#self induced vomiting

[builder051]

Interlude

Chasing Ghosts

tw for slight eating disorder talk, mental health talk, discussion of consent, alcohol and drug use… I think that’s it.

I know I said I wasn’t putting anything out while I work on the long-form fic. Unfortunately this story decided to take over my brain and provide hella distraction.

———————

Sunday

2:57 AM

Steve’s eyes fly open and he’s out of the bed in a flash. Knees hit carpet, and he’s disoriented for a second. His brain turns first conscious, then powered on as he rubs his eyes. Steve stays silent for a moment. Dead quiet rings out. He must be the only one awake.

Steve raises his gaze a few inches over the edge of the mattress. The back of James’s head is toward him, and the covers pulled across his stump shoulder give rise and gentle fall to his slow breathing. Steve is definitely the only one up. It never turns out like this; it’s always James who wakes first. The nightmare or bad memory or lack of balance on the way to the bathroom… they’re not Steve’s problems. Well, they are, in theory. He’s just generally not the one with an affliction.

That’s onerous towards James, though, so Steve stashes it back into a mental auto-delete folder. No, he doesn’t feel that way. He’s grateful for James’s trust. Forwardness to share his emotions about the opposing forces of healing and the self-loathing he’s grown over years of being wronged. Still, though. Steve can’t determine a time in recent memory when he’s felt this alone in the house.

The apartment is his—but only technically, he’s made very clear. Just by the lease and it’s tie to the account that holds the money for rent. He’s made very clear that the account isn’t a trust fund, even if he knows it is, even if just by a parsing or words. He keeps his bank passwords very private.

That’s the only place he has walls up, though. Steve’s surrounded in teamwork and academic camaraderie from all sides. Swimming has absorbed his free time, which he’d rarely spent alone anyway. Even this moment of silence and solitude feels strange. Like his ears are plugged and gently throbbing as they do when he keeps his head under for a long time in the deep end.

Steve would feel safer in the water. He’s not out of place there, practicing for competition with a rowdy team or tying up the ends of a group project in the library. None of it is meant to take the place of his home and family life. Something is definitely off about the atmosphere here in the house. He’s primed for danger. He feels like a fucking nightstalker.

He needs to get out of here, he decides. If there’s a monster under the bed, James will have to tackle it alone. Or Steve might accidentally tackle him.

Now that he’s settled into awareness, Steve feels anxious. He wonders if he’s breathing properly. His skin doesn’t feel hot, but he’s boiling. Maybe it’s his blood. Steve takes one more look at James’s slumbering form, then books it silently for the door.

The hallway is dark. Tasha’s bedroom door is closed, and there’s no light coming from underneath or around the doorknob. She’s asleep, Steve thinks. But no, it’s a weekend… She’s probably out, enjoying herself like the average coed in the false pool of safety that seems to surround the campus.

The average coed. That’s not Steve, not anymore. He’s probably never been close. He’s learned more since since he vacated the upstairs suite in his parents’ house than he ever had in his life up to that point. To say he didn’t come with street smarts… Steve packed and drove and moved across the country before he realized the dorm didn’t have a private bathroom. Thinking about it now, actually, makes Steve want to laugh at himself. At eighteen, he’d still been so young and helpless. He’d thought he was near invincible, though. Surviving the worst of pubescent gay lust in a high school locker room— that was a feat. That should’ve prepared him for everything. Steve never thought he’d be, for instance, stuck in the median of four lanes of traffic going both directions because he’d overestimated his walking speed relative to the squawking time signal.

James has always been accommodating of Steve’s relative lack of skills in self care. James always laughs it off and says the feeling’s mutual. It’s not, though. James isn’t that much older, it’s just that he’s lived through and with so many tresspasses of the unjust. The essay in Steve’s college admissions packet claimed to be the story of the worst day of his life. Somehow, he doesn’t look back and see his cut from freshman football in the same way anyone.

There’s light somewhere at the other end of the apartment. In the living room, or maybe the kitchen. It’s dim, though. One of them probably forgot to turn off the glow under the microwave. None of them has figured out how to work its on/off timer, so Steve’s come to work it manually, which is to say he’s constantly turning it off. He says he’s saving power, which he supposes he is. It’s kind of an act; showing the others that he cares about the utility bill, even though he can always pay without even looking at the usage fee. Steve mainly wants to keep the light from bothering James’s sensitivities and headaches, not that he’d ever admit it.

A sudden shadow moves in the kitchen area. Steve hears the door of the fridge slam shut, then the sound of a running faucet. Unless they have a hungry burglar, it must mean that Tasha’s home and rustling up some dinner. Maybe breakfast. Steve’s sure it’s past midnight, though he hasn’t checked the clock to calculate hours remaining until sunrise.

“Hi.” Steve announces his presence and stands next to the table. He doesn’t want to scare Tasha; it’s pure chance as to whether she’s on an upper or a downer or something hallucinogenic. “Um. Good morning?”

The water stops running. “Fucking Christ…” Tasha’s braced in front of the sink with tight, overextended elbows. Her knees display an obvious tremor. When she lifts her head, the low light creates a halo of liquid amber around the messy bun atop her head.

Tasha flashes a glance over her shoulder. She doesn’t make eye contact with Steve, but it’s apparent she knows he’s there. “Fuck,” she curses again. It’s apparent how she feels about Steve standing there watching her, but now they’ve acknowledged each other’s presence, Steve can’t just turn around and go back to bed. Better to make sure Tasha’s ok rather than just frighten her and vanish. A ghost would probably be kinder than that. And Steve doesn’t want her to get the idea that the house has become haunted.

Tasha’s head dips out of sight, and weak coughing echoes from the walls of the sink. She gags. Spits. Then she looses one hand from her stabilizing grip, and her shadow shrinks down even more.

Steve steps forward, wondering if she’s about to faint. It seems a very real possibility, though Steve’s own stomach sinks as he puts two and two together.

“You ok?” Steve doesn’t know what else to say. It’s plain that Tasha is not ok in the slightest, but he wants to announce his progress across the room before just appearing behind her back and grabbing her shoulder. Steve feels the instinct to put hands on her. Protectively, of course. In good faith. He’s learned enough about trauma, though, that well-intended doesn’t always translate to appropriate.

“Yeah.” Tasha retches hard and pulls slimy fingers out of her mouth. “Go away.” Strings of ropy mucous hang off her fingertips, the dim light making them stand out like lines of freshly woven spiderweb.

“I’m sorry you don’t feel good.” It’s a stupid thing to say; Tasha will probably take it as insincere pandering. Steve doesn’t plan on going away, though. Not with her body shaking like that. He’d prefer not to find her passed out on the floor when he and James sit down for morning coffee.

Tasha retches again, and this time it’s productive. Liquid spatters into the garbage disposal, and Tasha turns the water on again. It does a poor job of masking the sound, now that Steve’s only a few feet away and definitely aware of what she’s doing.

“Just, uh, clearing things out? Before you hit the sack?” It’s intrusive, and Steve knows it.

“Eh.” It comes out muffled; Tasha’s hand is down her throat again. She shrugs one shoulder, then hacks and dribbles more sick into the sink. She appears to have no shame, which Steve isn’t sure whether it’s actual boldness or putting on airs.

Steve decides to be bold back, though he prays he doesn’t cross the line and seem overly intrusive. “You want some water? Or something to, like, flush out?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he prattles on. “I can fill a cup in the bathroom so it doesn’t… disturb you?”

It takes a moment for Tasha to answer; she first unloads another splash of sick and wipes her mouth on the back of her dirty hand. “Are you getting off on this?” She turns her head sideways just enough to face Steve, as if she wants him to know she’s speaking to him directly. “Like, watching me?” Tasha clears her throat. “That’s really depraved. You don’t have hidden cameras in the bathrooms, do you?”

“Oh, of course not,” Steve replies with abject disgust. He feels the need to defend himself. “I just woke up. I’m not spying on you or anything.”

“Then can you go the fuck away?” Tasha shakes her hand, and flecks of vomit hit the sink, the faucet, and the window in front of her.

“Here.” Steve tears a paper towel from the roll and leans in to clean up the residue. His arm slides close to Tasha’s, and he’s sure their pricked hairs intertwine as he reaches past her. Steve breaks out in goosebumps, and he tries not to flinch. “Sorry,” he mutters before swiping the paper towel across the window glass.

“Right.” Tasha gives Steve a look of disdain. He’s in her way, and she’s definitely not thrilled about it. “I’m sorry.”

Tasha doesn’t acknowledge the apology. She looks miserable, her eyes swollen to puffy slits and her wet, red lips pulled into a thin line. Her nose drips, and she inhales hard with a loud snuffle that seems to displace more gunk than it saves. Steve catches her slight wince and heavy swallow.

Knowing his time is up, Steve looks away first. He deserves to have Tasha gawk at him for a while. It’s more than a fair trade. He busies himself with crumpling the soiled paper towel. Steve isn’t sure what to do with it, though, as Tasha’s knees block the access to the trash bin in the cabinet under the sink.

As he looks down at the damp towel in his hand, Steve notices the color of what he’s just wiped up. Pinkish red. His mind jumps to the worst case scenario, even though it’s more likely to be a thousand things more innocuous than blood.

“You’re not spitting blood, are you?” Steve asks anxiously.

