Here there be whump

Day 22 Better out than in: Nervous Stomach / Vomiting / “I got your hair, it's fine.”

@whumperless-whump-event

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Boris (my oc) is feeling very sickly <3 His stomach is visibly cramping as it's trying to empty itself~

© ぱむ

Quick doodles 🙃

Jaskier after getting attacked by the djinn.

65+5 minutes drawing theme vomiting of blood

The Witcher 1x05 - Jaskier coughing up blood after the Djinn curses him.

(note: I fucking love the hands in the first gif. The way Geralt puts a hand on Jaskier’s back and looks at him in concern and then Jaskier immediately reaches for him back and Geralt takes his arm and holds him up. Ugh. Kill me.)

prompt: “ Hi! Could you please write a fic where Jaskier tries to help Geralt to find something to eat, and accidentally eats a slightly poisonous fruit before Geralt could stop him, and now he have to deal with the aftermaths?”

Four days in the woods, and their food is growing sparse. Jaskier’s beginning to feel the ill effects of not having eaten anything substantial in two days. He feels weak, exhausted. He can only stand for a few minutes without feeling faint, so he’s stuck to sitting on a fallen log, back leaned against a large tree, while Geralt grows frustrated as his fishing net comes up empty each time.

Jaskier’s eyes drift closed at the rhythmic sound of the net splashing against the small, running stream, but Geralt’s loud groan has his eyes flicking open to see Geralt starting away from their small camp.

“Geralt,” he starts quickly, getting to his feet. The ground tilts beneath his feet, and he leans with it, blindly reaching out to the closest tree for support. His ears are ringing, and Geralt’s footsteps toward him sound muffled. He can see Geralt’s mouth moving, see the faint furrow of his sharp brows, and then Geralt’s in front of him, one strong hand on his shoulder, and sound comes back in a loud wave.

“Jaskier, sit down.”

“Where’re you going?” Jaskier slurs as he’s gently pushed back down onto the log.

“Food,” Geralt grunts out.

“I’ll help–”

“–you’ll stay.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes and gets to his feet, willing his vision to remain clear despite the pressing urge to chase the dizzy sense spiking through his inner being. “I’ll help,” he presses, doing his best to mimic a tone that leaves no room for argument. He watches the flicks of conflict tug at Geralt’s strong, worn features with a frown. “You are tired and hungry too, you know.”

“Yes,” Geralt agrees, nodding toward the strong grip he’s got on Jaskier’s arm. “But I can stand.”

Jaskier pulls his arm away from Geralt’s grip, pausing to see if he can remain upright, and after a few moments of standing firmly on two feet without tilting toward the ground, he turns a sharp smile toward Geralt.

“As can I.” He crosses his arms. “Now, shall we go search for food?”

“You aren’t going to give this up.” Geralt says this as a statement, but Jaskier still responds with a wide smile.

“Nope.” He starts passed Geralt, ignoring the low grunt from Geralt as he leads the way deeper into the woods.

They search for forty minutes. Jaskier’s not sure how he’s even able to still be conscious right now. Perhaps it’s Geralt’s pressing gaze that seems to follow his every move despite his near constant reassurances that he’s not going to drop dead.

He wanders a little far from Geralt when he spots a bush they haven’t checked yet. As he stumbles closer to it, he can see bright yellow berries littering the green shrub, and hunger pushes past instinct as he gets close enough to pluck a single yellow berry from the tree. His hand is shaking as he looks longingly at the small berry.

“Geralt,” he calls out behind his shoulder. “I’ve found some berries!”

He drops the berry between his teeth and bites into it, sucking on the sweet yet slightly bitter juice that spreads out across his mouth. His focus is solely on chasing his hunger away, so much that he doesn’t hear Geralt shout his name, doesn’t hear the Witcher running toward him until he’s being knocked to the ground with a harsh grunt.

“Geralt, what–” his words fall short when Geralt shoves two fingers into his mouth, and he spits and sputters against the rough pads of fingers swiping across his teeth and tongue until Geralt draws his hand back, a look of fire coating his amber eyes.

“Did you eat it?” Geralt’s voice is far too low yet still frighteningly demanding.

“Of course I ate it!” Jaskier shoves at Geralt’s chest. “What else would I do with it? Play it a lovely tune?”

Jaskier’s pulled roughly to his feet. The grip on his arm is starting to hurt, strong fingers digging deep into his flesh, and then he’s being lead back to their camp. “Geralt,” Jaskier tries, sparing a longing look back to the abandoned berry bush. “What on earth is wrong?”

“It was poisonous.”  

Geralt’s growl rings deep within Jaskier’s chest, and his longing for food is replaced by a grip of fear. His knees grow weak, and he allows himself to be pulled harshly back to camp. Once back, he’s shoved onto a log, and Geralt makes to gather clean water.

Jaskier watches, taking mental account to how he feels, which, at the moment, is surprisingly fine. No pain, no dizziness, no hunger…

“Why do I no longer feel hungry?” He asks, more to himself, but Geralt still whips around from the stream with a deep frown.

