#tw bpd

fuma sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, watching you with that infuriatingly calm expression. twenty-seven. stable. the kind of man who had his shit together in ways you could only envy. he worked as a project coordinator at a logistics firm downtown—steady hours, steady pay, steady emotions. you were a barista who could barely keep a shift schedule without spiraling.

“you’re really doing this again?” his voice was low, steady. no anger. just fact.

you swallowed hard, chest tight. “this is what i do. i get too close, things feel too good, and then the fear kicks in and i ruin it. i’d rather leave now before you realize how messed up i am and do it yourself.”

he didn’t stand. didn’t raise his voice. he just looked at you with those dark, patient eyes that always saw straight through your armor.

“i know you’re scared,” he said quietly. “i see the storm coming before you even do. but i’m still here. i’ve been here through the mood swings, the accusations, the nights you push me away and then cry because i didn’t chase you hard enough. i’m not going anywhere.”

his words made your eyes sting. you hated how calm he was. it made you feel even more unstable.

“that’s exactly why i have to go,” you whispered. “you deserve someone who isn’t this exhausting. someone who doesn’t test you every time things get serious. i’m twenty-one and i’m already broken, fuma. you’re twenty-seven and you have your life together. this… this isn’t fair to you.”

you turned the doorknob.

“don’t,” he said softly.

but you did.

the door clicked shut behind you, and the rain swallowed you whole as you walked down the hallway. you didn’t look back.

two months later

for sixty-two days, fuma didn’t move on.

he went to work. he came home. he sat on the same couch most nights with a glass of whiskey and the book he kept pretending to read. his friends told him to delete your number, to go on dates, to at least change the damn locks. he didn’t. he kept the your matching eeveelution plushies on the shelf in the living room. he kept whatever clothes you had left where you had left them. he kept your keychain by the door. he kept your favorite mug in the cabinet. he kept the left side of the bed empty.

you lasted three weeks before the regret started eating you alive.

the first month was pure survival mode—crashing on friend’s couches, picking up extra shifts, deleting his contact a dozen times. you convinced yourself he was relieved. that you’d finally done right by him by setting him free.

but the fear flipped on itself. what if he really was the one who wouldn’t leave? what if by month two, the emptiness had hollowed you out. the mood swings settled into a heavy, gray fog. no one else felt safe. no one else saw all your jagged edges and still said, i’m staying. the fear that had pushed you out finally flipped into the worse fear: that he really had moved on. that you’d finally succeeded in ruining the one good thing.

so on a quiet thursday evening in early july, you stood outside his door again. same hallway. same chipped paint near the frame. your hands shook so badly you almost dropped the spare key he’d given you months ago—the one you’d never returned.

you didn’t knock. you let yourself in.

fuma was sitting on the couch exactly where you’d left him that night, like the last two months had been a pause button. he wore gray sweatpants and an old black t-shirt, hair a little longer, eyes focused on his switch, a half-empty glass of whiskey rested on the coffee table next to a book he wasn’t reading. the tv was off. the apartment smelled like him—clean, warm, steady.

he looked up slowly. no shock. no anger. just those dark, patient eyes that had always seen too much.

“you’re back,” he said quietly. his voice was rough, like he hadn’t used it much lately.

you stood there in the doorway, backpack slipping from your shoulder to the floor with a soft thud. tears were already spilling.

“i left,” you choked out. “i really left this time. i told myself i wasn’t coming back. that you deserved better than someone who runs when it gets hard.”

fuma set the book down and stood, but he didn’t rush you. he never did. he just waited, hands at his sides.

“i spiraled,” you continued, voice cracking. “i convinced myself you were waiting for me to go. that i was too much, too unstable, too—everything. i deleted your messages. i tried to hate you so it would hurt less. but every night i kept hearing that stupid song. and i kept seeing you sitting here… not moving.”

you took a shaky step forward.

“i’m so scared, fuma. i’m terrified that one day you’ll finally see how broken i am and leave. but being without you these two months felt worse than any fear. i don’t know how to do this. i don’t know how to stay when my brain screams at me to run. but i… i want to try. if you’ll still have me.”

the silence stretched for a heartbeat.

then he crossed the room in three steady strides and he gently took the soaked backpack off your shoulder and let it drop to the floor.

fuma pulled you against his chest. his arms wrapped around you so tightly it almost hurt, one hand cradling the back of your head like you were something precious and fragile.

