#wobbly breadbasket

[ginger-and-mint]

Ryder eats something that really doesnt agree, maybe a spell goes pear shaped or he gets a recipe a little off. He has to spend the rest of the day working despite feeling very sickly and trying to present himself as normal to everyone else, while nauseous and stuffed. Eventually cant handle it anymore and .. hm, emeto or soothing? not sure how mean to be hehe

This took me longer than planned – I loved this prompt and wanted to wait until I had the chance to spend some time and make it good! Please enjoy~

The trouble, as it so often did, all boiled down to bad luck and poor timing

It’d been late on Wednesday night when Ryder had noticed one of the big tonic-brewing pots leaking white smoke from its seams. He’d checked the magic-containment sigil inscribed into its base and found it cracked right down the middle, catastrophically failed from overuse.

The repair would’ve been simple for a scribe-mage. Had there been more time, Ryder would’ve called on the spellshop downtown and had someone come up to fix it. But RAMA was expecting an order of tonic by the end of the week and working a whole day with only one pot in operation wasn’t going to cut it.

There was a di-mage equivalent to the containment spell. It wasn’t often used, and when Ryder dug it out of one of the ancient books sitting on his shelf, he realized why. The filling was an intimidating mix of rich dairy products, greasy fried foods, and citrus fruits – the perfect recipe for horrible indigestion. And the spell didn’t call for a small amount, either.

But Ryder hadn’t felt he had much of a choice. So he’d gone into the brewing room with an armload of food and shambled out some time later with a very full, very unhappy belly.

But the brewing pot was working again, and that was what mattered. The discomfort would fade in time.

Or so he’d thought. An hour later, Ryder still felt horribly sick.

He hunched over his desk a little as his stomach rumbled inside him, pushing up a soft, queasy burp. It had been gurgling almost continuously for the past ten minutes, its heavy, viscous contents churning sluggishly. All Ryder wanted was to slink off and be sick – or in lieu of that, to go upstairs, draw the curtains in his bedroom, and take a nice, long nap until his belly settled. But the day was still young, and the spell needed to run, and he had work to do….

“Ryder?” Grayson’s voice floated over from the main area of the room, where he was setting up materials for a researcher who was coming in to cast later. “This cooler thing isn’t working.  What should I do?”

“One moment.” Swallowing heavily, Ryder braced a hand on his desk and pushed himself to his feet. Standing up made him feel extremely nauseated – he had to clench his jaw against a wave of dizziness, and cold sweat broke out on his forehead.

His stomach sloshed and gurgled with each step, but he felt he managed to look relatively normal by the time he knelt next to where Grayson was working.  “Where’s this broken cooler?”

“Here.” Grayson held up the small metal bucket, designed to keep spell ingredients cold. “It won’t turn on.”

“Ah. They’re old. Sometimes they just need a good shake.” Ryder gave the little machine a thump and handed it back to Grayson as it whirred to life.

“Got it. Thanks.” Grayson set the cooler down, running a hand through his hair. “Um – Ryder, can I ask – are you feeling all right?”

Ryder couldn’t keep a stony frown from stealing over his face. “I suppose you can hear my stomach?”

“Uh. Yeah, kinda. Also, you just look sort of… bad. No offense.”

“Well, I’m in the middle of a challenging spell. But it’s nothing to be worried about.” Ryder’s frown deepened as his belly gurgled loudly. He had to stop himself from pressing a hand to the accompanying cramp. “I know it sounds bad, but it’s merely the ordinary inconveniences of being a di-mage.”

Grayson didn’t look convinced. “Maybe you should take some tonic?”

“Not needed. Don’t concern yourself with this, Grayson.” Ryder stood up, swallowing heavily against the lurch of his belly. “Just finish your work and then go get yourself some lunch.”

Back at his desk, Ryder wiped the sweat from his brow and tried to focus on paperwork. He managed a to do a little, but soon he was leaning back in his chair with his hands folded over his rolling stomach, breathing slowly.

There was no denying it – his nausea was getting worse and worse. As sick as he felt, as much as he longed to give his stomach the relief it was pleading for, he had to keep the spell down–

–and then his belly groaned and surged in a way that made him press a hand against his mouth. When he took his fingers away, they were clammy and trembling, and Ryder knew suddenly and clearly that his insides were going to have their way.

He lurched to his feet and walked stiffly out from his alcove. “Grayson? Would you keep an eye on things for a few minutes?”

“Uh, sure.” Grayson glanced up at him. “Are you–?”

Ryder didn’t hear the end of his question. He was already moving purposefully across the room, down the back hall, up the steps to his living quarters.

He had been planning to take care of things in a careful, controlled way – drink some water to dilute the magic before pressing his finger to the back of his tongue – but it was already too late for that. He could feel his stomach fighting to squeeze as he reached for the handle of his bathroom door.

He barely managed to fall on his knees before he was being very, very sick.

Vomiting up an active spell was never pleasant. But even with the intensity of the cramps, the easing of the pain his belly was so immense that Ryder sighed gratefully between retches. It almost felt good to cough up the last of it, to rid his insides of the last vestiges of that foulness. Afterwards, all he could do for a minute or two was sit huddled on the floor and breathe, basking in the warm fuzziness of relief.

He felt so much better.

Eventually, he rose and stumbled to the sink to rinse his mouth and splash some water on his face. He still felt shaky as he made his way back to the Soothing Room – throwing up always made him feel off – but it was still better than suffering through such a full, sick belly. At least he could focus on something other than how awful he felt this way. He’d have to figure out something else with the brewing pot, unfortunately, but that would sort itself out, surely…

He rounded the corner to his alcove and stopped short.

A mug of tea was sitting in the middle of his desk, steam curling lazily from its surface. The spicy scent of ginger hung in the air.

He glanced over his shoulder. The room was empty. The setup Grayson had been working on was completed, and his apprentice himself was nowhere to be seen.

"Huh!” Ryder murmured aloud. “I told him not to worry! But does he listen? No! Stubborn boy!”

He eased himself into his chair, raised the mug to his lips, and took a long draught. The tea settled in his belly, warm and soothing as a blanket.

I’ll have to have words with Grayson, Ryder thought, about how his refusal to listen to me will make him a wonderful soother someday, and he smiled as he took another sip.

[ionlydrinkhotwater]

Idea: Carry On x A Song of Ice and Fire

NOT THE HBO SHOW, THE BOOKS ONLY*

Salisburys=Targaryan (Blond, Dragons, large and in charge)

Pitch=Martell (Progressive, Dark haired, olive skined desert oasis, retains royal titles, ruled by powerful women)

Grimm=Lannister (rich, rich, rich)

Bunce=Hightower (all about the knowledge, the hub of learning in all seven kingdoms)

Wellbelove=Tully (family, duty, honor)

Lady Ruth (maiden name) =Tyrell (the Reach the breadbasket of the seven kingdoms)

Cadwallader= Stark

Petty=Arryn (lots of goats in the Vale)

Niall=Greyjoys

Hand of the King (like a Prime minister)

Last Names for the Bastards of great families are determined based on location/who the parent is:

North: Snow

Vale: Stone

Dorne: Sand

Kingslanding: Waters

Reach: Flowers

Riverlands: Rivers

etc.

