#tw vomiting

[scientested]

It's like some kind of fucked up animal trapped in a robot's body to me

#splatoon #commander tartar #octo expansion #tw emetophobia #emetophobia tw #tw vomiting #vomiting tw #also yea it's that big compared to eight :3

[sub-at-omicsteminist]

#Thank you John Kennedy for the most amusing thing I’ve read this week #science #stem #funny #Twitter #stemblr #meme #memes #Twitter meme #humour #scientists #humor #oranges #orange #physics #chemistry #biology #tw choking #tw vomiting

[shares-a-vest]

@steddielovemonth Day 1: Love is... Letting someone take care of you (Prompt by @starryeyedjanai)

wc: 722 | Rated: G | tw: the ever-present possibility of Steve vomiting, migraines

Tags: Sick Fic, Steve Has a Migraine, Caregiver Eddie

Eddie makes his way down the hall, following the sounds of gross, loud and retching coughs, his pace quickening with each step.

Steve was supposed to meet him at the arcade an hour ago. Steve isn’t exactly the most punctual person (despite the guy always looking at his watch with a laboured sigh). He sleeps in more often than not.

But he’s never an hour late at 2 in the afternoon.

“Stevie?” he asks, just narrowly missing the doorframe as he practically spins into Steve’s bedroom.

He doesn’t wait for an answer and tiptoes towards the blanketed form that is spluttering gibberish like Steve is attempting to answer.

Eddie looks around the room, his hand hovering over Steve’s form.

The place looks about the same as usual – a little too clean for the bedroom of a twenty-year-old boy, curtains drawn like they were downstairs. Steve’s work clothes from yesterday are discarded on the floor...

Wait.

“Sweetheart,” he coos, rubbing the blanketed mass now.

The lump moves to reveal a muss of Steve’s hair, sticking on end, looking greasy and tangled at the back. Steve grumbles.

Eddie rounds the bed, hoping the other side will reveal Steve at least a little.

“So dizzy,” Steve mutters as soon as Eddie spots his flush, pained face in amongst his bedding.

His eyes roll back and close, a full-bodied grimace shaking the pile of bedding.

Eddie eases down and reaches to comb his fingers through Steve’s fringe, only to be hit with just how clammy his boyfriend is. He swoops back the sweat-caked hair, patting it down gently.

“Think I’m gonna… throw up,” Steve says clear as day and gulps.

And Eddie thinks this might be the first time he has ever seen someone’s face flush green.

“I’ll go get your bucket,” he says, earning a reedy whine in protest.

Steve doesn’t embarrass easily, but he does when it comes to his (sometimes vomit-inducing) migraines and the yellow bucket Claudia Henderson brought by after Spring Break and demanded he keep close by. It sits under the sink in the ensuite bathroom now.

Eddie makes quick work of retrieving the bucket, plus some tissues and a glass of water. There are more supplies he could do with, he thinks, but they’ll have to wait.

“Come on, Big Boy,” he says, tugging at the covers, “Time to sit up.”

Steve moves at a snail’s pace to get himself untangled from his cocoon and sit upright. The blankets eventually fall away to reveal a flush, bare chest.

“You naked under there?” Eddie teases.

“Clothes sting,” is all Steve says as he swings his legs around with a monumental effort to hang off the side of the bed.

“Feet on the carpet, sweetheart,” Eddie instructs, placing the bucket in his lap and spotting it with his own hands.

“I’s gross,” Steve mutters, head falling into the receptacle, his voice echoing in its (so far) emptiness, “Go... away.”

He sways a little as if those limited, broken words were too much. Eddie wraps his free hand around his boyfriend’s middle.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he begins, “And you are not gross. You need help. I’m here now.”

He soothes his hand up Steve’s back, feeling him relax a touch.

“O-okay,” Steve hiccups, a tear falling onto his cheek.

“I’m here to look after you,” Eddie reassures, his voice barely above a whisper, “And I’ll get you good enough that we can pack you up and get you over to my house. Sound good, hmm?”

Steve half-nods into his bucket before he looks up.

His eyes are glassy. Nose red. His fringe now sticking to his forehead. He looks like a wreck, unkempt and sweaty. Now only a pale, pink-tinged green.

But Eddie leans forward and presses a kiss to his partner’s cheek anyway.

“Just think about your feet on the carpet, okay?” he whispers when he pulls back, “Your feet are planted on the ground – balanced, steady. Focus on that for a while. It’s okay if you throw up.”

Steve huffs and nods.

“‘Kay.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Steve.”

Steve drops his head towards the bucket again and Eddie begins detangling at the damp hair at the nape of his neck.

“Thanks,” Steve rasps after a long while of silence (and him not blowing chucks everywhere), “L-Love you.”

#yayyy love month is here #had to go for a sick fic first off #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #steve x eddie #steddielovemonth #sick fic 🤧 #steddie ficlet #tw vomit #tw vomiting

[llamagoddessofficial]

Already posted this on ao3, but I thought Tumblr would like it too. A lovely commission courtesy of Valacre- cecaelia Skull getting to show his spookier and scarier side.

Some TWs, for this! Bleeding, near drowning, kidnapping and general yandere behaviour, vomiting, being pressured into eating. Proceed with caution if these things bother you!

You felt calm. Very calm.

You really shouldn’t have felt calm. You were probably actively dying. Sinking deeper and deeper into an ocean abyss, bleeding from a head wound you sustained from thrashing against coral in a panic, you couldn’t tell if the way the world was darkening around you was from your consciousness slipping away or your depth increasing. Perhaps a bit of both. 

... But... you just felt calm. The toxins had already well kicked into your brain. 

That was the thing, about sinking too deep in scuba gear. At depths, pressure changed the properties of whatever gas was in your tank. Unless you had a special concoction, suited for the extreme conditions, a tank of normal air would gradually become more and more toxic to your body the further down you went.

The regulator in your mouth, the very thing keeping you alive... was also the thing slowly killing you.

Nitrogen narcosis, right? You thought, nearly giggling. We learnt about it in dive class. What a dumb name, for something that’s gonna kill me.

The fact that you were sinking didn’t bother you. The fact that you were dying bought no panic. In fact, you could hardly remember why you panicked before. Again, you nearly laughed... you were so dumb, it was entirely your own fault you were in this position. Chasing a beautiful fish over the reef, further and further, not even noticing your dive group disappearing from sight. 

The nature had been so beautiful, the fish so pretty... the waters so calm.

You went over an edge, the coral shelving away. You hadn’t seen the bottomless, terrifying void until it had already opened up beneath you.

All struggling did was make you hit your head on a jagged coral branch. Nothing could stop the cold current from sucking you down.

You barely registered the plaintive beeping of the dive computer on your wrist. Quietly, uselessly, trying to warn you that you were getting too deep. 

... Eventually, your regulator slipped out of your mouth. 

Huh. Oh well.

...

Lights.

Lights filled your vision. Lights in a rainbow of colours, beautiful and vibrant, catching in the glass of your dive mask and casting across your face. The glimmering tucked around your fading mind, drawing it upward, drawing it away from the brink of nothingness. 

A warm red colour moved closer, and closer, and closer. Pretty. The other nice colours still surrounded you, but the red was the most dominant of them. It was a welcome break, from the endless black and blue that you were sinking into... you felt big hands, on either side of your face, a comforting sensation. 

Is this what dying is like? You stared at the warm red. It’s nothing like what people said it would be like.

You could hear a soft humming. You felt it in your core, too. The drunken, narcotic-esque sensation of the gases was slowly replaced by a much softer and more pleasant emotional state. Less giggly... more peaceful.

Something touched to your mouth. Warm. And suddenly, you could breathe again. A distant, disconnected sense of relief in the back of your head- like despite all of the easy feelings around you, deep down, you were still afraid to die.

... The red glow grew brighter. As it did, the peaceful feeling picked you up, and carried you away.

You were more than happy to let it.

///---///

Your eyes opened.

...

You didn’t expect that.

Immediately, panic rushed through you. It was so dark, so horribly dark - am I dead!? - you sat up, head rushing with a wave of nausea, your lips and fingers were heavy and tingly and your eyes felt as if they were swirling in your skull.

You instantly threw up seawater.

... A cave. You were in a cave. You let out a slow breath, it quivered slightly at the end, eyes darting around the chamber and desperately attempting to gather as much info as possible, hand coming up to wipe your mouth. The walls were black and glossy, seemingly volcanic, and the ground beneath you was dry.

... Wait. You forced yourself to slow down. How can I see?

You turned around. Just behind you, the dry rock shelved away into a large pool. And a faint, blueish-green light emanated from all around its edges, where the mirror-like black water met the stone. Algae? Plankton? Whatever it was, it was just enough light to see by, and it was undeniably beautiful.

