#it’s not been long enough to be considered bronchitis I just.

[tarantula-hawk-wasp]

You would not believe the amount I am coughing. I am So. I cannot bear the thought of having bronchitis a third time this year and yet. Not like I have a choice.

[missmaywemeetagain]

Fireside - A Pink Scarf Universe Story 💗🧣💗

A/N: Apparently, I am not able to stay too far away from our darlin' Reader and Elvis, no matter how hard I try! I just love them too much. So, here is a sexy little blurb taking place in February 1970. I hope you enjoy, and maybe if this gets enough likes and traction, I'll release more and grow the "Pink Scarf Universe" lol, who knows?

If you haven't read Pink Scarf, read more here--Pink Scarf Series Masterlist (though honestly you could probably read this without knowing their story it just won't be as fun for you without the background info 😂).

I will also say this isn't as heavily edited and revised as PS, but hopefully it's still readable...

TW: MINORS DNI 18+ SEXX. PS Daddy E is back! The usual filth with these two. Fluff. A tinge of angst at the beginning. 😏

Word Count: 4.4k

Fireside

Graceland, Late February 1970

Shivering as you make your way across the lawn, you pull your arms across your coat in tight, feeling a bit insolent and annoyed that you even have to trudge out here in the middle of the night. But Elvis had insisted, in that spontaneous way of his, that he must have a campfire tonight, of all nights, even though they all had just returned from his second engagement in Las Vegas and were all beat to hell with exhaustion. So, he and the guys had all tasked at building what you considered to be a too large and dangerous fire in out on the back lawn.

Perhaps you might be feeling more understanding if you hadn’t just spent two weeks away from him—the longest amount of time you’d been apart since August. You’d been sent home early after catching the monster flu that had been going around, which had turned quickly into a terrible bout of bronchitis. The desert air had done you no favors, and Elvis, along with the doctor, had sent you home to Memphis despite your protests. You were furious because Elvis, too, had caught the flu, but in that stubborn way of his had insisted on performing through it like an insane person.

“All these folks paid good money and flew in from all over to come see me, Satnin. I ain’t gonna disappoint them,” he’d said to you as you both coughed and raged with fever.

You were so mad he’d sent you home during your first engagement as one of his back-up singers that you were still stung by it. But you were also finding yourself increasingly needy for him along with your moodiness.

Which is why you find yourself out in the cold, sniffling, desperate for your fiancé to come inside and shower you with attention instead of living it up out in the cold with the guys he just spent a solid month with.

Your grumpiness is fueled as you approach the roaring flames and spot Elvis in his low Adirondack chair, laughing it up with the guys. You don’t like the feeling of jealousy that creeps over you at his attention being pulled away from you by these men. It’s silly, you know, just as you know it’s part of the package. Elvis’ light and charisma demands attention whether he means it to or not but having been away from him the past few weeks made you miss him in a way you haven’t felt before.

Part of you can’t escape how handsome he looks in the firelight, his smile wide and crinkling his lovely blue eyes. And that damn laugh of his is so contagious and musical that it almost—almost—pulls you out of your funk.

That tether between you has been pulled tight for too long and yanks you towards him out here in the cold. You stand over him sullenly for a moment until he raises those soulful eyes up to yours.

“Why ain’t you in bed, Satnin? You shouldn’t be out here. You’ll catch another chill,” Elvis says in what to him is a caring way yet to you feels almost dismissive. But he must see the needy look in your eyes and the tears brimming there because his voice softens and he adds, “Come ‘ere then,” and lifts the heavy blanket over his legs. A sense of deep relief falls over you as you slide sideways into his lap, throwing your legs across his, his warmth cocooning you. He pulls the heavy blanket up over you both and you snuggle into his chest.

Yes, this is what you need, you think, collapsing into him, his spicy familiar scent enveloping you, the heat of his body burning into yours. One arm circles around your back and his other hand rests on your thigh, pulling you ever closer. God, you missed this. You missed him. To think you spent so many years near him but without him… No wonder your brain concealed so much from you for so long—this yearning you feel is nearly unbearable and he is already yours.

You sigh into his neck, and he presses his chin down to look at you. “What’s wrong, baby?” he whispers in your ear, his hand slipping under your coat to rub comforting circles at your waist. His slender fingers are cold, but you don’t care in the least.

“Missed you,” is all you can eek out in your sensitive, tearful state, your hand clutching at the front of his coat.

“Aww, darlin’, I’m right here,” he says, kissing the top of your head, then pressing his fire-warmed cheek to your cool one.

You can’t help but pout, your mood worn from weeks of being sick and without him to comfort you. It’s not like you to act this way—for years you built a stoic shell around yourself to cope with Jack being gone all the time—but Elvis managed to break that shell into pieces last summer. Since then, you’ve found yourself feeling every little thing and unable to hide it from him. Perhaps it is because he is so finely tuned into you that he just knows when something is off, but you can’t seem to hide things from him even when you’ve tried.

“Mhm,” Elvis tuts in your ear, “you’re still sore that I sent you home, ain’tcha? I’m not gonna be sorry about that, honey. You were too sick and the doc was right—that Vegas air was doin’ you no good.” He shakes his head.

You huff stubbornly and bury your head into his long neck. Of course, logically, you know they were right to send you back, but you are still upset and not just about that. You can’t seem to voice exactly what you are mad about, only realizing that you are annoyed and sad and small and needy in a way you��ve never been before. And this overwhelm seems to steal your ability to express any of those emotions in words. You’re not sure what exactly you need, other than being as close as possible to the man you love.

“Oh, don’t you be obstinate, now,” Elvis warns quietly, the slightest edge of temper in his voice. Your only response is to cling to him harder, to nuzzle yourself further into the warmth that emanates off him.

He says nothing for a moment, staring into the fire, but you can sense the gears turning behind those pretty, worn eyes. Finally, he seems to come to some conclusion because his countenance shifts and he forces your chin out of his neck with his finger so he can look you in the eyes.

“Is all this because you need Daddy to take care of you?” he asks quietly, firmly. His voice is low and rumbles right down to your toes, the words setting every one of your nerves on fire along the way.