The Salisbury's have ruled the Seven Kingdoms on the Iron Throne for centuries, they are considered the blood of the Dragon but no one in the family has been able to transform into one for ages. An incident occurred with their heir Princess Lucy when Davy of house Cadwallader abandoned his northern seat of Winterfell, giving it to his cousins and joined the Wildlings beyond the wall (a group of people who refuse to acknowledge the authority of the crown and the feudal lords). No one knows everything that happened but the generally held belief is that Davy kidnapped her for what he believed was the Prophecy of Ice and Fire, the union of the (former) Lord of Winterfell and the Salisbury's would create the Prince that was Promised; whether he married her is anyone's guess. Attempts were made to recover her especially by Natasha Pitch, Hand to King Andrew and Princess of Dorne but she was never found. In that time the King died and left his wife Queen Ruth of Highgarden as regent for their remaining child Prince Jaime, who is a nice kid but really NOT fit to be in charge and who is desperate to abdicate to literally ANYONE else and become the Lord of Highgarden as he would prefer (its a cushy role). 

There is a hope among some of the old families of Westeros that maybe Natasha's heir Prince Baz of Dorne could be considered for the throne in lieu of Jaime. But things go sideways when there is a showdown between Davy and Natasha in a battle beyond the wall where Davy is defeated by Natasha but she dies from wounds sustained during the skirmish. It is there that Lady Ebb Petty of the Vale finds a small baby Dragon in the snow, the Dragon then becomes a little boy: Simon "Snow" Salisbury: Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne. This throws the Seven Kingdoms into disarray: 

1) The Salisburys are thrilled after all they now have a beloved child who can turn into a Dragon like the Salisbury's of old, Jaime is happy to give up his claim

2) Simon's Claim is a bit wobbly, Going for him is: his martial prowess, he is the heir of the heir and so his claim supersedes everyone else and he can turn into a dragon which is like a nuke in this world. Against him is that he is very likely a 'bastard' hence the nickname Simon 'Snow' even though his Grandma legitimized him, and his father was the hated Davy Cadwallader who the old families hate and resent. He also spent the first 10 yrs of his life living beyond the wall in a seemingly lawless, wild place that has a shady reputation among the rest of Westeros and the old families fear he may try and undermine their authority with his wildling values.

The old families split allegiances, Dorne although loyal to Queen Ruth is not going to accept Simon on the throne, Dorne was the last to join the seven kingdoms and unlike the other realms of Westeros, was never conquered, the Salisbury's made Natasha the hand to appease Dorne and allowed them to retain their customs and titles. They are prepared under the Viper Princess Fiona to throw hands over the ascension of Simon SNOW, they have the Grimms of Casterly Rock as allies and they hold all the gold in Westeros. And Niall of the Iron Isles has promised his impressive fleet to 'Baz's' cause, among others.

Simon has allies too though, the Pettys of the Vale, the Wellbeloves of Riverrun, the Bunces of Oldtown and the Cadwallader Cousins of Winterfell. Other families like the Brodys of Storms End and the dashing Sealord of Bravos Shepard have married into the alliance. 

Growing up Prince Simon and Prince Baz have been treated as and treated each other as enemies and rivals. With the members of their alliances moving around and butting heads. 

some of the others are just biding their time

During the month of Simon's 18th name day all of Westeros and the interested parties across the Narrow sea are holding their breath. Queen Ruth's regency is up and she will hand the reigns to either Jaime (who, lets be honest would be a puppet) with Baz as his Hand (as the Dornish alliance want) or to her grandson Simon with Lady Penelope Bunce as his Hand. Civil war is on the horizon: BUT the Summer Tourney changes everything.

During the lavish tourney given to celebrate the retirement of Dowager Queen Ruth and the incredible job she did at taking care of the kingdom (and delaying war). Both alliances are there and both royal Princes are in attendance. Simon is riding in the tourney itself as he always is and inevitably wins the tilts and is named champion. When he is given a crown of Winter roses to crown his King/Queen of of Love and Beauty (a courtly tradition), he rides past everyone and to the shocked silence of the crowd, lays the wreath on the lap of Prince Baz of Dorne. Baz stares in disbelief before taking the crown, his hands are shaking so badly his Lady step mother has to help fasten it to his hair. 

During the subsequent feast where, as the champions chosen King of Love and Beauty Baz is seated away from his allies and beside Simon, Lady Ruth announces that she will be naming Simon as King of all Westeros. Simon then announces that it is his desire to marry Prince Baz as his King-consort. This comes as a huge surprise to everyone except Penelope, Ruth, Jaime and Shepard. Everyone knows that Baz and Simon HATE each other and the idea that they would marry was absurd that no one would have suggested it even as a joke 

Baz thinks that Penelope Bunce will be an EXCELLENT Hand. The simplest way for them to avoid war is to marry Simon to Baz the Dornish alliance would be fools turn away from being offered a crown, and it turns enemies to staunch allies, after all Simon's success as a King is now tied to Baz's. And to question Simon's eligibility would delegitimize Baz's royal ascension. Baz also thinks that Simon will be a good king after all he's handsome, powerful, a warrior that came out of a song and is marrying a man he hates just to avoid a war and strengthen his position during his political transition, finally he thinks that this was more than he ever dreamed of, he has been secretly in love with Prince Simon since forever and perhaps they could come to a truce and make this marriage work.

Simon thinks that Penelope Bunce will be an EXCELLENT Hand. That this solution of her's is a stroke of brilliance. He also thinks that Baz will be an amazing King consort, he's born into this world of intrigue and so smart and savvy, he's even agreeing to marry a man he hates to avoid a war. Finally he thinks that this was more than he ever dreamed of, he has been secretly in love with Prince Baz forever and perhaps they could come to a truce and make this marriage work.

If anyone wants to take this and run with it, please do. I'd love to read it :)

[huge-hopes-peak-alumni]

How about for Belly Junko's date, she spends the whole thing teasing you with it? Showing it off and shaking it, all while teasing you about staring too much~

“Oh this? My belly? My titanic tummy? My super stuffed up gut? My jiggly wiggly ultra wobbly breadbasket? My fucking button popping,meal destroying,table breaking,super swelling sex mound? You mean this absolutely abdominally humongous hefty-“ Junko went on and on with increasingly descriptive ways of describing her swollen center. But it wasn’t hard to see why.

The thing was as large as is was described. Over taking the entire table that separated you from her. Breaking the 5 foot gap between you in a absolutely dazzling feat of preposterous proportions. “HEY! I can see you zoning out over there. If you’re going to stare at your mistress massive tum tum you should least have the decency to rub it. SO GET TO IT! My 20th plate is almost here.”

[writtenfan]

Asmodeus’s Captives

Prompt: Lucifer is being held captive by Asmodeus, weakened in magical drunken haze, and tortured by  the juiced up Prince of Hell. Yet, all that’s on his mind is finding you.

SpnLucifer x FemReader Warning: Some swears, body fluids and a little blood.

__________________________________________________

"Blah, blah blah blah...I don't care, I don't care...where is she?" His voice croaks. He clears his throat and spits blood onto the floor.       

