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“What?” Molly asks, looking at her. She follows her gaze down to the bowl, then groans. “Ohhhh, no. That’s probably why my stomach feels so…” She wibbles her hand in the air, then drops it to her belly over her sweatshirt. “Ugh. Just gross, I guess.”

She shifts uncomfortably on the couch, taking the bowl to set it on their coffee table instead. Now that she’s paying attention, Georgia realizes her stomach is a taut balloon under her own sweatshirt, starting to gurgle miserably. Her lower belly feels heavy and bloated, the candy all chewed-up and sitting like a heavy swamp in the bottom of her tummy.

Her upper stomach is soft and rumbly; when she rubs over her belly through her sweatshirt, it doesn’t do anything to rub at her upper tummy, but dragging her hand down shows her just how bloated and heavy her lower stomach is, and how bloated and rumbly her guts are becoming.

Every time Georgia shifts, the mass of sugar inside of her sloshes thickly, as though the candy corn has fused into a thick, heavy syrup at the bottom of her belly.

Molly flops dramatically against Georgia’s side with a long groan before she lets out a little burp at the end. Her hands clutch her swollen tummy as it lets out a low, hollow rumble. “I think I’m dying.”

“You think you’re dying?” Georgia mutters, rubbing the flat of her palm across her own bloated stomach. It’s firm, distended, especially lower down where it pushes uncomfortably against her waistband. She exhales sharply when a weak burp bubbles up her throat, but it relieves nothing. “You’re a menace. I never eat this much sugar unless you’re somehow involved.”

“Worth it.” Molly tries to smile up at her, but her expression twists into a wince when her stomach lets out a gurgle that accompanies a sharp cramp. She clutches her belly tighter, curling towards Georgia’s lap. “Okay, maybe not entirely worth it. My belly feels like… like a pumpkin. Stuffed with candy.”

Georgia huffs, though she’s not unsympathetic. She reaches out to start rubbing circles into the side of Molly’s bloated belly, feeling a gurgle under her hand as she tries to help work out some of the bloat, while her other hand presses against her own aching middle. She lets out a long exhale, then pushes her hand in firmer along her lower guts, hoping to coax something out, desperate to get the indigestion gas and bloat out.

The candy corn feels like it’s sitting in a sticky, undigested lump that refuses to move inside of her. Her stomach is still trying to work around it, but it can’t actually digest it, apparently. The occasional rumble doesn’t work up anything productive, her stomach gurgling around the unmoving mass inside.

Every so often, her stomach flips, nausea whispering at the edges of her tummy, but it hasn’t crested into anything unmanageable just yet.

“God, Molly,” Georgia complains with a sigh. “You and your candy.”

“Don’t act like you weren’t shoveling it in, too,” Molly’s voice is both petulant and weak. A hiccup escapes from her before she groans, twisting to press her face into Georgia’s soft sweatshirt and uncomfortable belly. “Be careful. My tummy hurts.”

“Mine, too.” Georgia shifts upright a little bit, trying to sit straighter, hoping to coax a burp up by moving around. Another small burp does come, but it’s sour and unsatisfying. She presses a hand harder to her stomach, feeling the firm swell bloated out there, the ache spreading under her ribs. Everything is bloated thick and heavy below, but right at the top, everything is soft and rumbly and so uncomfortable she has to groan. “We’re both a mess, aren’t we?”

Molly nods against her belly before they both lapse into silence for a few minutes, their current movie flickering unheeded on the screen. Georgia tries to focus so she can distract herself from the growing upset in her belly. All she can think about, though, is the heaviness right under her breastbone, the cloying taste of candy corn still coating her tongue, and the restless churning inside that refuses to settle.

In Georgia’s lap, Molly squirms, her arms winding tight around her belly as she buries her face in her thighs. She flops around, squinting up at her before her tummy clenches and she  groans. “Tell me I’m not gonna puke, baby, please. Not ‘cause of candy corn, not ‘cause I just—” She stops, a fist to her mouth, then lets a thin, acidic burp come up with an unsatisfied grimace. “Just ‘cause I ate too much candy corn, what am I, four?” Sad, mournful, she peeks up at Georgia again. “Promise I won’t puke?”

“You’re not gonna puke,” Georgia answers automatically, though her own stomach lurches hard just thinking about it. It doesn’t feel true. She strokes Molly’s hair and sighs, lips pressed thin and tight against another queasy burp before she can talk again. “We just… need to wait it out. Digest. It’ll pass.”

But even as she says it, Georgia’s not sure she believes it.

Even as the lights off the television flicker off of her face, the volume turned down low, neither of them is paying attention anymore. It’s more background noise than entertainment.

Molly shifts restlessly against her lap, her cheek mashing against Georgia’s thigh.

