Vomit - Tumblr Posts
BRUHHHH I CAN’T EVEN COUGH NOW WITHOUT MAKKNGBIT WORSE AND I ALMOST CHOKEN ON SPIT OXNFNRNBFBFNS
I need. To rob. The moon.
hurt/comfort starters!! trigger warnings: blood, injury, vom*t, panic attack
❝ lay down. you need to lay down. put your head in my lap. ❞
❝ i think i’m about to pass out. ❞
❝ what happened to you? come inside. come inside. ❞
❝ i know it’s late, but… i need you here. ❞
❝ [name]. you’re bleeding. ❞
❝ the more you freak out, the faster you’re going to bleed. just take it easy. ❞
❝ just keep talking to me. ❞
❝ you’re safe. it’s just a panic attack. just squeeze my hands, okay? ❞
❝ can you talk? ❞
❝ stay with me— hey. [name]? oh my god, please don’t do this. ❞
❝ please don’t leave. ❞
❝ you’re not gonna die. i’m not gonna let you die. ❞
❝ i know you want to sleep, but you need to stay awake for me. ❞
❝ it’s okay. just go to sleep. i’ll be here when you wake up. ❞
❝ it hurts. oh my god, it hurts— ❞
❝ it’s not as bad as it looks, i swear. ❞
❝ i know it hurts. just hang in there, okay? ❞
❝ i’ve got you. you’re safe now. ❞
❝ i need you to tell me what’s wrong. what are you feeling? ❞
❝ it’s okay. it’s alright. let it out. ❞
❝ there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. you’re sick. ❞
❝ let me make you some soup. ❞
❝ let me make you some tea. ❞
❝ i didn’t want to worry you. ❞
❝ it’s okay to cry. i know it hurts. ❞
❝ wrap your arms around my neck. i’m gonna carry you. ❞
❝ i’m gonna take good care of you. don’t you worry. ❞
❝ please help me. please. ❞
❝ stop moving, just let me hold you. ❞
❝ breathe with me. in and out… good job. just keep doing that. ❞
❝ i can’t feel my hands— ❞
❝ i can’t move it. i think it’s broken. ❞
❝ i can’t see. ❞
❝ i’m not gonna let anything happen to you. ❞
❝ don’t look at it. just keep your eyes closed, and breathe. ❞
❝ thank you for being here with me. ❞
the human body is so fucked up, so i would like to take a moment to appreciate one thing :
the fact that our body gives us warning signals just before we throw up !
iconic. the astronomical amounts of saliva, the sore jaw, the hot flashes. incredibly helpful to me.
this isn’t even sarcastic
Met my friends’s nephews so I got this idea.
Timothee and reader have a baby together and one day both Timothee and the baby are sick and reader is stressed out cuz she’s carrying for both of them all day and night.
Like Father, Like Daughter
Internal monologue in italics.
>> warning: lots of puke <<
A piercing wail amplified by the baby monitor next to my head wrenched me from a deep sleep. I sat up in bed, heart racing. What time is it? I looked around in the dark for the red numbers of the alarm clock. 3:43am. Ugh.
I turned on the monitor's video screen to see Aimée squirming, butt up in the air. Despite my best efforts to make her sleep on her back, she always flipped herself over in the night. Timothée laid next to me, still dead asleep - and also on his stomach. Like father, like daughter, I suppose. Part of me wanted to smack him in the head with a pillow. Misery loves company after all, but I refrained.
I grumbled when I heard more whining. At that point, I knew she wasn't going to fall back to sleep on her own this time. I'm coming, I'm coming. I rubbed my eyes as they adjusted to the light in the hallway. I was nearly knocked over by the putrid smell that hit me like a ton of bricks when I opened Aimée's bedroom door.
Upon seeing me, the little one pulled herself up using the crib rail for support and lifted her arms to beckon me, whimpering. From the ribbon of warm light that gently filled her room from the open door, I could see the source of the smell...
...and Aimée was covered in it.
Oh no.
I held my breath as I picked her up, trying desperately not to gag and add to the mess. She had vomited in the night and rolled in it in her attempts to get comfortable again. Her normally bouncy curls were matted to her head by orange gunk.
"Mamaaaaa....," Aimée groaned.
"I know, baby. We'll get you cleaned up."
I didn't even take two full steps toward the door before she puked down the front of my nightgown. I could feel it dripping onto my foot. Time to call in reinforcements.
I cradled the baby to my chest and padded back to our room. Using my clean foot, I jostled his side of the mattress.
"Timmy!" I whisper-yelled, trying to get his attention without scaring him or the baby. "Timmy!" I tried again, kicking a little harder.
"Huh?" He pushed himself up groggily.