"Oh hang tight will ya, she's doin' mighty fine...and she'll stay that way... if you corporate"

Lucifer's gaze hangs on Asmodeus, although it was getting harder as his head bobbed up and down and wobbled to and fro. "I'm...I'm gonna-" Lucifer starts laughing as he swings his head back and falls into the back of the seat.

"-Uuuhhh...WHERE IS SHE?! He screams, his eyes flickering red while the lights flicker off and on in the cell.

He rolled his head back around and slumped over in his chair with a smile. His arms strained behind his back "...I'm gonna...heh- I'm gonna slaughter y-you highbred redneck."

Asmodeus, wipes the angel blade in his hand using a white cloth and moves over to a small wooden table next to Lucifer. He takes a vial of moving white essence and proceeds to pour it on the blade and then, drink the rest. Lucifer, watching this continues to laugh.

"Now...it would be best if you'd shut that mouth of yours." He admired the blade in the dim light of the cell room and turns to Lucifer with an angry scowl.

Lucifer gargles in response and spits at Asmodeus, the blood loogie hitting his chest and trailing down his white suit, which has survived the previous torture with care. Asmodeus scowled and snatches the white cloth up and dabs at the dripping red spit, and slams the cloth back down on the table.

"Now, you know this ain't no Arkansas toothpick." Asmodeus chuckles as he turns the blade in his hands admiring its craftsmanship. "Especially with the kick from you insane little brother.." Lucifer rolls his eyes,

"I don't care about him, where is (y/n)-'"

"-AND IF YOU DON'T SHUT UP!! With all that nonsense..." He presses the tip against the side of Lucifer's stomach and Lucifer lets out a groan in response. "I'm gonna slice open this breadbasket of yours." He mutters as he presses the tip into his skin.

Lucifer lets out a pained yell and muttered curses as his blood seeps through his shirt. "Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck You and Oh. Fuck. You!" he hisses through his teeth as he jolts himself towards Asmodeus with a grimace.

"That's not very cordial of you." Asmodeus twists the blade further into his stomach and Lucifer growls through his teeth. His eyes flickering between red and blue. "What what do I expect...all rank and no class."

"Class my ass....besides that stick isn't gonna do much on me Asmodeus!" Lucifer laughs as he watches the white-suited prince slide the blade out of him, only for the wound to begin healing. "Even with that little  Archangel juice from my, annoyingly not dead, psycho brother Gabriel." He rolls his shoulders with a grin and straightens his posture, wobbling still.

"...And once this funny juice is all out of my system, I'm gonna kill ya. I'm gonna kill you and shove my fist down that Aristocracy assho-"

Asmodeus punches Lucifer and his head swings in the direction of the punch.

His blood flicking across the walls the floor and Asmodeus's face. Lucifer's blond hair, flicking in the wind and sticking up all over the place. Yet he only chuckled as his head hung down. He slowly tilted his head to Asmodeus, his red eyes staying in action this time.

"Where is she?" he drunkenly sings as the blood drips from his mouth. "Tell me Asmo, and I make you die a fraction less painful~"

Asmodeus scowled at the king and grabbed his matted dark blond hair, yanking it back as he positioned the tip of the blade over his jugular.

"I find it so cute that the almighty Lucifer has his own little strumpet..." Lucifer stopped laughing and blankly stared at the wall in which his head was being forced, his smile gone.

"Such a pretty little thing...poor girl. Stuck with the devil himself. Oh, I think once I'm through with you...and find that Lance of Micheal, making sure you're damned to the empty foreva'..." " I'll keep her company, she'll need a strong shoulder to cry on when her darling Lucifer is gone." He taps the blade's tip against Lucifer's neck and craned his head to look into the empty red eyes of his former King.

"Until I get bored that is, then after I'm done with her, I'll end her." Lucifer's jaw clenched and unclenched as he ground his teeth, trying to lock eyes with Asmodeus. "Maybe even...see how tasty that little soul of her's is."

The walls begin to swirl in Lucifer's vision, but the anger inside him prevents him from going out cold. His eyes keep their red glow as he tries to crane his head back to face the lowly prince but Asmodeus slams the hilt of the blade against his forehead whacking his head down.

Lucifer closes his eyes and tries to concentrate.

Yet, Asmodeus yanks Lucifer's head back up and lets him go, as his cell phone rings in his pocket.

He twirls the blade in his hand as his other takes the phone. He looks at the screen and wipes a strand of hair from his eye with the back of his bladed hand. "I'm gonna need to take this..." he holds the phone to his ear but gives Lucifer a glance before he walks to the door, opens it, and exists.

Lucifer's eyes flicker back to blue and he lets out an exhausted exhale.

"Come on Luci, feel that energy, that sweet sweet energy..." He mutters as spit and blood trails down his mouth. He closes his eyes and starts humming. "Come on....where are ya at..." he thinks to himself. Suddenly his mind's eyes show scattered images of a van, the inside...and your legs. Your legs chained together, your eyes covered. Your mouth gagged.

His eyes snap open and he starts hyperventilating. He then doubles over and proceeds to throw up clear liquid stained by his blood. The vomit spreads on the concrete floor and slides towards a drain in the middle of the room. He smacks his lips and lets out an eww as the taste in his mouth hits him. He then sits tall as if nothing had happened. He blinks and notices his vision getting clearer.

"Oh, wow. Better out than in is right..." He runs his tongue across his upper teeth and tries to puke again and sighs with the lack of success. "I feel like one of those bulimic teens." he sticks out his tongue and tries to get the taste out his mouth.

His attention snaps to the door as it unlocks and swings open.

"Now I'm gonna have to leave ya here to stew...when I get back, with Gabriel recaptured. I'll make sure we continue this little shindig of ours."

Lucifer nods as if what Asmodeus was saying was reasonable, "Alright then... but how about instead you piss off you Kentucky c-"

Asmodeus throws the blade into the Lucifer's upper chest and Lucifer lets out a pained shout and stamps his foot against the ground.

The door locks and Lucifer wince at the blade, feeling the throbbing pain ooze throughout his body. "Shake if off...shake it off..." he sings to himself as he bites hard on his lip and slumps against the back of his chair. A few minutes passed before Lucifer could power through the pain, the potion was wearing off and he started to feel his strength powering up his healing progress again.

He shook his head, " Wooo, alright. Stay on track Lucifer. Slaughter the Southern Slavemaster later. First find, my only reason for living, and only barrier from me not completely tearing this whole universe apart."

He looked at the hilt of the blade in his chest and tilts his head to the side, and within a second it flings out of his body, the hole healing itself instantly. His vision got foggy again and he felt like he was going to puke, but couldn't, instead a dribble of saliva dropped to the floor as he tried.

"I do my...haaiiir toss," he says in a pained but laughing tone as he shakes his head, swallowing back some bile in the process.

"Check my nails." He breaks apart the handcuffs that held him together, and they melted as they fell to the floor. He flexes his hand in front of him.

"Baby how you FEELIN?!'" He rocks himself up and snaps the cuffs on his ankles kicking them across the room rather dramatically as he spun around and faced his chair, shooting finger guns at it and blasting it into the wall. He holds his hands to the sides of his mouth and leans back shouting at the ceiling "Feeling good as Hell!" He sings as he gives his body a shake and smoothes out his shirt and flicks some dried blood off his pants.