A whimper escapes your lips. You are suddenly grateful for the inky darkness of the winter’s night, at the heat of the fire, because they conceal the blush that suddenly blotches your cheeks as Elvis stares deeply into your eyes. The gaze has you squirming to get off his lap and you want to pull him into the house where you need him, but his large hands clamp down firm.

“Be still,” he commands sternly, but only loud enough for you to hear.

Your heart is galloping at the implication of those two little words.

“Now are ya gonna be a good, quiet little girl for me?” Elvis asks, his hand gripping your chin so you have to look at him. His face is the picture of controlled calm—it’s only the flames dancing in his darkening eyes that gives him away.

You hadn’t realized just how badly you needed him to take control until this very moment.

You manage to nod solemnly as all the blood in your body seems to rush into your core. You don’t know what he has in store for you, but the fact that he is not making any attempt to leave the company of the men surrounding you makes you nervous (and maybe a little intrigued).              

Elvis releases your chin and pulls the heavy blanket up over your shoulders, encouraging you to snuggle back into him by tightening his hand around your waist. The warm wool now covers you both from head to toe, and it is only then that you start to glean why that might be important.

You rest your head on his collarbone, waiting with bated breath, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart begin to quicken under your hand as you slip it into his coat. You’re unable to help the impulse to place a fluttering kiss at the pulse point on his elegant long neck, and his lip curls up in response. Before long, he begins drawing small circles with his fingertips up the inside of your thigh, and when reaching the hem of your dress, he slips under without compunction. You stiffen as he continues, unhurried, up, up, up until he reaches your panty line.

Your eyes widen and you wonder if Elvis is really going to do this with all the guys around. It’s bold, even for him, even with the blanket tenting and concealing his movements. A snake of apprehension in your gut is overrun by the thrill of the risk. The conversation around the fire flows on without either of you, and the crackle of the flames conceals a lot, and for that you are grateful.

The light brush of his fingers over the cotton of your panties makes you jump despite yourself, and in response, Elvis grips your waist hard, stilling you.

“Be good,” he orders through clenched teeth, “or I’m gonna stop and leave you to fend for yourself. Or maybe I oughta pull this blanket off and let the guys enjoy the show.” His lip quivers up slyly at that.

The threat stills you either way.

Elvis chuckles darkly. His fingers resume their teasing, dancing over the cotton at your core delightfully as you attempt to stay as still and quiet as possible. He is maddeningly patient, doing this until you can feel the throb of your pulse blossoming between your thighs, and it has you oh-so-quietly panting into his neck. But it’s not until he feels the fabric dampen under his touch that he finally slides his naughty, slender finger underneath, grazing through your slick and up to your sensitive bud, forcing you to bite down to keep from keening loudly.

Fuck, you’ve missed him.

By now, he knows how to play you like an instrument, his instrument, knowing exactly how much pressure to use as he circles your clit again and again, enough to get you sufficiently worked up. His casualness suggests he has all the time in the world while you’re sitting in his lap beginning to shudder from the pleasure coiling low in your belly.

Occasionally, he’ll stop, just to listen to your desperate breathlessness, your carnal wanting of him quelled by trying to be a quiet, good girl like you promised. A hint of a smirk plays on his face, making you want to crush your mouth to his or slap him for his teasing. Instead, you settle for clawing at his shirt.

The wetness that gathers between your legs has your panties soaked and sticking to you now, which might be embarrassing except for the fact that you are so damn needy for him, you couldn’t care less about your ruined underwear. Elvis discovers this fact as he finally dips lower, running the length of his finger back and forth through your sopping, swollen folds, taking his sweet damn time.

You tense. You are nearly ready to come undone just from his teasing, but you know that’s not what he wants. That’s not the game he’s playing. You raise your head from his chest just long enough to give him a pleading look.

He's doing a decent job of keeping his handsome features neutral, looking to a casual observer as though he is following the conversation around the fire and not driving you to madness under the blanket. But knowing him as you do, you can see the tiny giveaways that he, too, is flustered: the way his nostrils flare with his increased breathing rate, how his brilliant blues gleam with arousal, the way his plump lips part when he finally presses his middle finger deep into you.

Your wetness devours him readily. To hide the gasp and roaring flush on your cheeks, you pull the blanket up even farther. You clutch at his chest and your nails scrape his skin. After a few agonizing minutes, there’s no helping the instinct to grind your hips against his hand, wanting him deeper, wanting to consume him.

But while he smirks and is pleased with your desperation, he also will not relinquish control. He stills completely, one hand gripping your waist hard as a reminder of who is in charge. Your warm, wet heat clenches around his finger.

“Be good and stop squirmin’, little one,” he whispers low in your ear, “and maybe Daddy will keep finger fuckin’ you ‘till ya come.”

You stop moving but whine in response to those dirty words coming from his perfect pouty mouth—you just can’t help it—but it’s so quiet he can barely hear you. Your reward is another finger sliding deep into your heat. He picks up the pace in an unforgiving way. Gasping, you bite your lip when he curves those fingers just so, hitting that spot deep inside that is only his.

The blanket barely moves, and you have no idea what magic he is using to keep things so incognito, especially considering he naturally has so much energy that his limbs are usually vibrating uncontrollably. You still feel completely on display, though, especially when the pad of his thumb begins massaging your bud in time with his expert fingers pumping in and out of you.

I’m going to come undone, right here, in front of all the guys, you think in horror. You have no clue how you are going to keep quiet and still and good if that happens. Panic begins to build behind your arousal because you just know that coil is going to burst and you’ll cry out in ecstasy any second now (but a dark part of you is even more aroused by the scandalous nature of it all).

Elvis must sense the change in you because he edges you right up to the point of no return but not over. He halts his ministrations. You clutch desperately at his expensive shirt, certain you are going to shred it to pieces by the time this little game of his is through. Your heart pounds hard and fast against your ribcage, in time with his, and you wait to see what he has in store for you next. Because even though a part of you is embarrassed by this game, you are drinking in every drop of attention, relishing his command over you, needy for every morsel he deems to give you.

