips his head back, eyes slipping shut as Ark smooths his thumbs up Ryek’s upper belly in lazy, languid circles. A faint gurgling noise will sound every so often as his belly seems to begin digesting.

Ryek’s stomach is still achy and sore, but the warmth of the heating pad and Ark’s soothing hands more than compensate for it.

Ark grins wryly. “I’d say this counts as bonding, yeah?”

Ryek’s lips twitch. “Whatever you say, Nax.”