Without looking he throws up his hand and the door behind him broke from its hinges and slammed into the nearest physical object. Which happened to be a strolling demon. He then let out a loud and rather monstrous shout and all the lights in the building exploded.

Leaving all who were inside, in pitch darkness. The only light coming from the glowing red eyes, that all who came across in this building, saw as the last thing in their after-lives.

______________________________________________________________

You're tied up on a blanket in the back of a van. Your senses dulled by the drugs used to make you compliant.

You hear a sound, a distant scream. A splatter. Another scream, seemingly so far away. Yet the air hits the side of your face. You cant see, its pitch dark. You hear a muffled voice as if underwater. Hands rush to take off what binds your hands and legs, although you can hardly feel them do so.

The wrap around your eyes reveals a foggy world and a foggy form. A man. He presses you into his chest. He smells of rust.

He presses his lips against your head and holds you against his chest. His arms, so warm, his chest. So damp. His voice repeating something over and over. His kiss sends tingles down your head.

You open your eyes and look at his face.

You try and wrap your arms around him, but you're weak. He presses his hands against the side of your face as he pulls back. A blinding light and suddenly all your senses rush back. Overwhelming you. 

You shut your eyes as your vision clears in an instant. The noise of his breathing accompanied by the words-

"-Yeah, there we go...hey...hey feeling better?" He whispers into your ear as he pulls you in and sits you on his lap as he leans his back against the hole he made.

You give him a nod and a few soft words and he shushes you.

Despite your feeling physically better. You're emotionally worn out.

"They really just gave you the perfect dose. Even an addict with a high tolerance would be right at pearly gates by now." He punches the side of the van, right through the metal, you jolt against his chest as he does this and you let out a distressed moan.

"Sorry...oooh sorry." He wraps his arms around you and rocks gently.

"I'm surprised...and relieved that you didn't die," he whispers as he smoothes his hand across the side of your face.

"You think they would be more careful considering who I am but no...yeah let's kill Lucifers sweetheart, see how that holds up once he realizes she's dead...idiots. At least leave some playing cards left in the deck to play."

He wipes the crust from the corner of your eyes and your runny nose with his sleeve.

Suddenly the air around you shifts and your hearing pop.

You slowly open your eyes and Lucifer is holding you back in the apartment you've been staying together in.

"I missed you...I missed you so much." his voice croaked as he said this.

"I- I can't, I won't let this happen again." he holds you tighter.

"But I'll personally deal with everyone involved with what happened...pinky promise.~"

[wordsandi]

Yesterday At 8 pm night,

He ran to me with a fright,

tears flowing and words wobbling,

My little bird, was all trembling ☹

Mom,” Please, I don’t want to die

even if I am old and dry,

I desperately wish, I don’t want to pass by!

I pulled him closer, wrapping him with mamma hugs,

Gently spelled “care to talk about what hurts?”

“I saw what happens to people when they die,

Made me ponder, is God such a bad Guy?

Dark and buried inside the spooky casket,

Maggots feasting on skin like breadbasket

If this how we all will be gone,

At first place why are we all born?

I want to be immortal; I want to be eternal,

what does it take for one to not have their funeral?

My heart skipped a beat,

to answer him was no mean feat,

They say there is no manual for motherhood,

Stranded here I am, like a log of driftwood ☹

I am not going to unleash the harsh reality of life,

Already he feels being stabbed by death knife!

This mommy is going to prefer a comforting lie,

Fiction works well with my cutie pie😊

mythos and belief, stocked in my armour,

I affirm “God is your father, and he can’t be one harmer,

He has said “Ask and It shall be given & seek you shall find it”

You know my sweetie; I did ask him once and he did give me the best:0

And now he had a glee in his eye, frowns disappearing and words pressing,

Before he could ask, I declare “You are my BEST BLESSING”

Holding his hands, I add a small prayer for the little’s eternity,

He sprints to correct “Not only for me, but pray for all,

I don’t want anyone in the world to die,

even if they are old and dry”.

[storyunrelated]

Proper Schooling - Houses

The idea with Olivia is for her to come across as salty and exasperated.

The idea for Andrew is for him to come across as monotone and dead inside.

Smoking features, as I wanted some fantastical drugs - like in that shitty thing I did, Breadbasket - and as opposed to popping pills or shooting up, smoking gives Olivia something to do with her hands.

Which is super-useful in a non-visual medium.

-

“Andrew?”

“Hmm?”

“What the hell are these?”

Olivia was holding a carton she’d found in one of the many, many disused rooms in Wrackit Block. On the front of the carton was a proud, bold Bowport Wood crest complete with a motto that Olivia could not understand and did not care about. It looked to have been written in Latin by someone who did not know any Latin.

“Why are there cigarettes in a school? I mean, I can guess why they’d be here - fuckin’ kids love smoking - but these are, like, officially marked and everything,” she said, turning the box over in her hands and giving it a rattle. From the sounds of things it was about halfway full. “Probably bootleg or something…” She mumbled, though the appeal of bootleg, school-branded cigarettes was beyond her, like most things in Bowport Wood.

“No, those are officially distributed. Not cigarettes, either. Sonamburettes,” Andrew said. Olivia looked up from the box at him hoping against hope that he was just pulling her leg. Looking at him, it was impossible to tell. Not for the first time time Olivia reckoned that Andrew could make a fortune playing poker.

“Sonamburettes,” she said, holding the box. His expression remained unchanged. “Fucking honestly? That’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve heard in two hours. Tell me you’re joking.”

He shook his head.

“That is what they are called. Their use is not official condoned but they have a place in Bowport Wood culture. They operate by shunting tiredness and the need for sleep across all possible versions of the person smoking them.”

“I’m sorry what?”

“You smoke them and you do not feel tired, instead all other possible versions of you across all possible versions of the world feel a tiny bit tired instead.”

Olivia stared down at the box again, this time with a sense of awe.

“For real?” She asked.

“Yes.”

“How come I’ve never heard of anything like this before?”

“Because they are illegal outside of Bowport Wood. And inside it, actually. Just no-one enforces it here.”

“That sounds great,” she said, marveling at the carton.. Then she blinked. “Wait. These are officially distributed - by the school - but they’re also illegal in the school?”

Andrew nodded.

“The departments involved do not talk to each other.”

“No shit.”

An idea was forming in Olivia’s head and even though she knew it was  bad one she couldn't make it go away. Every sensible lesson she’d learnt in life was telling her no but her urge to do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted was rising.

“You, uh - you reckon these are still good to go?”

“They are said to last a long time,” Andrew said, unhelpfully. Olivia flipped the box a few times.

“The place I found ‘em was dusty but the box wasn’t so I figure someone must have come in here and just left them,” she said. She hoped this was true. Certainly, it sounded convincing when she said it out loud.

“Plausible,” Andrew said.

“Wouldn’t hurt to try just one, right?”

“It might. It might not.”

Olivia glared at him.

“Why would you even bother saying that?” She asked, flipping the lid at last and opening up the already-ripped foil within to fish one out to have a look. To all appearances they were just cigarettes, though with the filter tipped in an offensively electric blue. She gave the one in her hand a sniff but it didn’t really smell of anything at all. Did make her feel oddly off-balance for a split second, to her surprise. She sniffed again and the same thing happened.

