#fuck a respiratory infection man

[umbral-archives]

Kinktober 2024: Day 10 | Bondage + Heist

Rating: NSFW MINORS DNI

AFAB!Reader/Femme

Pairing: Heist Mark (Markiplier CU) x AFAB!Reader

Warnings: Bondage, Toys, Edging, Petnames, Overstimulation (kinda.), Daddy kink, My Markus (Heist) is a stinky mean motherfucker sometimes and in this essay I will-

Word Count: 989 words

Satin binds cling to damp skin, spiraling over your trembling body in secure fastenings. A work of art, if they weren’t currently impeding you from achieving an orgasm you’ve been fighting almost an hour for.

Your sweat does little to aid in attempts to get free, though you don’t have the energy to fight your way out of them anyway. Marcus had made sure to secure them properly, and you wouldn’t expect anything less from a master thief.

Your Master Thief.

You squirm against the restraints for the umpteenth time, flutily trying to rock down onto the dildo thrusting into you at a snail’s pace. Normally, Marcus likes to use the fucking machine he stole to rail you into oblivion, turning you into a mess floating in the depths of subspace… but tonight is different. So frustratingly different. Markus sits nearby, languidly stroking himself while watching you struggle. There’s a dangerous amusement in his eyes as he observes you, akin to a dragon watching a knight drown in their treasure hoard. He hasn’t cum either, content to edge himself despite the whole scenario being the opposite of his usual preferences.

What the hell did Illinois get in his head this time, the nasty fucker? “M-Markus-” you whine pitifully, trying desperately to get some kind of relief, “this isn’t- fair!” The thief chuckles softly, head lulling to the side as he groans. “I never said that I was fair, baby,” the fucker muses, his hand never stops moving, claiming the pleasure that should’ve been yours.

For some reason, that makes you angry- seeing him so free and capable to get off as he desires while you’re helpless and burning with need… so you decide to do something about it. Something you’re not supposed to do when he’s in control like this, but you’re so desperate that you don’t care.

Slight motion, rotating your hips with every thrust, concentrating on his noises while letting the satin rope knots strained across your cunt catch your clit with the movement. You’re terribly sensitive, so terribly sensitive- and it all becomes a mind-numbing spiral latching on to your pleasure, real pleasure peaking through the overstimulated edging-

Markus doesn’t notice, groaning- and the fucking machine suddenly speeds up, catching you off guard. You wail, suddenly so very close, babbling pleas while the intensity bounces your body across the table. At least it tries, the ropes straining against your skin, a pleasant burn that just adds up to everything else.

Markus calls your name, commanding you to look at him–and you moan helplessly when you do. He’s watching you fall apart, fisting his cock like he’ll die if he doesn’t get to cum with you. A fierce determination etches the lust across his face, dark eyes focused wholly on you, and you’ve never felt so…

Wanted.

“Daddy, please!”

… The dildo stops moving.

The fucking dildo stops moving right as you peak and you scream, teetering on an edge you somehow can’t reach. It’s worse than any other denial Markus has given you tonight, sending your head into a dizzying spiral as your body rebels.

Markus, however, groans openly, jerking bodily and cursing as he tumbles over that precipice, ropes of white covering his chest as he throws his head back. The sight is almost enough to ignite that fire, cunt clenching desperately around the toy as frustrated sobs finally bubble out from your throat.

Bastard!

He finally comes to a stop, panting heavily, gaze skyward. The only sounds in the rooms are his breathing and your frustrated gasps, the quiet hum of the turbine in the machine waiting for more instructions.

Markus looks down to his chest, to the tapestry of cum across his abs, then to you–red in the face, shaking, still grinding uselessly. Fluid covering your thighs, having dribbled down onto the table between your legs.

It gives him an idea.

The thief stands up, collecting some of the cum on his chest with his free hand, a new, feral sort of look in his eyes. It immediately makes you uneasy, thinking he’s going to make you lick the cum off his fingers or something. While you have no problem with that otherwise, right now?

“Y-You’re an a-ss-shole-” you sniffle out, blinking away tears as he makes his way toward you. Fucker just smiles, patting your thigh, stopping by your hips and pressing the button to disengage the arm. "Poor thing, all hot and bothered..."

He gingerly removes the dildo from your cunt, ignoring your oversensitive shudders. A quiet whistle is all you get from how red and puffy your poor hole is.

“Running out of lube…” he remarks nonchalantly, as if you haven’t been stuffed with that same toy for 30 minutes- but then.

Then the fucker takes his cum and rubs it along the dildo, collecting every last drop from his chest and smearing it across the toy. He even fucks his fingers into your abused pussy, smirking when you cry out and thrash on the table.

“Guess we’ll have to fix that, huh, pretty?” he coos, leaning over you and kissing your neck. “Can’t have you getting hurt from this.”

“…Motherfu-” You have no time to snap at him, however, finding yourself quickly filled with that same cum-soaked dildo–and the very thought makes you whimper.

Nasty fucker-

“You want to cum, baby?” he whispers, voice dripping with debaucherous promise. You shake your head desperately, trying to turn your head to look at him, pleading with every fiber of your being. His hand wanders down your stomach, remnants of his orgasm sticking to your skin. All the way down to your clit, where he presses his fingers against the knot over that sensitive bundle of nerves, making you keen. “Then you’ll cum. You’ll cum for Daddy until your brains are leaking out of your fuckin’ ears.”

The machine starts up again immediately after that, max speed, and all your thoughts are rendered null.

[muse-soup]

((I swear I've just been collecting status effects the last couple weeks. Every time I think I'm feeling better, some fresh nonsense rears its ugly head and wombo combos me into the floor. :P))

[deiscension]

Okay well I went and got sick with the most INSUFFERABLE sore throat/congestion combo which means my brain's flatlined. My muses are alive and well though, sooo if you'd like a small (small as in could be one line, could be a short paragraph) starter please like this! I might even serve up two-for-one since XL is coming back to me.

[fuck-customers]

A couple months ago I got a respiratory infection. After a couple days of feeling increasingly worse, I got concerned it might have been Covid, so I texted my team’s group chat and as many managers as I had the contact info for that I was going to get tested. The earliest testing appointment I could schedule at my local pharmacy was for 9:45 on a day I was scheduled to work at 10:30. I tried to find someone who could cover my shift, but nobody could (or would) take it. Thankfully the managers I spoke to were understanding and just asked that I let them know as soon as I got the results.