“Huh?” Tasha drags her focus away from her hand, which is halfway to her mouth again, and looks at Steve.

He lifts the towel to show her. “I… um… Is your throat ok? Or your stomach?”

“Oh.” Tasha’s mouth twists as she sucks on her tongue and the insides of her cheeks. Having to stop and think as to whether she tastes blood… It can’t be a good sign.

“Have you ever heard of a strawberry daiquiri?” Tasha looks at Steve as if he’s lost it. “Vodka and cranberry?”

Steve’s still suspicious. As far as he knows, Tasha isn’t one to drink her calories. Or eat them, if she can get away with it. Poweraid zero? That comes in red, right? But the thought of Tasha managing her lytes is definitely fictitious. James is usually the one pressing her to hydrate once she leaves her room and drags her hungover zombie body into the main part of the house. Typically sometime after noon.

Tasha shakes her head and sneers at Steve. “You’re the one who crammed a whole pan of lasagna in the fridge.”

So it was a binge? Or maybe she was just hungry. Ate too fast or something like that. It shocks Steve all over again that it’s the middle of the night and that he and Tasha are actually having this conversation. They’re sharing secrets, even if the action is completely forced and only present via circumstance.

“You, um…” Steve isn’t sure how to phrase it without being awkward. A moment’s thought gives him no help, so he plows ahead in brutal honesty powered by guilt. “You don’t have to, like, stop. On my part, I mean.”

“Ok.” Tasha’s face goes ashen. She opens her mouth, then closes it and holds her wrist over her eyes. It barely blocks any part of her face, she’s so bony.

“I just want to be sure you’re ok,” Steve says, though he knows it’s pointless. “But you do you and all that stuff.” He takes a breath and says the rest in a rush. “And you don’t have to eat my cooking. You know?”

“Yeah.” Tasha’s voice comes out as a hoarse whisper. “But maybe I will anyway. Free will and shit?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

Tasha bends back over the sink, her jaw sagging and strings of spit spilling over her lower lip. “So you’re going to go away, right? If I offend you, you don’t have to watch.”

“I don’t.” Steve’ll give her that one. He decides to give himself one more shot at explaining his behavior while they’re at it. It’ll at least eat up the time before Tasha inevitably pukes again. “But it’s like, I don’t know. The buddy system?”

“You’re not asking for an invite are you?” Tasha sounds disgusted. “You wouldn’t like my kind of parties, anyway.” More disgusted than one usually would when they’re that sick. Drunk. High. Exercising their right to test the limits of a youthful metabolism against the brute force of an eating disorder.

“No, no, not that,” Steve says quickly. It’s all he has time for. Tasha gives an immense dry heave, then breaks into another coughing fit.

“But can I, like… Stay with you?” Steve presses.

“Ugh.” Tasha spits and sticks out her tongue. “Why? I’m all messed up. Always a disappointment.”

“You’re not—“

“And if you keep trying to be sympathetic, I’m going to kick you in the balls.”

“Well.” Steve tries not to show any signs of amusement. “That’d be your choice, the, wouldn’t it?”

“Involuntary reflex.” Tasha’s expression changes as she acknowledges her own joke, though it evaporates just as quickly.

“Exactly.” Steve capitalizes the opportunity to continue explaining himself, even though he’s probably extending past his moment. “Same as being here to catch you if you pass out.”

“I’m not going to pass—“ Tasha cuts herself off with a heave, this one seeming to come on unexpectedly.

“I know you’re not,” Steve says, although she’s shaking so much now that he wants to lay a hand over the bumps of her spine. Her delicate body may not stay in one piece if she tumbles backward. Steve imagines her head cracked on the linoleum floor. Then there would be blood for sure. He shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the thought. It’s infinitesimally more disturbing than the idea of Tasha spitting up blood, and Steve is left wondering why.

“You’re not supposed to care about me like that.” Tasha’s knees begin to buckle, and Steve puts much more stock into her actions than her words.

“It’s not like you can really stop me.” Steve hovers at her shoulder. “I’m allowed to keep you from hitting the floor, right?”

“Wow. Consent.” Tasha props herself up on her elbows and rests her forehead on the edge of the sink.

“Well, yeah, but that’s not…” Steve trails off, shaking his head. “It’s my floor.”

“Huh?”

Is she becoming foggy? Does that mean danger is imminent? Steve pushes down his anxiety and says, “If I pay the rent, I’m the owner of the apartment?” Coming out, it sounds utterly ridiculous. Pretentious. And more than a touch belittling.

“Fine, take the kitchen. But my room is my room.”

“You’re not actually on the lease,” Steve points out. “But, yeah, your room is yours. Like your body. Your choices.”

“I’m not going to kill myself.” Tasha catches Steve’s eye. He knows she’s being serious.

“You wouldn’t on purpose.” It’s the best Steve can do.

“Yeah, I’m not that kind of fucked up. Save that for James…”

“Sure.” Steve decides to leave that one where it lies. “I guess I just don’t want you to hork yourself to death. Not in the middle of the night. Not all by yourself.”

“But I can commit my other sins in private, right?” She turns her head completely, looking up at Steve while she rests on one ear.

“Eat or drink or, what, inhale?” Steve gives a single breath of laughter. He’s sure he isn’t phrasing it correctly. At the same time, though, he’s sure that Tasha knows he’s doing his best.

“I’m not on paint fumes.” Tasha shakes her head and does nothing to hide her growing grin. “That’s little kid stuff.”

“Ok, well, needle or under the tongue or swallow with a jello shot…” Steve’s reached the limit of his knowledge on that topic, and he’s completely fine with showing his naiveté. They’re baring their souls, after all. “And what you do with your food. Even if I cooked it, you’re still free to—whatever.”

“Yes, sir, captain.” Tasha’s slurring a little. Whether she’s succumbing to fatigue or drunkenness, Steve isn’t sure. And he isn’t going to ask.

Steve nods. He doesn’t want to muck up the conversation even more.

“I’m going to bed,” Tasha declares. “You’re not going to escort me or hold my elbow or whatever, right?”

“Oh, no.” Steve’s glad he didn’t give in to the urge to touch her, now or earlier. “I know you’re alright. That much, at least.”

“Yeah, very reassuring.” Tasha straightens up and rubs the heel of her hand into her eye socket. “You going to sleep, too? Or there’s milk in the fridge.” Tasha shrugs. “Lasagna.”

“Sleep, I think,” Steve says. It seems somehow wrong to stay in the kitchen once Tasha’s vacated it. “I’ll just hit this.” He crosses the kitchen to the microwave and beeps the dial a few times. The bright reflection bouncing back over the stovetop cuts out. Darkness presses in, but Steve still sees Tasha’s skinny outline.

“If I’m allowed to ask,” Tasha starts, “Why’d you get up in the first place?”

Steve tells no tales of gallantry or subconscious protectiveness. “I knew I forgot to turn that stupid light timer off.” It’s not like he’s sure or anything. It just sounds right.

“I can hit it when I get home,” Tasha offers.

Steve detects no pretense or sarcasm, so he just says, “Yeah. That’d be great.”

“Cool.” Tasha gives a curt nod, as if they’re sealing the deal. And they are, in a way. Steve doesn’t intend to break Tasha’s confidence. And he knows she won’t rat him out, either. Waking up to turn off the light? Steve’d be glad to leave that one to the annals of memory, too.

#sickfic #marvel #mcu #fanfic #emeto #captain america #emetophilia #fanfiction #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #steve rogers #chasing ghosts #angst #mental health #ed tw #eating disorders #self induced vomiting

[starvv7eu]

how do you make yourself throw up if you dont have a good gag reflex?? i really cannot do it.

#tw ed sheeran #tw disordered eating #purg1ng #self induced vomiting #lol #i want to be small #help #weight loss journey #ate too much #tw ed

[i-wanna-die-like-now]

Day 20: Vomit!

I did this as a continuation of day 9, except I have less motivation today 😭

#artists on tumblr #digital art #danny phantom #danny phantom fandom #digital doodle #danny phantom fanart #danny fenton #tw gore #tw blood #tw vomit #tw self-induced vomiting #inktober #goretober 2023

[angels-heap]

I know my Half Life blog is not the place for this conversation, so I'm holding back from posting a fucking dissertation here, but goddamn, the lack of nuance and empathy in the conversations surrounding the Nickelodeon documentary is appalling.

#K talks #this post brought to you by the most vomit-inducing conversations I've participated in and witnessed in recent history #y'all have got to stop defining yourself and your morality by the 'content' you 'consume' #self-flagellating about what a 'bad person' you are for liking these shows AS A CHILD is not helping anyone #THIS IS NOT ABOUT YOU #AND YOU DIDN'T KNOW WHAT WAS HAPPENING #THAT'S KIND OF THE WHOLE POINT #and you have GOT to be more normal about victims #nobody is perfect. there are no 'perfect' victims. you are not 'making a statement' by publicly refusing to feel empathy for 'bad' victims #thinking about all the actors whose stories haven't come out and csa victims everywhere #I'm sorry purity culture brainrot has turned so many into callous & self-centered weirdos taking their secular catholic guilt out out on yo

[angrymac]

this scene feels like a knife in the chest and i hope desperately that they expand on it in season 16

#what was the reason #at least my baby is self-aware I guess #dennis reynolds #frank reynolds #iasip #always sunny #it’s always sunny in philadelphia #season 15 #Sunny sweet 16 #hahaha I love pain #the Ireland episodes are actually an insane gut wrenching vomit-inducing character study into Dennis

[invisible-key]

A few drawings of my OC Bernie making himself vomit.