He’s considering his next move, you think, by the way his eyes narrow slightly and his grip on you shifts. When he pulls his fingers out of you, you almost moan for the loss of them, but catch yourself at the last second. Brazenly, he wipes his sticky fingers down your inner thigh, his eyes dancing with amusement as he does so.

You gape at him. He can’t be finished, you think dismally. He can’t leave me like this.

No, you don’t think so, not with the way you can feel his hardened length pressing into your hamstring.

He kisses your temple sweetly. “Now listen carefully, little girl: Imma need you to shift onto one of Daddy’s legs for a second. Nice and slow now, don’t call attention to it. And hold those ruined panties of yours to the side. I wanna feel that pretty little kitty weepin’ for me,” he rumbles in your ear.

Oh my goddd... The urge to moan long and loud fills you but you just nod instead.

You follow his directions and move your weight so one of his lean, muscled thighs is between yours. The rough fabric of his pants scrapes your bare pussy as he bounces his leg a few times, sending a cascaded of shivers into your belly. His pants will need to be dry cleaned for the soaking spot you’re leaving there, and part of you feels a sense of pride to be marking him in such a way. Mine.

Holding the blanket up to your shoulders dutifully, you stare at the golden flames licking into the air in front of you. No one seems to notice or care that you have shifted.

That’s when you feel it. The slow, deliberate way he undoes his belt, the ticking of his zipper. You blush furiously, then feel the spring of his heavy cock being released. Before you can react, he unceremoniously and quickly lifts you fully onto his lap, lining you up then impaling you down upon his length.

You cover your surprise and choke with a cough—not unusual considering you’re still recovering from bronchitis. Thank god you are as wet as you are because, even so, it’s a damn tight fit with him having been away these past few weeks. You have to keep yourself from rolling your eyes into the back of your head because he’s finally filling you the way you need him to.

Yes, this is what you wanted. This is what you needed. You just didn’t expect it to be in front of all his (albeit unaware) friends.

By the way Elvis grips your waist and from the soft grunt that escapes him, you know he’s struggling to contain his own reaction to your heat, despite the air of control he’s been exuding. He adjusts you how he wants you: leaning your back over his chest, your legs draped over his, his chin resting on your shoulder. With the way the seat of the chair tips down to the ground and with blanket pulled all the way up, nothing looks amiss.

You close your eyes and sigh, relishing the feel of him stretching you, his cock buried deliciously deep inside you. He envelops you in his arms, one under your breasts, the other at your lower belly. His warmth burns into your back, but he does not let you move. Those wiry but strong arms have effectively pinned you to him. Almost frantic, you try for some semblance of friction, anything at all to ease the tension, but he just chuckles at your near-silent gasps, holding you fast against him.

Finally, once you relent and relax, Elvis swivels his hips, again and again, in a slow rhythm not unlike one monumentally famous performance on TV in the beginning of his career, the one that sent the church ladies off their rockers and the teenage girls fainting. Suddenly, you want to giggle at the fact that his damn hips resulted in both his skyrocketing career and in his censorship because those same hips have certainly become even more skilled in the many years between then and now, but for different, more scandalous reasons. Maybe those church ladies had a point, after all, you laugh quietly. And it causes you to clench around his cock.

Then you hear a low growl in your ear: “What a dirty little girl you are, letting Daddy take you like this in front of all these men. Bein’ so good for me. You like this, baby girl?” Each statement is accentuated with a shallow but pointed roll of his pelvis.

You bite your lip, nodding. His dirty talk has molten heat flooding down your limbs and directly into your cunt. With the warmth of the roaring fire coupled with the passioned heat at your back, your arousal grows with each small movement, each scandalous word, and has you feeling like you might combust before this is all said and done.

So desperately do you want to ride him within an inch of his life, but he won’t allow it. No, this is his show, and you give into him, fully resting back onto his chest. He rewards you by finding your clit again, massaging it in slow time with his barely moving cock. The result is both torturous and delectable, working you into such a state that you dig your nails so hard into his clothed thighs that he hisses.  

“Fuck, little one, you feel so good,” Elvis breathes jaggedly into your ear. He presses a hand to your lower belly, then rolls his hips up. In this position, he’s big enough that you both can feel him there. “Takin’ my cock so well.”

You do your level best not to mewl, to stay quiet for him. Instead, your breathing pants through your nostrils and you try to keep your wits about you, trying to stay good as he fucks you so slowly within an inch of your life. Fucks you with all the guys around, who seem none the wiser.

He must feel you begin to flutter around him, your climax drawing ever closer. You feel like you’re about to burst because you need to scream, to moan out his name, do something that will let you release this pressure, but you tamp it all down as far as you can.

“Daddy’s gonna make you come now, sweetheart,” he purrs.

“N-not h-here,” you breathe out, panicked, knowing you can’t hold on much longer.

“Yes, here,” he chastises. “Right in front of ev’rybody. You’re gonna come so hard, baby, cuz Daddy treats you right, doesn’t he?”

You almost sob at that and nod, that coil poised to explode at any moment.

“But you’re gonna be good and so, so quiet cuz it’s just for me baby. You ain’t gonna cry out or move a muscle, okay?” he whispers and though he’s commanding, you know he’s close to losing control himself by how labored his breath is and how tightly he’s holding you.

You nod, and he flicks your clit with expert, rapid precision. “Now, lil’ one. Come now.”

That’s all you need. Quite suddenly, you are consumed by fire as hot as the one blazing in front of you. Your body tenses, then shudders violently in his lap and he holds you to him as you careen over the edge, lost to the dark night. It takes every ounce of self-control in you to not cry out, resulting instead in your huffed breaths. Long nails bite into his arms, clamoring for some outlet for your pleasure. Your eyes close, stars dancing behind them. Your walls clench and flutter around his length and you feel his slow rhythm begin to stutter.                                                        

“Fuck, baby, Jesus fuck, so good for m-me. Daddy’s gonna fill y-you up now. All mine. Aw, h-hell.” He pulses inside you, covering his own orgasm by biting deep into your shoulder, so hard you can feel it through the heavy winter coat you’re wearing. His thick, hot arousal throbs and coats your insides and you ride him through it with the tiniest rocking of your hips, feeling lighter than air but also grounded by him.