... You shuffled over to the water’s edge. Kneeling by it, you leant over, and drew your hand through the still water- the cave grew brighter, as a trail of light followed your palm, flickering across your face and casting soft ripples over the sloped walls.

... The panic didn’t leave you completely. It probably wouldn’t, until you were curled up in your own bed at home. But... something about the bioluminescence helped your emotions settle. It was genuinely beautiful to look at, and the sound of moving water filled your ears, grounding you to the moment. You weren’t dead at the bottom of the seafloor, you weren’t being eaten by some terrible beast. Though you struggled to make sense of the cave’s dimensions in the low light, it certainly wasn’t small and you were grateful to be spared any nightmarish claustrophobia. Not to mention the fact that you were grateful you had light at all.

You took your hand out of the water. Watching the droplets fall, creating their own little flashes of light, made you suddenly realise something. 

... The cave wasn’t the only thing that was dry. You were bone dry, too. You touched your dry hand all over yourself, but felt no damp. How long have I been asleep?

For a moment, you suddenly worried that you shouldn’t be breathing stale cave air, and you reached up as if to cover your mouth. But... you also realised that you had no idea how long you’d been unconscious for. Clearly, long enough for you to dry. 

... Your wetsuit was gone. So was all of your scuba gear. You looked down at yourself, confused; dressed only in your swimsuit and rash vest, your tanks and hoses weren’t anywhere to be found. Even your dive computer was missing from your wrist. 

Looking up only confused you further. No longer frightened about stale air or whether or not you were dead, you noticed there were clothes laid against the rocks closest to the pool edge. Clothes you didn’t recognise- clothes that absolutely weren’t yours. A slightly damp towel, and a very damp shirt, placed neatly and flat... as if someone had taken their sopping wet items off after coming out of the water, and laid them out to dry. Given how warm (yet still somehow fresh) the cave air felt, you could definitely see things drying. 

Possibilities flashed through your mind. Did you do that, then pass out and forget? Or was there someone else here? You weren’t sure whether to be afraid of that possibility.

“... You’re not gonna get much done sitting on the floor.” You murmured to yourself, instinctively wanting to fill the silence. Regardless of your quietness your voice bounced off the cave walls. “Might as well have a look around.”

Eventually, you forced yourself to your feet. You were a little wobbly... but nonetheless, you were alive.

The cave was, to your surprise, empty aside from you. No other signs of life. No spiders, no worms, no bats or flies- just those smooth dark walls and the shine of the reflected pool light. It was a decently sized cave, more than enough room for you to stand to your full height and stretch your arms above your head. Gradually, you shuffled your way into the back; the roof edged down slightly, before rising up again. You supposed that counted as a second part of the cave.

The second chamber was still a good size, but it was much smaller than the first chamber. It felt a fraction cooler. The light from the pool had grown so dim that you had to use your hands to navigate, feeling the walls to make sure you didn’t fall over- very faintly, above you, you could make out a hole. Though no light was coming through, you felt fresh air on your face... you let yourself enjoy some relief at the knowledge that there was a source of breathable air. You weren’t going to suffocate.

... Though you felt around more, there was no third chamber, and no potential way out aside from the crack directly above you.

And... nobody else was in the cave.

The clothes by the pool must’ve been me. You thought, a strange sensation falling over you. Maybe I have a concussion...?

...

Wait. Your head.

You gasped aloud, remembering that you had hit your head on coral. You reached up to touch your head, expecting blood, expecting matted hair, expecting something, anything at all. 

... Your fingers touched dry seaweed.

You paused. The seaweed... it wrapped all the way around your head. Like someone had wrapped it for you. And you felt no pain when you touched the area that you had hit against the coral- in fact, when you moved the seaweed aside, your fingers felt nothing. No scab, no scar, nothing. It was like you had never been hurt.

...

Something wasn’t right about this. The strange sensation grew, uneasiness intensifying. You stumbled back into the first chamber, eyes on the floor to make sure you didn’t trip over anything in the half-darkness, you wanted to look at those damp clothes again to be sure you didn’t recognise them.

You looked up, over to the bioluminescent pool, mostly to see clear light again and partially to try and calm yourself with its gentle blue glow.

... A large, glowing red eye stared back at you.

...

You were frozen. Completely. More than just your physical body- it felt as if the air around you stopped, as if your blood in your veins turned to ice, as if your heart paused in its beating and your breath turned to stone in your throat.

...

The eye didn’t disappear. It wasn’t a stress hallucination, it wasn’t a mirage. As the leadden moments ticked on, the eye remained.

Silent.

... The eye... was in a skull. It twitched faintly. Only half of the head was above the water, the algae faintly shining where the sides of its face met the water. A vicious crack in the top of its cranium... just from the size of the top half of its face, you knew it was huge.

A siren. It must be a siren. A siren big and powerful enough to recover from such a frightening and severe injury as a head crack.

Trapped alone in a cave with a siren.

The realisation filled you with a numb, hollow kind of fear. It spread through every limb like a pale fire eating through paper.

Am I breathing? I don’t know if I’m breathing.

...

The siren, silently, lifted a few more inches out of the water. The only sound was the faint rippling of the pool. Droplets rolled down a smile of razor teeth.

...

You screamed. 

How could you not? Pinned in a small cave, with a beast right out of your nightmares. For a split second, a flash of confusion across its huge face. You tried to scramble away and back into the second chamber, somewhere you’d be out of its reach.

Its smile quickly returned. In an instant, massive black tentacles shot out of the water, sending up sprays of light; though you were aware of the siren’s size you had no idea of its dexterity. Before you could even turn around to run, tentacles seized your arms and legs; wet half-sentient masses of muscle wrapping tight around you. You felt the suckers press your skin, the slimy dark limbs squeezing and twisting, your bones suddenly felt so fragile and your screams so useless. Your voice just bounced off the smooth cave walls.

The tentacles pulled down, and instantly your legs gave way under you. He started dragging you toward him, toward the water- you watched in horror as his grin only grew, razor mouth and feverish red eye growing closer and closer. Death itself, pulling you in, images of those teeth driving into you made you begin to lose feeling in your extremities.

Like a child realising there was nowhere to run from the monster, you squeezed your eyes shut. You didn’t want to look, you didn’t want to see the teeth getting any closer, you didn’t want to see the eye fill your vision. You didn’t want to see it coming. 

The pulling stopped. You were numb, you’d drawn into your head, you didn’t know if you were even still screaming anymore.

Crack.

The sound of something breaking made any sound you might’ve been making catch in your throat.

...

... Except... you didn’t feel any pain. Seconds ticked by, and you didn’t feel the heat of blood, or the sensation of shock setting in. The tentacles hadn’t moved, still holding onto you tightly.

Whatever had crunched, it wasn’t your bones. 

... You were still hyperventilating. But confusion allowed you to, slowly, open up your eyes.

The horrible grin was inches from your face, leering down at you. As was the equally horrible eye, bathing you in an overpowering red glow.

... But also in front of you, was two sides of a cracked sea urchin.

...

You stared blankly. The siren... he was holding them. One half in either massive clawed hand. It was a decently sized urchin, full of golden edible uni. 

One hand was big enough to seize your face, crush your head.

...

The siren, upon getting no response from you, moved the split urchin a few inches closer. Like he was showing it to you. You tried to lean away, but he just responded by moving it slightly closer again.

... You glanced up at his face. It was a horrifying thing to behold. Jagged misshapen teeth, a half shattered skull... scars lining his body. That big iris, unblinkingly staring into your Soul. Not giving you an inch of space, as if he wanted to consume you just through eye contact.

...

Back down to the uni. Moments kept passing. Moments where he didn’t maul you to death.

...

... Wait.

No... 

You pulled in a little frightened breath. 

He didn’t like that, a flicker of something else crossing his expression. That same expression as earlier, when you screamed. Like he didn’t like it- like he was getting upset.

Memories were starting to return, now. Fuzzy recollections of lights filling your vision. Alive in a cave, with new clothes drying on the rocks, your injuries bound and healed... 

... This siren had saved your life. Hadn’t he? Dressed your head wound, removed your heavy gear. He rescued you, put you in what must be his cave.

... He was trying to feed you.

Oh no.

You didn’t have a choice, did you? You felt like if you didn't eat the food, he would eat you. Slowly, your hands came up, they were shaking almost comically... you reached forward, taking one of the sea urchin halves.

Judging from his reaction, it was the correct move. His unbearable smile inched wider. And across his tentacles, a dim pulsation of green and yellow light, for seemingly no reason other than happiness. 