The day of my appointment, the one manager whose number I didn’t have CALLED ME shortly before the store opened. He said they were understaffed, and would I please come in early to help them open at 9am?

I figured he just hadn’t gotten the memo from the other managers, so I explained that I was literally on my way to get tested for Covid, and the pharmacy wouldn’t send me the results for a few hours (I’m a broke college student, so I couldn’t afford the Urgent Care visit for their fast tests).

His response was: “Oh. Well, we’ll see you at 10:30 then.” And then he hung up.

What the fuck, old man? I might be Covid-positive and you still want me to come in and interact with customers?

Thankfully the other manager on duty that day told me she would take care of it, and also told me to take the rest of the day off. (Also thankfully, it was not Covid.)

Posted by admin Rodney.

[cheriekos]

Hiiiii, this is a snippet of a SuperBat Hanahaki AU I wrote up - it’s a bit weird and I don’t really know if I’ll go forward with this. It’s in Poison Ivy’s POV (lmao don’t ask me how I got here) and I LOVE this but I think I would have to go with a different version of the story I want to write if I keep this. So I’m posting this here for posterity and whatnot and I’ll probably re-write aspects of this into an existing project later. This has been lightly edited and is not beta’d. Enjoy!

Ivy doesn't get a lot of visitors. She gets plenty of wayward children and adrenaline-seeking teenagers that really liked to push the limits on her patience and graciousness. However, that plea deal she made with the city kept her a short, short fucking leash. And despite how easy it is to flick her wrist, send thorns and vines and venom towards intruders and disrespectful punks - she likes having the greenhouse. She likes keeping Robinson Park evergreen and yes, her sordid, traitorous heart was kept alight when she saw the young kids of Gotham gently step over tree roots and gaze in awe at her azaleas. That all being said - she's not quite a people person. And most people aren't approaching her unless they have a masochistic streak running through them. 

"Ivy," grunts out the too familiar voice.

Ivy has a running theory that the Batman was, indeed, one of those people with said masochistic streak.

"Whatever mystery you're solving, I have no part in it," Ivy drawls, gently misting a particularly sad looking plant. She frowns. "You can check with your little Oracle - I'm sure she can scrounge up the camera footage somewhere. I've only been in my greenhouse." 

"I'm here on business."

"And I just told you - I had no part of that business," Ivy says, sharper. The plant - the Passions Vine, maypop, Passiflora incarnata - begins to bloom anew beneath her fingertips. "You can't implicate me in anything."

"I wasn't planning on it," He says, with a strange lilt to his voice. Her ears twitch.

She turns, only slightly, in order to look at him. He's as imposing as ever, more of a shroud of inky darkness than a man. The white of his lenses and the faint curve of his pale jaw the only real visible parts of him in the dim greenhouse, especially in the shadows where he liked to linger. It's a familiar sight, which gives her a faint burst of nostalgia. How disgusting. 

"Here on business, but not here to drag me off to Arkham?" She hums. "Color me intrigued. Do make it quick, though, you're interrupting my bedtime routine."

He only grunts. Ivy rolls her eyes, wondering how earth she found herself at the beck and call of this wretched creature. He finally steps under the blinking overhead light, awash in an orange glow. Without a word, he raises an upturned fist. When she arches a brow, he slowly unfurls his palm. 

Three petals. Yellow, slim, long - flecked with blood. Helianthus annuus. 

"Sunflower petals," Ivy remarks. Her eyes dart up to him. "But you already knew that."

"Yes," He says simply.

"Well, what do you need me for then?" Ivy asks, disdain coloring her tone. 

"These were collected from an individual who appeared to have an upper respiratory infection," He says. "All the symptoms of a standard viral infection were present - sneezing, coughing, congestion. After five days of a normal course of cold medicine, symptoms began to evolve that indicated a lower respiratory infection. After three days of worsening symptoms -"

"Get to the point." 

"The individual eventually coughed up these petals."

"...Excuse me?"

"The individual coughed up -"

"I heard you right the first time," Ivy puts her hand up.  "But what in the world could cause that to happen?" 

He curls his palm again, arm disappearing underneath his cape once more. "That is why I'm here."

Ivy blinks. "You thought I would know something about lower respiratory infections?"

"I assumed that, perhaps, in your tenure as an ecological terrorist, that this is a phenomenon you may have come across." He says, dryly. 

"I can't tell if you're trying to be funny or not."

He just hums. "Can you tell me anything about this?" 

Ivy stares, one part dumbfounded, and another part itching with the familiar sensation that comes with a near encyclopedic knowledge of plants and the urge to know and be right. How dreadful that the remnants of a competitive, perfectionist PhD student still lived within her bones somewhere. 

"One moment," She says, and turns on her heel.

He waits, patient, like one of the city's many faithful gargoyles. She sits on a sturdy leaf with a little thank you and calls other vines to bring her old books out to her workshop table. She flips through a folder with old articles on diseases and infections, but that path is not fruitful. She skims a textbook, a section on herbal medicine and quickly shoves it away with a dissatisfied as another set of vines brings out her laptop and lab instruments.

Her eyes shoot to him. "Come here." 

He moves, like shadow, like a piece of the night come alive. He hovers by the edge of the table, a curious tilt to his head. If she had any little bit of affection left, she would consider it adorable - he seemed like one of the many fruit bats that tried to nibble at her gardens. 

"The petals." She holds out a glass microscope dish. 

He shifts, then stops abruptly; there's an odd strain to his already grim face. If she hadn't known any better, she would've guessed he was hesitating. But the moment passes; he gently places the petals in her dish.

She adjusts the microscope, taking note of the regular aspects of the petals - protrusions she notes that are pollen tubes, the very odd cell structures - and briefly examines the blood specks. When she lingers too long on that aspect, her impromptu lab partner grunts disapprovingly.

"Do you have a problem?" Ivy asks, not taking her eyes off the microscope.

"Are they any irregularities with these petals?"

Ivy taps a green finger against the table. "Well, since you mentioned it - yes."