That’s what life with Elvis is like, you think. He grounds you to him, to his orbit, and sends you both shooting to the moon and the stars.  

Completely blissed out and spent, you fall into him, and he slumps back in the chair. As you come back down to Earth, you feel your breathing sync with his. You close your eyes and revel in the wonderful way he’s made you feel, this man you are so wildly in love with.

You’re no longer upset.

You’re just glad to be back in his arms.

Elvis nudges you and you realize you may have dosed off, as he is now soft inside you and the fire has dimmed some.

“I think you made quite the mess, lil’ mama,” he whispers, nipping at your ear.

Indeed. You can feel the cool pooling of your collective arousal coating you and his lap.

“I made the mess, huh?” you whisper back with a roll of your eyes.

“Oh, most definitely.” You can feel his boyish grin as he kisses your neck.

“Sure. And how exactly are we supposed to get back in the house without everyone knowing we had sex in front of them?”

He pauses and then you can feel the vibration of his chest as he starts to chuckle, that way he gets just before he has a laughing fit.

“Oh, don’t you dare start, E,” you warn. It’s contagious, of course, and you feel your own laughter bubbling. “You didn’t think this all the way through, did you, love?” you shake your head.

“That’s what I have you for!” he laughs.

“Well, I guess we’re just gonna have to sit here and simmer in our juices until everyone decides to go to bed, now won’t we?” you try to whisper sternly, but giggles escape at the complete ridiculousness of the situation.

“Not in our juices!” he cries with laughter. He’s completely beside himself, pressing his forehead into your back in an effort to hide his amusement.

“What was that, EP? Thought you both fell asleep over there,” Lamar says.

“N-nothing!” Elvis hiccups. “Just go about your business! Y’all must be getting’ tired, right? Time to go inside! Time for bed!” He flails his arms in the general direction of the house.

You are both trying, quite unsuccessfully, to hold back your laughter, and the guys are looking at you two like you’ve grown horns.

“Um, sure, EP? I guess it is getting late,” Charlie throws out.

Quizzical, the guys grumble a bit and begin to mosey their way towards the house.

“You comin’?” Lamar shouts.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it! We’ll get there!” Elvis calls, shooing him away, then dissolves into another peal of breathless laughter.  

“Okay, Crazy,” Lamar mumbles.

Elvis is sniffling and snorting by now. Your face is red and tears poke at the corners because the more he laughs, the more you laugh.

“I love you, Satnin,” he says, kissing your cheek gently once everyone is gone and your giggles have subsided.

“I love you, too, baby boy.” You press your forehead to his. “Now please tell me you have a handkerchief or something cuz otherwise you’re gonna need to wear this blanket around your waist to get inside.

“Anything for you, baby, anything for you,” Elvis says, holding back another peal of laughter.

And you know it’s true.

*

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[sarahdogoc80]

Lily is Probably Not Getting the Pain Medicine She Claims

So in that Patron video that got leaked of her talking she mentioned one thing that made my ears perk up. She specifically said she was getting O*ycodone.

The thing is last time I was in the loop Canada stopped prescribing o*y as much specifically because of a little known fact. Canadian O*y had a very high turn over profit in America. Because around 2011 America approved a coating to be put on their o*y products because of people snoring and injecting it. The problem with this coating is it's banned in a lot of other countries because it very much causes Liver cancer. So because Canada and Mexico also banning it they still have what are called the crushable ones. I live in a boarding state to Canada and till like 2014ish you could still find them for a hefty markup. But people wanted those badly because you couldn't snort or inject the American ones. So quietly Canada stopped prescribing o*y specific products because of various theories I've heard. But the most believable one I heard is taxes. Because they are imported illegally and sold illegally neither America or Canada could tax the money being made. So Canada just started slowing down on giving them to people. And then the crisis hit. And everything started drying up fast. While I haven't been in those circles since 2018ish I doubt Canada let up on this unofficial thing. Because it's probably related to taxes. And oh boy do governments not like not being able to tax anything that has a hefty profit margin. Plus I haven't heard anything and it's a huge deal when someone has them and you usually hear about it.

While I can believe Lily getting something like C*din or at best P*rcost. I doubt she is getting O*ycodone because she falls into a bunch of unofficial categories the doctors look out for if giving this drug. Lily is low income, on government benefits, with alot of mental problems. And depending on the doctor her being trans can factor into that depending on how said doctor views the subject. So she would be considered at risk for abusing or selling. And yes I know that is unfair but with the Crisis and the dehumanization of people who need or are addicted to these medications they can just brush any complaint with "oh your just a junkie." And because I believe she was only getting them because she was sick with something. She did mentioned antibiotics so I am going with C*din as that's usually what they give with antibiotics.

Plus if Lily is as straight edge as she claims. Throwing her on o*y.... you would be able to tell in the leaked call she isn't slurring or rambling like someone on them would. Even if taken as percriped exactly it would take her down for a couple days as she gets use to it. And she is consiently online. People taking them for the first time/ not on them regularly usually just sleep a lot or just don't have the energy to get up and do basic stuff let alot consiently be streaming and typing at people with long ass replies without nodding off.

Unless she's allergic to Tylenol they aren't going to give her the 10 mg o*ycodone (lowest mg) because again that has alot of value while a 10 mg p*rocent doesn't have as much. And does the exact same thing. But she could have what I've come to call tr*madol rambles because I've noticed when people take a low dose Op*it it gives them enough of a high that they do tent to be more aggressive, go on tangents, and talk alot. They also are also able to function just fine. If not maybe a little more clumsy.

So here is yet another possible lie of hers. While little, if your in the know you can tell it's BS. While I guess it's always possible if she knows how to play the system or has a connection. If it was just while she is sick then for her age and situations she would have to be dying of cancer. Otherwise they wouldn't give her that strong (cough*andprofitable* cough) for an infection or bronchitis or whatever. Especially because weed is legal up there now word is they see even less reason to give o*y out.

Also if you see this Lily and you are actually getting O*y your just taking legal h*roin you hypocritical looser. And if your just lumping all Op*its into one then your a stupid loser. Who if you actually went to college should know the difference and why differentiation of medication is important.