#emetophilia #emeto art #male emeto #my kink art #OC: Bernie #emetophilic character #self-induced vomiting

[cynical-crypt]

proshitter fucking weirdo,,,, liking kids isnt cool!!

buddy. buddy. do you know how to read?

^^ do you see that? i know this is gonna be difficult for you to fathom but *THAT* little bit there means don't fucking talk to me. i don't need or want you and your puritan dipshit friends on my page bugging me all the time like you have been. judging by the general lack of intelligence behind your message i'm gonna assume you're some kid that was brainwashed by tiktok and/or twitter and you need to chill the fuck out. go find a hobby that doesn't thrive solely off of annoying everyone else with hatemail. normally i wouldn't respond to these but i found it hilarious how sad it was and also clearing out my inbox constantly is annoying

#you could at least give a compelling argument instead of falsely accusing me of predation #i dont even know how you came to that conclusion because i'm positive you saw maybe two posts maximum from me #the only time i talk about kids on my tumblr at all is telling them to stop being fucking stupid about fandom politics #not usually this aggressive but clearing out my inbox is annoying and ive not slept in a hot minute #anon #antis dni #proship safe #shipcourse #antis being vomit inducing #i dont care much about the tags here because its just me yelling at some dipshit but i want to emphasize that antis arent my friends- #and as far as im concerned as long as your view on shipcourse is either “i could not give less of a shit” or “ship and let ship” or- #something along those lines then you're golden regardless of whether or not you use the proship label #otherwise... go find somewhere else to exercise your complete lack of self awareness

[clanoffelidae]

It’s always ‘man I wish I was at home’ until you actually have a reason to stay home because you feel bad and then it’s ‘man I wish I was at work because that would mean I didn’t feel awful’

#same goes for when i was in school lol #if i actually stayed home that was because i was SufferingTM #and no matter how much even college sucked with undiagnosed adhd #i would rather be dragging myself through classes than having a cyclic vomiting episode yknow lol #(for those unfamiliar: largely unknown condition - believed to be related to migraine headaches) #(which i agree with because yknow how migraines have a distinct ‘quality’ of burning - throbbing pain like your head will explode?) #(for me it’s exactly that but my stomach - the organ stomach not just my abdomen in general) #(would be 16-30 hours of feeling like my stomah is about to rupture from being so swollen despite being empty) #(with light and sound sensitivity) #(and nausea and vomiting) #(with the only pain relief being maybe 30-60 seconds after vomiting before the pain starts building back up) #(because there’s no known pain medication that helps 👍) #(yeah my brother in christ i would rather take 3 final exams i didnt study for completely unmedicated) #(i always want to stay home until i actually feel bad enough to do so) #(and then it’s ‘ah yes - be careful what you wish for’ lol) #(this is why i know how to make myself vomit because while i have no desire to throw up food) #(no bullemia or the like i assure you) #(it was the ONLY way to get even a MOMENTS relief from the pain) #(and it also helps to stop my migraines or at least reduce them) #(so - i have tips for self inducing vomiting lol)

[hartmannyoukaigirl]

sonadow shippers get both sonic and shadow's characters wrong its insane. like usually The yaoi ship of a fandom has Something as a pillar or one of the characters being a bit... to warrant the shipping but sonadow makes 0 sense no matter how you look at it and because it's so stupid there's not a single fanart that has either of shadow or sonic in character. wtf. you dont like sonic evidently what are u on !! just go create gay furry ocs or something and leave them alone since EVIDENTLY you dont like them for them 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄

#atleast im self aware about my delulu ship #also im stupidely canon compliant so i would never draw fanart w expressions neither of them would have ever #. #except for a bit. just a bit of blushing #listen #my one. feminine trait. is that i love when characters are cute and blushing #like the Only thing alright !! #that sort of vomit inducing from too much sugar and kawaii art is . indeed cute

[proficshy]

Panicked. Barfed. All good now.

#ask to tag #fluttershy talks #life stuff #to clarify the barfing was a result of the panicking i didn't self induce it #vomit tw #just in case

[dog-b0y]

(more in the tags)

#glamrock chica #shes bulimic #its canon #bc i said so #tell me i’m wrong #you cant #we see her have binge episodes #eating from the trash is such an ED thing #dont even get me started on the chica mazercise #she doesn’t purge through self induced vomiting #shes an exercise purger girlie #my poor sweet girl #they gave her an ED #i mean im loving the representation lmao #but my sweet girl :( #i hope she recovers #the other glamrocks noticed her disordered habits and are helping her rocover #but my poor girl #my sweet darling #im crying #i care about her sm #i dont want her to experience that #im crying over this #no joke #fnaf chica #fnaf security breach #fnaf #fnaf fanart #fnaf sb #five nights at freddy's

[builder051]

I'm out to cut the junkie

With the plastic eyeballs, spray-paint the vegetables Dog food stalls with the beefcake pantyhose

Beck, Loser

_________________________

Creedless Assassins (with a touch of Nat on fire).

Ehhhh, trigger warnings--canon typical violence, drug use, alcohol, addiction, mentions of sex, mentions of dangerous behavior, mentions of death (of a villain), mentions of depression (inc. feelings of not worth living anymore--NOT suicidal), mental illness/ED-esque stuff--Basically the usual for both of these 'verses, but maybe amped up a tiny bit.

_____________________

They've been assigned a mission. Again. To stand around the third level of the parking garage, not awkwardly at at all with their full leather battle dress and weapons held at the ready.

Eventually the target would raise the blinds on the window to his office, probably when the shadows of sunlight begin to fall in the other direction over the rest of the cityscape. Sometime around 12:07 pm Eastern Standard.

They're in New York, after all, and she's something of a specialist in watching sunlight fade to moonlight and back again. It's exceptionally glorious to watch while lying on one's back in a sleeping bag, under the distorted stretch of plexiglass that protected her temporary bed from the worst of the elements. The worst of everything. A few pills. The vodka minis from the bottom of her pocket. Nat's past, her training, became more of an insurance policy. She wouldn't get hurt. She didn't last time. And the seduction of observing, absorbing the things that went on, all over the world, overpowered the needs of mere humans. Nat slept with her eyes open, gazing at half-constellations lost mostly to city dust. She slept stock-still, laid out flat, allowing fate and liquor to warm her through the night.

Nat's been home for... at least a day, now. And back to the office. Back from leave, or finished dawdling through her last mission--she's already forgotten.

"Ok." Clint checks the time on the many-handed watch face embedded in his left arm guard. "It's 11:55."

"Mm." Nat hopes her acknowledgement is audible. Sleeping in her own bed, though warmer, is a lot more dull than... camping.

--

The bottle of cheap rosé she had before dinner hadn't agreed with bagel and Velveeta she'd attempted to fry for an evening meal. All that had produced, though, was a lump of greasy, rock-hard bread with molten cheese product dribbling out of the hole in the middle. And the unleashing of the shrill sound of the smoke detector, which was all the way across the apartment, stuck to the ceiling above the half-wall separating living room from the bedroom. Waving a fistfull of junk mail at the thing made it shut up, but then Nat was distracted.

She jammed as much bagle into her mouth as possible, then tried to breathe and hack at the same time as rough edges of bread scraped her upper palate and a string of neon, oversalted, and still boiling non-cheese ran down her throat.

Nat heard the frying pan fall off the stove and the junk mail flop on top of it. She hopes the shopping flyers won't start to sizzle and start an actual flame. Or maybe she doesn't care. Her renters' insurance covers fire, she thinks. She could get a pay out. The smell of old smoke, suspicious ceiling stains... she's lived in worse conditions.

She makes it to the bathroom, but vomits beside the toilet. The whole room is just three feet across and barely longer than it is wide, so it's not an awful miss. Not the kind she feels guilty about; it won't require a lot of cleanup.

Unable to focus on anything but the blisteringly painful predicament in her throat, Nat's hand lands directly in her first deposit of sickness, sending her skidding on her knees and coming down hard on the toilet seat with her chin.

"Fuck." Her uvula is in some kind of limbo imprisonment, unable to force a swallow or retract enough to let the bile- soaked bread escape with the rapidly solidifying Velveeta. The sweet bite of the rosé has migrated upward as well, giving Nat an internal punch in the gut to remind her she is already full of liquid if she needs to wash herself out.

Nat bows her head and folds her arms at the back of her neck, shoulders safely tucking around her ears. Then her slimy fingertips make contact with her skin, and she shudders, then pushes a retch with her abdominal muscles.

It takes fingers at first, then hacking and stretching her neck and lips, but Nat finishes. Yanks the towel off the back of the bathroom door. Cleans her hands. The floor. Then she folds the threadbare terry cloth into quarters and mashes it against her face.

She's red from exertion. Her eyes are puffy. Watering against their will. The last of the wine, far digested by now, adds fogginess to the floatiness that Nat's always pretended was fun, like fairy wings, instead of the mark that she was about to pass out.