With a great of amount of self-convincing, she vacates her spot and gestures to the microscope. She can't tell what his eyes are doing under the mask but the air around him seems to fill with a general distrust. He looks into the microscope anyways; while he does, she motions for a come to pluck a petal off her own sunflower.

"Thank you for your service," She says to the little petal, and puts it into another dish. "The sunflower is a dicot, which means there are a number of expected cells within its makeup."

She switches the bloody petals for the standard one.

"Parenchyma cells, epidermal cells, xylem and phloem," Ivy waves her hand. "Things you would've learned in your elementary science class." 

"However?" He prompts. 

"However," She slides the bloody petals back in. "There is a mutation within these cell structures." 

"Elaborate."

"Don't make a fuss, I'm getting there," Ivy says, as if speaking to an impatient toddler. "Patience is a virtue, you know." 

Once more, he grunts. 

"Do you see the spiraling vessel next to the xylem? They look almost identical. The difference, however -"

"This one is filled with blood." 

"Not quite like a photosynthetic plant to absorb blood." 

"What does this indicate?"

"Right now? Nothing," Ivy turns to her laptops and begins a new file dedicated to this particular sunflower petal. "I don't have a definite answer for you on what this is or what it means - or why your little friend is coughing up petals."

He grunts - one of the ones that clearly signals his dissatisfaction. "How soon can we know what exactly this is?"

"You'll know when I know - which is whenever I feel like it."

"This could be life threatening, Ivy," He says, urgency in his tone. She could scoff; everything was so urgent with him. Now or never. Save the city, save the world and all that bullshit. "I'd advise you to not waste time."

"Yeah?" Ivy puts her chin in the palm of her hand. "I'd advise you to take that stick out your ass."

"Ivy -" He stops abruptly. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out in a world-weary kind of way that makes him seem less like a statuesque figure of nightmares - and something more like an old man. She blinks. 

"What would it take for you to...prioritize this?"

Let me out and let me raze the world in order to stare anew - and then that stupid, awful little voice that sounds suspiciously like Dr. Leland's comes in to grab her gently and say 'what can you change in front of you, right now?'

"Harley is out, but she's not allowed within Robinson Park," Ivy says. "Change the details of her pardon."

"You know I can't do that -"

"Bullshit," Ivy hisses, hands slamming against the table - and she feels it. The edges of her vision going green, how the smell of the poison in the very stems of the plants around her are present, how she could send the thorns of rose flying at his throat. How hungry her fly-eaters were for blood. It would be so easy. So easy. 

"Aw, sugarplum, just think of all the good things when the green gets too big! The smell of roses, lavender, or um...um - I dunno much about flowers. Or maybe me! I'm as comfortin' as a daisy, aren't I?" 

She breathes out. Slowly.

It would be easy. Getting freedom was not.

"That's all I ask," Ivy says, voice strained. "Just - let me see her. Somehow." 

He stands so still. It's irritating. She despises this - how desperate she feels, all the power he has, and the embarrassment of it all. There was a time when she would send him flying to the rafters, wrapped in her vines. The poisons, the toxins, the pollens - all of her knowledge and power dedicated to trying to knock down the immovable force that was the Batman. And now here she was. Bargaining with him in order to see the woman she loved. Pitiful. 

He shifts. His hand hovers in the air between them and she feels an edge of paranoia curl at the back of her mind. But then his hand settles, lightly, with his fingertips gently brushing her hand. It's...surprisingly gentle.

"I will see what I can do," He says. "

For a moment, Ivy thinks she can see his eyes. Behind the glare of those lenses, she thinks there's a human somewhere, underneath all of this. It makes something curl uncomfortably in her gut. But as soon as the moment has come, it is gone - and his hand is back beneath his cape. He's just a figure, a piece of the night, and the blight upon her existence. Familiar. 

She doesn't say thank you. She already doesn't like how much of her current existence is in due part to his relentless crusade against violence - and the repeating, endless cycle of it. She doesn't want to admit that within the many hands trying to pull her away from her endless spiral downwards, his was amongst them.

She just juts her chin out, vines curling around her shoulders. "Scram, Bats. I've got work to do."

For once, he decides to take the normal way out. She watches, intently, as he makes his way to the greenhouse door, and without so much as a look back her way, disappears into the night. When she finally turns away, back to her work bench, the blood specked petals are gone. 

[loderlied]

fuck this respiratory infection man leave me alone get off my damn porch and get a job while you’re at it

[cosmossystem]

“i got covid :(“ man if only there were some way to prevent that… some way to perhaps prevent covid from infecting your upper respiratory system… some way to shield your face from it, even….. huh i wonder whose fucking fault it is that you caught a preventable disease……

[asteraceae-blue]

I am truly horrified to find out what Covid has done to our bodies over the next few decades. I’m the first to say personal anecdotes are not evidence, but ever since my second Covid infection I’ve had extreme sinus infections with every cold and now I’m on long term asthma treatment with this most recent upper respiratory infection. I’ve never had asthma in my life. Fuck this, man.

[goth-oatmilk-latte]

partners job is mad at him for rescuing the kitty. this is like a 10 week kitten that just ran up to him, completely soaked from the rain, hes sick (vet said its just a respiratory infection and not fiv/fip), and really skinny...and they told him they knew it was there and just kept putting it back in the treeline...like???? how can yall not care, little man was begging for help. but theyre mad bc he pulled up and left (kitty jumped in his car so he came back here to bring him so he would be safe) like he recognized the cat needed a vet of course he left and helped??

shitty fucking humans, i hope when yall are sick and need medical attention people ignore you. this is a whole baby cat, the fuck.

[thateclecticbitch]

Fuck this shit man (is having ANOTHER upper respiratory infection).