Jaskier meets the Witcher’s eyes, tries desperately to read what’s never verbally said, but then a burning cramp pierces across his stomach, and he staggers away from the log, one arm curling around his abdomen. He makes it a few steps away before he falls to his knees and vomits, muscles convulsing against waves of nausea that pull at him from all directions.

He doesn’t hear Geralt approach him over the sounds of his own, echoing gags, but he feels an uncharacteristically gentle hand drop onto his back. He tries to focus on Geralt’s hand, on the way Geralt slowly smooths his thumb in rhythmic circles, anything to distract him from the sharp pain ripping across his stomach. He’s shaking from head to toe, yet he feels uncomfortably warm despite the shade from the trees, and his stomach hurts terribly.

He doesn’t mean to whimper Geralt’s name in between burning gags, but he does, and he can feel Geralt’s hand tense against his back for a brief moment. He wants to ask Geralt if he’s going to die, if he will live to see another morning, but his graying vision is answering his unspoken questions. He looks back to Geralt, a single tear slipping down his cheek, then succumbs to the darkness plucking at his mind.

He’s disoriented when he awakes the first time. There’s a bottle being pressed to his lips, and he turns his head away from it. He’s too nauseous. His stomach feels like twisted knots.

“Jaskier, you need to drink something.”

“Mmm, no,” Jaskier mumbles. He tries to curl away from the deep voice. He wants to go back to sleep, to get away from the pain. He wants to dream of ice, anything to cool his overheating body.

“You’re dehydrated.”

For a brief moment, Jaskier thinks that that makes sense; however, sleep is tugging at him, and he doesn’t fight it.

When he wakes the second time, he’s only aware that he feels considerably worse. He’s freezing, yet his clothes are damp and clinging to his skin. It’s uncomfortable, and he cannot stop shaking. He grits his teeth and curls into himself. He hears shifting, and then he feels warmth at his back, warmth wrapping around him, encompassing him, and he leans back into it with a shaking sigh before nodding off.

His eyes open the third time when something surprisingly soft and warm presses against his lips. He parts his lips and frowns at the warm water that rushes down his throat. He coughs and sputters and tries to move away from the hands gripping his shoulders. He cannot see straight, everything is glassy and hazy. The water works with the muted nausea, and he groans against the pain, too weak to say anything.

“Jaskier, please.”

There’s desperation clinging to the deep voice, and he wants to chase it, but he’s fading. He reaches one hand out, feels a strong hand cup his shaking one, then everything goes black.

He wakes the fourth time to a single, repetitive string being plucked over and over. He pries his eyes open. The sky is a soft, quiet pink that’s warming toward a new day, and he keeps his gaze trailing up until he sees Geralt frowning at his lute and plucking at a string. It takes him a moment to realize his head is resting atop Geralt’s thigh.

At his small movement, Geralt turns his eyes from the lute to Jaskier, and Jaskier, though having to crane his neck to meet Geralt’s eyes, locks a faintly hazy gaze to worried amber eyes.

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier can physically feel the relief bleeding from Geralt’s voice. It coats him like a warm blanket, and his lips curl up into a soft smile. “You may be many things, Geralt of Rivia, but you are no musician.”

“I do not understand how you play this.” Geralt continues plucking at the same string, and Jaskier breathes out a faint laugh.

“Maybe one day I will teach you… when I don’t feel like I’m two moments away from a grave.” Jaskier shifts his gaze back to the sky, listening as Geralt sets down the lute, and when a large hand drops to his forehead, he breathes out a deep sigh at the cool touch.

“You’re through the worst of it.”

“I suppose I should thank you,” Jaskier starts, words pausing at Geralt’s low grunt.

“Thank me when you are back to pestering me like normal.”

this is actually my first foray into bbu. I haven’t read every single one I don’t think, so if I repeat a name of someone else’s OC im sorry, I’m stupid. I actually am not even sure no one’s done a frat one… so link me if you have, I’d love to read it lol. I used the left outside in the heat trope and (a little bit) the drugging from this post by @whumpthisway. thanks for the tag!

summary: The brothers in a college fraternity house infamous for rowdy partying decide to purchase their very own box boy. 

*****

“They left it outside. It’s like a hundred degrees out.”

“Are the trucks air conditioned? I mean, they have to be right? It’d kill ‘em otherwise.”

The words outside the box are muffled, but he tries to listen for any clue of his new surroundings. He’d stopped sweating hours ago, and wondered if it was simply because he didn’t have any more moisture in his body to afford. His tongue feels thick and dry inside his head.

 A cramp in his left calf keeps coming back, making him groan in pain, unable to stretch it or even massage it with his hands. His head falls back, exhausted. There’s a million ways that being outside the box could be worse than being inside, but right now he doesn’t care. His only thought is let me out. Please. Out.

More of the voices. Male. “Help me with this, would you? I think it’s… oh. Nope, here’s how it goes.”