“i never moved,” he murmured into your hair, voice thick. “not an inch. i went to work. i came home. i sat on that couch every night and waited. some nights i thought you might not come back. but i still chose to stay right here.”

you sobbed into his shirt, fists clutching the fabric.

“i love you. all of you. the bpd. the fear. the scared girl who walks out and the brave one who comes back. i’m not here to fix you. i’m here to stand with you on the bad days and hold you through the storms. i’m the man who can’t be moved.”

his hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing rain and tears from your cheeks.

“you’re home now. and i’m not going anywhere. we’ll take it one day at a time. when you feel like running, tell me. i’ll hold you until the storm passes. i’m the man who can’t be moved, remember?”

you finally let your body relax, collapsing into his chest, sobbing. his arms wrapped around you instantly—strong, warm, steady. unmoving.

“i’m sorry it took me so long,” you whispered into his shirt.

“don’t be sorry,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “you came home. that’s all that matters.

“im not moving.”

© 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗲 2026ㅤ ❤︎ㅤ 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲𝘀 & 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁𝘀 𝗿 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱!

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: self indulgent fic again~ i grew up loving this song and craving this love. i relate to this song sm n i have for years, i love how i love but secretly i wish someone would feel this wat about me. i wish they wouldnt be moved~ anyway this was originally written for maki but as i started writing it i pictured fuma ! hes would be go understanding and loving and calm if his partner had bpd 💔💔💔 ๐·°(৹˃ᗝ˂৹)°·๐ fuuuumaaaa sannnnn

Starting off with something pretty short and sweet (mostly an intro), Mario was born in Brooklyn, New York (obvs). He is 25 years old goes by he/him pronouns. He is a transgender dude (came out at 20 and) and pansexual (heavily feminine leaning). TLDR: Mario's fuckin' gay.

Mario has quite a few hyperfixations that he could go on for hours about if you'd let him. To name a few: stamp collecting (specifically cat-themed ones), music (records, CDs, mixtapes, etc.), ANYTHING Italian-related, recipe books (he can't cook for shit but he likes looking at the food), pins, plastic pipes, plumbing books, and posters (not anything specific... he just likes posters).

Pretty early on, Peach learned that the quickest way to win Mario's heart was just to give him some food. The man absolutely loves food, especially if it's Italian. He also likes making some... interesting combinations. His favorite is pasta with fire flower seeds sprinkled in marinara (he says it's spicy). He can come up with a long list of Frankenstein foods, and Peach is more than happy to tag along (albeit a little confused)

Speaking of food, Mario cannot cook for shit... mostly. He can cook a few things (pasta, toast, pizza, and waffles), but that's it. Even then, the kitchen is a big mess, and somehow he manages to smoke up the entire house. He is not allowed within a five-foot radius of the kitchen as far as Luigi's concerned.

Mario absolutely LOVES video games. Even as a kid, he could sit down and play on his consoles for hours. He... isn't very good, though (he gets angry too easily whenever he starts losing, and is generally easily distracted). Still, if it's something chill after a long day, he's more than happy to plop down on the couch and play a little Stardew Valley or something (Psst... he's married to Sam)

When Mario came out at 20, he started therapy (mostly to start HRT; gotta love healthcare 🫠). He did get the diagnosis he wanted (gender dysphoria)... but also a few others: ADHD, dyslexia, dyscalculia, and (at the time) severe depression (I'll... get back to this later). Even now, he still attends sessions, even when he feels he doesn't need to... just not as often.

On that note, Mario often mixes up words, either out of excitement... or just his mouth moving faster than his brain. This often leads to quite a few funny situations. Peach's favorite was when on one of their dates, Mario meant to ask for the spoon... but instead ended up asking for the "sponks." He was embarrassed as hell about this, but Peach thought it was adorable. To this day, spoons are now called sponks. 😊

Mario is a HUGE cat lover. He loves pretty much any animal (even watching Bambi over and over as a kiddo)... but kitties are his all-time favorites. Even now, he still has to keep himself from dashing across the street if he even sees a stray cat... because they will be coming home with him.