You didn’t have anything to remove the edible parts with, so you had to use your fingers. Your hands were shaking so much that it took a few tries to actually get it out. But you managed, eventually.

... It was good uni. Incredibly fresh, salty, slightly sweet. But you had to force yourself to eat it. You felt intensely sick from the fear, your head was swimming and several times you had to suppress your gagging. Don't upset him. Just eat it. The food, though the sweetness did ease some of your dizziness, was impossible to enjoy in any way; the entire time you ate, the siren stared at you. He had an intensity only a wild beast could muster. Inches from you, so close you felt his massive breaths washing over your face... watching every. Single. Bite.

... It couldn't have taken long. But it felt like it took hours. Finally, you swallowed the last bit, and to your immense relief he didn’t try to make you eat the other half of the urchin. 

He seemed pleased- for now.

... His free hand lifted up. You flinched, closing your eyes again; you felt a large claw trace over your cheek. 

It only confirmed your fears. 

Sirens don't feed just anyone. They fed their children, their family, or their... 

... Their mate. 

The tentacle grip around you finally eased. Slowly but surely, pacified by your eating, he withdrew; though the wet limbs dragged across you as they retreated, like he was savouring every moment of contact. The red light of his eye became less and less dominant, the calming blue of the pool returning to your vision.

... He made a sound. It sounded like a deep growl. But given the grin on his massive face, and his obviously pleased disposition... it was probably closer in nature to a purr.

He slipped under the water’s surface, leaving only a glowing ripple behind.

...

... You forced yourself to slow your breathing. You forced yourself to stop thinking about the terrifying implication of what you’d just experienced, but nothing could stop a few tears slipping down your face, nor a few shuddering breaths escaping from your chest.

A siren... was keeping you. Probably as his mate. Not just any siren- a massive, terrifying cecaelia, who clearly had no intention of letting you go. That's why he left you with most of your things, but took all your scuba gear, wasn't it? So you couldn't dive out of this cave.

No... no, you couldn’t think about that. You swallowed the fear, only letting a few more frightened sobs free before scrubbing the tears off your cheeks.

This isn’t ideal. But... you’re alive, at least. You thought. You wouldn’t have survived if he didn’t intervene. So this is better than nothing, right?

Yeah. Yeah, right. You bit the inside of your cheek. You needed to be thankful you were, at least, alive.

You’re alive. Your wounds have all been tended to and healed. You’re safe, somewhere warm and dry, with a supply of fresh air. The giant siren might be freaky, but he bought you food, and even clothes.

He clearly wants to keep you alive. You’re gonna be okay.

“I’m gonna be okay.” You said, weakly... to nobody except the cave walls.

///---///

Skull watched, silently, as the boat moved further and further away. Only once it was out of sight did he allow himself to move through the water again, iris re-igniting. If it had come too close to the den entrance he would’ve attacked.

... He was closer to shore than he liked to be. But it was important he was close to fresh air, and places he could source human things from. For you.

His chest... it warmed so much, at the thought of you. His mate. He had been alone so long, desperate for so long. Now, he finally had company.

... Sure, you were afraid. But it was only natural for a potential partner to be resistant to first advances. It just meant he needed to keep you in the den, and prove he’d be a strong, capable mate. Right? One of his tentacles lashed out, catching a fish. The other divers with you, the members of your pack, were clearly idiots- they didn’t protect you. They didn’t even notice when you were in distress. They didn’t save you when you were hurt... not like he did. 

He felt himself warming even more, pride returning, tentacle immediately crushing the fish. He rescued you. He held you close in your weakest moment, and filtered air into his mouth for you. He stemmed your bleeding, he cradled you in his arms, saved you from the brink of death. He held you close for hours, blanketing you with healing magic until he was certain you were stable, nearly killing himself from the exhaustion of ensuring you would be safe. 

He was a good mate. Fish blood seeped out into the water around him. You would see, eventually, how good he was. All he had to do was keep you in one place, and prove it to you, no matter how much you fought him.

All he needed was time.

#commissions #tw near death #tw vomiting #some folks on ao3 raised the very important point that skull shouldnt be feeding her raw fish #but dont worry! hes a very conscientious mate who understands his wife's dietary requirements #it's one of the reasons he selected a cave so close to land #he can go and steal human food when nobody is looking #isnt he so thoughtful and forward-planning??

[peaches2217]