With a metal click the pressure on the lid of the box gives, and the boy shrinks as tightly as he can away from it, ducking his head into the crooks of his arms. Sunlight spills inside as the lid is lifted away. He hides his eyes, suddenly unable to keep from trembling. 

Two boys- young men, really -are standing in a spacious living room, white walls and high ceilings. The blessedly chilled air of the house hits him like wave. The boys seem close to his own age, somewhere in their early twenties. They’re bigger than he is, though, with a look to their build that suggests they play a sport or like to frequent the gym.

“Oh, fuck.” Says one in a loose muscle tank, covering his nose with his elbow. He’s got dark hair in a careful fade and slicked back on top, his facial hair just as carefully kempt. “Is that vomit?”

The boy glances up at that, afraid he heard something like anger or disgust in his prospective new master’s voice. 

He did throw up— only because they’d given him a strange bright cocktail of fizzy medicine and held his nose to make him drink and then put him inside a box with little slats for air-holes and the motion of the truck had made him too sick to bear. His pink sick had long dried to the floor. 

The boy who’d pulled back groans, taking another step away. “I can’t with vomit, Al. You know that.”

“So go on then,” the other says irritably. He’s got short blond hair and a blue collared shirt with a logo on the chest, three funny looking letters. He’s looking at the boy inside the box with brows raised in something like concern. “It’s okay. Just a little throw-up, huh? It’s not a big deal. My name’s Alex. Can you hear me?”

The boy nods. Even the tiny movement of his head makes him dizzy, and he closes his eyes for a moment as the world tilts. 

“Here. I thought you might be thirsty.”

He flinches involuntarily as Alex lifts a water bottle close to his lips but leans forward, watching his new masters carefully as he lets the cool, sweet water past his cracked lips, into his parched mouth. He could cry with how good it tastes, and sucks on it shamelessly like a bottle until it’s gently tilted away. The dark haired boy gives a high-pitched titter, like something’s funny. 

“You can have more in a little bit.” Alex says gently. “You can have as much as you want, but you don’t want to get sick.”

Right. Of course not. He’d already gotten sick in his box and made one of them nearly gag as how disgusting he was. He looks down in shame. 

“There’s a manual.” The dark-haired one says, ripping it off the outside of the box and flipping through it as if something more interesting might fall from between the pages. “Yo, they know these like… positions. And he doesn’t have a name it’s just like…. ten numbers.”

“Yeah.” Alex says flatly. “I’ve seen the Youtube videos.”

He scrunches his face in confusion. “There’s Youtube videos?”

Alex ignores him. “I bet you’re ready to come out of there, aren’t you? Yeah. Can you take my hand?”

His voice is soft, coaxing. Although the instrument of his torture feels like a relatively safe place to cower, he knows he’s not to stay in the box. He’s been purchased, and for that there are reasons. He takes the blond boy’s outstretched hand, ducking to crawl outside. 

Alex looks to his friend. “He’s burning up, dude. Or am I crazy?” His voice gets sharper. “Paul. Will you feel?”

The dark haired boy, Paul, drops the manual carelessly to the floor, coming closer now that the dried vomit is left behind in the empty box. Still, the boy cringes from him as he touches the side of his cheek, his forehead. 

“Damn. Yeah he’s hot as fuck. God, why’s he naked? What’s with this company?”

Alex gives Paul a look before turning back to the boy. “How about a cool bath? You must be so hot. We didn’t know you were out there. They didn’t even ring the doorbell.”

He hasn’t been told be can speak, but he hasn’t been told he can’t either. Running the risk of a backhand slap to the mouth, he ventures quietly… “Uhm, Sirs? Which…which of you is my Master? Please?”

Paul snorts. “Sirs. I like him already. He’s funny.”

Alex smiles but it’s more like a grimace, almost guilty. “We uh… all the brothers in the house sort of… we pooled money to get you. We thought… well to be honest I was pretty wasted that night, so it’s a little hazy, but…”

“You’re like our house mascot.” Paul supplies, gesturing around the living room. He smiles with straight, white teeth. “We’ll go easy on you in initiation, though, since you didn’t exactly pledge. Wait til the guys get back, he’s better than the picture.”

The boy pales at that, wondering how many of them it is he belongs to, what they intend to do with him. He was incredibly nervous for one Master, let alone this. 

“It’s okay.” Alex says, sensing his subdued panic. “Don’t be freaked out. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”

 He manages to whimper weakly before his calf muscle cramps violently again, and he nearly stumbles to the floor. Two pairs of hands catch him, hold him up. 

“Woah. Easy there.”

“Get him to the tub?”

“Yeah. Here, you take his feet. Ready?”

oh oh oh holyyy shittt I adore this!!! the poor poor box boy!! and the frat guys (who seem decent as well!!) ahhh :D I'm so happy the prompts list helped a bit as well oh gosh :D :D

hey @gimmethatsweetwhump @redstainedsocks check this out!!! I can't *wait* to see where you go with this! <3 <3