[thefactsofthematter]

kath’s wwi au - some details

spoilers below the cut if you haven’t read it! here it is btw 🤫

ok sooooo @roideny wanted to know who lives/dies, and i have basically nothing to do at work today so i’m here to deliver!! this is so fucking sad y’all

jack: as we know from the first fic, he unfortunately dies of septic shock due to an infected wound </3 he was a captain in the army and bravely led his company til the bitter end

davey: survives! but with all the trauma that an army doctor could possibly endure. poor thing saw jack for the first time in a decade while operating on him, and then had to watch him die. im sorry about it but im also not.

kath: sincerely tries to go overseas as a war correspondent but unfortunately being a woman in wwi didn’t allow that. she’s married to davey in this au, so she ends up using his letters home as a firsthand source for articles about the horrors he sees in the field hospital

race: survives, honorably discharged with severe burns and a case of shellshock (which is actually a traumatic brain injury in his case) after being caught in an explosion. he makes it home, but he’s never quite the same

crutchie: survives, safely at home in nyc! i think he’s married and settled down, and he works a nice little desk job at a newspaper or a library or something. he wishes he could do more for the war effort, but he’s secretly grateful that his disability came in clutch and meant he didn’t have to go overseas

spot: also safe at home! he works in the navy yard pier, building ships - he wanted to enlist with race, but he’s got a bad back and was ineligible to serve. he takes very good care of race for the rest of their lives <3

albert: loses an arm, but survives. he’s a very good sport about it, especially when he runs into both davey and race in the hospital! he considers himself very lucky, bc he’s got a wife and kids to get home too - the man can balance a baby and a bottle in one hand like nobody’s business

finch: survives a major gas attack in the war, but ultimately dies of influenza later on - the mustard gas totally fucked his lungs, so when the 1918 pandemic comes along, he’s just too vulnerable to the respiratory symptoms

elmer: my poor baby…. he’s the first familiar face davey sees in the hospital, and he dies on the operating table. he got shot in the trenches and was lucky enough to make it to the hospital, but he’d already lost too much blood.

others that weren’t mentioned in the au:

- i think specs and romeo both die. sorry kings. jojo probably does too.

- buttons lives! for the sole reason that he’s one of my fav background newsies so i refuse to kill him. i feel like he’s one lucky mf and narrowly avoids a million different injuries, making it home pretty much unscathed

- is that everyone?? idk i haven’t brushed up on all the characters in a while. so that’s all ive got! if anyone’s fav blorbo isn’t on here, go ahead and consider him alive <3

[nehswritesstuffs]

Baratie: Home to Chefs, Strays, and the Occasional Sword Goblin - Part 1

I am currently obsessed with the idea of Sanji being a good dad/uncle/parental figure just on the fucking fly and I feel like you can’t really have enough of that sort of fic out there.

3196 words to start, as this is going to be a few chapters at the least; I know who the unknown element is but I left it purposefully ambiguous, so go ahead and fill it in how you want (or try to guess—that’s up to you) it makes no difference to the story; so much of this is just my self-indulgent good parenting postulating so if you don’t like that I’m sorry but this ain’t the fic for you; I am directly pulling my image of Sanji at this point in his life from the Shokugeki no Sanji side story, and I ain’t sorry

Baratie: Home of Chefs, Strays, and the Occasional Sword Goblin: Sanji puts his search for the All Blue on hold to return to the Baratie and help out Zeff, because when Patty and Carne bother to write him, he knows it's serious. What he doesn't know is that he's going to find something out on the deck one night that will not only change his life, but make him face emotions that have been stewing for longer than he'd like to admit.

He likes to think he's handling it well, but, hey, it's not like he's had the best of luck when his childhood enters the picture.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

There was still so much that he hadn’t done yet, things that he hadn’t achieved, so he really didn’t need a distraction. He had been gone for years, and yet… he had been pulled in once again. The blond’s leg bounced as he hunched over the desk, working late as he dove straight into the minutia of the Baratie’s finances. Sucking down his cigarette, he rubbed his forehead, trying to make sense of the old man’s system.

It was at least a worthwhile distraction—Zeff was sick. No, the shitty geezer wasn’t kicking the bucket yet, but it was enough of a scare that made Patty hold the codger down while Carne wrote their celebrated sous-chef a letter, telling him the news. The younger man arrived three weeks later, with one of the world’s best doctors in-tow. Chopper gave Zeff a thorough examination and ran a bunch of bloodwork, the wee reindeer giving the hope-infused diagnosis that it was merely an upper respiratory tract infection as stubborn as he was, and—given his age and occupation—he was to remain on strict bed rest until it cleared up.

The only problem was that the infection was rather advanced and recovery times were slow even for younger, more robust, less stressed individuals. This meant that bed rest was going to be for three months, minimum, with physical therapy for at least another five afterwards. The elderly head chef of a celebrated restaurant being out the better part of a year wasn’t entirely unheard of, yet it was certainly a thing when there was only one person he’d entrust the daily operations to, and that person was his twenty-seven-year-old foster son of questionable origins.

Thus, Sanji put finding the All Blue on hold, because if there was one thing the shit-geezer deserved in life, it was a good son.

It wasn’t as though he was really getting anywhere; he was starting to imagine that the All Blue wasn’t even in the Grand Line after all. What was another eight months? Year? He’d been dreaming of it for most of his life anyhow, so a while longer wasn’t going to matter in the end. The thing that mattered when all was said and done was how utterly fucked over the finances were. How much of the missing numbers were in the old man’s head and not down in the ledger?! He was almost nervous to find out. It was a far cry from back when they first started the place seventeen years prior, when he was the only kitchen help and the old man the only chef…

The cigarette burning at his fingers snapped him back to the office, letting him remember where he was. Fuck… it was late, and he needed some fresh air—the last thing he needed when Zeff was back up and wandering about was a peg leg to the face because he let the office smell of smoke. He left the paperwork where it lay and dragged himself out, climbing the stairs up to the residency floors and quietly finding his room. Going straight to the balcony, he let out another cigarette and stared out at the dark horizon, right where the stars and the sea met.

After years of being in the middle of chaos—whether it be the Straw Hats or Kamabakka—there was an odd sort of comfort that silence brought. It was never truly silent, as there was still the salty breeze in his ears and the gentle waves at the ship’s lower-most visible deck, but the sort of silence that the Baratie afforded him was something that he never knew he could miss until he did. Customers were full and satisfied, the kitchens clean, the staff resting for another big day, and the promise of more of the same. It was a predictable silence, a reassurance that things had an order, and that life was not truly governed by the Pirate King’s whims or the tenacity of those trying to capture him. He knew it well before, when he was just a kid, but he didn’t value it then as much as he did now.

Another long day was ahead of them—might as well get some sleep.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The ship was just beginning to wake as Sanji brought a covered tray up the stairs with him, heading straight to Zeff’s room. The blond lightly rapped his knuckles on the door, alerting the other man of his presence.