But hey what do I know.

Edit: She mentioned being on Adderall. They won't give you o*y and Adderall at the same time or any Op*it really. If your on Adderall unless it's deemed important doctors will just make your suffer/tough it out and maybe give you gabapentin. You have to stop one or the other. She did mention them not filling the Adderall but idk Canada's medical system to say if that is normal. But here in America they will aromatically freeze your scripts and call you and your doctor to make sure everyone is informed and that your doctor knows what your doing. On the streets mixing Adderall and an Op*its is called speedballing. So that's why doctor won't do that. I have personal experience with this. They told me I couldn't be percriped Adderall and tr*madol at the same time. So I had to pick one. I picked my pain management as I don't need intense focus at my job. But her doctor or pharmacist should have told her that. So she would to have to choice the legal h*roin over her mental meds.... Or she is speedballing and totally is straight edge guys remember.

[cloama]

I can't talk about my job much but it is full of rich fucks and covid mitigated DOWN. retrofitted hvac, filters, vents, testing, all of it.

It's why I chose to work there despite the low pay.

But two months ago, right after I started, some dummy broke protocol, everyone got covid bc they thought the hvac systems would save them. I offered masks for everyone and they refused. So did the employer. They refused to mask just for the 48 hours of covi-exposey. And they didn't ventilate their spaces upon my suggestion. Covid ripped through my floor. They all got sick. Now of the 12 people's on my floor, three appear to have long covid, one definitely has COPD but her doctor isn't ready to call it, and three (3!!!!!) are still testing positive two months after and can't return to work.

All because one girl who literally never shows up for work any other day, slid past the testing center, knowing she was sick.

This is my first time working with people who have had 5-7 covid infections despite working somewhere that's considered the most safe. They're getting it from concerts and clubs and birthday dinners. They come to work and test and get sent home.

They all say they've recovered fine but I have been obsessing over covid for 5 years and can see exactly what's happened to their bodies in the last 8 weeks. My assistant definitely has long covid. Her doctor told her she had bronchitis but she's clearly got inflammation all over. She is sitting and leaning constantly. Her breathing is even but she's not getting enough oxygen. They're not taking it seriously. And covid has left her needing a nebulizer which she refused to use bc the side effects are shakiness. But she's still vaping.

I miss working alone. I feel like I got thrust into a completely different world. We have the privilege of working in a covid-migrated space and some still don't see a need to do the right thing. It's not even the workers faults entirely. Public policy has failed us so badly.

[waitineedaname]

inspired by @clearbun's post !

“You’re being a baby.”

“And you’re an asshole.”

It was humiliating just to hear himself speak. Greed the Avaricious, normally a presence that filled the room and a voice that commanded attention, was reduced to a pitiful croak under nine layers of blankets and pillows, made raspy by the gunk that coated his throat. He once had aspirations to be emperor of the world, and now here he was, incapacitated by a mild virus. 

Ling Yao, the Emperor of Xing, Greed’s best friend in the entire world, and most importantly, the absolute bastard who got him sick in the first place, was unamused.

“It’s just bronchitis.” Ling crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. “I’m sure every child in Xing has had it at some point.”

“Do I look like a child to you?” Greed managed to unearth a hand from under his layers of blankets to hold up a finger. “Don’t answer that.”

Ling dutifully did not answer, but he did snicker, which was answer enough. Greed was going to throttle him once he felt well enough to stand for longer than forty seconds. “I brought you something to drink,” Ling said, because he was capable of being helpful. Greed poked a little more of his head out from under the blankets, then fully wriggled into a sitting position when he saw what Ling had brought him. He held the warm cup in both hands and took a long sip, letting out a contented sigh. Ling insisted it was just honey and lemon juice, but Greed was pretty sure it was the ichor of the gods, considering it was one of only things he could swallow without feeling like he’d attempted knife-eating again. He’d done that stunt precisely once in his life, and he decided it wasn’t worth the regeneration, even if it was funny to watch people’s reactions. This stupid sore throat was much worse, especially considering he couldn’t even make some dramatic performance out of it.

“Next time,” Greed rasped out between sips, “You should put a shot of whiskey in this.”

Ling smirked. “I’ll see what I can do. I think we’ve still got the bottle Ed sent.”

“You still have most of the bottle Ed sent,” Greed corrected him. He would know.

“I see you still haven’t had the tea my alkahestrists made for you.”

Greed glanced over at the now cold cup of tea on his bedside table, then back to Ling, eyes narrowed. “It smells weird.”

“Can you even smell anything? I thought you’d still be clogged up.” Ling leaned over in the chair he’d pulled up and inspected the tea. 

“I can smell enough to know that shit’s suspicious.”

“It’s not suspicious, Greed.” Ling sighed, exasperated. “It’s medicinal. Do you want Mei to come in here and lecture you into taking your medicine again?”

Greed grimaced. No, he did not. He loved the kid, really, but she could be damn persistent when she got down to business. Medicine was her specialty, after all. He’d thought she might actually stab him if he didn’t follow her bed arrest orders. Not that he needed much persuading; he’d nearly pulled a Ling and passed out in the middle of a hallway a few days earlier, and that had been enough to convince him he should probably be horizontal for a while.

“How are you feeling?” Ling asked. In the time it took for Greed to reflect on Mei’s potential lecture, he had stood and handed the tea to a servant in the hallway so it could be reheated, and he was back in his seat now. Out of all his symptoms, the brain fog might be Greed’s least favorite part of being sick.

“Terrible. Thanks for asking.” Greed attempted to slump back into his nest of pillows and blankets without spilling his lemon drink all over himself.

“I’m surprised it’s hitting you this badly.” Ling propped his chin up contemplatively. “It was just a mild cold for me, and I was better in a couple days.”

“Yeah, well,” Greed paused to cough his lungs out. Ling sympathetically patted his back. “You have experience being sick,” Greed said once he’d composed himself again. “I can’t exactly blast the illness out of me with the Philosopher’s Stone anymore.”