“Weird,” she muttered, biting the bullet and putting the thing between her lips before giving Andrew a significant look that he managed to successfully interpret.

Andrew, naturally, had a light and passed it over to Olivia. She squinted at it.

“‘For valiant and commendable service’?” She read.

“It is not mine,” he said. Olivia wasn’t going to press the issue. Flicking the thing open and sheltering the tip of the sonamuberrete with her free hand she got it lit, calling on her illicit behind-the-bike-sheds experience and then handing the lighter back.

“These aren’t going to have some horrible side-effect are they? Not setting myself up for some inventive and excruciating death years from now? No tobacco in these?” She asked after an experimental puff, letting the thing now dangle from her fingers.

“No tobacco. There have been no studies conducted that show side-effects relating to the active ingredients.”

Olivia regarded the quietly smoking stick. What a bad example she was setting for herself. She’d have words with herself later.

“Well that’s reassuring,” she said, shrugging and taking another drag. Problems were things future-Olivia had to worry about anyway. Present-Olivia was the one feeling less tired with every puff and finding the feeling surprisingly wonderful. They were definitely, tangibly working. Even her imagination wasn’t powerful enough to make her feel more awake. She looked at the thing again only this time with amazement.

“Holy crap they actually work. I feel pretty good.”

“They are popular.”

“I can see why! Any other illegal, dimension-abusing drugs they got going around here?”

“Several. I could get you a pamphlet.”

“If you have the time, please.”

She was only half-joking.

Casting around for somewhere to sit she pulled over the nearest, most-intact chair and flopped onto it. The chair held her weight which was reassuring. Rocking back, she  put her feet up onto a desk and put her hands behind her head, puffing and feeling very pleased with herself.

“Are we doing anything today or what?” She asked.

“No. I had planned on using today to further inform you about Bowport Wood, to better prepare you.”

“Thrilling. Sounds like a plan. What’s on the lesson plan for today then, chief?”

Andrew took a step back and banged his fist on the wall. A chunk of the ceiling collapsed and a flipchart fell from the room above, landing perfectly and wobbling only briefly before settling into place. Andrew gave it a quick dust before turning back to Olivia who was still wafting bits of drifting masonry away from her face.

“I will now explain to you the school houses, said Andrew,” said Andrew. He pulled a book from somewhere inside his jacket but wasn’t looking at it. Olivia blinked at him in confusion for a moment before figuring out what it was he was talking about. That he had actually said ‘said Andrew’ had thrown her.

“Oh right. Houses. Like, for sports day and shit. Not like, you know. Buildings. I get it.”

“Yes and no. Some of the houses I am about to tell you about did start out as formal School Houses, but some also did not. Think of these more as power blocs. Entities within the larger framework of the school who wield a certain level of material influence. Quasi-official and unofficial.”

Olivia rubbed her face. She was regretting asking him what the plan was for the day.

“What?” She asked through her fingers.

Andrew did not stop to explain what he’d meant meant. Instead, he flipped a page in the book with his thumb and continued not to look at it.

“The most prominent house you should consider is the Van Reuymans,” he said, producing a marker and writing out ‘Van Reuymans’ on the flipchart. He circled it for emphasis.

“Okay,” Olivia said, face still in her hands. “What’s their deal?”

“In broad terms, the Van Reuymans provide biological material for the school.”

Olivia grimaced. Nothing involved ‘biological material’ was ever a good time.

“That sounds incredibly dubious. Could you maybe give me an example?”

“Rip Van Reuyman - the head of the house by default - produces the organs and control interfaces that go into the Prefects. There are also Van Reuyman organ banks for those pupils that need them but most prefer synthetic replacements, largely down to superstition. Van Reuyman house also supplies Bowport Wood with drudges.”

Olivia winced from the splatter of information being directed her way.

“Drudges?” She asked. Prefects she could imagine, though why they’d need outside sources for organs was something she felt best left alone for now. There was probably a reason. Maybe even a good one.

“You will have seen drudges already. They attend to the tasks that are required for the everyday maintenance and running of the school. Cooking in the main canteens, upkeep of the grounds, running of the fusion furnaces and so on.”

‘Upkeep of the grounds’ was stretching it given the state of the place and the way almost all the plants had long-since died. Lawns should not, for example, be grey. But Olivia had indeed seen one or two drudges doing watering the lawns all the same and also hitting trees with sticks which she supposed counted as gardening of a sort. She hadn’t known what they were called at the time, but drudges seemed to fit.

“Oh yeah, the little dudes in the black rubber? With the pipes?”

“Those. Yes.”

“Must get hot under all that,”

“Undoubtedly. Van Reuymans also constitute their own class of pupil, as Rip Van Reuyman has many sons. Most of his sons are common sons and are unremarkable. They do not do much. He has a group of favoured sons, however, who are afforded a certain level of fatherly affection and modification. All van Reuymans should be avoided as they are - quote - ‘bastards’.”

There didn’t seem to be anything else Andrew was going to say. Olivia took a drag and rocked her chair backwards and forwards a few times as she mulled over what she’d just learnt, wondering how cool she looked

“Alright. Let me just go over this. Rip Van Reuyman: important guy who runs the Van Reuyman house which churns out...meat that gets shoved into Prefects and little dudes who do the gardening?”

“So to speak, yes.”

“And also he has lots of regular sons?”

“Hundreds, yes.”

“And a few special sons?”

“Less than hundreds and modified, yes.”

“And I should do my best to avoid all of them because they’re all deeply unpleasant?”

“Bastards, yes.”

Puff puff. Rock rock.

A week ago Olivia had been worried about somehow wearing her trousers backwards for a whole day. Now she was learning about this. Things moved quickly.

“Good. Great. Glad I got that sorted. Carry on,” she said, waving a regal hand. Andrew did as he was told.

He ran through a good two dozen such houses. They started out sounding fairly important and properly organised like the Ven Reuymans and the Technologista (who actually made the rest of the Prefects, apparently) and other august bodies which provided actual, tangible services to the school before the list quickly descended into describing loose conglomerations of pupils who were joined together by their love of being ‘assertive’ or who ‘held a passion for the gathering of knowledge’ and it was at that point Olivia’s patience ran out.

“You’re making this shit up,” she said, waving her arms in naked frustration. Andrew, who by now was running out of space on the flipchart, looked at her blankly.

“I am not.”

“There’s seriously a large enough gathering pupils who hold ‘a passion for the gathering of knowledge’ that they’ve become a distinct entity?”

Andrew nodded.

“And they’re recognised as a distinct entity?”

He nodded again.

“And do they get anything done? Does anyone listen to them?”

“Whether they feel they get anything done is up to them. As they are not an officially recognised school house or part of the administration no-one listens to them, no.”

“So what the fuck is the point?”

He looked at his chart again, as though it might contain an answer to this question. It did not, so he looked back at Olivia again none the wiser.

“I am unsure that there is a point. Having a point does not appear to be the point, from what I have read on the subject. Being with others who share similar interests was a recurring stated motivation. People do not typically like being put into boxes. However, they are more than willing to get into a box that they feel themselves is a comfortable fit. Rather like cats,” Andrew said.