It had been fun, like a game, to flutter back to her dormitory and into the nest of her covers, where she could fall back asleep before the nighttime minder would hear a rustle and think about raising a brow.

Now, though, Nat's to-do list pops up behind her eyelids, flashing red in urgency. Set an alarm. Turn on her ringer. Is she safe?

That one's been hard to answer. For a while now. But she has guns and knives and an empty wine bottle and a frying pan down there somewhere, filled, sadly with greasy, defeated-looking newsprint.

--

Last night's wine had soothed Nat into passable sleep. She woke to her alarm, dressed, drove in, and made the breakroom's first pot of morning's coffee. It was meant to be a friendly, 'I'm back,' gesture to Clint, the most vigorous consumer of the breakroom coffee, and therefore, usually the one doing the brewing--not to mention the carafe scrubbing, grounds sweeping, filter finding, and peforming the endless tasks that went along with it.

She stood and waited for him to show up so they could both pour steaming styrofoam cups and clink them together over the manila envelope that held the information for their next assignment.

Nat may have made the coffee, even the one who ceremonially downed a cup, black, no sugar, on a raw, tender stomach, but she was not going to hold the stupid track of formality for long. God, she's been at work for two hours and she wants a hit of heroin and a flop in that one alley behind the mom-and-pop coffee and doughnuts, where the air smells amazing and somehow her other senses eat it up and fill her with unbeguiled happiness...except, of course, for the tiny sliver of brain that remains aware that if she gives into the addiction too often, she will lose her job, her income, her security clearance, her friends... her best friend. And probably her life. Not that she cares so much about that part.

"11:56." Clint reads the time out slowly. He glances to Nat. Where Nat ought to be, that is.

She's four of five yards back, leaning against a pillar, a gun tucked carelessly into the thigh pocket of her leggings. She flips the bronze caps that hold the bite cartridges in her wristbands, open, then closed. Then open...

"Hey!" Clint taps the end of his bow on the concrete floor, where it makes a brief loud note that echoes well beyond its appropriate talking-turn. "Are you paying attention?"

Nat raises her head. Which is aching.

Tylenol? Excedrin? If she can get into medical, maybe... Xanax? Fiorocet? Oxy. Now we're talking. A little vodka and, hm. Nat thinks. What's gentle on the puking system? Protein shake? Vending machine, how convenient. But does she have cash? Who can she hit up who won't be suspicious...? Peter Parker, maybe, if he's around. But asking for a kid's pocket change so she can do drugs...? It's the damn headache, really...

"Yes." Nat rolls her eyes. Which hurts. "But nobody sets alarm clocks for lunch."

Clint, who, in the past few seconds, has taken up his ready position again, scowls back at her. "I thought you liked target practice." There's a tinge of a joke in his words, but Nat's highly done with being buddy-buddy. Her claws and ability to bully and belittle are an inch below the surface, and she doesn't see them getting through the day without raising a little bad blood.

"I always win against you," Nat says plainly. She pats her gun a couple of times. "I don't have to stand there and wind up for ten years, like you do."

"Come on. You only win 'cause I let you." Clin offers what may be a sincere or deeply sarcastic grin.

"Why didn't you just bring a cadet?" Nat shrugs. She does not mean to snort. "If it's all just target practice."

"Above their pay grade," Clint answers simply. "Did you even read the brief?"

"Do you think I'm stupid or something?" She makes enough of a stony glare to cast the question seriously. Like part of an interrogation

Nat had glanced through the papers of the brief as they rode in the nondescript black SUV on the way to their start point. Nat looked at bolded words. Building diagrams. She sped-read diagonally top to bottom, then bottom to top on the adjacent page, collecting maximum information with minimum effort, and trying as hard as possible not to get carsick.

For all intents and purposes, she has read the brief. Nat's method of keeping time, though, is unadulterated by to-the-minute school bus arrivals and ice-cream shops that closed at precisely 5:30. Pointing this out to Clint... would be god's honest truth. It would also make him hate her. Probably miss all his shots. Be downgraded for poor performance. Maybe give Nat the cold shoulder for as long as they lived. She lived. Because he had reasons to carry on.

Clint turns slightly, so he's no longer looking at Nat over his shoulder. He's at a perfect 45 degrees, giving his attention to neither Nat nor the target. Which, in Nat's opinion, is exceptionally ill thought through--Not only are the 12 and 6 open to attack, but so are the 3 and 9. The target is at 1:30, and Nat's at 10:30, which, though her posture and the height of the wall of the parking garage currently form a blockade, gives her the most direct line of fire to the window of the target that, sometime in the next 13-odd minutes, will raise his window blinds and drop dead, never knowing what hit him. It'll be a bullet, though. Nat's fairly certain. But pointing that out to Clint... Well, she'll hold her tongue until he's had his chance to speak.

"I..." Clint sighs. "I think you... sometimes..." He pauses again. "You do some really stupid shit." Clint presses his lips together. "Not to say that, like, anyone else doesn't do...stuff."

Nat straightens up a little so she can see the target's window, still closed up, over Clint's shoulder.

"Hm." She doesn't think Clint sees her looking. She doesn't think Clint is aware of how much of her job she performs on autopilot. "Work's, you know, hard," Nat says. "When you've got...other stuff..."

Nat chooses to let her voice trail off. To leave Clint with the ghost of the threat, the knowledge that she has the ability to say more, to hold it over his head. She'd never do it. Clint knows she won't. But, then again, she does some stupid shit.

"I-- fuck..." Clint lets the end of his bow touch the floor again. He holds the top of it, and a few arrows, tightly between his fists, then lowers his forehead as if in shame.

Nat stays quiet. He's being a sucker, though. He's being wildly unsafe. Clint's putting himself first, putting his reputation first, putting Nat's perception of him first, flashing his honor... and leaving himself completely vulnerable. Both of them. It's he, now who has no interest in the mission.

Nat had meant to get under his skin, but she'd controlled herself. She hadn't unleashed her worst. She didn't mean to destroy him, her buddy, her mission partner.

But it's a catastrophe anyway. Nat fucks things up. She wonders vaguely how many shots of vodka she can take before a nice dose of oxy makes her fall asleep.

"The shadow doesn't cover the other half of the city this time of year until 12:07 or so." It's a declarative statement. She's not telling Clint he's wrong. That his ready position was unjustified. And certainly not that he doesn't know how to tell time.

There's gatorade in the vending machine, too. The big ones. One quart? Hopefully it's restocked. Nat hates the orange flavor. But a hangover buster's a hangover buster, all the same.

"Clint?" Nat taps her wristband against the butt of her gun, which remains in her pocket. The clank is sharp and harsh, and it doesn't produce an echo like Clint's bow against the ground.

"Ah. Yeah..." He shakes his head and blinks a few times.

Nat checks the shadow against the row of skyscrapers set a block in front of the target's window. It's past noon, she gauges. They have 5 minutes, maybe. At least that's how long they have to get back into ready positions.

"Hey! Mind the time!" Nat thinks about adding 'dipshit,' but it would only be a waste of glares and pokes and uncertainty of whether they've made it back to equal ground.

"Ah, kill me for this on," Nat mumbles under her breath. She pulls her gun from the side pocket of her leggins, letting the elastic snap satisfactorily back into shape, nary a wrinkle remaining. Nat glances quickly from the nearest parked car to the entry to the stairwell to the architectural pillars to the handicapped-accessible loading zones to the trash and recycling bins. Then she draws in a breath, gracefully lifts her shoulders, and turns in her heels. She still shoots best from a natural first position. Not forced into impossible turnout, but balanced, steady, and-- she pulls the trigger.

A perfectly round hole, just the size of a #2 pencil, appears in the ceiling above them. Nat had aimed about two feet in front of herself and five or so west of Clint, so neither one of them was actually in danger. The effect, though had them both scrambling.

"What the fuck? Why did you do that?" Clint yells toward Nat, leaping away from a shallow crack forming around the hole. A few bits of rubble, pea gravel, really, fell to the garage floor and scattered.

"Well, I got your attention." Nat squeezes past Clint and leans her elbows on the garage wall, not exactly in a ready stance, but closer and more attentive to the target than Clint, who is still trying to comb dust out of his hair and eyebrows.

"You could have fucking killed us!" Clint yells.

Nat finds his voice quite easy to ignore. The echo makes it like the cry of an animal, or the sound of a foghorn, let off once, then carrying on through the power of physics.

"SHIELD doesn't have a lot of money for damage settlements," Clint says crossly when he finally appears at Nat's side again. "If you make that thing collapse, I'm not gonna cover for you."

"It's not going to collapse." Nat rolls her eyes. "But, hey, look at that tower." She points. "Yes the migraine-inducing one that's made of polarized sunglass lenses."

"Uh..." Clint squints.

"See the cell tower on top of it?"

"Like, over there?" It's close enough. Not worth the time splitting hairs.

"For the love of the fucking birdbrain." Nat shakes her head. "Mr. wristwatch. Mr. timekeeper." Nat pauses, but Clint doesn't answer. "Sundial much?"

"Didn't those die out with the Romans or something?" Clint keeps watching the skyline, though.

"Yeah, along with bows and arrows," Nat replies flatly. "Big HYDRA officials who are also CEOs of obscure companies that manufacture dangerous chemicals with premature human trials? People who work for themselves don't take their lunch hour because the teacher told them to line up."