"I need your help. Aimée is sick. Can you change out her sheets while I wash her - well, us - off?"
He responded with a groan and a nod, throwing off the blanket and tossing his feet over the side of the bed. I took Aimée to the bathroom next to her room so I would have her tearless shampoo available. We sat on the floor as we waited for the water to warm up. I carefully peeled off her onesie and my nightgown. I briefly considered just throwing them away rather than attempt to salvage them. When I tried to push her hair back out of her eyes, that's when I felt it. Fever.
I picked her up and gingerly stepped into the tub. I let the warm water flow over us both, hoping it would loosen up the now caked vomit in her hair. I knew she was feeling bad when she just laid there against my chest. Normally, giving her a bath sounded remarkably similar to an exorcism in a horror film.
Without warning, Timothée bolted into the bathroom, startling both of us. Aimée cried as he retched over the toilet.
"Overcome by the smell?" I asked before soothingly shhshing the girl and opening the shower curtain to see.
He spat out the string of saliva dripping from his mouth and looked over at me. I could tell by the unfocused glaze of his eyes and dark circles below that it was more than just sympathetic vomiting.
"Uh oh. Not you, too."
Timothée wordlessly flopped down and leaned against the sink cabinet as I bathed our daughter the best I could while holding onto her. He mustered up the energy to bring me towels and help me step out of the tub once done. He took the bundled baby into his arms so I could dry myself off and put on my robe. I took it as a chance to feel his forehead. He leaned into my touch.
"Dammit. Must be that stomach bug going around."
Ugh, why today of all days? I whined internally. I have an important meeting at 8:30 that I really can't postpone. Maybe if I...
My thoughts were interrupted by Timothée quickly handing Aimée back to me so he could puke once more.
No choice but to reschedule. He won't be able to care for the baby in this state.
I held Aimée on one hip and helped Timothée up from the floor with my other hand. "Time to get the two of you back to bed."
"I changed her sheets, but some vomit had spilled over to the crib rails and carpet. Her room smells awful," he said quietly, as the baby was nodding off on my shoulder. "I'm already sick, and you've already been exposed, so she may as well sleep in our bed. We can take care of her room in the morning."
I laughed internally at his use of "we." This was probably going to take at least 24 hours to run its course based on recent tales from friends and family. And historically, Timothée was a big baby when sick. This was the first time I had to care for them both at the same time.
Once he laid back down in bed, I followed suit and placed Aimée between us. They were both out like a light. I tried to sleep, but my wired brain kept running through my to-do list. I got up and made a makeshift bumper out of pillows to keep Aimée from rolling off the bed. Timothée was curled protectively around her on the opposite side. I would enjoy the cuteness more if I weren't so damned tired.
I set to work hosing off the bedding and clothes outside before putting them in the washing machine. I placed a delivery order for crackers, gingerale, and electrolyte drinks for both sickies. I wiped down the crib and all commonly touched surfaces and all but gassed the house with disinfectant spray. I got out my trusted enzyme cleaner and carpet spot cleaning machine to take care of the spillover. I was focused on that - and nearly done - when my normal morning alarm went off. I rushed to the bedroom to shut it off, praying that it didn't wake my patients.
They didn't budge. And I never went back to sleep. At this rate, I may as well stay up.
I finished the carpet, switched out the laundry, and anxiously started cleaning the kitchen. When the business day began at 8:00am, I started making phone calls to reschedule meetings for the day. Of course, Aimée waited until I was on the phone to start crying. With my phone to my ear, I started walking to the bedroom when I saw Timothée exit, carting the baby to her room to change her diaper. "Thank you," I mouthed. He nodded and half-smiled.
When I hung up a couple of minutes later, I peeked in to check on them. Timothée was humming as Aimée babbled back at him from the changing table.
"I know you're back there. I need to put WD-40 on those squeaky hinges," he joked. I crossed the room and put my chin on his shoulder to gaze down at our daughter.
"Did you ever go to sleep?" he asked, knowing the answer. I silently shook my head. "I figured that when I saw that her room was clean." He shot me a fake stern look.
"I was wired and couldn't settle," I said, trying but failing to stifle a yawn. "She seems to be feeling at least a little better. How about you?"
"I feel drained, but not awful. You should take advantage and go rest while you can. I heard you call into work." He picked the baby up and set her down on the floor to crawl and play.
I shook my head. "I need to wait for the grocery delivery and make you breakfast."
"Or, let me make breakfast while I actually have some energy, and you can handle lunch," he argued. "Go, sneak out while she's distracted."
I had to admit his proposal was appealing. "Promise to wake me if you need me?"
"I promise, love. Now go."