Ling hummed lightly in thought. A knock came at the door, and he perked up. “Enter,” he said. To their surprise, it was not a servant who popped their head through the door, but rather Alphonse, wearing a mask on the lower half of his face and carrying a bowl of soup. Ling zeroed in on the bowl like a bloodhound. “Ooh! Is that ginger garlic soup?”

“It’s not for you!” Al said, laughing. “It’s for our patient here.”

“Gimme.” Greed made grabby hands for it, only remembering to set aside his drink after extending his arms. 

“Such unfair treatment,” Ling complained half-heartedly. “Where was my soup when I was sick?”

“I know for a fact that you had people waiting on you hand and foot that brought you a barrel’s worth of soup,” Al teased, handing the bowl to Greed.

“What if I just wanted soup from my friend Alphonse, did you think of that?” 

“If you want soup so badly, go down to the kitchen. I think they have some left over.”

“Maybe I will.” Ling stood from his chair and straightened his robes. “This is perfect timing, actually. I had a meeting I needed to attend anyway. Greed, you’re in Al’s hands now.”

“What, am I being babysat?” Greed grumbled.

“Yep!” Ling sang cheerily. He grinned and waved at them both and was out the door before Greed could complain any further.

“Royal pain in my ass,” Greed muttered. Al chuckled and replaced Ling in the chair at his bedside. Greed took a long sip of the soup and groaned happily when the ginger immediately punched him straight in the sinuses. “Fuck, this stuff is good.”

“I thought you’d like that.” Al’s eyes crinkled above his mask. It finally registered in Greed’s mind that he was wearing it, and he gestured to his own mouth.

“What’s up with the mask? Hiding from the guards or something?”

“No, I’m pretty sure my hair gives me away to everyone in the palace,” Al admitted. “Being without my body for so long kinda destroyed my immune system, so I’d rather not risk getting sick. No offense.”

“None taken.” Greed waved him off, taking another sip of his soup. “Trust me, I’m beginning to understand why humans hate being sick so much.”

“You really ended up with the short end of the stick, huh?” Al said sympathetically. “A brand new human body, but it means you haven’t built up an immune system since childhood.”

“You’re telling me.” Greed sighed. “You know, this isn’t really what I had in mind when I asked how to get a body like yours back when we met.”

Al tsked. “The armor couldn’t get sick, which I guess was convenient. But it also couldn’t enjoy delicious soup.”

“Fair enough. I guess being able to have soup partially makes up for being able to get sick.” Greed clumsily guided the noodles towards his mouth with his chopsticks. Temporarily sated and sinuses feeling more clear, he sat back and smacked his lips. “So what’s the verdict, doc?”

“Well, I don’t think you’re gonna die,” Al declared brightly.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Greed said, tone dry.

“Are you still feeling feverish?” 

“Nah. I felt shitty when I woke up, but I think I’m past it now.”

“And you’re coughing phlegm up?” Al asked. Greed’s grimace was answer enough. “I think you’re probably past the worst of it. You might have a cough for a while, but you’ll probably be back to functioning in a couple days.” Greed sighed in relief, only for Al to ruin his mood by adding, “But I think you’re gonna have to drink the tea Mei prescribed you.”

Greed groaned. “But it smells like dirt!”

“There are lots of nutrients in dirt!” Al said cheerfully. Greed narrowed his eyes at him.

“Are you fucking with me?”

Al grinned and didn’t answer his question. “I’ll ask Mei if we can add other helpful herbs to mask the taste. How’s that sound?” Greed grumbled and slumped lower in his blanket mound, but he didn’t argue further. Al took his bowl and put it on the bedside table beside his lemon drink. “I have to head to the library, but Mei will probably be around in a couple hours to check on you. Get some rest, alright?”

Greed grunted and gave him a thumbs up, already struggling to keep his eyes open. The satisfying warmth of the soup in his belly and the coziness of the softest pillows in the palace (he checked) were conspiring against him to make it nearly impossible to resist taking a nap. He was pretty sure he heard Al snicker at him, but he honestly couldn’t bring himself to care. Having a human immune system sucked ass, but at least he had his people looking out for him. Being human wasn’t all bad.

[jamiebluewind]

Guys! GUYS! I'M GETTING HER!!!!

After literal MONTHS of being sick being stuck between my bed and a hospital bed,

I'm FINALLY starting to recover. I'm walking short distances (with a cane or walker but still), I can swallow certain regular people foods without choking or having a coughing fit (yesterday I had a Wendy's burger), I'm awake more than I'm asleep, and I was able to get out of the house this week!!! Between having a cause to celebrate and saving money for over two months from being stuck in the house and not needing to buy regular groceries (don't worry, my diet was very limited but part of it was a nutritional drink that was partly covered by insurance and kept me from having nutrition gaps), I decided that for once I was going to splurge on myself and get something awesome. So, I got THIS! Also got the Spyre map and junior year pins of Gorgug and Adaine (would have gotten box of doom pin too, but they were sold out) as well as a poster for a friend. It's on its way and I'm so excited ^_^

(hiding the long ramble I went on about Dimension 20 under here)

I've loved Dimension 20 a long time. I've been watching since the first episode went up on College Humor. Eventually, I stopped worrying about being a single fandom blog and started posting/reblogging about it. I'd watch Sophomore Year live and type up info on episodes (actually saw Ally pop a stitch from their top surgery live from laughing too hard XD ). Made my own theories. Got all my friends into it and made a couple new ones that are still my friends to this day. Even when I got less active on tumblr, I was still getting enjoying Dimension 20 (when I could afford a month or two of Dropout). This past Christmas, my best friend's mom got me/us a full year of Dropout and Sarah, @winterpower98 and I have been watching new seasons and rewatching old ones together as often as we can.

When the charity auction came up the other day for stuff from the first season, I SERIOUSLY considered using my savings on a building from the original DM screen. It's the reason I got into D&D. That my FRIENDS got into D&D. Brennan made us all fall in love with the game and he and the cast showed characters that we could all see ourselves in (LGBTQ+).

In the end, the price went too high for me to afford and I had to give up on the idea, but I still wanted to find a real treat for myself to celebrate starting to recover after having bronchitis (kept spiraling into worse and worse stuff) since December. Then, I saw the Ayda statue. It wasn't a piece from the show, BUT she is one of my favorite NPCs (I'm autistic too) and she looked like an enlarged version of something from one of the battle maps. The auction was still going on, but when I looked at the statue, I knew it would be enough for me.