"Ok." Clint assumes a ready position. Then aims at the window beside the one they're supposed to be targeting. He huffs when Nat uses two fingers to nudge his arrow for a better shot. "What am I missing here?"

Adderall, Nat thinks. Or a 17th cup of coffee.

But the latter has just as much of a chance of becoming a problem instead of a pick-me-up, and Clint could be accused of public exposure, or something else random and outdated, and those are the kind of charges that flashing creds or posing for a selfie don't change a grumpy policeman's mind about the issuing of a ticket. And there's no way Nat would cover for that, either.

She wonders if Clint would cover for her if she pulled out a mini and had herself her own jolt of liquid courage. But Nat's pretty sure the bottle at the bottom of her bag has become a vestibule for used needles. She has no problem re-using a needle, as long as it's hers, only hers, and has only ever been hers. But taking a shot has only one relevant meaning at the moment, and Nat is sure she would not enjoy the introduction of a piece of slim, pointy metal to her gastrointestinal system, no matter how small and easy to swallow.

Sometimes people do stupid things.

Sometimes they do them on purpose.

The three linear points of the recycling bin, the architectural pillar, and the center of the handicapped-accessible loading area, when mapped on a diagonal, created the hypotenuse that perfectly fit the endpoints of the right angle created by the right angled corner consisting of the line stretching from bumper of the last parked car in the row to the top of Clint's head, and the line running from Clint's to the entrance of the stairwell. Each level of the parking garage is arranged in roughly the same way, or the same way in reverse as levels build upon levels. As the area of ceiling where Nat sent her bullet had nothing underneath it (well, except Clint and herself as possible casualties), it would follow that nothing meaningful would be taking up the same space on the level above them. The crosswalk toward the elevator. The mounded rock supporting a "one-way" sign. Another trash can. At worst, one of those corners marked off with diagonal lines where parking isn't allowed, but someone will try squeezing in their smart car...

But that one was worth the risk. And it was the risk, Nat supposes, that made it stupid. She has nothing to say about her geometry. It's been something of a mind-soother lately. Even though it falls away quickly to thoughts about booze. There's a kid that hangs around the office, usually in blue leggings and a letterman jacket, and Nat doesn't have a soft spot for him. Not at all. He is allowed the blue BIC pens and blank computer paper from her cubicle, though. But he may not have cardstock. And under no circumstances may he sit in her ergonomic swivel chair. But, for some reason, there are always folding chairs stacked neatly at the end of the hallway. And Nat's gained a pack of alcohol wipes, low-profile, perfectly sized to nestle beside her stapler, and claiming 99.99% germ-removal efficiency. Without the harsh smell of medical-grade disinfectant.

She hasn't told Clint. No need for more vulnerabilities, more worries, more secret confessions. No need for private codes, silent pleads for help, forgiveness when there's no promise it won't happen again.

Because that's what stupidity is, right? Making poor choices. Nat, putting needles in her arms, and Clint, refusing a medevac because he won't leave her alone in the field for five minutes without his protection, even if it's wild and delirious and completely off target. It's Budapest, it's the Chitauri, it's the time they slept together when neither of them was even drunk. Or high. The hotel room was just fucking cold. And...stupid happened. But Clint's clean, and Nat's barren, so, it's not like actual stupid happened.

"Ok." Nat calculates something like 2 minutes left. "Grown-ups with boring jobs have blinds in their offices," she says quickly, not giving Clint a chance to butt in. "Blinds go down when it's sunny. They go up when it's shady."

She sounds like a self-righteous bitch talking to an idiot, but it's important that this is communicated, even if it's simple. They live on jets and in cubicles and cheap hotels with blackout curtains.

"You can't calculate the target's movements by guessing when he stands up to go to lunch."

Nat hopes there isn't an implication that Clint's original strategy was useless. She likes to be right. She likes to be first. She does not like to see her partner, her friend, drinking the cold dregs of breakroom coffee and leaning against the back bumper of his car, which is idling while the stereo blasts something like Toto's "Africa."

In pure, stupid selfishness, it makes her wild once she gets a chance to hit up. The lame "text me," or hesitant shoulder squeeze Nat offers Clint when he's down, it never seems to solve anything. She doesn't know how to pick him up off the floor and breathe life back into him. Not really. Clint has a wife. He has a family.

And Nat has the liquor store on the corner, the Rite Aid that doesn't ID for smokes or poor man's LSD. The residual silent toe-running from her Bolshoi training from before HYDRA took her away. It still gets her in and out of unlocked rooms with pockets full of loot. The gym. The bathroom. The vending machine. That one may take algebra, though. Nat hasn't brushed up on solving for x.

Xanax. That would be great. She'd split it with Clint, and then maybe the tension would die down enough for them to finish the mission.

"People just eat when they're hungry...?" Clint probably doesn't even realize he's talking. He gives his wristwatch a glance, seeming to startle himself. "It's twelve-oh-fucking-- we probably missed it--what the--"

"Nope, just watch the sundial." Nat assumes her ready position, front knee bent and back knee straight. Elbows locked and forearms barely touching the garage wall. She sets her sight on the center of the window. Clint... she can't spare a breath, even a thought on Clint.

Nat breathes slowly, in, and out. Her body doesn't move. Her ribcage doesn't expand. Even the smallest dancers learned early that their talent meant nothing. Obedience. Perfection. The bodice of the costume may as well be a whale-boned corset. The ballet mistress will shout if the girl in the back row parts her lips, raises her collarbones. Discipline. For... Nat gives it 90 seconds, tops.

"You know what you're doing?" This time, Clint's ready position is true.

"Mm-hm."

"What's the visual confirmation?" Clint's only checking. Not annoying the crap out of her. Probably not on purpose, anyway.

"The color of his tie."

"What's the color?"

"If you don't stop it, we are going to miss the window. Window of time, I mean."

"I don't see anything," Clint protests. "And I don't feel like you're all there, with the shooting the ceiling and everything."

Nat blinks. The only movement she allows herself to make. "Shut up and watch the sun move."

"Can you just, like, confirm--"

Nat angrily spits out her answer, her words delivered at high speed and low volume. "The tie is robin's egg blue, which is his daughter's favorite color, and the color of her backpack, which is hanging in the hallway of the private school, housed in a white marble building five blocks south and four blocks east of here. Her dad is going to die within the next minute, and she will be raised in Thailand, where her mother is from, and HYDRA and chemical company and all that shit will never touch her little life again." Another faint breath. "And people stand up when they raise their blinds, fuck you very much. If you can't figure out the rest, then--"

The number on the clock no longer matters. Nor does the slant of the sunlight, though, if it would pause, visuals would be better, thus improving the success of a shot.

It's Clint that fires first, exhaling sharply and loosing his arrow the moment the target's window shade begins to rise. He's accounting for travel time, drag, the momentum lost in a collision with glass... Perhaps, as a party, they aren't as deficient in mathematics as Nat had originally thought.

Nat holds her position, counting one half-second. Two-half seconds.

Black leather belt, shiny silver buckle, white oxford over beer belly, and just the merest flash of bright pastel blue-- Nat pulls the trigger.

Once. Twice.

Then stops. Listens.

Her instinct is to empty the barrel. Overkill. Just to be sure. But that's a whole different kind of stupid, one she has to control, lest she end up on the wrong side of the system. Out of control. Mixing her alliances. Unable to stop. Committing the kind of stupid acts that create damage far, far beyond her ability to fix. Paying a dealer in the wrong currency. Swapping a piece of clothing tagged with SHIELD's contracted manufacturer's logo.

But today, Nat's able ro reign herself in. Clint usually puts a hand on her shoulder if she's on track to do too much damage. He doesn't offer the contact, though. And Nat's not sure if she'd accept it well.

It's hard to hear anything, what with the cavernous garage behind them and the bustling city out in front, but there had evidently been a smashing of glass and a direct hit to make the kill.

Nat gazes at the remains of the window for a moment, then collects her phone to record the visual evidence of the mission accomplished. The target slumps at his thick waist, torso, head, and arms hanging out the open window, his tie dangling straight down and showing impressive blood spatter.

Clint probably broke the window, at least, if not also scoring some damage to the opponent. Nat had finished him off, as evidenced by the tie and lifeless slump.

"You're actually going to send that?" Clint asks, looking at the snapshot Nat's just taken.

Nat makes a face of disgust. "It's not for my personal photo album." She creates a new message addressed to Fury, and puts Clint's name on the CC line, just for kicks. Then she adds the photo for verification of take-down. The usual 'mission accomplished' verbiage. Then a note about the hole in the concrete of the parking garage. "Misfire," Nat types.

"And I guess I'm not supposed to mention any details?" Clint raises his brow as he reads the text Nat has just copied him on.

"Oh, go to Home Depot and buy a tube of caulk." Nat rolls her eyes. and turns away. "Weekend project, right?"

"What're you going to do this weekend? You know, assuming we don't get a back-to-back." Clint asks, with just enough pointedness to his question to make it...personal. But it's difficult to tell whether he's expecting a joke or a confession for an answer.

Nat shrugs. "Sleep in. Maybe clean my bathroom." There's no reply, so she carries on. "I got one of those, like, motivational water bottles, the ones that have the lines to help you remember to hydrate all day. I don't like tap water, though, so..."