Everything's Okay

TW: PTSD, Dissociation, Brief Description of Vomiting

AO3 link! And a massive thank you to @squagel for your feedback and help!

~~~

“Peach?! Peach!”

The fire Peach dozed by may well have extinguished itself for how quickly her blood ran cold. Blissfully sleepy just moments ago, every nerve and neuron now blared alarm bells that forced her to move before she could even form a coherent thought.

She clambered her way out of the drawing room chaise as quickly as the extra weight she carried would permit, but even so, the ten steps to the bedroom door felt impossibly vast. It would feel no different even if she could sprint with the speed of a Yoshi racing through summer fields.

She was no stranger to hearing that voice call her name. She’d never heard it cried like that.

Just as she reached the door, it flew open, forcing her to clutch her belly protectively as she dodged its outward swing — and there stood Mario on the opposite side.

They stared at one another in shocked silence, and Peach took the opportunity to assess him before making her next move. Outwardly he appeared unharmed. He was still in his daytime attire, though the right strap of his overalls was undone and the adjacent bib corner hung limp from his chest. His hair was mussed, his eyes wild, boring into her with some mix of raw terror and disbelief; glancing over his head, she saw his cap resting on their bed near the far wall, its blankets still made up but visibly rumpled, the sheer canopy still drawn as it had been that morning.

A nightmare. He’d simply had another nightmare. Though she loathed to see him so frightened, Peach breathed a private sigh of relief. She had been so certain he was in legitimate danger from his tone of voice alone.

Honestly, she hadn’t even known he was in their quarters already. He must have snuck in sometime after dinner while she shared evening tea with Toadsworth and laid down to rest, crashing before he could even finish getting out of his clothes and snoozing soundly until his rude awakening.

“Peach…?” This utterance of her name was much quieter, almost quivering, and the weight that had lifted from her chest seeing him unharmed slowly resettled. Even newly awake, she could tell that this nightmare had been more intense than usual.

Indeed, he dealt with dark dreams somewhat regularly, dreams of attacks or disasters which jolted him awake and left him restless unless Peach was awake and available to distract him with lighthearted whispers across the pillow. Yet such dreams paled in comparison to the worst of his nightmares, in which he oftentimes lost her. Never any less painful in their familiarity, he woke from those dreams crying her name, and no amount of chatting could put him at ease; he would remain shaken and a little distant even as Peach fed him reassurances, resting his ear against her chest and listening to her heartbeat until he drifted off again.

The subject of tonight’s nightmare, therefore, was all too easy to discern. He must have panicked harder than usual upon waking to an empty bed.

“I’m right here,” she soothed, dropping her hands from her abdomen to hold him lightly by the shoulders. When he didn’t relax beneath her touch, she stroked his cheek, startlingly pale beneath her fingertips. Perhaps he was still half-asleep as well; maybe he still had trouble in discerning reality from another dream.

That happened sometimes on nights like this, so Peach didn’t panic. She guided him with gentle movements back into their room, leaving the door open so the heat from the fireplace could warm the dark bedroom. When she reached their bed, she situated herself on the mattress’ edge, urging Mario to sit beside her.

He didn’t sit. He remained standing before her, his expression dazed and his breath unsteady, but his eyes at least began to clear. At least she thought they were clearing. The moonlight that filtered in through the curtains was just adequate enough to see and not much more.

Adorning her gentlest smile, Peach took his hands. The rough skin that was normally a touch too dry was now clammy. “It’s alright, love,” she said. “It was just a bad dream. Everything is okay.”

Mario blinked a few times, glancing down at their hands. He made no attempt to hold hers in return. 

“Everything’s…” he muttered vaguely. After a moment, he nodded. “Y… yeah. Everything’s… okay.”

Before she could utter another reassurance or encourage him again to join her, he withdrew his hands, the bulb in his throat bouncing as he swallowed thickly. “J-just a minute.”

“Of course,” Peach said in her same soft tone. With that, he nodded once more before lumbering away, towards the bathroom door; he flipped the lightswitch on as he entered but didn’t bother closing the door behind him. A jab low in her stomach drew Peach’s attention away from the empty door frame, and she smoothed her palm over that area of movement.

Your father, she sighed to her baby, letting her disorganized thoughts finish the sentence. Between the everyday pressures of being a hero and a consort, the apprehension over the rapidly approaching birth of their daughter, and the thousand royal tasks he insisted upon shouldering for her because “We can’t take any chances, Peachy, stress is bad for the baby! So you let Mario do all the stressing for you, okie-dokie?”, Peach had begun to wonder how he hadn’t fallen into a coma from sheer strain. A high-intensity nightmare was the last thing he needed.

But it would be okay, she assured herself. Mario was hardly invincible, but he could still handle more than most. He would feel better once he splashed some cold water onto his face, took a moment to breathe, and when he was ready to return she would give him a safe haven within her arms. By morning his nightmare would be a hazy memory and he’d live to fight another day.

Exhaling sadly and slowly, she relaxed her posture and fetched her husband’s cap where it lay just behind her, tracing the familiar coarse stitching with her index finger. The seams along the brim showed signs of fraying. Perhaps she could convince him to go bareheaded tomorrow, and she could busy herself repairing the beloved article. Give his spirits a much-needed lift. Already she could imagine him beaming and kissing her cheeks over and over as though she had performed some monumental act of charity, and the thought brought a grin to her face once more.

Clank!

Peach looked up. The noise came from within the bathroom, the unconcerning sound of a bottle being knocked over or perhaps a bar of soap being dropped. It wouldn’t have worried her in the slightest, if not for what followed: silence. Perfect, pure silence, no running of water, no padding of footsteps, nothing except for Mario’s breath, still far too labored for her liking.

“…Mario?” she called softly. 

Mario’s response: a quiet, strained groan.

The dread blossoming within Peach’s chest burst violently into bloom at the commotion that followed, a sudden cacophony of distressed noises and the thud of something heavy hitting the floor, and now it was her turn to cry her beloved’s name.

“Mario?!” Abandoning the cap on the covers once more, she leapt to her feet with unprecedented vigor and rushed to where he was, hastened by a strangled cry and the sharp clank of porcelain on porcelain and—

And the unmistakable, nauseating sound of retching.

The sight that met Peach past the doorway froze her to the spot in horror. Mario, on his knees and clinging tightly to the latrine, coughed so violently into the bowl that his whole body shook, his few breaths between coming in pained gasps, and just as soon as he’d filled his lungs he was gagging again. His tongue lolled from his mouth and thick drool dripped from his bottom lip; tears streamed from his eyes, screwed tightly shut; and only when he lurched forward once more was Peach able to come to her senses.

“Mario—” She hurried to him as he vomited again, standing uselessly over his hunched form and running her options through her brain. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck and coated every inch of visible skin in a thin sheen. Okay. First order of business: cool him off and help him calm down. Then they’d go from there.

He went into another coughing fit as she yanked the top drawer of the cabinet open, though it was far weaker now, phlegmy and punctuated with meek gasping. “Breathe, sweetie,” she said, praying he couldn’t hear the panic that bled into her tone despite her best efforts. “Just breathe. You’ll be alright.”

Running the first rag she could find beneath a stream of cold water, Peach tried to focus on the rush of the faucet, and that was almost enough to drown out the agonizing sounds that still spilled from his throat. 

“Breathe,” she repeated as she wrung the drenched rag, returning to him to drape it over his exposed nape. This got a reaction from him at least; he shivered at the cloth’s ice touch, and his death grip on the porcelain loosened, and his shoulders sagged as he did his best to follow her order, and that was all good, she decided. As good as a situation like this could get, anyway.

Next order of business: water.

With the promise of her swift return, Peach beelined to the kitchen to fetch a glass and some sort of sickly syrup made to combat nausea. Nurse Toadessa wouldn’t be in bed for a few more hours. That would give Peach plenty of time to get Mario somewhat comfortable and then have him checked over. And it would probably be wise to receive a checkup herself, just in case…

But there had been no reports of any sort of stomach bug outbreak, and Mario was far too hardy to be among the first to catch an illness. Thinking back through the day, she couldn’t recall detecting any signs that he was feeling poorly, or at least anything other than overworked; she could, however, remember thinking poorly of the mutton served at dinner and politely refusing it, offering her portion to Mario under the (not entirely untrue) guise of wanting to save room for extra cake. He had practically licked both plates clean. (And then he’d belched loudly by complete accident, over which they shared a fit of laughter, albeit with much embarrassed fluster on Mario’s end.)

A sudden pang of guilt struck Peach, not helped by the sharp kick below her ribs she received at the same time. She’d only meant to spare the feelings of the castle’s hardworking cooks. Perhaps, she thought now, it would have been best to speak up. 

But that might also explain his extreme reaction to his nightmare. The few times Peach had experienced food poisoning, her own dreams were uncomfortably vivid. Still, content that she knew the source of his illness, she held her head higher as she returned to the bathroom, medicine in one hand and glass of fresh water in the other.

Mario lay curled on the tiles, his head cushioned on his extended left arm, and now his breath was shallow but fairly steady. The toilet lid had been closed and the cloth Peach had provided him with was clutched loosely in his outstretched hand. Though her heart hurt for him, she couldn’t help but be taken by a sad but fond affection. 

She had become well-acquainted with the bathroom floor during her episodes of morning sickness, and whenever she felt in good enough humor, she would promise to repay Mario’s attentive care if ever a similar sickness befell him. On those days he would challenge that promise, sprawling out on the tile beside her and listing off the endless stream of luxuries he expected to be showered with the next time he so much as ran a slight fever; only when she was giggling too hard to forget about her own misery would he kiss her forehead and assure her that it would be enough just to know that she was there.

Now was her chance to carry out that promise, at least.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to endure a bit of torture now,” she warned, equal parts teasing and sympathetic, setting the water on the vanity so she could pour said torture into the plastic cup that fit over the bottle’s lid. “But I assure you, it’s for your own good.”

The room remained silent as she measured out the syrup. Odd. Mario never passed up an opportunity to complain whenever he was forced to take medicine. She had at least expected a disapproving groan. For a moment she thought he might have fallen asleep, but looking again once the cup was prepared, his eyes appeared to be open. 

“Mario…?”

He didn’t so much as twitch. If not for the quick rise and fall of his sides, he could have easily passed for a corpse.

Peach felt her hands begin to shake even before she could register her own emotions, and she set both the bottle and cup of syrup on the vanity lest they slip from her grasp. She knew this. There were occasions, very rare occasions, in which Mario remained awake yet became unresponsive. But it only happened when…

In a few swift movements, she joined him on the floor, shuffling towards him on her knees and reaching over her swollen stomach to jostle him — and eventually, with some difficulty, roll him onto his back.

He must have wiped his face with the cloth, because it was damp but fairly clean save a few residual tears that trickled down his cheeks, almost normal in appearance. But his eyes… they looked straight up and right through her. Aware, sort of, but glazed and dull, like ocean marble gone cloudy with age, like he could see her but didn’t actually know she was there.

Food poisoning and cloying syrups were suddenly the farthest thoughts from her mind.

“Hey.” She stroked his cheek with an uncertain hand; she felt a minute twitch of muscles in response to her touch, but Mario himself did not react. “C-come back to me, alright? We’re safe, love, everything’s okay! Everything’s…” Her words faltered, her throat closing off and her eyes stinging, staring into his blank gaze and searching for some sign, any sign, that he was with her.

Nothing. He blinked, maybe from her voice and maybe just automatically, but his stare remained as lifeless a stare as someone otherwise alive and well could possess.

The terror with which he’d screamed her name, terror reflected in his face even after seeing her… the daze he’d fallen into then, impenetrable no matter how sweetly she spoke to or touched him…

That was it then. This wasn’t the result of undercooked food or anything of the sort. Whatever images had been conjured up and presented to him in his sleep, they had triggered some sort of trauma response, and the only way his brain could protect itself from the onslaught of anguish, so sudden and unendurable that it had driven him to physical sickness, was to shut itself down.

Peach’s vision went unfocused, and she sat back on her heels. This hadn’t happened in years. What could she do?

Anyone who thought rationally on the matter for more than a few seconds could easily infer that Mario suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder, or something like it. One doesn’t become a war hero without going through a handful of near-death experiences and witnessing more destruction and suffering in a single day than anyone should have to see in a lifetime. 

Even so, the semi-frequent nightmares were usually the worst that trauma manifested, and the very worst of those never triggered this. No, these out-of-body (or maybe locked-in-body, he was never sure how to describe it to her) experiences only happened in the wake of considerable events: being crushed or burned until he stood inches from the gates of the Overthere, witnessing the near-death of the universe up close, things of that nature. 

But Mario, through a combination of sheer stubbornness and an insatiable love for life, refused to let even that much take him down. In due time, he always came to peace with these events, or at least learned to leave them in the past where they belonged, at which point nightmares would once more be the worst of his concerns.

Sniffling and swiping her knuckles across her eyes, Peach took in his still-unmoving form, those blank blue eyes still trained on the ceiling. What in the Eight Realms had he dreamed of? A reaction this strong suggested it had been far worse than just losing her.

Or maybe there was more at play than a one-off dream. At present, Mario spent every day giving every last ounce of energy he had to spare (which, mind, is a lot), and for the past few weeks he’d barely even made it into bed before crashing. But he still seemed so happy, and though Peach had her suspicions that he was beginning to struggle, she had never stopped to wonder if he was already crumbling.

Of course. Of course he would hide the extent of his struggles from her more fervently now than ever, content in the knowledge that, for once, she would be too distracted with personal and shared concerns to see the usual signs. Of course he’d happily waste away to spare her concern, until his mental state was so eroded that one bad dream was enough to break him.

The tears she had cleared from her eyes were back just as quickly, accompanied by guilt so immense she could see it like storm clouds in her peripheral vision, but she swiped at her face once more and fought against it with whatever might she possessed. This was no one’s fault, or it was both of their faults; regardless of who was or wasn’t to blame, the only fix was to move forward. Wallowing in regret would help no one.

She considered redoubling her efforts, maybe using her magic to fill his brain with comforting images to coax him back. But what if the fear and hopelessness she felt was too strong to withhold from him? What if she only made it worse? Those thoughts compelled her to scoot across the floor on her backend — awkward, perhaps, but less taxing and risky than trying to hoist herself to her feet — and from the cabinet against the opposite corner she retrieved a rolled towel, the softest in their possession.

Maybe letting this episode run its course was the best option. Dark a thought as it was, Peach wondered, settling the towel beneath her husband’s head, if this forced shutdown of his mind might be exactly the reprieve it needed.

Mario blinked again. Still no focus in his eyes. Peach combed her fingers through his curls, still damp with sweat, and did her best to smile at him, just in case he could register it. Just in case her presence really was enough, just as he’d once said it would be.

A powerful kick to her side made her inhale sharply, and she turned her attention from Mario briefly to soothe their baby. She wasn’t in any mood to be soothed, so it seemed; she kicked again, somehow even harder, and this was followed by a flurry of tossing and turning tantamount to a full-fledged tantrum. Peach held her belly steady in both hands and winced at the barrage of sensation.

“Maybe we could tone it down a bit tonight?” she murmured, more to fill the silence than out of any real hope that she would be heard. Already her little girl threatened to match her father’s boundless energy, and Peach had long since resigned to taking the brunt of it (though Mario sometimes fell victim too — the memory of his expression the first time his unborn daughter had kicked him in the face, eyes wide with the most authentic shock she’d seen from him in ages, elicited a fleeting giggle from Peach). But tonight…

Come to think of it, it was well past storytime by now, wasn’t it? Of course she would throw a fit over the unexpected change in routine. Peach sat back and huffed in sorrowful amusement. 

Every night without fail — at least until tonight — Mario made a point to devote time to bonding with their daughter. Most nights it was a casual affair, humming little lullabies or telling stories in either of his tongues while he and Peach lay in bed together. But the closer her due date drew, the more elaborate those bonding sessions had grown. Last night, he’d laid Peach down on the couch with a mug of spiced cocoa, surrounded her with pillows and blankets, then knelt on the floor and read a colorful picture book to her stomach, complete with over-the-top faces and hand gestures and unique voices for all of the characters and frequent interjections of “How exciting!” and “Ooh, what do you think happens next, albicoccetta?” 

Their baby had kicked and moved about as if bouncing in excitement, just as she did each time she heard her father’s voice before bed, and Mario had chastised Peach for interrupting the sacred ritual of storytime with her delighted laughter, his voice thick with playfulness and his tired face alight with glee.

In the present, the warm fondness of recent memories was chilled by a dark, dawning realization.

He had dreamed of losing a lot more than just her.

“Peach…”

Peach’s head snapped down with such speed that it made the room spin.

Mario was making a feeble effort to raise up on his elbows, though he groaned quietly and his face screwed in discomfort from the effort. The tightness in Peach’s throat returned with a vengeance.

“Relax,” she somehow managed to squeak, one hand finding his hair and the other resting on his chest, where the unhooked denim bib exposed his shirt. “Lie back down, love. Gather your bearings.”

He followed her guidance without protest, which was as comforting as it was disquieting.

The attempt at getting up drained whatever energy he had left, and once more his breath came in labored pants, his eyes shut tightly, sweat beading at his forehead. Peach glanced at the vanity, next to which sat a small refuse bin, and her hands reluctantly left Mario so she could retrieve it. Best be prepared in case he needed to vomit again.

He caught her hand before she could move away.

“Peach,” he whispered again, and even that whisper sounded as if it took a great deal of effort to summon. She had always been entranced by his hands, large and impossibly strong yet warm and careful. But now the hand holding hers trembled, cool to the touch, and Peach knew she could easily break free from his frail grasp if she felt so inclined.

She was not inclined in the slightest. She wanted nothing more than to hold on even tighter and tell her love that everything would be okay — and she wanted just as badly for him to do the same for her.

When he opened his eyes, they finally focused on her, and they looked much the same as they had in the drawing room: terrified, pitiful, pleading.

“Non andare,” he mouthed. If any sound passed his lips within those two words, Peach couldn’t hear it.

She clasped her free hand atop his and willed herself to give him her most comforting smile, even as her bottom lip quivered, even as she lost the battle against her own tears. “I’m right here,” she promised him. “Mario, we’re not going anywhere. We’re safe.”

Mario nodded with small, rapid movements and shakily pulled their conjoined hands to his chest, covering them with his remaining hand and mouthing something like Okay, okay, okay. His pulse hammered away beneath Peach’s touch, yet he released a deep sigh and closed his eyes once more.

And still nothing felt right, not at all, but he was back with her at last, so that gave Peach the strength to feed him the little white lie that it was all okay.