I ended up allowing myself to add on a few pins (junior year Adaine and Gorgug) and a map for myself (I've wanted pins and posters for a long time, but always talked myself out of it) and Winter picked out a Game Changer poster. I gave myself a few days to be sure before I ordered and got the tracking today!

I know I'm mostly writing this for myself, but I guess I just wanted to say how much this show means to me, how happy I am to be recovering, and how GENUINELY EXCITED I am about having something that a lot of people might find silly, but means a lot to me.

I decided to link to the Dimension 20 YouTube if anybody read this far and wants to check it out. They have the full seasons of Fantasy High (freshman year, 28 hrs total), Fantasy High live (sophomore year, 52 hrs total), Escape From The Bloodkeep (guest players include Matt Mercer, 14 hrs), and Unsleeping City (34 hrs). Dropout has all the seasons, the live one shot shows they did, Adventuring Party (a talkback thing that they started doing since A Crown of Candy), 40 min video about what Rick Perry (production designer) does, and a bunch of game shows that Winter loves (I sometimes watch Game Changer with her).

New in the @dropoutdottv Store: Ayda Aguefort Statue 🔥🪶📚

The statue is 9.25" h x 7.5" w, arrives fully painted, and features box art from @caitmayart

🛒Shop here: https://store.dropout.tv/products/ayda-aguefort-statue

[oh-no-my-hand-slipped]

A new prompt for you! (Finally :3)

I'm picturing multiple couples or a family group (4+ adults) who share a cottage together in the middle of nowhere, living off the land. Winter is coming, bringing with it its chill winds and early dustings of snow. The people are hard at work every day, chopping wood and putting aside the last of the food for winter.

It's the worst possible time to get sick, yet someone does, coming down with a miserable, streaming cold and high fever. What do they do about it? How do the others respond?

Could have definite cottage core elements, or fantasy (since you're so good at writing that!) or contagion if you choose. Can't wait to see the results :)

It’s been so long since I’ve written a real, honest to god fic, so this will be my debut back into snzfucker favor!

Okay, okay, who to include in this house of contagion?

We need a soft healer boi that takes care of everyone before themselves, of course. A very strong, stoic, hardworking warrior with muscles of steel - but the same can’t be said for his immune system. A hyper comic relief (like if Scout from TF2 was in a fantasy setting) that insists he isn’t sick, but can’t keep back his sneezes long enough to prove his point. And, of course, a tall, thin scholar whose cold heart is only melted by his fever.

Adventurers packing it in for the winter and preparing for journeying in the spring, now only at most a few yards from each other and having shot immune systems from the exhausting work. Illness doesn’t have to travel far to infect…

Oh, this is gonna be good.

***********************

“Look look look! Otto, you’re not gonna believe this!”

Barlow skidded to a halt, almost tripping over his own two feet before regaining his balance. Otto chuckled.

“Alright, alright, que pasa? What is so exciting?”

Barlow fumbled with his cloak before pulling a shiny coin out of one of the pockets.

“I got this off a path when I was pickin’ berries! Must’ve been a merchant or something…”

Barlow’s eyes suddenly lit up.

“Or maybe a warrior! Ooh, or a knight! Definitely somebody with a cape.”

He flung the back of his cloak behind him and stood tall, crossing his arms with a self-satisfied grin. However, Barlow couldn’t keep the pose long - the frigid air made him close the thin burlap around himself again, shivering. Otto knitted their brow.

“You’re wearing your summer cloak,” they said, looking Barlow up and down. “You must be freezing, chiquito!”

Barlow waved his hand, as if batting away Otto’s concern.

“Don’t worry about it, doc. It’s gonna take more than a little wind to get me down.”

As if to prove a point, he spread out his arms and spun around, laughing at the many leaves he kicked up.

Otto would usually be charmed by the sprite’s antics, but their concern soon outweighed their amusement.

“Just make sure to change into your winter clothes soon, okay? I would hate for you to get sick.”

Barlow stopped spinning, coughing a bit as he caught his breath with chilly autumn air. His hot breath clouded around his face like smoke.

“Okay, okay,” he panted, “I’ll grab it when I go by the cottage. Forgot my basket anyway. See you around, doc.”

With a quick salute, Barlow ran off, cloak billowing behind him, still clenching the coin in a tight fist. Otto shook their head and sighed. They knew that Barlow just didn’t want them to worry - but that only made them worry more. The healer in them couldn’t help but notice red-tipped fingers, congested voices, and pallid complexions. Besides, with a harsh winter underway, a cold could very quickly rear its ugly head, turning into bronchitis, pneumonia, and even infect a person’s magic…

Otto took a deep breath. Their thoughts had run away with them - and now, more than ever, it was important to stay focused.

The doctor gathered up their scrolls, pulled their coat close, and started back to the cottage.

Perhaps a little tea would calm their nerves.

***************

“it’CHEW! CHEW!”

��Salud.”

“Ugh…thanks, doc. Snf!”

Otto looked up from his knitting to see Barlow rubbing his long, pointy ears with a pained look on his face.

“Do your ears hurt?”

Barlow put his hands in his lap. “No! Just, uh, a little itchy.”

Severin, who had been reading on the sofa across from Otto, hid a smirk behind the yellowed pages.

“Someone must be talking about you,” he drawled smugly. “Considering the way you conduct yourself, I’m not surprised.”

Instead of snapping back, Barlow still scratched at his ears. Severin slit his eyes and continued to read. He almost seemed disappointed.

“Could be thragweed,” Godric rumbled from a large wooden stool, rubbing his beard in thought, “but they usually shrivel up by the first frost. Didja see any three-leaved plants while you were out foragin’?”

Barlow shrugged, wincing as he rubbed harder. “Um…maybe?”

Otto frowned. “Be careful. You’ll hurt yourself if you keep scratching like that.”

“S-sorry, I…huh-hold on…”

Barlow buried himself in his cloak, with only his mop of red hair showing.

“hit’SHEW! Huh…it’TCHEW!”