"Our fridge has a filter." It's not an invitation, exactly. Just... words. "And I might buy the kind of glue with the fumes..." They aren't looking at each other, but the flow of the words makes things fit, if not neatly, at least back together. Stupid is as stupid does, mistakes made, rescues attempted, and x most certainly = zero.

No one's better, or faster, or stronger. No one's more vulnerable, or more protective, or better than the other. They move in unison. They cancel each other out. Partners. Buddy-buddy.

Nat might walk around the block tonight collecting trophies and charms, then relaxing and slowly delighting, then riding the fairy wings that always carry her safely to sleep.

Clint will drink coffee. Maybe pop one of the stale squares of Nicorette chewing gum out of the glove box and find an album that reminds him of community college and meeting his wife and not...trauma. He'll ask Laura to join him for intense yet brief shower sex, that will only be a little rushed, due to the need to listen for the baby monitor.

Clint will volunteer for kid duty. He'll watch Laura sleep for a few minutes, then pull out his phone before bedding down himself. 9:30, he'll decide. The kids and the dog and the cereal and the legos will all be running at full force in his world. And people like them, Earth's mightiest heroes, aren't necessarily programmed to run by the hours of the clock. But 9:30 seems reasonable, Clint thinks, for a friendly check-in.

Nat probably won't have set herself an alarm the previous night. Her ringer might not be on, either. But Clint has options. Text. Call. Video Chat.

Maybe he will offer to take her to Home Depot. Not to fix that stupid hole in the ceiling of the parking garage, though.

That's technically the job of City Works, but Clint thinks perhaps Tony Stark would enjoy the opportunity to hover in midair whilst applying nuclear-force caulk in an unfortunately phallic shaped airtight container to a concrete hole roughly the size of one's pinky finger.

No. After examining the hardware on her faucet, Clint will take Nat into town and buy her a water filter attachment. A gag gift, if anything, but he wants her to have one. Clint doubts the project will require glue; socket wrenches are more likely, and maybe a screwdriver, or some washers... But they'll hit up the adhesives aisle and pick something out. Even if it turns out to be extraneous.

Stupid? Who cares. Life goes on anyway.

#starbucks sunday #fanfic #sickfic #fanfiction #mcu #marvel #creedless assassins #clint barton #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #nat on fire #drug use #alcohol #emeto #self-induced vomiting #addiction #canon typical violence #death mention #mental health #hurt/comfort #mission fic

[aashi-heartfilia]

The hypocrisy of Jinshi and MaoMao

*light novel spoilers*

I just love how hypocritical MaoMao's nature is. She yells at Jinshi for being a 'Masochist' and yet we see that she's no different. Now, by definition Masochist is a person who drives sexual gratification from their own pain and humiliation, plus it relates to Jinshi's tendency to do self harm (like burning his skin with a brand)

And what is MaoMao's most favourite thing in this world?

POISON

She literally takes pleasure in consuming it and no one can convince me otherwise. Plus she uses dangerous plants and animals and snakes whatnot in the name of her so-called experiments. Her dad may call her a 'mad Scientist' but that is a direct indication of self harm.

And she calls Jinshi a Masochist.

I mean, think about it! The amount of anxiety she gives to Jinshi! She came prepared with a vomit inducing medicine but even she had no idea whether it would work or not. She was just hoping it would work in the salt chapter.

And the same goes for her hand, on which she has conducted countless experiments. One flower even burned her skin and its marks never left her skin. She said it was all for her hobby. What kind of weird hobby is that? Maybe, our little adorable mad scientist is just like that.

One brands his own skin, while the other takes heavenly pleasure in consuming poison.

So my point is, Jinshi and MaoMao are not that different as one might think they are and that's why their dynamic works so well.

Let's look at the excerpts from volume 5:

She didn’t know how long they sat that way. All she knew was that Jinshi was looking down at her with a faintly triumphant expression, as if he saw that the breath had reached every corner of her body now. He wiped away the tears that had sprung to her eyes as she struggled to breathe. It was then that Maomao felt a flash of intense anger. “I said that if you were going to kill me, you should do it with poison,” she told him. “I refuse to let you poison yourself,” Jinshi said, his fingers tracing her lips. “You can’t pretend you didn’t know that you were one of the candidates. As much as I’m sure you’d like to.” He wasn’t done, either: “Who was that man, anyway? I’m sure you’re not a dancer.” So he had been watching them! “I was just paying for my drink,” Maomao said. “It didn’t cost much.” She tried to look away, but with his hand on her head, she really couldn’t.

Jinshi just choked her and yet he refuses to let MaoMao poison herself. A lot of people misinterpret this scene, and don't like it all that much, saying it was just fanservice stuff but this is how I see it: Jinshi wasn't trying to kill MaoMao, he was just trying to make MaoMao submit to him for once (even if the way he did it was very wrong, but guess he's kinky like that). MaoMao is actively trying to harm herself and Jinshi loves MaoMao a lot, he cannot just let her kill herself.

It was more about him trying to exert his dominance in their weirdish - complicated relationship and that also backfires on him as we see in the next volume that MaoMao escapes Jinshi's grasps using Pairin's techniques.

And then they both continue to avoid each other in the entire next volume! Because they both realised that they have crossed boundaries.

They both are hypocrites.

And they both refuse to accept their feelings.

In one of the later volumes, she gives Jinshi a piece of her mind on how he should tell her everything clearly, unequivocally, what he feels, and he literally declares that "he will make her his wife", which is nice and all but look at the wording MaoMao used here....

Excerpts from LN Vol 7, chapter 19 called "A man and a woman play the game"

"You’re forever telling me I need to use my words, Master Jinshi, but are you in any position to criticize? Everything you say to me, everything you do, it’s like it’s calculated to save you from ever having to actually say what you mean! To make me figure it all out! You know, you remind me of someone. You act exactly like a man who used to come by our brothel all the time. He was in love with one of the girls, but he would never just come out and say it. He thought it should be obvious from the way he acted. He was so sure he had a good thing going with this woman that he never sent her so much as a letter. I remember how forlorn he looked when someone else swooped in and snatched her away! He kept coming to the brothel after that—to get drunk and whine to the ladies. Well, in my opinion, he could have avoided all that heartbreak if he’d told the woman how he felt. Clearly, unequivocally, so that she knew where they stood. It was the least he could have done!”

Everything came out in a torrent. She felt like she’d said it all in one breath. It was strange, she thought, to hear so many words come out of her own mouth. She was mystified. Jinshi was no less startled, but the shock soon left his face, replaced by something else. He got up off the bed and stared down at Maomao.

Shit. Now I’ve done it. She’d given him a piece of her mind, and he was about to give her one back.

“So I should be clear, should I? Unequivocal? I should say what I mean? If I did, would you actually listen to me? Is that what you’re telling me? I’m going to hold you to that! Right this minute. I’ll say it all. Don’t plug your ears—listen to me!” He grabbed her hands as she was in the process of trying to put her fingers in her ears. He took a breath. He was looking at Maomao, but somehow he seemed almost embarrassed. Finally he managed, “Now listen to me, y—I mean, Maomao! Listen close! I am going to make you my wife!”

It's one heck of a chapter and I suggest you give it a go! The title of the chapter says "A man and a woman play the game" as if to emphasize the very fact that both Jinshi and MaoMao are playing the game.

Jinshi has never confessed his true feelings before this chapter and only implied that he wanted to make MaoMao his wife.

The implications were heavy though on Jinshi's part, and as smart as MaoMao is, anyone would have guessed that MaoMao was one of the candidates for Jinshi's consort. Even the clothes she received (the ones she wore to the banquet) were also provided by Jinshi along with the hairpin. It is never stated outright but seeing as the hairpin was from Jinshi, the clothes are also implied to be the same.

More or less she's always deliberately ignoring the possibility of having anything to do with him, that is more than professional. Some may call it denial, I call it dense. Maybe, to some extent, she herself is not aware of her feelings because she never lets herself feel anything.

Even Suiren pointed it out pretty early in the manga, that maybe it's MaoMao's way of being reserved. We need to keep in mind that MaoMao is an unreliable narrator and it's more of what she does, rather than what she says that makes a difference.

Even in the chapter that I have quoted above, she had every reason to leave Jinshi, she wasn't working for him after all. But she stayed to make tea for him, even after the fact that she had a long day too. She was almost just as exhausted as Jinshi and yet she was there preparing medicinal tea, so that he could get a better sleep.

Maybe she herself is yet to realise just how deep her feelings run. Till vol 12 she seems to have accepted them, but she still is yet to acknowledge their depth. Maybe it's because of her childhood.

It's not a traumatic backstory but MaoMao had a sad childhood nonetheless....

She was raised by her grand uncle and her real father was eccentric, who scared her. Her mother must also appear to be kind of demonic to her, since she was desperate enough to cut MaoMao's Pinky finger and send it to Lahan. So it's safe to say that MaoMao never received proper parental affection. And adding to the fact that, a brothel is not exactly an ideal place for raising a child.... especially when the birth of MaoMao was the one thing that brought the brothel to its knees...even if being born wasn't her choice.