“I can hear my stomach,” she complains weakly. “It’s like… blorp, blorp, blorp, and then it goes, grrrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmp. You know?”

Georgia huffs out a tired laugh. “That’s because you stuffed it full of candy corn, you beautiful genius.”

“We stuffed our bellies full of candy corn,” Molly shoots back. “You helped.” She’s clearly too miserable to gloat properly, and yet, she still tries.

If Georgia could send a joke back, she would. As it is, her tummy feels like it’s getting heavier, more bloated, and she lets a slow breath out through her mouth, tilting her head back on the sofa.

“Mmnhmm…” Georgia presses her hand down over the bloated swell of her own belly, wincing when it answers with a sluggish, upset gurgle. She’s starting to feel stretched too full, like all the sugar has glued itself into a single huge lump in her stomach. Her mouth is starting to taste faintly sour, too; the air in her chest feels trapped, tight, burning a little bit.

She pushes gently at her upper stomach, hoping to massage her tummy and her chest at once and work up a real burp. Nothing feels like it moves, and all she gets is a hollow hiccup that burns in her throat.

Molly groans sympathetically at the sound. “That was gross. You okay?”

“No,” Georgia answers. “It would’ve been gross if it actually worked. Nothing’s moving or settling down or anything. It feels like the candy corn just won’t sit right and settle and digest.” She leans her head back against the couch, eyes closing. “I just need a really good big one to move things along, I think.”

Molly wriggles a hand up under Georgia’s sweatshirt in response, pressing at her upset stomach experimentally. Georgia lets out a startled grunt as the bloat inside her moves nowhere. “Ow— hey—”

“I’m helping!” Molly insists, though she immediately makes a face when she rubs a circle in and pulls her hand back. “Wow. You’re rock hard. There’s no give there at all.”

Georgia grimaces. “Don’t remind me.” Her own hand returns to the middle space between her center and lower tummy, rubbing again in slow, long circles. “Feels like I swallowed cement. And all the air in an oxygen tank.”

Molly snickers faintly at the comparison as if her own stomach is not audibly upset. In fact, when she shifts again, it gives a long, wet gurgle, and she freezes in place, eyes widening. “Oh— Uh-oh.”

Watching her, Georgia narrows her eyes. “What kind of ‘uh-oh’ was that?”

“The bad kind,” Molly answers, clutching her tummy in both arms, curling up as tight as she can. “The worst kind. It’s moving. Like… It’s starting to slosh and it feels so bloated and it hurts, Georgie.”

Georgia groans in sympathy, her own belly churning queasily in response. She rubs Molly’s back with one hand and her own stomach with the other, like she can soothe the both of them at once. “We are gonna regret this tomorrow, I bet.”

Molly sits herself upright, her hand pushing at her stomach, though nothing comes up. “I regret it now. I don’t think I’ll make it to tomorrow.”

Georgia holds her close, trying to keep the both of them calm. It’s futile; by the time the credits roll on their third movie, the both of them are practically horizontal on the couch, pinned down by their own heavy, uncomfortable stomachs.

Shifting onto her side behind Molly, Georgia wraps her arms protectively around her furious, round tummy. She can feel the weight of it pressing out against her sweatshirt, a hard dome beneath her ribs. Every so often her stomach gives a queasy lurch, threatening more nausea, and she just keeps swallowing thickly, trying to force it all back down and to stay down.

Molly, sprawled in front of her, has been hiccuping on and off for half an hour at least, and each one makes her groan sicker and louder afterwards.

“It’s not fair,” Molly moans. “I wanted this to be fun. Good candy corn. Not… ughhhh…”

Georgia strokes her hair absently, eyes closing. “Too much of a good thing?”

Molly’s tummy gurgles under Georgia’s hand, a ferocious and violent rumbling that billows upwards. She suddenly jolts away, lurching upright, one hand grabbing her belly and the other clamping over her mouth. Georgia sits up too, panicked, but Molly only sits there before she groans loudly.

“I thought I was gonna burp, but it—” She stops, then breathes hard through her nose, pale and trembling. “Ohhhh, no, nope, nope, that was almost not a burp.”

The words alone make Georgia’s stomach roll inside of her. She swallows hard against the acid burning thick in the back of her throat, fighting the gagging, rumbling belch that creeps up, half-formed, before it fizzles out again.

“Don’t say things like that,” she mutters weakly, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Sorry,” Molly says, though her voice is still pitched high and tight with discomfort. The sofa jostles as she rocks back and forth a little in place, rubbing her bloated belly with both hands as it burbles inside of her. “It just feels— Ohhh, it just feels so stuck, like all the sugar’s sitting in one huge, giant lump that’s hurting so much and my stomach just doesn’t know what to do with it except be miserable.”