~~~

Peach woke to a Mario-sized indent in the mattress beside her and the sweet smell of melted chocolate and caramel. Still enveloped in the fog of sleep, everything felt disarmingly normal. Dreamy, even.

Ten seconds into her struggle to sit up, she caught sight of Mario exiting their quarters’ small kitchen, his hair and nightclothes dusted in flour and a platter of something that looked like pancakes and a fork balanced in his hands; the cheerful smile he flashed when their eyes met initially gladdened Peach, but uneasiness settled over her just as quickly, and much more strongly at that.

“Morning,” he greeted as he reached her, setting the platter on her bedside table before slipping an arm behind her back. “Here, here, don’t exert yourself. I gotcha.”

Once she was upright, he quickly fluffed her pillow and set it against the headboard, helping her scoot back so she could sit more comfortably. Then he handed her the platter with a quip of “Buon appetito!”, and after brushing the residual flour from his body, he set straight to work smoothing the bedcover over her legs.

Peach paid no mind to the platter in her hands at first. She simply watched as her husband busied himself, humming a familiar tune, and the casual atmosphere only served to heighten her discomfort.

This wasn’t the same Mario she had fallen asleep with. That Mario had eventually been able to pry himself from the bathroom floor and join her in bed, but his eyes remained distant and his movements heavy and stilted. They’d laid together for maybe an hour before Peach drifted off, his ear firmly planted over her heart and his palm following each and every little (and not-so-little) movement from within her belly, her fingers combing his hair and her voice carrying increasingly drowsy whispers of affirmation.

Maybe she should have been relieved, she thought, seeing him move so easily and act so cheerfully after such a troubled night. Anyone else might assume the experience had lifted some great weight from his shoulders and restored his drive. Yet he’d spent far too long fussing over the bedcover, and the longer she watched, the longer she realized he was pointedly avoiding her gaze. Almost like he was hiding from her, hiding in plain sight…

Peach was thus not nearly as excited over the breakfast offering as she wanted to be. A real shame, given said offering was chocolate pancakes with chocolate chips drizzled in chocolate and caramel sauce. Any other morning, she would have happily obeyed her cravings and scarfed the stack down, showering her personal pastry chef in compliments the whole while. Indeed, this was the cleanest, most attractive plate he had ever presented to her… and that told her everything she needed to know.

Mario was no pâtissier — more of a pastassier, really — so the uncharacteristically perfect presentation confirmed that he had been awake and at work since well before sunrise. She sighed heavily.

“What’s wrong?” She could hear the dismay in his voice, hidden beneath a thick layer of partially-feigned concern. “Not, uh, not feeling up to chocolate today? Well don’t you worry! Mario’s here to make you anything you—”

“We can’t just pretend last night didn’t happen, Mario,” Peach said, lifting her head from the plate — and finally catching his eyes.