Plus MaoMao stated it herself that when she was a baby, no one would come to sooth her until their work was finished, implying that even if MaoMao and her brothel sisters are close, they are not that close. A mother's love is different and she never received it. No one can love you more than your mother and MaoMao was deprived of that. She soon realised that no one was coming. Life is hard and she has no choice but to face it!

So, she got interested in poison.

Maybe she doesn't love herself or her life as much as she says / pretends she does. She's always like "yeah, I would very much like my head to be with my body" and "if I stay low profile maybe I can survive here" etc but maybe deep down that's not the case. Maybe that's why she loves poison so much. The implications are crazy.

And to break MaoMao's shell, Jinshi has no choice but to be a bit more forceful at times? At least that's how I interpret that choking scene. Jinshi was angry at MaoMao because she deliberately suggested him to marry consort Rishu and danced with Rikuson.

Even if Jinshi never said it outright, he was giving hints the entire time.

But well the tables turned and MaoMao topped him instead, lol (vol 7) and later we even see that our little stray cat has accepted Jinshi and she's ready to be in a relationship with him (vol 12).

Plus she is intrigued by the process of birth (she wants to eat her baby's placenta, it's kind of uggghhh.... but anyways, that MaoMao we're talking about, she's just weird that way)

Maybe not after too long she'll realise that if she has to give birth, she can only have it with Jinshi and no one else.

~Sunshine

#maomao #kusuriya no hitorigoto #kusuriya no hitorigoto manga #jinshi #jinshi x maomao #maomao x jinshi #the apothecary diaries #the Apothecary Diaries manga #tad manga #kusuriya no hitorigoto spoilers #manga #anime #spoilers #kusuriya no hitorigoto light novel #kusuriya no hitorigoto LN #the apothecary diaries anime #shoujo #shoujo couples #seinen #aashi animetalks #aashi heartfilia #mao mao #mao mao x jinshi #mao mao x reader #mao mao tad #maomao kusuriya no hitorigoto #light novel #kusuriya anime #shoujo anime #shoujo anime couples

[hotpinkstars]

same bitch who requested the last wrio pregnancy stuffs but I need more and I'm like kinda in love with your writing so I want to request MOREEEEEEE anyways how he deals with reader third trimester (WRIO DOTING ON U CUS UR SO ROUND AND CUTE AWEEHFUREILFRUEIWHFCIR) anyeyss thanks for listening ily nova

-> third trimester

synopsis -> wriothesley during ur third trimester of pregnancy. self explanatory

a/n -> anon ur my spirit animal i love ur energy (and u 😉) but anyways i could write so much more lmk if anyone wants a part 2

warnings -> pregnancy, lactation and vomiting mentions, besides that pure fluff

w/c -> 1.6k

he doesn’t know how to feel the moment you tell him you’re officially in the third trimester of your pregnancy. it all went by so fast, he thinks it was just yesterday you called him into the bathroom to look at the small test that changed your lives in the greatest way possible.

and now, you were almost finished growing your daughter. anyone who even took a glance your way could certainly tell that you were having a child, and it’s certainly the dukes. 

the women of the fortress have been keeping tabs on you and your pregnancy, awaiting the day you walk with your baby in your arms instead of in your stomach. they’re so nice to you, so wriothesley allows you to wander sometimes because of it. they’re always willing to make you comfortable and give you some of the nicest labor-inducing teas they can find.

now, this is around the time he’s likely going to take a work leave, or just not work as often. his job requires his undivided attention, and he has to be flexible and able to be there in case a tragedy, like the seal breaking, were to occur. (hopefully not, because he still thinks about how he’d get you out of the fortress in time. you’re unable to run and you can barely walk at a quick pace, leaving him nervous and clueless a lot, considering your living quarters were connected to a door in his office). 

besides that, your life is pretty good, despite how uncomfortable you feel all the time. you ache everywhere, and sleep is simply not a thing that comes by often anymore. so, these are the moments wriothesley is able to step in and make sure that you’re content and as comfortable as you possibly can be. 

the main thing he needs to do for you is help you stand, considering that it’s incredibly hard for you now. you can do it of course, but it’s too much effort and you always either stand and immediately sit back down due to how winded you feel, or you just don’t try at all. wriothesleys strength comes into hand in these moments, almost making you fall forward due to how quick he pulls you up (the first time he did it, it actually happened. he caught you in time, but it left you laughing and him just there like “i almost just killed you sweetheart” and worried). 

he’s so the type of husband to barely wake up when you scoot yourself out of bed to use the restroom, and him behind you giving you a little boost to get up before going right back to sleep. he’ll try to keep consciousness while you’re out of bed, in case you fall or something happens, but as soon as he sees you re-enter the room he’s out once more. 

the only times he genuinely wakes up at night is when you frantically shake/tap him or you’re crying. if you’re crying, he’ll sit up and turn on a light (if you want) and try to ask you what the problem is. if it’s just a cramp or if you’re just achy/not in the right position, he’ll massage you or help you reposition the pillows to ensure your comfort. 

and when it comes to you walking up his offices’ stairs? he’s incredibly paranoid about it, but he’ll try to not make it known. you had to tell him multiple times to settle, that the railing was enough to keep you on your balance, and that you were just pregnant, not paralyzed. he’ll still try to meet you down at the door to help you up the stairs, especially when you’re at your biggest point. he’d be anything but calm and composed if you were to take a tumble down them (he would have a heart attack on the spot). 

and oh, would that man dote on your belly. you’re just so adorable, how could he not? especially when you’re curled up on the couch in his office with a luxurious sherpa blanket and the roundness of your tummy under the cover is very evident. usually, he won’t be able to help himself and would lay down next to you, his head lightly propped up on your stomach or on the side of your body. on the occasions he falls asleep, you stroke his hair, reading whatever book in his office that has piqued your interest this time. 

he’s also a tease. sometimes. he’ll walk past you and gently brush a part of his body against your belly, usually his hip or his hand. but back to the point, he’ll rub it, massage it, hold it up to take off pressure from your back and pelvis, and cuddle it! you’re not gonna be pregnant forever, so he sees this as a chance he can’t waste. only if you’re comfortable with it, of course. if not, then he wont proceed. 

this man loves tea, so there's no surprise when he brings in a tea that he’d read induces labor, or at least makes for a smoother one. he honestly probably has so many of those types, presenting you the box and allowing you to choose which one you’d like this time. seeing your eyes sparkle and your fingers wiggle as you choose your tea of choice always makes his heart soar in adoration. 

and back on the tea thing, he’s on all of the times said book told you to have it. he’s always giving it to you right on the dot of the hour unless something else more important has taken his attention (which isn’t much, unless he’s in a meeting or something really bad has happened in fontaine/the fortress). 

he’s also one of those husbands who secretly makes an important note in his brain whenever you have an ultrasound or any sort of baby appointment coming up. he wouldn’t miss one for the world- even though it's one of the little things, it means a lot to the both of you when he shows up alongside you, and shows the world how devoted of a husband he is to you. cue clorinde in the corner taking care of his work for him during the hour that he’s away. 

like i said in my last post, his massages are incredible! usually, he’ll get the memo, and right when he gets home, he’ll set you in between his legs before rubbing the soreness out of your back, hips, shoulders, neck, foot, and calf. 

he likes to make those moments last longer, and makes him feel good if you feel good. sometimes he’ll add a little kiss to the top of your foot or along your shoulders when he’s done, making you giggle a little before going on about how he has no need to be so formal (in which he counteracts by saying something cheesy about his love for you to make you laugh once more). 

he hates seeing you in pain, and especially hates it when he hears you cry about how exhausted you are. no, not that he hates when you cry, he just hates that you have to do this all alone. obviously, he is there to give all of his support and more, and would carry the baby for you if he could, but he can't. and he knows you’re exhausted, but his issue is that there is nothing for him to do to help you feel at least a little better. he understands that it’ll come when the baby is born, and he’s already told you how for the first few weeks he’ll do anything and everything to care for the baby while you catch up on your hard-earned rest. 

another great thing about him is that he pays no mind to things such as lactation, vomiting, etc (i have genuinely seen men who make fun of their wives for things such as that out of their control). he recognizes that its just something that happens, and its normal in pregnancy, and he won't get mad at you if any of these things happen while you’re wearing his clothing, either. considering you dislike maternity clothes, you’ve been wearing his shirts lately, resulting in milk stains in some of them. you’re over here apologizing profusely while he gives you a soft lecture on how he understands that it's not your fault, that it's out of your control. because he also knows for certain that if this was something you could control, you’d choose to not have it happen. 

this guy is clingy at night, so when he realizes that cuddling you is kind of out of the options, either due to your absolutely obnoxious, in his words pregnancy pillow, or your belly is in the way, he’s certainly not thrilled. but he finds a way, which is usually just spooning you from behind or bringing your head to his chest. the first time you two did the second method, you felt embarrassed, due to your tummy barely even being able to fit the gap between you and his hip, but as time went on, you just didn’t care anymore, literally laying like half on top of him. not like he cares either. thats what he wanted you to do in the first place. 

and in the times your so so clingy, wanting to just lay flat on top of him and forget about everything and just be in the warm, strong embrace of your husband, he’s even more crafty! usually uses the side method once again unless you quite literally find a position that’ll make you as close as you possibly could be to him. sometimes it’s incredibly uncomfortable, but if it makes you happy and safe and content, he won’t fight it. just know that this might be the only time you get to do that very position with him. 

overall, mans is a great fucking husband during your pregnancy, always super patient with you and would never shame you for things out of your control. you know he’s so so soft for you and you love him so so so so much.