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Masterlist
Tag List:
@croatianprincess, @bluizh, @jindongdongie, @groovy-lady, @pmak2002
VOMIT
Something bubbling up
Into my throat
I can’t stop it
Coming up. Come up
Like
Projectile vomit
Unstoppable and painful
As hell
Tell me, why?
Why is nothing
Ever enough ?
Who did I hurt ?
To deserve this...
This constant.....constant.
Images, thoughts, words.
All in my mind
Stop? They never do
Ever
The ghosts are
Always with me.
Day 7 Vomit
Dani wished she had mouthwash, a toothbrush, something to get the lingering taste of vomit out her mouth.
Her stomach rolled again, as she looked at what was left of Molly. Dani should never left her alone, but she had been so insistent that it was all in Dani’s head, that Dani had started to believe her when she said that there was nothing in the closet.
It was too late now, and Dani was trapped, the closet was between her and the door.
She wondered who would find her tomorrow.
in-lovino-veritas:
Analogies written by high school students
Dissecting Owl Vomit
Owl pellets = owl barf. It’s a cereal of fur, claws, teeth, and bones in a nice, neat package covered with a thin film of owl saliva. Opening it is the most morbid art project ever, but it’s worth it because the accomplishment you feel when you haven’t cracked every bone is so, so sweet. Just look at that beautiful, mostly-not-cracked rodent skull. The little dear.
Owl guts have serious organization skills.
Fur. Fur everywhere. Remains of rodent is rampant in all the places.
I took an edible last night and woke up in the middle of the night still high and I took a drink if what I was hoping was water or chocolate milk and instead got the nastiest coffee drop ever now I’ve ruined sugar free coffee for myself.. I litteraly just threw up I got picture proof my vitamin didn’t even get to dissolve
This fit boy has a tough gut but you can tell he REALLY loves the feeling of being rammed in the stomach. Such a stud, so intense.
.
The words "rotten" and "saucy" should actually be taken out of existance. Every time someone says them I just wanna vomit and cut my ears off.
Date night <3
Morgue in an Abandoned Orphanage/ Hospital
Try, Try Again
Augusnippets day 7: waterboarding | drowning | choking
Word count: 498
Trigger warnings: child abuse, depictions of drowning, symptoms like vomiting(?)
——————(0)——————
Aristaeus only realizes that the hand in his hair has yanked him up when he’s choking on air for long, agonizing seconds. Water in his lungs, water in his stomach—all of it comes spluttering out, dragging pain behind it like yanking hooks along his esophagus. He heaves, and he is wretched—
“I remain convinced that you are not taking this seriously, morseling.”
—and he has failed. Again.
The hand in his hair tightens, just a bit; in response, all his breathing cuts off for a terrifying moment, before in a great rush, water floods out his mouth and nose, splattering into the river. The force of it makes him grasp at the shingle around him in weak, desperate movements, but when he can finally inhale, it comes clean, free of any damp rattle in his lungs, though it rasps in his abused throat. Teacher is merciful, even after his many failures.
“I am,” Aristaeus croaks, “I swear, I am.” His next words are practiced, and resonate with the scorching, acidic mass rooted deep into his chest: “This is within nature, so it is within mine.”
He cuts it off there, as he’s learned. Anything more sounds like begging to Teacher—the divine, even pale, reaching imitations like him, do not beg, as Teacher says.
“And yet,” Teacher says, “the lesson remains unlearned.”
Her hand in his hair pulls him back, back, back, and his breath shudders as the arch of his spine lets him meet Her eyes, pebbles for irises surrounded by mossy sclera. Her face is set in statuesque, forbidding disapproval, as always.
No mouth is needed to speak the tongue of the gods, only a will to be heard, and so Her lips remain sealed as She proclaims, “You will stay under for as long as it takes for you to learn how to breathe.”
The sentence nearly makes his hands fly up (to grasp at her hand and plead? To rip it from his head?); he stills them, and they hover somewhere above his knees. He knows She doesn’t mean what they’ve been doing so far. The notion makes him start trembling.
“Teacher, I am mortal. Prolonged drowning will kill me,” he says. She needs the reminder, occasionally—their existences are so far apart. Maybe ….
“It will not be drowning if you are breathing,” Teacher says, implacable. “I can expel water from your body in the river as easily as out of it. You will learn, splinterling, or you will stay.”
Aristaeus knows it’s coming. It doesn’t make the push forward into the water any less jarring, or the shingle wrapping around him to keep him under any less frightening. Her hand is still in his hair—he is trapped utterly in Her power, and it’s a cold comfort to know he won’t die, no matter how painful.
As he breathes in, tries to convert the water to magic he can sustain himself on, fails again, and starts to seize, he hopes he’ll learn Her lesson quickly.