“Oi, you decent, ya piece of shit?”

“I would think that the term ‘decent’ is subjective,” was the growled reply. Sanji walked into the room and saw Zeff sitting at the table in the corner, sourly glaring out the window at the pale dawn. There was not much he could do other than sit there or sit in bed, and he’d prefer to not get crumbs in the sheets.

“You seem chipper.”

“You’d be too if you were stuck in here all damn day.” Zeff coughed grumpily as he watched as Sanji set the tray down and uncovered the food—fried rice for both of them. “You sure that reindeer knows what the fuck he’s talking about?”

“I have the utmost faith in Chopper’s diagnosis, and you should too,” Sanji reiterated, his answer well-practiced. “Don’t make me get him on the Den-Den—he will make the trip back from Sakura early just to beat your ass.”

“I’m quaking in my boot.” He accepted the bowl of rice and began to eat, watching as Sanji sat down and began serving his own portion. “Speaking of—hear from anyone else lately?”

“Not really,” he shrugged. “It’s mostly just been Chopper I’ve seen as of late. Most of the others are either too scattered to be reliable fonts of information or their updates are more rare.”

“Not even the ones who are from these waters?”

“Eh—Luff’s somewhere, though where exactly is a mystery considering no one’s been able to contact him since he wandered off after the wedding, Nami’s in the South Blue last I heard, and Usopp’s too busy raising an army in Syrup to do much else.”

“…and the mossy brat?”

“Marimo’s off doing… whatever the fuck he’s doing. I dunno.” Sanji shrugged; Zoro still wasn’t the world’s greatest swordsman, and the last time any of the crew had heard from him he was “going back to the beginning”… whatever the fuck that meant. Their relationship was strained anyhow… though the last thing he was going to let the geezer know was why.

“Nothing from your sister?”

A thick silence fell upon the room, one completely dissimilar from the silence Sanji had enjoyed the night before. That silence had been sweet and lithe, whereas this one was sour and heavy.

“No.”

“Huh… you’d think she’d want to at least write you…”

“Every letter she writes to me is dangerous, and you know this,” Sanji snapped. Zeff held up his hands in defeat—ever since the brat came clean about his origins, the topic was something of a sore point.

“She’s the only one of them worth anything, even if it’s not much in the end,” he defended. “Besides, I thought you’d read the papers.”

“If an article has the word Germa, I avoid it.”

“Then I’ll just let you figure it out on your own,” Zeff grunted. “Don’t come crying to me that I didn’t try.”

“You’re a sentimental old fool and it’s going to be the death of you,” Sanji warned. He shoved the rest of his fried rice in his mouth and scowled. “Do you have any requests for lunch?”

“Nothing too salty—feels like my arteries are hardening so fast it’s as though you’re trying to off me early.”

“You fucking wish.”

Once their breakfast was done and Zeff was set up with a book and a radio-snail, Sanji went back down into the depths of the ship to where the restaurant was really starting to hum with life. Varying chefs, waitstaff, and kitchen help were laughing and joking, eating breakfast, rolling silverware in napkins, bracing themselves for the day ahead. He deposited his tray and bowls in their appropriate spots, tied his hair back, and pulled on his apron—it was time to get going.

The Baratie kept busy all day long, with there being several wait-times for seating at varying points throughout the day. Fuck, Sanji knew he thrived on such days, putting out dish after dish with such precision and class that it would have been eerie in another establishment. Except there, at the world’s premiere floating restaurant, it was the standard. He even heard there were some in the crowd who were there specifically because they heard he was back from his travels, eager to get a taste of the world of culinary experience he had obtained.

“Don’t let it get to your head, you piece of shit,” Patty grimaced at the very idea. “Cook for one king and suddenly the kid gets uppity.”

“If we’re talking about kings in general, I’ve cooked for several, more if you make it just nobility,” Sanji fired back, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. Patty was tempted to throw the remnants of his tempura batter at him, but luckily remembered that the shitty sous could safely light himself on fire—not entirely the brightest plan.

…and so, the dinner hours came to a close and Sanji once again found himself sitting in the office huddled over Zeff’s papers. He knew everything balanced… somehow… but he needed to get a hold of how before they made their next dry goods run, and not even his royal education prepared him for whatever piratical bookkeeping he was currently faced with. He couldn’t even ask the geezer, or else risk him foregoing his bed rest in order to forcibly take back his restaurant, saying he knew his stupid little eggplant was still too young to take over…

Shit… he needed another cigarette; trying to frontload before heading into the office hadn’t worked as well as he’d hoped. He grabbed for the pack of smokes in his shirt pocket, only for Chopper’s disdainful pout to appear in front of him instead. The little doctor had long been after him to stop, to at least cut back as a meaningful step, and he tried thinking of other things he could occupy himself with. Baking? No—they had enough leftover from the day’s wares that would taste better after a night’s rest, and the fresh breads were all to be baked in the morning. Nothing needed cleaning nor fixing, as his current staff was very on top of all those sorts of things. Maybe a walk…?

Yeah, a walk around the ship’s outer deck might do him some good.

Not caring that he still had an apron tied around him or his hair pulled back, Sanji went out onto the front deck and sat crosslegged at the edge. It was the same calm, gentle silence from the night before, washing over him in an effort to ease his mind. There was no one else out there, allowing him to sit and relax, leaning back with his palms against the warm wood of the deck…

…at least, there did not seem like anyone else was out there, with exception of a tiny pinprick of Haki. Soon as he noticed it, Sanji took a quick note of the staff’s quarters—nothing was terribly out of the ordinary, and everyone was accounted for, meaning it wasn’t one of them trying to play a trick on him. He stood and walked over to the outer restaurant wall, pressing himself against it so he could see if he could catch sight of the lurking Haki source before they saw him. Whomever they were, they were very inexperienced to let themselves broadcast like that, and he was ready to (quietly, mind) kick the bastard out into the open ocean if they were caught and didn’t vomit out a legitimate excuse within fifteen seconds.

Easing himself around the corner, Sanji saw that the beat-up crate he and other smokestacks usually sat on for their breaks had been moved slightly. Ah-ha… there was the culprit. He crept closer to the crate, suppressing his own Haki to make sure it was a genuine sneak attack.