Mario is VERY fascinated by Italian culture. He always loved hearing his mom talk about growing up in Tuscany (... and maybe still does), and he did all he could to learn all about Italy. He's no good at cooking the food, but he knows almost every song by heart, and he could even point out a location on a map just from memory. His biggest dream as of now is to take Peach on a romantic getaway to Tuscany ❤️️

His favorite movies are Mad Max, The Princess Bride, Bambi, Treasure Planet, and Indiana Jones. As a kid, he used to beg his mom to get one of each from the video store, and he'd even draw all the characters (and by proxy, himself) indifferent scenes. Even though said store is closed now, his mom sometimes jokes that there's a folder in the archives just labelled "MARIO" from how much he rented those VHS's.

Before he dated Peach, Mario had dated eight different times (he's a hopeless romantic). A vast majority of his relationships were fairly okay, and he's friends with two of them to this day. However, two in particular hurt him. BAD. They're the reasons he sometimes feels ashamed of his appearance... and even has trouble trusting others. Thankfully, Peach has been nothing but a sweetheart and makes sure that he knows 100% that she loves him for just being Mario.

Mario's actually a pretty good athlete. As a kid, he was involved in almost every sport imaginable, and he annihilated everyone in it. His favorite is soccer and basketball... and he is RUTHLESS in both. He mostly did this as a giant middle finger because "girls can't play sports and you're short." Yeah... he ended up sending a few bullies to the hospital-

Bro is DEATHLY terrified of eels. He refuses to elaborate on why, but Luigi says it comes from watching a nature show about them when they were 4-5. Needless to say... he's a little leery about swimming in the ocean...

Remember when I said Mario had severe depression? Well... that was a misdiagnosis. Mario actually has BPD (or more specifically, quiet BPD). He tries to downplay it, but Luigi and Peach know better than that. He's gotten a bit better about outright telling them that he's not okay and trying to trust that they won't get tired of him, but hey... nobody said improvement's a steady path, y'all.

Whenever Mario gets really angry or stressed, he can't help but let loose a string of swears. He tries not to, but sometimes ya gotta let it out. Most of the time, he does this in Italian, but he'll sometimes say it in English. And... one time he swore right in front of his family... 😬 Yeah that was a real fun night-

Mario practices woodworking in his free time, and he's pretty good at it! He mostly does it for himself (he has a small collection of little wooden cat figurines), but he'll go ALL out with it whenever it's one of his loved ones' birthdays! Currently, his favorite gift he's made was a little music box for Peach... which she still has on her nightstand.

Mario also does painting work around Toad Town and up at the castle. In the center of town, just outside the wall where Peach's castle comes up, there's a HUGE painted mural of all the toads, Luigi, Peach, and anyone else Mario could think of. It's still a work in progress to this day, but all the toads love it! However, his crowning achievement is painting the stained glass window of Peach, which he does every month (hey, somebody's gotta make sure his Peachy Pie looks good!).

Kind of an obvious one, but Mario's not exactly the brightest bulb in the box. He is REALLY street smart and great with combat... but just generally coming up with solutions, not so much. He's a "shoot first, ask questions later" kinda guy. He also doesn't bother to think very hard about things unless he has to. Thankfully, Luigi's got his back on that.

Mario's a big mama's boy. Granted, he's a bit more subtle about it compared to Luigi, but it's obvious to anyone. Every Friday night, he'll call her just to talk (mostly just to hear her voice), and he's constantly making little projects just so he can give them to her. He may pretend that he's too cool for it, but... c'mon. He's a softie.

Mario is selectively mute. This usually happens when he's too overstimulated or hyperfocused (especially if he's working on an art project). He doesn't mean to be, but his thoughts are off in another plane of existence.

Mario has chronic shoulder pain (courtesy of working under Spike and Bowser being an asshole). Most days, it's manageable, but other times, he comes home swearing under his breath. He acts like it doesn't bother him, but the second Peach asks if he's okay, he goes FULL baby mode. Before he knows it, he's sleeping against her as she's gently kneading lotion between his shoulder blades. ❤️️

Mario is a masc guy. He's moderately okay with wearing feminine stuff, but he has to be ready for it because dysphoria is wonderful/sar. However, he does make some exceptions. When Luigi came out as bigender and started experimenting with nail polish, Mario offered to be her canvas. One thing led to another, and he wound up with black nails... which he thinks he looks badass with. He doesn't do it often, but he'll let Luigi paint his nails when he's up for it. 🖤

And lastly, Mario's favorite holiday is Halloween. To him, it's all about dressing up... and by god, does he have the BEST costume choices. He does love the candy, yeah, but he moreso just likes putting on whatever costume he can get his hands on, and practicing his method acting... because why shouldn't he?