Olivia mouthed the word ‘what’ at him, too tired now for words. Andrew continued:

“People want to belong. So they find a place that they feel looks like they will fit into. Then they go into this place. This place has other people like them. They now belong. Hence houses.”

“Oh. I get it. I think?” Olivia said, cocking her head at him. He shrugged.

“I do not really get it, personally. These gatherings seem unnecessary and arbitrary to me. But people do seem to work better around like-minded peers. For whatever reason.”

This was not the part that Olivia had not got, but then again she and Andrew were clearly coming at this from two completely different angles. She found the concept of arbitrary groupings of pupils coming together and acting important when they weren’t to be a bit pointless. Andrew plainly had difficulty with the concept of why anyone would want to spend time with anyone else in the first place. She felt it best to just let it slide for now.

“So these little ones down here are kind of like...clubs. And houses run from big-dick important ones that can actually get results down to bunches of people who just want to hang out with other people like them to give their lives some structure and purpose,” Olivia said, sweeping her hand from the top to the bottom of Andrew’s crowded flipchart. He looked over his writing again to see if he’d missed anything but apparently he hadn’t.

“If you like,” he said.

“Well that’s how I’m going to hold it in my head.”

Already Olivia was putting together a clearer picture of how Bowport Wood operated. It wasn’t a prettier picture, but it was less confused than it had been when she’d woken up that day and she counted that as a win. The idea that someone - anyone - could exercise some control over the place seemed laughable, but at the same time strangely comforting.

If there were people who made things happen then that meant that things could happen, ergo you could make them happen yourself, too. The world wasn’t quite as scary when you realised that, she felt.

Finishing the sonamburette she stubbed out what remained of it on a nearby desktop and flicked it out through a hole in the wall where presumably there’d once been a window. She felt wide awake now, though in a way that was new and oddly euphoric. Idly, she wondered how all the other potential hers across all the other potential worlds were doing. Alright, hopefully.

“This place starts to make a kind of sense,” she said, standing up and straightening herself out. Andrew bobbed his head.

“As you say.”

[ogre-easy]

       (banging out some tentative early worldbuilding for “Laughing Matter”)

 After years of experimenting on pea plants, the monk Gregor Mavislav managed to genetically unlock his own latent psychic abilities. For a full 15 seconds he displayed powers never before seen in a mortal man, until his grey matter turned to plasma and he dissipated into a fine mist. 

    The resulting psychic blow-back caused massive but impotent creatures from another dimension to materialize around the world. The exploitation of their body materials has led to genetic breakthroughs even Mavislav couldn’t of conceived.

(more under cut)

1) Towering over the Feral Wilds, this titan is a prime example of how eerily people-like these creatures can be. The natives of this area have named this specimen Big Bert

2) One of the rare aerial titans, these conjoined twins serve as a training ground for psychics. Their flowing hair is also treasured by Dandermen.

3) Years of baking under the harsh Hoodoonian sun has left this titan’s usually inedible flesh tender and flaky. The people of Hoodoo say a strip of meat from The Fiery Guy has a taste similar to bacon.

4) The people of Golo Mesa tamed the Wandering Moon with 100-foot long harpoons, thousands of feet of sturdy rope, and pure determination. The moon now resided permanently above and under their capital city.

5) When the boneless titan Apollo appeared inside the Breadbasket Colosseum, the people of Garden-of-Olives mourned the loss of their favorite gladiatorial arena. A new sport has arisen however, where teams fight to plant their flag atop the doughy summit.

6) The Chalk Downs is a sleepy place with a premium of sheep and a deficit of landmarks. So when a mountain of flesh appears in the middle of your field its sure to cause a few superstitions to spring up. Shepards all across the Downs claim that rubbing the top of Big Yan’s bald head can cure gout, toothache, , the wobbling boils, and plain old bad luck.

7) For hundreds of years the people of the Grey Wastes have buried their dead in the Labyrinthine Necropolis. Many of Its mausoleums have become impassible, however, since the Patterson Eel took up residence in the Labyrinth’s winding streets. Folks wishing to mourn their honored ancestors find that the services of a fleshcrafter are necessary to navigate the titans mile-long bulk.

[theliterateape]

A Small Café in Paris

By Jon Mallon

“Bonsoir.” He smiles at the waitress.

She returns the smile. She waits expectantly, order pad in her left hand, pen in her right. “Bonsoir, Monsieur.”

He points at the item on the menu to avoid confusion. Salade César.” He points to the other item. “And the Épais Steak de Ribeye. Thick Ribeye. Medium rare.”

“Oui.” She scribbles the order on the pad. Smiling again.

“Merci.” He smiles at his knowledge of French. “And a Coca-Cola. With a lime.”

“Un Coca. Oui.”

“And ice.”

“Oui.”

“Merci.”

He sits. Waits. No Coke. She walks past. Once. Twice. Three times. “Excusez-moi. My Coke?”

“No Coca. Pepsi?”

Did she really say that? “Oui. Pepsi is fine.” He wishes she had told him this in the first place.

The Pepsi appears, no glass. She drops the bottle on his table. She is gone. The third time past, he snares her. “A glass, merci vous plait?”

“Oui.” She smiles.

He waits. He taps his index finger on the wooden table. The glass arrives. “Ice, please? Ice? La glace?” He is pleased with himself for knowing the French word for ice.

“Oui.” She takes the glass away.

He holds the Pepsi bottle. It is growing warm. He yearns for the ice. He watches her walk back and forth past the bar. At long last she returns with the glass of ice.

He looks at the glass. He looks at the waitress. Two miserable cubes float in an inch of water. Water from the melted ice. Water with floating black specks in it. He is afraid to ask for more ice. Fear keeps him from drinking the water. And watered-down Pepsi will not do. He drinks the water, despite his fear. He does not want watered-down Pepsi. He pours the Pepsi. The ice melts.

She has forgotten the lime. “My lime? May I have my lime?”

“Oui.” She smiles.

She returns with a lemon. It is citrus. It is close enough. He forces a smile. “Merci.” He squeezes the lemon into the warm Pepsi.

The Caesar salad arrives, accompanied by a basket of bread. He stares at the salad. The dressing on the salad is gloppy. It sits on top like a thick Caesar turd. Maybe it is Parisian Caesar. His right eyebrow twitches. It must be the hunger.

But at least the salad has arrived, albeit a half-hour after his Pepsi with melted ice cubes and his non-lime lemon. Which, a half-hour after finishing his gloppy Salade César, is more than he can say about his ribeye. His eye twitches again, as does his lip.

A man comes in, wearing a beret. She sits him immediately. They exchange words in French. She puts a hand on his shoulder. They both laugh. The man in the beret orders immediately.

He observes his waitress move to another table of young men and young women her age. She sits, then pours herself a glass of wine. They toast. Drinking with friends? While she works? He waves. “Excusez-moi?”

She looks over. Reluctantly, she puts her wine down. She turns to her friends and says something he cannot hear. They laugh. They look at him as she stands and walk over. They laugh again. He thinks they are laughing at him. She turns and shushes them.

“Oui?” She smiles again.

“My steak.” He does not smile.

“Oui.

“Is it coming soon?” He points to his watch. “It’s been thirty minutes since my salad. Trente minutes.”