Except, sitting there on the other side of the crate, sleeping curled up in a pile of blankets, was a small child. It seemed not much older than five or six, though considering he didn’t have much experience with children, he would not have made a bet on it. Next to the child was a small bag, and inside was a rather plain collection of clothes, enough for a couple days. An envelope addressed to him sat at the very top, however, the sight of which made his blood run cold.

His sister’s handwriting.

“Fuck,” he muttered lowly. He placed the letter back in the bag and slid the straps over his arm as he gathered the sleepy bundle. Moving slowly and silently, he carefully carted the kid back inside. He put him down on the bench of a booth in the dining room; only then did he open the letter and read its contents, his face growing paler with each sentence.

‘My dearest Sanji,’ it read.

‘I need you to do me a favor—please take Asido for a while. No one else knows about him. His Lineage Factor is unaltered by Father’s hands, at least not any further than what I naturally passed on. I know you’ve seen news of my engagement in the papers—his existence would be cause for war. A break of the engagement I can handle (and would not even mind), but war is an entirely different story. Besides, I cannot bring him into the life we had as children, for once Father is gone, our brothers will take his place. I thought I could shield him until I can figure out how to run as you did… but… it is far too risky.

‘When I saw intel that you had returned to the Baratie, I was overjoyed since I know that means you finally found the All Blue. I knew you could do it. Don’t let anyone make you give up the location until you’re ready. Now that you are back at the Baratie for good, they are going to stop trailing you. The Baratie is now the prefect safehouse—stable and minor enough to not need investigation, with the threat of your presence keeping Father from becoming too curious otherwise. He can be out of sight right under their noses.

‘I am so sorry, and I will be in contact soon as I can.

‘Love,

‘Reiju’

Sanji sat there for a moment, letting all the information wash over him, both what was written and what was horrifically implied. His sister had a child out of wedlock, which wasn’t that big of a deal if the parents weren’t royalty, but not only was she still very much royal, but she was also, apparently, one half of the most high-profile wedding of the year, if it had made the papers. None of that even touched the fact she had kept the child a secret for years, avoiding four of the biggest bastards-in-the-attitude-sense either of them had ever known, and was now at an impasse.

His biggest question was, however, glaring to the chef: where the fuck was the father?

Well, obviously, not in the picture, since she wrote that no one else knew about the kid, but he thought this could be a potentially crucial point where the sperm donor learned he was victorious at the whole reproduction thing and take some fucking responsibility…

“Huh… Mom…?”

Sanji looked up and saw that the kid was now awake. One hand clutched the blanket around him while the other rubbed at his hooded purple eyes. His hair was shaggy and brown, just long enough to start hiding the fact his eyebrows curled slightly at the same end his did. The boy stared at Sanji, the already-quiet restaurant growing silent.

“You’re my uncle,” the child observed, the North heavy on his voice. He pointed at his own eyebrow, as though it was evidence. “Where’s Mom?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Sanji said. He watched as the child pulled his knees up and wrapped himself entirely in the blanket, the only bit of him visible being his face. “Did you know you were coming here?”

“…no.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Mom said we were going on a trip. It was pretty fun, but…” The boy chewed on his lip and shivered. “I don’t remember how I got here.”

“I found you sleeping out on the deck,” Sanji explained. The boy began to sniffle, breaking his uncle’s heart. “Hey, don’t do that. You’re okay.”

“Where’s Mom…?”

“I don’t know—her note didn’t say,” he only half-lied. “You’re gonna stay with me until we know what’s going on. If I know my sister, she’s not going to leave you alone for long, nor would she leave you alone with just anyone.” The boy nodded, though his wet eyes suggested he was far from fine. “Asido?”

“Yeah…?”

“You hungry?” Another nod. “Right; let’s have Uncle Sanji get you something to eat.” Sanji stood and picked up the bag, holding out his other hand towards his nephew. Asido shuffled out from the booth and took his hand, allowing himself to be led to the back kitchen. Fuck—he was built the same as him, all limbs and angles that he’d yet to grow into or know what to do with. As the kitchen doors gently gave way, the boy’s eyes grew wide at the sight, making the adult chuckle.

Before long, the blanket-clad Asido was sitting at the small break table with a plate of omurice and a glass of milk. He poked at the food with his fork, looking at Sanji warily.

“What’s wrong?”

“Are… are you gonna get in trouble?”

“I’m the one who yells at troublemakers in this dump,” Sanji chuckled. “Now eat up—we do our best to not waste food here.”

The boy nodded and shoved a forkful of rice into his mouth. Once he chewed and swallowed, his eyes brightened and he began eating fast as he could, saving the milk to be guzzled down last. He looked up at Sanji in wonder.

“Can you teach me that?!” he gasped.

“Cooking? Maybe in a few years, if your mom says it’s okay.” Sanji watched as Asido’s face then fell—oh, yeah, that was right. Fucking hell, Reiju. “Well, how about we clean up and get you to bed, alright? It’s gonna be an interesting day tomorrow.”

Asido nodded and allowed his uncle to help him down from the chair. He stood patiently as he watched the dishes get quickly washed and set to dry, allowing the man to pick him up and carry him up the stairs. The boy was asleep by the time his uncle was placing him down on the couch, a worried expression on the adult’s face.

What in the hell was he going to do?

[frogsandfries]

Go figure

Whatever was causing that windy weather has passed and I don't feel sore anymore. Man, my freaking spine and shoulders were feeling it. *To be totally fair, the noises the wind made against the house may possibly have been causing me unconscious tension. But most of the time, if I felt myself getting aggravated about the noise, I usually turned on music or a video.

That windy weather has passed, but it dumped a toooonnnnnnnn of rain on us--it rained from about seven or eight last night until at least about two or three in the morning when I finally went to sleep. I did sleep from about eight till eleven because now rain storms give me migraines.

We left one of the bins from the fridge out on the patio because it needed to be cleaned and it was already half-full of rain from last night. And then I put the dog outside and it started raining again....

I guess it's anecdotally known that when you make a significant move up altitude, migraineurs become more susceptible to weather based migraines, but I really thought if I ever moved back down altitude, that would go away. I never would have imagined it would get worse. Is it worse because Wisconsin is just more rainy? Would I have developed migraines to rainstorms if I'd stayed at this altitude?