She caught him unguarded just long enough to see it all in his face: guilt. Embarrassment. Regret. Crushing, crippling exhaustion, the sort that any average person simply wouldn’t be able to function under. And just as soon as she saw it, his guard went right back up, a few milliseconds too late.

“...Peach—”

“Please,” she cut in, because she couldn’t bear to watch him sweep it all under the rug, not after seeing him in such a despondent state. “Darling, I know you. These episodes don’t just happen out of nowhere. Won’t you please just… talk to me? I’m worried about you.”

Mario perked up a bit at those last four words, and immediately she realized, with no small level of annoyance, that she’d given him a perfect springboard for diverting the topic.

“Ah, amore,” he crooned with painful sincerity, drawing closer to lay a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve got enough on your plate, yeah? Let’s leave all the worrying to Toadsworth! You just worry about yourself…” he released her shoulder to tap her cheek affectionately. “...and our albicoccetta…” He brought his hand down to repeat the gesture to her bump, but stopped when he saw the pancake platter Peach still held atop it. 

“And getting you something to drink.” He clapped his hands and smiled brightly, almost brightly enough to outshine the dark circles beneath his eyes and disguise the frown lines barely hidden by his hair. “Mamma mia, how could I forget? What do you want? Tea? Juice? More of that spiced cocoa from the other night? Ooh! Or maybe—”

“I want you to rest, ” Peach interjected, perhaps a bit more harshly than she intended, judging by the way his face dropped and he briefly flinched away. But she couldn’t entertain this a moment longer. “I fear you’ve taken on more than you can handle right now. The pressure is breaking you. And I’m… I’m sorry I didn’t realize it sooner, but now that I know, I won’t let it go on any longer.”

Mario stuttered uselessly, his mouth opening and closing around nonsense sounds and unfinished words. Peach took the opportunity to recenter herself while he searched for his words; clearly he didn’t disagree with her assessment. Perhaps she could still talk some sense into him.

“Here,” she continued more gently, setting her still-untouched breakfast back on the bedside table and shimmying from beneath the blanket. “Trade me places.”

That kicked him into gear. “You can’t,” he said quickly. “You-you really shouldn’t, Peachy. The baby—”

“Some mental stimulation will be refreshing, and the change of pace will be healthy!” Mario’s meticulous blanket-smoothing work now ruined, Peach carefully swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “I promise I won’t overdo it. And, of course, I’ll stay until you can get back to sleep, and I’ll check in with you throughout the day. But trust that Toadsworth and I are more than capable—”

“No!”

Now it was Peach’s turn to flinch, her heart stuttering in her chest and her words dying on her tongue. Mario had never raised his voice at her. Not like that.

She saw her shock reflected in his face. No, it was far more than shock on his face; it was a rush of those same emotions she saw earlier, guilt and shame and humiliation, all interwoven with understated but blatant horror.

“J-just…” He reached out hesitantly, not daring to make direct contact, like he feared his touch might bruise her. Suddenly Peach wanted nothing more than to feel the full strength of his arms around her. “Here.” His left hand ghosted over her side and his right gestured to her legs, urging her to pull them back up. “Lay back down, okay? Lay down.”

Peach numbly complied, pulling her legs back onto the bed, but she couldn’t bring herself to lay down fully. She watched as Mario tentatively pulled the cover back over her legs and forced the wheels in her head to spin, give her the answers for how to make everything right.

Mario eventually found the nerve to glance back up at her. “I’ll just… get you some water, yeah?” He smiled, and maybe it was supposed to look calming or reassuring, but it just made Peach want to cry. He looked so miserable.

The words came to her as he made his way to the kitchen, though they weren’t the words she was expecting.

“Come here.”

He stopped in his tracks, twisting his torso to look back at her. “L-lemme just get—”

“Come here, Mario,” Peach repeated, firm but not cold, patting the empty space on the bed beside her. He eyed that spot reluctantly, but he relented quickly enough; in half a minute’s time he settled in beside her, body angled towards hers, close but not quite touching.

A small noise of surprise slipped his throat as she pulled him into her arms, forcing him to lean forward or else collapse against her.

Trying to talk sense into Mario was as effective as trying to eat a brick. He didn’t need a lecture. He needed safety. He needed to know he could be vulnerable, even when his every last sense told him otherwise.

“Talk to me,” Peach whispered, pressing a kiss to his hair. He remained rigid in her arms, but she could hear his breath quicken, and she laid heavily against the headboard to encourage him to relax as well.

At long last, after several tense seconds, he melted into her. He carefully slotted himself against her side, burying his face into her sternum, encircling his arms around her so that not a single centimeter of space remained between their bodies, and for the first time since the previous evening, everything truly felt okay.

For a while, Mario didn’t say anything. He held onto her and breathed in her scent in silence, though his breath was uneven, and Peach suspected that at any point she’d feel hot tears seep into her nightgown’s fabric. For better or worse, this never came to pass, but eventually he did break the silence.

“I have to protect you,” he said.

“I know.” Peach rubbed small circles over his spine, and he responded not by relaxing further, but by tightening his grasp on her.

“No, Peach, I…” He gathered handfuls of her nightgown tightly enough to constrict the garment around her chest — tightly enough that his arms began to shake from the strain of his muscles. “I have to— I have to keep you safe,” he continued, unable to even raise his voice above a whisper. “Both of you. I-I have to. I have to, don’t you get it?”

Peach continued with her ministrations in silence as she processed his words. He wasn’t talking about any literal obligation, his duty as her guard and her king, her husband and the father of her child. The need he spoke of was pathological. 

Mario had always taken the safety of those he loved upon himself. That innate need to protect had predictably escalated tenfold in the past months, and normally Peach found it terribly endearing, the pains he took to ensure that she faced nothing worse than achy muscles and mood swings for the duration of her pregnancy. But he feared for far more than her comfort or even her health, didn’t he?

Already Peach had deduced that his psychological state was in far worse shape than he’d let on. Now he trembled in her arms, silent once more, and the question of what had triggered his breaking point was answered in full. 

He hadn’t just dreamed about losing his wife and daughter. He’d dreamed that he had tried to protect them and failed. He’d dreamed that they were dead, and it was all his fault. And Peach would stake every last coin in the royal treasury that he had seen it happen, in graphic, all-too-realistic detail.

“Oh, sweetie,” she sighed, and she felt useless to say anything beyond that. She could try to match his fears with facts — that the one entity with any plans for her downfall had pointedly steered clear of the kingdom’s borders for years now, with spies confirming no plans existed for retaliation or ambush, that she also had the protection of the full Royal Guard, stronger and more courageous than any Guard before them with Mario as their commander-in-chief, that anywho who could get through the Guard or even Mario would still have to get past Toadsworth, and no one got past Toadsworth — but she knew it would make little difference, if any.

Facts rarely quelled fear, especially a fear with its barbs sunk deep into an overworked, horrifically stressed, sleep deprived mind. 

“Oh sweetie,” she repeated softly, sinking lower against the headboard so she could cradle Mario’s head against her chest. He went with her easily, sighing shakily beneath her touch, his death grip on her gown easing up. 

A feeble kick nudged against Peach’s side, and then she felt a puff of air against her clavicle, Mario’s lips curling into a small smile against her. Seeing the opportunity for a diversion of her own, Peach suddenly felt a bit lighter.

“She doesn’t like hearing you so sad,” she said, her right hand fishing for Mario’s left and bringing it to the point of movement. “She wants her papa to be happy.” 

Another puff of air. “Pretty sure she’s trying to beat me up, actually.” He laced their fingers together over that spot, and where Peach expected him to grip her hand for dear life, he gently squeezed it instead. “We didn’t have storytime last night.”

Peach hummed in consideration. He was being lighthearted about it, but she knew he genuinely felt bad, and that would be one more weight he’d have to carry through the day. Knowing now just how greatly he toiled to keep himself together, she couldn’t help but fear even that small burden might be too much. If only she could take that weight from him, every last bit of it…

Maybe she couldn’t take it from him, but she could at least convince him to let go of it all for a while.

“I’m sure she can find it in her little heart to forgive you,” she said after a moment’s consideration. “On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“You tell Toadsworth you’re taking the day off. Ask him to move as many of today’s tasks as he can to tomorrow and to take care of the rest himself.”

Mario pulled back at this, just far enough to look her in the face. Was that relief she saw, hidden half-heartedly beneath weary concern? “But—”

“You did say we should leave the worrying to him,” Peach teased, returning his earlier squeeze of their conjoined hands. Toadsworth knew as well as Peach how willingly Mario would run himself into the ground before ever considering a day off. He would know the request was at Peach’s behest, and he’d be all too happy to comply, as much for Mario’s sake as for hers.