“Oui.” She does not move.

“Can you check the kitchen?” His stomach growls. .

Her eyes glance at his stomach. She stifles a giggle. “Oui.”

Hunger is overtaking him. He reaches for the breadbasket. It is gone. He realizes she took the breadbasket when she took the finished salad plate. Both eyes twitch. His lip twitches. Now his leg. The left one.

He waits for her to return from the kitchen. He picks up his steak knife. He runs his finger down the serrated edge. His eyes follow her as she walks into the kitchen. The knife is very sharp.

She returns. She is carrying the ribeye steak. “My steak? Ah, merci.” He smiles. At last.

Her eyes meet his. She smiles. She walks directly past him. She places the steak in front of the man wearing the beret. The man who came in twenty minutes after he did. He cuts himself on the knife. Blood drips down his thumb onto his watch. He does not feel pain. He does not see the blood on the knife.

He fingers the Google Translate app on his phone. It shows him how to ask, “Is my fucking steak coming anytime soon?”

The waitress, though, has returned to the table with her friends. He cannot get her attention. Her friends look at him. They laugh again. She pours herself another glass of wine.

Another customer enters the cafe. She removes herself from the table. She seats him. She smiles and touches his arm. They talk in French. They laugh. He orders the Salade César and the Épais Steak de Ribeye. She places a bottle of Coke- not Pepsi- on his table, a glass overflowing with crystal-clear cubes of ice and fresh slices of lime.

The man stabs his knife into the table. It wobbles. He does not care about the blood on the knife.

The waitress returns to the kitchen with the new customer’s order. He stands, blocking her path. “My steak. I want to talk to the manager. Or the chef. Anybody.”

“Oui. Le chef.” She smiles.

His eyes twitch. His lip twitches. His left leg shakes. His stomach growls. His right shoulder jerks. “Merci.”

“Oui.” She smiles. She pushes past him with the order.

He sits. His stomach tightens.

She returns from the kitchen. Alone.

Pulling the knife from the table, he stands again. He moves in front of her, holding the knife. He widens his stance. She cannot get by. His eyes twitch. His lip twitches. His leg shakes. His stomach growls. His shoulder jerks. He throws his head back and laughs. With the knife, he points toward the kitchen. He raises his voice. “I want my steak.”

She looks at the knife. She looks at him. Another smile. Or is it a smirk? “Oui.”

He drops the phone on the cobblestone floor. He hears the glass face shatter. He smacks the sharp steak knife on the palm of his left hand. He does this several times. The waitress watches. He detects another smile. No. It is definitely a smirk. He is too hungry to tell. 

“Merci,” he says. His eyes are wide.

She smiles, points to the kitchen, and steps aside. “Oui.”

The enormous chef steps out of the kitchen. He is wearing a chef’s hat. A dirty apron surrounds his massive stomach. A lit cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth. A three-day stubble covers his face. He holds a plate with an Épais Steak de Ribeye, lopping over its side The thick ribeye. His ribeye. At last. Steak blood leaks onto the floor. The chef’s eyes settle on the crazy man with the knife. The chef scowls. Ashes drop onto his steak. The man doesn’t care. It is his ribeye.

“My steak?”

The chef sits down at an empty table. He stares at the crazy man. He rubs his massive stomach as he drops the ribeye plate in front of him as the crazy man watches. He removes a carving knife from his apron. The waitress brings the chef a Coke. And a lime. And a glass of ice. The chef cuts into the steak. He stabs the piece with his knife and shoves it in his mouth. Blood drips from the steak down his chin onto his dirty apron. The chef takes a long, slow drink of the Coca, his eyes emblazoned on the crazy man holding a knife. Américain? Surely.

L’Américain is astounded. His eyes twitch. His lip twitches. His leg shakes. His stomach growls. His shoulder jerks. His voice raises an octave. “You are eating my thick ribeye? My Épais Steak de Ribeye? Medium rare?”

The Coca pulses down his throat. A guttural rumbling emerges from his immense stomach. He releases a satisfying burp.

The chef’s eyes lock on the crazy man. He nods. “Oui.”

[ginger-and-mint]

I had an idea for a scene or short fic: perhaps the di-mage candidates are being tested on how well they can resist poisons/emetic spells (what's the easiest way to disarm them? Force them to empty their stomach, obviously!) and you can show us the results of that, hopefully with lots of noises, tummy pain, queasiness, maybe even emeto? (sympathy puking even, where one person's barfing sets someone else off, and someone else gets sick seeing/hearing them, etc...?)

This was one of the very first requests I got—sorry it took so long! I kept putting it off because I was very tempted to make it into a longer, more plotty thing that gets into the details of how di-mages can be disarmed… but in the end, I decided to go with something succinct and kinky. ;P

CW: nausea / vomiting

“Urrrgh… mmmph… ohhh no, oh shit….”

Malia swallowed the food in her mouth and shuddered as her stomach churned. “Grayson, could you please stop moaning like that?”

“Ugh… I can’t—urp—help it. I feel so awful….”

“Of course you do. Obviously you do, because it’s part of this horrid assignment!” Malia wondered vaguely what idiot had decided there was any academic benefit in pairing up students, dosing them with emetic potion, and then locking them in a dark classroom to force them to work together. “But if you could keep it to yourself, I would really appreciate it.”

Grayson was hunched and shivering in his chair, with a mostly-empty pitcher in front of him and ball of magelight quavering above his head. The light was his responsibility; he was supposed to keep it going while Malia choked down the filling to cast an intangibility spell on the door.

He lifted his head slightly, peering through sweat-matted hair. “Malia, I—I hate throwing up.”

“Everyone hates throwing up.”

“Yeah, but I really hate it.” Grayson swallowed thickly. “It’s the world’s worst feeling, I really don’t want to…”

He looked absolutely wretched, and Malia might’ve felt sorry for him if she hadn’t been so miserably nauseated herself. “Look,” she said shortly. “If you get sick, I’m gonna get sick too. So keep it down.” She scraped up another spoonful, shuddering. “At least you don’t have to eat.”

“I think the—urp—the water’s worse.”

“How on earth could water be worse?”

“Keeps coming up a little when I burp. Tastes like stomach acid.”

Malia had to clench her teeth to keep from gagging. “That—that is so disgusting, Ives.”

“You asked!” Grayson shot her a dirty look before fresh wave of nausea made him go stiff. “Ughhhhh—urrrp—ohhh no, no….”

Malia sighed heavily and pressed the hand closest to Grayson over her ear. Putting food into a sick belly was hard enough without his groaning reminding her of how bad she really felt. She tightened her clammy fingers around her spoon and tried to think of something else—the window display in her favorite stationary shop, the smell of cherry blossoms in the spring—anything besides her queasy tummy.

At first she didn’t notice that Grayson was getting quieter and quieter. And even once she did notice, it was such a relief that she thought nothing of it. So it took her by surprise when she heard a sound like “—ugh—urrrk—” from Grayson’s direction and the room suddenly went pitch dark.

The shock sent Malia’s stomach into panic mode. She pressed one hand over her collarbone, as though that could somehow press the rising contents of her belly back down where they belonged, and took a few slow breaths. When the worst of the nausea had settled, she dared to open her mouth enough to say, “Grayson?”