#genshin impact #genshin #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin fluff #genshin x reader fluff #wriothesley #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley fluff #wriothesley x reader fluff #wriothesley x you #wriothesley x y/n #genshin impact fluff #cw pregnancy

[sanemisstalker]

NSFW // KNY characters that are serial humpers. There's nothing they won't rub themselves on for just a small chance to get off.

CW: GN Reader/ Both Genitals reffered to/ specific CW will be before each character so you can peruse as you see fit.

Karaku

Object Of choice : Anything and Everything.

CW: Genital Mutilation (he gets curious, no scene), Dub-con/Non-con, Somnophilia.

-While I think all of the Clones have a bit of a problem keeping it to themselves, I think Karaku, being, you know, the pleasure clone, is most certainly a cum chaser.

-He can barely keep his hand out of his pants in public, all but physically refuses to hide his boners, and, worst of all, you can't keep underwear in one piece, on, or even around.

-This man is disgusting. The only difference between him and the others is that he's unabashed about it. You'd think the honesty would help, but it just doesn't. Not after he's torn through your last set of undergarments and now what?

-'So what? I don't wear anything- eh? What do you mean it's digusting?!'

-He's so proud about it too, it's almost disheartening.

-Is not gentle with his dick. It can just regrow, I'm sure he's done- awful things to it.

-I think that pleasure thing comes at a cost. It's a signifier of Hantengu's lack of impulse control. Karaku probably can't stop himself, even if he wants to, which he never would because lusting is his only purpose.

-Everything is made to read as innately sexual to him- doesn't matter if it's your fist or a cheese grater- He's experimental with his nerves to a self destructive degree.

-'I didn't intend to cut it off- no! I saw a photo of a man that flayed it o- Hey! It's not that bad! Just liste- It'll fix itself soon!'

-I don't know what else He'd do other than jack off, or try and convince the other clones to jack off. I don't think he has- hobbies?

-Definitely tries to hump you in your sleep. If you don't wake up to him jerking off, you're waking up to him trying to slip between your thighs.

-'I just got horny- no no- just go back t- hey, no, you're not allowed to leave? Come back! Y/N!'

Aizetsu

Object of Choice : Your thigh

CW: Severe Depression / BDSM Dynamics (Severe degradation, both self and inflicted) (Aizetsu receiving)

-What a miserable fuck, he doesn't know what to do with himself half the time, so when he gets horny he just cries and begs.

-He's a manifestation of every awful thought Hantengu ever had in that big ol' head of his. Aizetsu just drips with the most gut wrenching, vomit inducing level of self-hatred you've ever seen anytime you're intimate.

-you begin to wonder if being talked down to appeals to him more than he'd like to admit.

-He's like a dog when he asks, because, at the end of the day, he's still Hantengu, a selfish bastard who self serves. Aizetsu just doesn't have the joy receptors for it- his nerves jump at the bud for any impulse they can fufill.

-When you let him ride your thigh, because he's pathetic, and he looked so... him asking, it became his favourite thing. Ever.

-When you two are alone, he'll just beg for it out loud. He has no self respect. So much shame that he'll never conquer.

-'Please, please- Y/N- I- I'll do whatever you want me to. You're the only person I can do this with, they'll all- laugh at me- please please- I'm sorry, I know, I'm- God I'm worthless- I can't do anything in return, nothing will be good enough-'

-he's practically jerking himself off on your calve as he spews his self hate. You might as well give in.

-When you're infront of the other clones, he'll tug at the edge of whatever you're wearing. They all toss him hauty looks. They're disgusted by him, too. He likes humping your thigh more than his dignity infront of his fellow cluster, I guess.

-Maybe he's... a bit of a.... a lot of a masochist. You stare at him like he's dirt, there. He's a grown man humping your thigh- drool spilling out of his mouth.

-'I'm- I'm sorry I- oh god- please don't hate me- please don't hate me- please please-'

-'You're pathetic. You can't make me cum, but you have no problem mak- did you just cum again? Are you cumming right now? In your pants?... Are you serious?'

-You could easily have him wailing in minutes, maybe even seconds if you hit the right nerve. And the whole time he'll just be thrusting away, chasing his own pleasure against your skin because that's all he knows how to do.

-Push him off right as he's cumming and ruin his orgasm, he doesn't deserve to feel good (The abuse will just make him cum harder)

Kaigaku

Object Of Choice: You.

CW: Mention of Trad Wives

-Listen, I know we have a lot of Kaigaku haters in the crowd. I, however, see a man with a choker, and I see a potential slut. Give him his moment.

-I think Kaigaku would be a very selfish lover, obviously, but I don't think this is in natural capacity for him. I think he's like, brainwashed by societies standards of what attracts him, especially in a relationship.

-You know when you see a 'sigma' guy that's really upset his trad wife who he specifically picked out for being trad won't do anal? That's Kaigaku.

-So he's really, really upset when you won't put out.

-You see a chance, though. A chance for a life lesson.

-Kaigaku is allowed to fuck you... just not really fuck you. He's allowed to use your hand. He's allowed to use your thighs. He can rut in between your pussy lips/ up and down your shaft-

-He is not allowed in you. And it lights him up.

-'Thats a stupid rule! You think I'm not enough? Are you fucking someone else? Are you making fun of me?!' He'd probably try to insight a screaming match for a week, but you just won't give in-

-Fine. Whatever. He just won't touch you, won't talk to you- won't-

-The first time Kaigaku slides in between your thighs, he swears he sees stars. It'd been weeks... probably the longest he's ever held off on an impulse. Hadn't jerked off either, He'd been too pissed.

-Its there, in that little space between your sex and the top of your thighs, that Kaigaku finds God. At least he thinks it's god. It's got to be. He's never cum so hard in his life.

-Kaigaku becomes almost... willingly obedient. He continues to pretend he's so inconvenienced by the whole thing, but then he's sliding into your fist, and the world is just sliding away.

-I have a very specific image of standing infront of him, and him trying to angle his dick to slide in your underwear. He's really awkward, and he's struggling to stay upright because he's got to bend his knees to meet your cunt/cock- and it's just not working, but that's the only way you'd let him get off on you that day-

-It like, kind of gives me the ick thinking about him doing it, but also like- Aw? He'll literally do anything to get off now? You broke him?

-'I can't- it- it's too hard-' He'd mumble, voice sounding particularly defeated. 'I just- I want to cum-'

-'Too bad.' You'd go to walk away, and He'd jerk off on the floor, pissed as hell. He wouldn't be able to cum and that'd just make him angrier, because now he has to go beg his partner, who he's whipped for, to please let him use their pussy/dick again-

-He's like, never been this needy before, though. He's not supposed to want to chase you. He's supposed to have people throwing themselves at him- It's kind of... exciting, to be denied.

-You know, guys that whimper are really cool, but idk, I think Kaigaku's a whiner. I think he whines and groans and it's really unsightly but??? There's something so appealing about it? Like, he's so big and strong and his ego is so inflated, and he's just toppling for you?

Enmu

Object of Choice : Your pillow

CW: Enmu / Crossing of explicit sexual boundaries.

-Listen, he's not right in the head. Enmu never claimed to be right in the head, either, but he's particularly fond of cumming on your pillow. Not just humping it, cumming on it. He doesn't really know why either.

-'It just feels right, I think.' He'd reason.

-'Do you want to- cum in my hair? On my face-'

'No, I want to cum on your pillow. It's where you sleep.' Thats the only explanation you get from him. He cannot articulate anymore.

-He doesn't even think about it when he's doing it. He's just got one leg hiked up on the bed, a thumb pressing the head of his cock into the plush, and he's just thrusting- almost blind.

-He doesn't ever remember the build up to getting there, or what in his brain is satisfied by doing this, but if he doesn't do it, something... off will happen, he's sure.

-You catch him, one day. You thought he was just cumming on it- no, he's got his full weight in his pelvis, pitching his hips forward with all his might. You didn't even know Enmu could physically do such a thing.

-He's not weak, obviously. He's a demon, but you all rarely have sex where he's the one leading, so it's a bit of a shock to watch him be so... rough with the fabric.

-He's almost in a trance, it's kind of scary, until he cums, and he covers his mouth with both hands, and his hole body shakes. The fucker knows he has to keep this silent...

-Maybe you're...Maybe you're not right in the head either, because you really, really want to be that pillow.

This might have a part 2, because i think Mitsuri would be prone to this.

#demon slayer x reader #demon slayer smut #kaigaku x reader #kaigaku x y/n #kaigaku x you #upper moon smut #upper moons x reader #kny smut #aizetsu x reader #aizetsu x you #hantengu clones x reader #karaku x reader #karaku x y/n #karaku x you #enmu smut #enmu x you #enmu x reader #kaigaku smut #karaku smut #aizetsu smut

[invisible-key]

This is my character Trey. He is a young man who is just getting into emetophilia thanks to his partner Brin.

#emetophilia #emeto art #male emeto #my kink art #OC: Trey #emetophilic character #self-induced vomiting #pink vomit