And if he wasn’t happy, well, he could take that up with Peach. The old Toad may well have been her father. She was hardly intimidated.

Mario drew in a deep breath and blew it slowly through his lips, and that was most certainly relief she saw in his features. “Alright. I, uh… I’ll get presentable.”

A similar relief flooded Peach’s chest, relief mixed with pride, and she rewarded her husband with a kiss to the nose. Accepting a break when there was work to be done was one of the few challenges he couldn’t face easily. “Hurry back,” she said. “I think we both deserve to sleep in.”

The tired contentment Mario wore lightened into something more upbeat, a familiar wide grin spreading beneath his mustache. “Ah! And you know what sleep means, yeah?” He pulled away fully now, letting go of her hand so he could rest his palm against her belly. “Papà ti darà due storie, oggi! Che te ne pare?”

Peach giggled as he leaned over to kiss her bump. A chance to relax and a chance to make amends for a missed bonding session. Today would be a therapeutic day for Mario indeed.

“...and I’ll grab something from the kitchens for you to eat,” he added as he climbed off the bed, and only then did Peach remember the immaculate-looking pancakes she’d abandoned on the nightstand, now cold and likely going stale.

“Don’t even think about it.” She brought the platter to herself once more, because now that she wasn’t bogged down with worry, her cravings were already rearing their head once more. “You put too much work into these for them to go to waste.” And they were still really good, she discovered and divulged after her first forkful, even at room temperature.

By the time Mario was dressed and gave Peach her parting kiss (after taking her plate into the kitchen, because she had demolished the pancakes with a speed and passion one might consider embarrassing), he looked so much more like the Mario he had tried and failed to emulate an hour ago: the Mario who was truly happy, truly unbothered by even the worst of his problems, because the joy and love he felt for his life and those within it outweighed all else. Her Mario.

Yet once he left and the room fell back into silence, that creeping uneasiness settled over Peach again.

In the end, this was little more than a distraction. Maybe Mario would feel refreshed after today, and maybe he would be more willing, however slightly, to lean on his wife for support. But he would still carry everything that got them to this point in the first place: all of his traumas, all of his duties, all of his fears, his insatiable need to remain a beacon of stability even when he himself was on the verge of collapse.

Maybe he would hold their baby in his arms in a month’s time and remember the images he’d seen in his nightmare. The thought struck Peach with such force that it caused her physical pain, like a dagger plunging into her heart. She took in a sharp breath and forced it from her mind at once.

But even if today was merely a distraction… it was still a distraction. A chance to regroup. A much-needed reminder that, in the end, it would all be okay, somehow. The best they could do was take it day by day. Tomorrow could throw out any challenge it wanted; just for today, they could put their worries on hold. Everything would be okay, even if only for a short time.

And maybe, for now, that was good enough.

#so! this was SUPPOSED to be a ficlet... #super mario bros #smb #mario #princess peach #mareach #mario x peach #peaches' fancy fics #tw pregnancy #tw emeto #tw vomiting #not sure which one's best to use... forgive me #tw ptsd #tw dissociation

[faeriekit]

#vivisection

:)

I already have two and now I have to struggle for another take on it?? 😩 Hold on. I can do it. ...I think.

👻👻👻👻

tw gore/body horror/medical, tw vomiting

"OW! That's my stomach?!"

"I think it's a liver," Sam replies faintly, looking more than a little green around the gills. The organ drips from where it's pinched between her fingertips. "I never finished the dissection on the robo frogs. "Tucker, can you—"

The sound of Tucker hurling into the bathroom sink stops that train of thought real quick.

"No. Just me," Sam realizes faintly, fingers coated in the slick green of Danny's blood. "Great. Uh. Let me put the light on. I need to know what order to put these back into."

Danny, unhappy to be bleeding out on his bed, groans. He throws his head back on the pillow and tries to ignore the feeling of hands rooting around in his guts. Or...holding them up, gently, while he can still feel them?!

Eew. EEEEEEEW. He wants to be doing what Tucker's doing.

"Just...throw them back in there! They can put themselves back in together!!" Danny finally protests, having no idea if that's true or not. He's getting tired of holding the Y-shaped hole in his torso open for inspection. One of the glass jars of neon green organs falls up against his foot, making him flinch with surprise. "It'll be fine!"

"You want me to throw loose organs into your open chest cavity?!" Sam demands, her voice going shrill with stress.

Tucker, never one to be left out, sicks up again into the sink.

#danny phantom #it's like putting an Operation game back together but Bad Very Bad 😬 #thanks for asking! #tw medical #tw body horror #tw vomiting #tw gore #tw unsanitary #? maybe? #ask games #faer fic #free to a good home

[ratective]

Hey, same anon! I was just thinking about smoking and who would and then, I'm imagining a late-20's Steven at a strange point in his life, all grown and wandering like a star through the sky, never on the same path, smoking clove cigarettes in a summer twilight..... Okay, that got kinda poetic, but I AM genuinely curious a) if you have art ideas for a grown-up Steven and b) if you think he'd smoke

i think steven would at some point become tempted to see what all the noise is about (aand to see how his magic-healing body will respond to stuff like cigarettes) but i mean come on its still steven. this boy does not have a stomach for those things lol

maybe he could at least 'smoke' those shitty bubblegum cigars to fullfil your poetic vision 😭

#steven universe #rat noises #su #su connie #connie maheswaran #su fanart #tw cigarettes #tw vomiting #thank you for the interesting ask :> #adult steven

[the-best-bibliophile]

One thing that gets me about BOSAS is the capital citizens reactions to the games. Particularly the sympathetic ones. Like the mentor girl who throws up in the opening moments of the games. Or the nurse who starts crying when Lucy Gray sings in her interview. Of course, Sejanus. But the thing that gets me is that the Hunter Games weren’t automatically natural for everyone. Or if they were, at least some things made just a few people take a step back and go….what the hell are we doing?

#the hunger games #tw vomiting #I guess #thg #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas #coriolanus snow #lucy gray baird #sejanus plinth

[montammil]

Imagine Caretaker stumbling upon Whumpee’s diary/journal one day, and going through it because they’re worried, just wanting to find out what’s wrong with Whumpee so they can help, even if they know it’s wrong to snoop.

Since the journal was given to Whumpee by Whumper while in captivity, every torturous day is written out in heartbreaking detail, and Caretaker eventually has to put it down to throw up.

(Bonus points if there’s blood on the pages)

#whump #whump prompt #whump idea #whump scenario #tw throwing up #tw vomiting #caretaker x whumpee #caretaker x whumpee prompt #whumpee x caretaker #whumpee x caretaker prompt

[rachi-roo]

loved your BSD fic involving Atsushi with a migraine! 🤍 I’d love to see how you’d write some Akutagawa whump 👀 just wanna see that stubborn frail man SUFFER—

-------------{ ☆°•○•°☆ }--------------

Bungou Stray Dogs: Breathe Easy.

⚠️WOOP! WOOP! WOOP! WHUMP ALERT! WHUMP ALEEERT!⚠️ Thank you SO much for saying so! I had fun writing that one, and this one, too! Whump just 😭👌 You know? I hope this one turns out to be your liking, buddy. As someone who has experienced some ATROCIOUS asthma attacks, I'm writing this purely from my worst experience. For the juicy whumps. XD

Summary: After a mission, Akutagawa suffers and asthma attack, and Chuuya races against time to find and save him!

Tw: Asthma symptoms, vomiting, CPR

---------------------☆ ☆-----------------------

Chuuya's voice crackled through Akutagawas earpiece as he exited through the back door of a port yard wear house. "Meet up at the extraction point. We'll head to the meeting from there."

The cold sea air caught in Akutagawas throat as he stepped out the door, a cough getting stuck in his chest as he responded to Chuuya. "Y-Yes, mhm. I'll be there ihin- cough-!" He had just finished wiping out a gang of weapon smugglers, and for some reason, it left him more out of breath than usual.

He covered his mouth, breathing steadily through his nose.

Calm down. Calm down.

"Akutagawa?" Hearing his partner coughing wasn't unusual for Chuuya, but he had learned to tell when it was serious. "You good?"

The other cleared his throat, feeling his chest tighten slightly.

Don't panic. Breathe.

He tried to speak again, but all that came out was an aggressive string of dry coughing. He clutched his chest, desperately trying to will himself to breathe, but nothing worked. His chest grew tighter. His breath shortened by the second.

An asthma attack.

They always come on so quickly. One. Two. Three. Four. Seconds passed, he never had time to think. Panic set in as he felt his lungs ache, being robbed of oxygen as he coughed again, dry wrenching as he doubled over in pain.