There was a moment of silence. Then, faintly: “M’okay.”

“Were you sick?”

“Almost…. But I—ughhh, I swallowed it….”

“Good job.” Malia took another slow breath. “Can you get the light going again?”

“Yeah.” More silence. Then Grayson said, “Oh no… I can’t. I’m… I’m gonna have to drink more water….”

“Well, get to it then.”

“Malia, I can’t.” He sounded close to tears. “My stomach…. I’m—I’m so sick, I just….”

“You have to. And be quick, because I’m….” Malia swallowed heavily. The slow, sticky boil of her nausea was getting more and more insistent. “You have to hurry. Okay?”

Grayson didn’t answer, but after a moment, there was the quiet sound of water sloshing against glass and slow, careful sipping. She could hear him breathing hard through his mouth, sucking shuddering breaths in and out. There was a soft belch, a groan, and a watery stomach noise.

Then the light sputtered weakly back to life. In the dimness, Malia could see that Grayson’s eyes were screwed shut. He was pale and sweaty and the little swell of his belly was unmistakably lurching—

“Grayson Ives, don’t you dare—!”

But it was too late. He doubled over and puked up a gush of water. The sound of it splashing against the floor was too much—Malia’s belly clenched, and then she was turning away and heaving up what little she’d managed to get down.

There followed a deeply miserable moment, silent except for the faint, defeated gurgles of Grayson’s stomach.

“Sorry…” he panted. “I couldn’t… m’so sorry….”

“It’s all right.” Malia reached out and put a shaking hand on his shoulder. “Ugh. We tried our best. It’s all right.”

Meanwhile, in the next room over, Kara and Bramley used mutual support and reassurance to pass the assignment with flying colors! :P This was actually the first time I’ve written straight-up emeto with no stuffing component and… it was kinda hard? Hope it turned out okay!

Note: I am not accepting any new requests for the moment. Thanks for understanding!

[ginger-and-mint]

hey there, if you're still taking requests, how about grayson and malia both ending up with major bellyaches and just commiserating together? maybe one of them is feeling really sick with hiccups and burps, too? thanks so much and keep up the great writing!

I am technically not taking requests at the moment but I wrote this one anyway because um, wow, it’s got all my favorite things. (My OCs? Stomachaches? Nausea? The only thing that could make this any better would be me getting a free snuggle hour with a big happy dog for writing it.)

Generally speaking, you’re always welcome to send me suggestions of things to write! It’s just that when requests are open, I’ll try to write everything I receive (that I’m comfortable writing), whereas when requests are closed, I’ll only write stuff that really sparks my fancy, like this did. ^^

cw: nausea and close calls, but no actual vomiting

“Ooh, my stomach hurts….” Grayson leaned back as far as the hard wooden booth would allow. “This stew is so heavy… I can’t eat any more.”

“Full already?” Tim laughed. “You barely made a dent!”

“If you can’t handle heavy food, you’re going to struggle with intangibility spells,” added Allison.

Grayson groaned. He couldn’t remember why he’d thought dinner at the Belching Bear with no one but Malia and a couple of third-year students was a good idea. There’d really been no way for this end other than a nasty bellyache and a bunch of jokes at his expense.

He rested a hand on the sore, tight spot where his swollen stomach was poking out from under his ribs and began to rub gently, trying to ease a bit of the pain. That’s when he noticed Malia staring intently at him.

“Don’t tell me you think I should keep eating,” he muttered.

“No.” She leaned towards, lowering her voice. “Actually, I was thinking the opposite. Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine. Well—I mean, my stomach is killing me, but I don’t feel sick.”

“You look like you could use some fresh air. Let me take you outside.”

“Urgh, I’d rather not move, to be honest—”

“Grayson, I really think you should let me take you.”

Something about the way she said it caught Grayson’s attention. “Ugh, fine,” he said reluctantly, “but you’re gonna have to help me stand up.”

Malia raised her voice to tell the others that they were going to step out for a moment. They probably had some clever things to say about it, but Grayson didn’t really hear, because he was too preoccupied by the sharp cramps that stabbed into his overfull belly as Malia pulled him to his feet. They made their way through the crowded pub at a quicker pace than Grayson’s stomach would’ve liked.

As soon as they were outside, Malia hunched over so quickly that she nearly lost her balance. She grabbed Grayson’s arm to steady herself.

“Ow!” He winced as the movement jostled his stomach. “Ooh, be careful! I’m way too full….”

“M-Me too.” She let out a quiet, strained belch, and Grayson realized that she sounded unmistakably nauseous.

“Are you—are you sick, Malia?”

“Mmm.” She pressed a fist over her mouth, hiccuping. “Ooh—urp—”

“Holy shit.” Grayson jumped backward, absolutely certain she was about to throw up. But she managed to stifle the retch, and after a tense moment, she straightened up, gasping and holding her stomach.

“Creator’s blood, Malia! Are you okay?”

“I… don’t know.” She wiped sweat from her brow. “Ugh… but I needed out of there. Thanks for taking the hint.”

Two and two came together in Grayson’s head. “You felt sick and needed to leave, so you pretended like I had to get some air? You didn’t want to look weak in front of the third-years, so you made a fool of me instead?”

“You were already—hic—complaining about your stomach, Ives.”

“…That’s true.” Grayson might have been more upset, but he was too concerned that Malia still might actually vomit all over the front step. “Let’s get away from the buildings. Come on, I’ll help you walk.”

The road cut into the hillside in this part of town. On the opposite side of the street was a railing, and then a steep grassy slope that fell away towards the roofs of the buildings on the next street down. There Grayson and Malia stood, leaning heavily on the railing and taking shallow, careful breaths of the cool night air.

Grayson heard Malia stifle a another quiet, sick burp behind her hand. “You okay?” he asked.

“Better now that we’re outside. But gosh, my—urp—my tummy is not well.”

“I don’t know how you’ve avoided it up until this point, honestly. You stuff yourself way more than I do, but somehow you don’t get these—“ his stomach rumbled painfully “—ooh, these awful bellyaches that I always end up with.”

“I do get tummyaches, Grayson, I just power through them.”

“Trust me, the way I usually feel is not something you can just power through. When you’re so full, you feel like you’re either gonna puke or explode if you force down another bite—that’s not a feeling you can ignore.”

“I do see your—urp—point…. Ugh, maybe I’ve been pushing myself too much lately. I feel really sick.”

Grayson put a hand against his own belly. It was tight as a drum and he could feel it grumbling gently, begging him to lie down and let it digest. The idea of going back into a pub full of noise and the smell of food made him feel pretty sick himself.

He took a deep breath. “What do you say I drag my sorry ass back in there, tell Tim and Allison that neither of us feels good, and then we go home and ask Kara to baby us for the rest of the evening?”

Malia sighed deeply. Then she said, “All right. Just… don’t tell them that I almost threw up?”

“Deal.” Grayson groaned and pressed a hand to his stomach as he straightened. “Oooh, I’m so full…. Okay, give me three minutes.”

“Thanks, Ives,” said Malia quietly, and he patted her shoulder as he staggered off.

This turned out pretty long, whoops. But it was fun to write. Thanks, anon! ^^