Where I lived in New Mexico wasn't prone to these kinds of wind storms. In my experience, New Mexico just is windy. Which I didn't mind at all. I've always found Wisconsin just never had enough air movement for my taste. If I had to guess, I'm certain my back hurt from whatever weather front was causing the wind. Like, if there was maybe some other type of wind storm like the one we had these past few days, and maybe it ended with no rain for example, maybe it wouldn't hurt my back?

Anyway, I'm just full of ailments lately. I've been using nasal spray for my allergies and I'm getting hive-y again. It took longer and it's less intense, so I'll keep experimenting with it, but I really need a solution because my allergies kick off my asthma. If I'm having asthma troubles and it gets colder than the 50°Fs, I'm going to be more susceptible to a respiratory infection 🙄

I told you guys, Wisconsin is trying to kill me. I guess it's like when I lived away from my gene donors for three years and had convinced myself that I was overblowing the womb donor's abuse--although, to be totally fair, my Jesuit/Christian campus counselor kind of gaslit me. Anyway, when I moved back with my gene donors, I was a completely different person and I was like, cool we're all adults. If I treat her with respect, she'll respect me.

Fucking FALSE. She had a cute little plastic facade for a few days and then the abuse returned.

Anyway, after that, I vowed never to gaslight myself or minimize my trauma and the abuse that I actually endured at the hands of the one person in the world who is supposed to love you unconditionally.

So the point being, I need to leave Wisconsin and the Midwest as soon as possible and never live here again. Even if my sister doesn't like me living there alone. I liked living there alone.

Speaking of my sister, she's sleeping after work, but she wants to do housework later and I don't, so I better go upstairs and get some stuff done that I actually want to do before she's done sleeping.

[ratralsis]

Brief update

I haven't written anything long in a while because I haven't had a ton of time.

My latest writing class ended a few weeks ago. The course report I filled out wound up hurting my tutor's feelings so much that, even after I wrote multiple emails apologizing, she didn't want to continue tutoring me in the next class. I didn't think anything I wrote in the report would surprise her, but I was wrong.

It's what I get for trying to be honest. I wound up saying at the end of my apology email that they should either ask me for my feedback more often than one time at the end of the course, to avoid being surprised like that again, or not ask for it at all. I'll do the work either way.

Writing classes are hard work. I don't view them as supposed to be fun. I can write for fun on my own time. And I do. You have no idea how much I cracked myself up writing last month that showing a non-gamer a photo of Squall from FF8 would literally kill them, and that the UN is actually an organization devoted to wiping FF8 from the Earth. That's fucking hilarious to me, man. Love that shit. Didn't get a single note. Most of what I write doesn't. Doesn't bother me. It did bother me when that Doctor Worm story didn't get any notes. I've said that before, but it does still bug me a little. That was a good fucking story, and I don't care who says it isn't.

My cat, Tina, nearly died of some kind of nasal blockage or respiratory infection. For $65, she got a quick exam from a vet and some amoxicillin, and now, nine days after starting that (and with a couple of days left of the stuff to go), she seems much better. But she hasn't jumped or run to play with the cat toy in over a month. I think that her new normal will never be as good as it was even three months ago. That's life. The vet she's "doing great for her age." Her age is 89 in cat years. "Alive" is great. "Typical for her age" would be dead. It's like if you went to the gym and saw an 89-year-old woman walking on a treadmill going 3 miles per hour. "Wow," you'd say. "A twenty-minute mile? That's great for her age." But that's because most people who were born 89 years ago can't walk at all, because they're fucking dead. So are most cats who were born 18 years and three months ago, so, yes, Tina is doing great for her age.

I discovered a small leak in the roof of my garage this afternoon. I called my home insurance company and will hopefully have someone able to give me an estimate on what it will take to fix it soon so that I can determine if I need to make a claim or not. There have been multiple bad storms where I live recently, just like there have been literally everywhere on the continental US recently. Where I live has been pretty mild, comparatively.

I'm hoping it won't cost more than a couple thousand dollars to fix. I can afford that much, though it will hurt, a lot. I've been saving like crazy all year, and that will undo much of that saving, but it won't even put me as low as I was last year when I was literally begging for money on the internet.

It's been over two months since I said on my Animal Crossing blog that I would post my photos from Leap Day and the few days before it. I haven't done that yet, and that really does upset me. I try hard to be a man of my word.

I'm not talented. I'm not charismatic. I have very few innate abilities. There's only one thing I know how to do, and that's put in the work. I updated that Animal Crossing blog every day for nearly a decade, so believe when I say that 1) I know a fucking thing or two about a work ethic, and 2) I'm sorry I haven't posted those photos yet. It's been difficult to do much writing lately that isn't for my novel.

I had to throw away everything I'd been working on on the latest draft about three months into my last class. I'm still working on catching up. I have sixty days before the next class starts. I have ten chapters left to write before I can call this draft done. Can I do it? Of course I can. Who the fuck do you think I am?

But it means I don't have a ton of time to write for fun, or watch TV for fun, or play video games for fun, or anything for fun. Every night, after dinner, it's an hour of writing, at least.

It's not supposed to be fun. Even chess grandmasters, the ones who love the game so much that they become the best in the world, don't get that good by playing casually. They work at it. The only way to get to that kind of level is to work at it.

There's no such thing as good enough. There's better than the last thing, which is always possible, and there's perfection, which never is. That's all there is.

I'll be better later. Probably. I don't like to complain, so I try very hard to do it very rarely, but sometimes I go so long without saying anything at all that I think even complaining might be better than nothing.

Let me know if I'm wrong.

Let me know if I'm right.

Let me know anything at all. I don't like screaming into the void like this, but I sure have been doing it for over twenty years, haven't I.

[karmasaidurturn]

I learned of Intervention Mapping today.

Bare with me here:

I got diagnosed about 7ish years ago with HIV- thought god was punishing me for things I had done prior to then. So I chose not take meds.That led to AIDS in the hospital with a t-cell count of 24, crypto meningitis, pneumonia in both lungs and an upper respiratory infection. I had saved up money for open enrollment and payed for my own insurance and deductibles for a while till I got on Ryan White (god bless).

Nothing to be proud of, just saw meaning and thought i could help… eventually.