“Tell me about it.” Georgia tries to shift again and sit up and forward a little, hoping gravity will help. Maybe she can even walk around—

No, nope, the motion just sloshes her stomach contents, and she lets out a strangled groan as she collapses backwards again.

“Okay, nope,” she groans. “Bad idea.”

They sit in tense silence for a while, both girls trying to manage their breathing, their bodies, their upset stomachs, trying to convince themselves that this is just going to eventually pass. Their bellies both gurgle and shift, but nothing is moving fast enough in either of them to help. They ate too much sugar too quickly, and their bodies are both furious and overloaded with the bloating, the gas, the cramps, the queasiness, the nausea.

Georgia’s stomach is a tight, swollen, bloated knot, the weight of the candy corn pressing down on her like a heavy, sticky burden. It feels like she’s about to burst, the sweet syrupy mess lodging heavy and unmoving in her gut and refusing to shift.

Every breath is a struggle. Her stomach feels full to the point of discomfort, and yet somehow, she doesn’t feel satisfied either. The bloating is unbearable, making her skin feel stretched, taut over the rounded curve of her belly. Her stomach churns with a slow, nauseating gurgle, an angry ripple of indigestion sugary gas that rises up from the pit of her belly, too thick to fully escape.

The pressure keeps building, each wave of discomfort growing sharper, as though something inside of her is trying to force its way out but can’t. It doesn’t know how, or what form; it just knows it’s upset, and wants her belly to be upset, too.

It’s as if the candy corn is this solid, sticky mass that won’t digest or break down. A tight cramp punches through her abdomen, making her gasp. The bloating presses painfully against her waistband, every shift feeling like her stomach might split. She pushes her hand in between her belly and the waistband, stroking in slow ovals, but she still can’t work up anything helpful. She just feels more uncomfortable and full by the second.

Another soft wave of discomfort rumbles through her like a warning. It’s not just fullness; it’s a relentless, stretching horribleness, as if her stomach is somehow both too hollow-empty with gas and too grumbling-full with candy, teetering on the edge of a relief that refuses to come.

Georgia has forgotten about the world outside of the stiff, unmoving upset of her tummy, occasionally grumbling and flipping, when Molly finally whimpers and curls up as tight as she can into a ball on her lap.

“We’re not gonna puke, right?” Molly asks, quiet and desperate and queasy.

Georgia swallows against the sour taste rising in her throat and forces her voice to stay steady. “Right. We’re okay. We won’t puke, not tonight. We’re just nauseous. It’ll pass.”

But her own body doesn’t agree, not with the bloated pressure mounting more heavily in her lower belly, the sluggish churn of pure sugar and chemicals that all refuse to settle.

And both of them know: it’s only a matter of time.

“Bed?” Molly suggests.

Georgia nods, not wanting to be sick, hoping this could trick their bodies. They stagger up, clean up, get into pajamas, and head for bed.

And then, hours later— honestly, neither of them is much better off.

Even having moved from the couch to the bedroom, they don’t feel more comfortable. Lying side-by-side, the sheets tangled between and around them, they both try (and fail) to get comfortable. They can’t sleep; both women are curled up, still side-by-side, both holding their bloated bellies, eyes closed in the hopes of sleep and to protest against the rolling nausea both of them feel.

Molly’s breath hitches in a quiet sob of frustration in the darkness, the silence broken only by their tummies gurgling and their occasional whimpers.

“I can’t…” Her breath hitches again before a low, slow, upset gurgle forces its way through her belly, sounding unproductive and horrible, just like Georgia feels. “I can’t believe we ate so much. I can’t believe candy corn can do this.”

Georgia sighs, her own stomach sounding out a deep, gurgling protest that ripples beneath her palm.

“Tell me about it.” Georgia lifts her pajama t-shirt, pressing both hands tight over her swollen tummy and trying to rub it hard, trying to ease the cramping tension, but it’s not helping. It hasn’t helped for hours. “It’s like my stomach is trying to turn itself inside out.” Another furious, unmoving rumble shifts her guts unhappily. “Or like it will. Or it has to.”

Molly groans in agreement, slumping back against the cushions, careful not to fall against Georgia’s belly anymore. “My stomach is literally harder than a rock. I think I ate too much for my stomach to handle. Or my intestines. Or my body.”

Georgia presses her lips together, feeling the same way. She swallows thickly, the sour taste rising in the back of her throat.

Please, no, she thinks, desperately, but she knows her stomach isn’t going to let her off the hook this time, not anymore. She knows it’s been too long now that she’s been too full and too sick, and the nausea has built too steadily for it to go away without something giving. Or escaping. Or both.