I can't breathe.

He wheezed, leaning one arm on a wall for support, his hands starting to feel tingly with numbness. A cold sweat pooling on his forehead.

"Ch- gasp Chuya-!" He called desperately through his raspy voice. What else could he do? Chuuya was his lifeline right now.

"I'm on my way. Stay put. Have you got your inhaler?"

Of course he didn't. Carrying one of those around made him look more feeble than he already was. A foolish move, which he regretted every time.

He stumbled to his knees, heaving and gagging on another round of harsh coughing. A line of saliva falls from his mouth as he begged internally for a breath.

His stomach churned with the strain his body was under, throwing up aggressively on the concrete. The acidic sting in his throat worsened as he tried breathing in directly after. The smell stinging his eyes. He fumbled frantically with his Jabot, ripping it from his neck as if removing it would make some kind of difference.

Hurry. Please.

The human body can last thirty to one hundred and eighty seconds without oxygen before collapsing. Time was short. Akutagawa couldn't help the tears that started to stream down his cheeks, his eyes red and sore with the effort and strain of the coughing. Unable to get a deep enough breath, his vision started to fade as black shapes danced before him.

The pain was unbearable. He looked around for someone to help him. Anyone. Another wave of nausea hit, Akutagawas heaved, throwing up for a second time, almost choking on the acidic bodily contents.

I can't see.

"H-Help-!" He wheezed through his tears, barely louder than a whisper, almost completely blind by this point even with his eyes open.

His mind started to faulter. Hearing things that weren't there. A strange, booming sound echoed through his skull, his own heartbeat. Unbearably loud, blocking out the sound of Chuuyas words as he desperately tried to find him among the various giant buildings and machinery at the dock.

Hands numb. Chest throbbing. Throat burning. His body gave out, collapsing onto the ground, barely missing the pile of puke beside him as he rolled onto his back, wheezing and gasping for air. The ends of his coat, Rashōmon, thrashed and flailed as it also felt his panic and fear.

"Akutagawa! Answer me! Damn it, where are you?"

The only sound he could make was a strangled gagging as he lay flat, barely able to lift a finger as the numbness had spread. In only eighty seconds, the mighty and feared Akutagawa Ryūnosuke had been defeated by a cruel mistake placed upon him by his own genetics.

His body twitched, his lips starting turn a shade of blue only comparable to that of a corpse. The ground fell from beneath him, dropping him into an endless, cold abyss.

Silence...

"Akutagawa!" Finally, Chuuya found him, rushing to his side and immediately beginning chest compressions.

"Akutagawa! Come on, come on buddy-!" Mouth to mouth. Becoming Akutagawas lungs for him. "Wake up-!" Chuuya growled through gritted teeth, pressing on his chest again.

One, two, three, four, fi-

A sharp gasp suddenly ripped from the black clad boys throat as he jolted back to life. Wheezing and grabbing at whatever was in reach in a flustered panic.

"There we go, c'mon, sit up. Easy, eeeeasy." Chuuya cooed, helping the boy to sit up straight as he wiped the streaks of Akutagawas vomit from his own mouth. "Deeeep breaths. In... And out..."

In a daze, Akutagawa coughed again, cringing in pain as he swallowed as much air as possible. He leaned against Chuuyas chest, feeling exhausted, like he'd been asleep for hours.

"Where... Am I?..."

"Hey, look at me." Chuuya gently held his chin, looking at his face, wiping the sweat and tears from his cheeks. "Can you hear me?... Aku?" He used his nickname, hoping the familiarity would help ground him better. The other blinked vaccantly in response, struggling to keep his head upright as it lulled to the side.

"...Dazai?"

"Not quite." Chuuya sighed, looking at Akutagawas blue fingertips, realising just how close they came to a true tragedy. He frowned, feeling Akutagawas forehead, making him blink as the movement startled him.

"Look what you've done, dumb ass. You're burning up now."

"M'fine..." Akutagawa wheezed, leaning into Chuuyas chest, too fatigued to support his own bodyweight. "I'm... Jus' tired... Where's home?" He slurred, closing his eyes as they burned, stinging from the tears.

Chuuya huffed, shifting Akutagawa so he could carry him piggyback. "You'd better not throw up on me... And from now on, whether you like it or not, you're carrying an inhaler."

"Mhm..." Akutagawa had no memory of what happened once he stepped out of the wear house and stayed in bed for the next few days, sleeping off the fatigue and pains he endured. Safe to say, he was fairly embarrassed that such a situation was so easily avoided if he had just remembered his inhaler.

There was one good thing that came from this event, Dazai popped in for a visit. And he brought figs.

----------------------{ END }------------------------

Thanks for reading!!

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #akutagawa ryuunosuke #ryunosuke akutagawa #chuuya nakahara #nakahara chuuya #bsd whump #whump #asthma #Akutagawa whump #tw asthma #tw vomiting #tw fainting #Bungo stray dogs whump #rachi roo #bungo stray dogs #non tickles

[imactuallyreallycool]

ask for pumpkin party

is eating pumpkin pie cannibalism

TW vomiting (nothing too serious)

#pumpkinbylerdtiys #asks pumpkin byler #pumpkin party #byler #mike wheeler #will byers #max mayfield #asks #stranger things #tw vomit #tw vomiting

[perkedelktg]

Look, I just— I'm just trying to play, you know—play in a band. A band. Mad, huh. Mad, right? But—but I can't. I keep—I keep—I keep—I keep— This. Basically. But I really like it—the band. It's like Godzilla— I—I mean—I think, after she destroys the city—really calm, mindful she must feel— I don't know—I mean, I think I do. Godzilla. You know what—I really like it. I just—I just—just—just—I just— I don't want to puke any more, okay? I just want to play.

WE ARE LADY PARTS (2021-)

Inspo: 1, 2

#we are lady parts #walp #walpedit #amina hussein #photopeablr #tw vomiting #trying my hand at gif-making #it took so many tries to get a nice blending composition D: #but i'm really happy with how this gifset turned out :) #i feel like the transition in the 2nd gif happens too fast tho #but transitioning 10 frames is probably too much adjkldjfalkdjs

[mcnotok]

Tw for an eating disorder and vomiting and dry heaving

Core the Apple belongs to @devtemrys

Here’s the fic:

#my art #undertale au #utmv #dreamtale #dreamtale nightmare #dreamtale nightmare sans #nightmare sans #nightmare!sans #core the apple #cta #core the apple nightmare #cta nightmare #core the apple nightmare sans #cta nightmare sans #cta!nightmare #tw ed #tw vomiting #tw eating disorder #long post #dusttale #dusttale sans #dust sans #dust!sans #murder sans #murder!sans #comic #my comic

[illish-lemon]

TW: Graphic descriptions of vomiting.

Woke up this morning with a major headache feeling nauseous. I had a bottle of Qoo orange from the night before with a swig in it so I took a sip. Laid in bed for a while trying to get back to sleep, but the bird was hungry so I had to get up.

Went to the bathroom and gagged suddenly. Usually I get that tangy drool first but not this time so I didn’t think too much of it and went to pee, but as I turned around I gagged again, and my mouth filled with sour watery vomit. I swallowed it back down and figured that would be that, because again no warning, but as soon as I sat down to use the bathroom the warnings did start. I took some deep breaths to try to suppress it, but it was in vain. Next thing I knew I was twisting around to gag over the toilet trying not to pee on the floor.

It was cloudy and watery and tasted vaguely of peaches, probably from the dessert pizza I had eaten the day before. But while the force of my heaves was great, only a trickle came up. I had skipped dinner so my stomach was already basically empty. I gagged five or six times before it became a gamble wether I’d keep throwing up or pee all over the floor. Twice more and I started to leak but also was finally able to take a breath. I sat back down and continued my business.

My head was still killing me though. I decided after I cleaned up to have some bland pasta and vitamin drink before taking a nap.

#emetophilia #tw vomit #emeto #vomit tw #tw emeto #tw vomiting #emeto tw

[winola-heart]

Doodle based on the new Short...

spoilers under cut

blue tasted the rainbow 💔

#tw vomiting #doodles #doodle #fanart #animator vs animation #animation vs minecraft #ava #avm #ava fanart #avm fanart #ava yellow #avm yellow #ava blue #avm blue #alan becker

[whumpandthewild]

sympathy puking. caretaker rubbing vomiting whumpee's back, gently coaching them through another wave before they comically also retch. they slowly turn to whumpee, who is watching them with wide eyes.

"this wasn't supposed to go this way."

#whump #whump prompt #whump writing #whump trope #whump scenario #tw vomiting #emeto tw #sick whumpee #caretaker turned whumpee