I knew then I still had issues. Mainly the mixing of sex and drugs. I knew that if I were to ever be in a relationship I would have to express these things upfront because of how detrimental it was to me.

Not because i wanted attention for it. Not because i wanted to come off as a “ survivor “.

(Pfft, survivor of my own mistakes maybe)

Truth is having HIV is no different than having to take an anti-depressant everyday. So I would vocalize it to try and change the stigmas and misinformation that’s perpetuated.

I learned to grow my own fungi ( exotics) and it was able to kick the habit for a while.

And that’s how/when I met my ex. I brought my lunchbox over to her friends and expressed that they helped me out of depression and drug addiction. They asked why depressed, so I told them the truth.

And would you believe that her dad ( who had recently passed) also had the damn diseases. Her receptiveness turn me into a pup in a matter of seconds. Not only was she beautiful but understanding and what seemed caring.

All false I now presume. See the very next day she told me very sternly that if we were to be a couple that I would have to stop being to vocal about it because of how it reflects on her. Only for the following week to say, “let’s show the world its possible”. Confused but I thought it was love.

Knowing first hand the shame that society tends to give I wouldn’t wish it on her. Mainly I heard “ we’re a couple”. I caved then. Lost track there and then.

Did I mention she is ten years older than me?

And in retrospect, with a chip on her shoulder.

Never would I have thought it was a set up by people who think they are doing good.

Intervention mapping - more tomorrow- I want to go do drugs and not take meds more so today than ever.

Bottom line: I was honest and upfront to people who under guise of “greater good” have with intention hurt me. Watched and mocked my suffering. Nothing will bring back your dead. It isn’t my fault you didn’t cherish them while you had them. Not my fault they chose not to wrap it up aswell.

You know I’ve been thru worse. You know I can admit my wrongs - even hold my own feet to the fire-no fleeing spaniard required-

What you call gold I wipe my ass with and If I were related to you I would’ve unalived myself aswell. Knowing your motivation to care is only to keep a false image of you alive.

“I’ve slithered with the snakes and soared with the eagles and everything in between. And I can tell you nobody likes a quitter. “- Randy Macho Man Savage

It seems you folks quit loving and caring long ago.

Do you even know yourselves? Emulating the same pointless tattoos and piercings. Afraid of making mistakes. Being wrong! Starting anything.

I’m broken because I gave it my all. If we weren’t meant to be codependent then we would all just go fuck ourselves and shit kids.

I love you all because you only further reassured what I already knew. We are all suffering and nobody wants to help one another. We ignore our own problems with trying to shame others of theirs.

You have become the “monsters” you are trying to prevent from existing.

For the record. Blood work done last week. I’m fine. Those herpes you got on that blonde kool-aid tasting pussy of yours- not from me.

I use my real name on here. I own everything about me. I don’t love it all but I don’t run or put on masks.

I know I can’t expect someone to love me until I love myself. You don’t even accept who you are and what needs to change. How can you possibly prevent anything? Do you even know the process of anything?

Intervention mapping is a business plan- not a solution. Take the money and run.

Wait till I tell you about the invasion of privacy-

I’m talking shell company in caymans. By-passing us law. Accessibility to and manipulation of services one pays for. Fake apps. Fake profiles. Literal redirects. Oh and in some cases privately founded and supported by states authority.

Meaning they thought I was infecting people and still the cops did not protect and serve. But it’s okay for our attorney general “conservative” to cheat on his wife and do favors for a campaign donor.

Let’s start mapping his intervention. Or maybe just be kinder to one another.

Mush love- because I can’t afford to hate any longer.

No Jesus required.

[ithisatanytime]

6SNOT - DAHMER (Official Music Video)

  the head of the FBI came out and “confirmed” that the origin of “novel” corona was a Wuhan lab leak. just a reminder this is total bullshit, its a complete fabrication, its just untrue. its false. its a red herring. every year we get some strain of viral upper respiratory illness, we monitor chinas flu season to try to make a prediction on which of the hundreds of viruses we classify as a cold or flu will go viral in the west for our flu season, this is the reason why flu shots are not one hundred percent effective, its a bit of a guessing game as to which strain of virus to mass vaccinate against. its sort of like being a record company and guessing which song of an almbum to make into a single. these viruses mutate constantly, otherwise they’d simply infect us all once wed gain immunity and that would be that, they constantly mutate. covid is one of these viruses, its common, it mutates all the time just like other common cold and flu viruses, and thats what happened in 2020 no bat soup or wuhan lab leak, corona just mutated as it does every single year, the only difference that year was an unprecedented media fear mongering campaign.

 china and russia comprise the two biggest threats to western jewish hegemony and they are neighbors and they are friends lol. the united states was running ops in china just prior to the covid outbreak, the cia was confirmed stirring anti ccp sentiment and trying to spark a civil war for hong kong independence i literally saw videos of what were clearly CIA operators giving lengthy and frankly bizarre speaches about hong kong independence on subway trains before being arrested and carted off. i believe that the early videos of people convulsing in the streets (sleepy chinese doctors, remember?) and the like were created by chinese actors (not in the professional sense, i mean like agent) loyal to the CIA contingent that was confirmed to be operating in china at the time, the CCP capitalized on this and used it as an opportunity to try and get rid of the revolutionary element and its foreign (See jewish) supporters, arresting them under the guise of lockdown compliance. i believe the covid scam was meant as a failsafe break glass in case of emergency sort of deal for powerful jews around the world, i believe the main goals of the scam were domestic in nature, and have to do with the need to change how jews exert dominance over nonjews after the proliferation of the internet basically destroyed their tried and true method of control, namely propaganda. the FBI and all the same people who told you that the same damn flu that comes around every couple of years is a plague are now telling you that this totally benign and weak flu season was actually a bioweapon designed in a lab by enemies of the jewish banking cartels, its all very convenient, especially when you consider that even by the governments own fucked up and inflated metrics covid is less dangerous than even a typical flu for young people. so their plan was to design a weapon that targets the elderly and improves are economy? lmao.

  the lableak theory that is being pushed is just a push for war with china. as it stands the only people fighting those who would trick you into chopping your dick and balls off are young russian men and young men from the muslim world. does that sit well with you? i dont even like the idea of another man pumping my gasoline.