“I feel like I have to puke,” Molly whimpers, curling her face into her arms over her belly. “My stomach’s too full. It feels crazy bad, Georgie. Like— It’s so full and achey and weird. How does candy corn do this? It just feels—” She rubs her stomach hard, forces out the words, “It’s so upset, I feel horrible.”

Georgia nods silently. She wants to agree, or comfort her, but her mouth is dry, and she can feel the acid pooling in the back of her throat, bitter and thick on the back of her tongue. She burps weakly, her chest tight, forcing it up, but it doesn’t relieve anything. She tries to force a fart next, but nothing even happens. In fact, both things make the feelings so much worse; the pressure underneath her ribs feels like it’s pushing up, and down, and out, all at once, trying to escape her body.

Pressing her body into her stomach, Georgia tries to calm it down, but it feels pointless now.

“Just—” she sighs, then mumbles to herself, “Just get it over with.”

She’s not sure if she means the nausea or just the waiting. Either way, she’s sure Molly’s thinking the same thing.

Then—

Then, it happens, when Molly lets out a soft, strangled groan. Her face twists, and she scrambles upright in bed, a hand over her mouth, chest heaving, belly swollen and grumbling.

“Oh, God,” she chokes out, but it’s already too late.

Georgia can hear the retch before Molly even makes it to the bathroom, a gag thick in the back of her throat. It’s followed by an immediate wet splatter of something sickeningly sweet, surely, then a loud, horrendous groan, followed by a thick, wet belch and another splatter.

“Molly!” Georgia exclaims, scrambling after her, but she finds her already kneeling in front of the toilet, grasping the rim, gasping for air as the candy corn in her belly makes a grand reappearance.

Molly’s body visibly convulses with each heaving retch, coughing a gagging gurgle before another wave of the sweet, cloying smell of sugary vomit fills the bathroom air again. She retches again, loudly, her stomach almost visibly rippling and deflating as the mess of half-digested candy comes up in thick, gloppy waves. It’s helped by the fact that she keeps belching, these huge, deep, massive burps that release so much of the bloat inside of her.

Georgia steps forward hesitantly, but her own belly churns in revolt. She can’t look away, though, wanting so badly to help. She’s caught between sympathy for her girlfriend and the overwhelming feeling that her stomach is about to do the exact same thing—

—And then, it does.

Georgia’s stomach gives a sickening lurch, the pressure unbearable now, the bloating too much to hold down. She tries to swallow and give Molly time, but it comes up too fast and without her control. A flood of sugary-sweet vomit makes her gag, throat burning with the sickly, bitter, burning taste, and she lunges for the sink as it bursts out in an explosive wave. The candy vomit nearly chokes her, and she doubles over right beside Molly, both of them retching, both of their heads swimming with the now-soured taste of candy corn on their tongues, their earlier indulgence destroying them both.

It’s a mess.

They can’t stop, the both of them bringing up candy corn and vomit and gas from the bottoms of their bellies.

It’s a fucking mess.

Molly, between retching coughs, looks up at Georgia with her pretty face pink, her cheeks flushed with the strain, her eyes bright. “We are—” She belches, her hand falling to her rumbling tummy. “We are never doing that again.”

Georgia’s knees tremble, her hands shaking on the edge of the sink, her stomach still clenching violently in time with her next heave. When she can breathe again, she says, voice tight, “Nope. Never. Never ever. Never again.”

It takes a long time, but eventually, they manage to empty out enough to leave them both hunched over— Molly over the toilet, Georgia over the sink, both exhausted and drained. Molly’s face is pale when Georgia looks over at her, seeing a fine sheen of sweat clinging to her forehead. When she looks at her tummy, though, at least some of the bloating seems gone— and some of the bloating in her own belly is gone, though there’s an upset, airy gurgle working through her lower tummy that she’s ignoring.

Molly looks up, and Georgia is barely able to manage a weak smile. She wants to be able to help her and take care of her more than anything, but her stomach still feels so fragile and upset, as though it’s not quite done with her yet.

Her skin is clammy, Georgia’s entire body aching from the effort of feeling sick and throwing up. The weight that had settled in her belly, though— the heavy, swollen lump of candy corn and indigestion gas— is starting to dissipate.

Georgia sits down heavily on the floor, shuffling to sit back against the wall, and Molly flushes the toilet before joining her. They both collapse back against the bathroom wall, breathing heavily, stomachs churning. The only good thing is each other’s presence.

Molly sighs, eyes still half-closed as she reaches up to slowly rub her still-aching stomach. “Next time, maybe we get pumpkin pie instead.”

Georgia groans at the idea of eating again, though she manages a faint chuckle.

“Yeah,” Georgia says, tired. “Maybe a side of water. And Pepto. And sense.”