The sprite continued to let out sneeze after sneeze, his wrinkled, pink nose only showing when he needed to come up for air. Otto got up from their chair, and they were soon holding him by the shoulders to keep him from knocking himself over.

Barlow finally finished, snuffling into his sleeve. He looked up at Otto with bleary eyes.

“Sorry, doc, I don’d dow whad’s gotten into be…”

Otto hushed him with a gentle pat, using their free hand to feel Barlow’s forehead. They clucked their tongue.

“Oh, mijo, you have a fever...”

Barlow’s breath caught, and he coughed into his shoulder. “Nah, I…I’b okay, Otto, really. I’ll be…snrk…fide in the morning. Just gotta sleep it off…”

Otto smiled gently. “Well, you’re right about one thing. A good night’s sleep is exactly what you need. And maybe a little salve for your poor ears…”

Their hand still on Barlow’s shoulder, Otto guided the sprite to his bedroom, mumbled protests and miserable sneezes trailing behind them.

***************

Barlow’s fever never grew very high - his burning ears and nose, however, kept him up for most of the night. By the time morning came, he was too exhausted to even feign health. Otto had to put him back to bed, which was only met with pitiful murmurings.

“‘M fide, doc, I…hetch’CHIIIEW!”

“Pobrecito! You sound even worse than yesterday…”

“C’mon, Otto, I…”

“I don’t want to see you out of bed today, okay, cariño? You need to rest.”

“Nngh…”

Otto and Severin split the foraging work, since their respective jobs were mostly planning and budgeting the winter ahead of them. Godric promised to keep a good eye on the patient, but that didn’t lessen the doctor’s worry any.

“I wonder how Barlow’s doing,” Otto murmured, probably for the umpteenth time since they’d begun their work.

Severin scrutinized his severely pricked thumb. “Children always carry around such nasty things. It’s a wonder he hasn’t caught the plague instead of a simple cold.”

Otto froze mid-pick, and Severin hurried to correct himself.

“Peace, my friend. It is just a cold, after all.

He grimaced.

“One I dearly hope he keeps to himself.”

They both continued to fill their baskets with berries, wiping the frost off their shiny, black skins. However, Otto’s mind continued to race.

I shouldn’t have left him. Godric only knows so much. What happens if his fever spikes? I’m a healer, I’m not supposed to leave the sick behind. Should I go back? I should go back. No, I promised Barlow I’d get his foraging done. But I can’t keep a promise if he’s dead. What if he’s already dead? What if Godric’s on his way right now to tell me? What if I’m already too late? How will we bury him, the ground is too hard. Otto, your friend has died and all you can think about is how to bury him. You must be the most selfish -

“Otto.”

Otto snapped back to reality to see Severin giving him a fierce side-eye.

“It’s only a cold.”

Otto took a deep breath. “Right. Gracias. I…I lost myself, didn’t I?”

The afternoon went by in a quiet fervor, both of them trying to fill their baskets before the sun went down. With Otto’s quick fingers and Severin’s thin ones, it was an easy job, and the managed to get back before it got too dark.

Otto wasn’t two steps through the door before they were at Godric’s heels, wringing their hands and stammering through the worries that had built up through the day.

“Are you sure…how…did he…should I…?”

The warrior just chuckled and put a gigantic, calloused hand on the their head.

“He’s on tha’ mend, doc, on the mend. Sneezin’ his head off, sure, but gettin’ better.”

As if on cue, two loud sneezes interrupted them from one of the bedrooms, followed by a mumbled curse and a few wet sniffles. Godric shook his head.

“Been like that all day, poor tyke. When he wasn’ dozin’ off, tha’ is.”

Severin took a few scrolls out of his dragon-scale satchel.

“I understand you have a more…pressing engagement. Why don’t I take the calculations tonight?”

But Otto was already on their way to Barlow’s bedside, medicine bag in tow. Severin only lifted his eyebrows and turned on his heel, setting up the many notes he had taken and a few quills on the oaken table.

“Besides,” he murmured to himself, “I don’t want to get near whatever affliction that sprite’s come down with.”

*************

Barlow was scratching at his drooping ears, which were now covered in a red, peeling rash. Otto gently pushed his hands back under the quilt.

“I know it itches, but you need to try not to scratch.”

The healer took a small glass container out of their bag, dipping two fingers into the greenish-gray ointment inside. They began to apply the salve to Barlow’s ears, taking care not to put on too much.

“Tell me when you need a break,” Otto said.

Barlow nodded, eyes squeezed shut. After a few minutes, his nostrils started to twitch, and he held up a hand.

“G-gudda…huh…!”

He jerked forward into his knees.

“hit’CHEW! hhhit’SHEW! Uh…hut’SHIEW!”

Barlow snuffled into the quilt, and Otto handed him a tissue.

“Salud.”

“Ugh…sorry, doc…”

Otto put the cork back into the glass bottle and set it on the bedside table.

“It’s alright - most sprites have the same reflex.”

“No, I beant…for…”

Barlow bit his lip, his ears drooping even lower.

“For geddin’ sick.”

Otto put a hand on the sprite’s back.

“Oh, mijo…”

“I-I didn’d mean to,” Barlow whimpered. “I…I should’ve god by coat like you told be to…and dow w-we’re - hic - gudda starve…”

Otto hushed him, pulling Barlow into an embrace and rocking him slowly back and forth.

“We will be fine, mijo,” they whispered, their voice soothing Barlow into a sniffle. “We will forage until you are better, and not a day before. That is what friends do. They protect each other, they take care of each other, and they love each other like family. And that is how I love you. Like my family.”

Barlow hiccuped, trying to speak through his tears.

“Shhh, mijo…it’s okay…”

Otto wrapped the quilt tighter around Barlow and laid him down, pushing hair damp with both tears and sweat out of his face. The sobs quieted, then dissolved into shaky breaths. Before Otto even made it through the doorway, they could hear small, congested snores coming from the pile of blankets.

*****************

Scritch scritch scritch…scriiiitch…

Harried quill scratching filled the air as Otto entered the living room, putting on their tweed coat and wool gloves. They stretched out their arms.

“Buenos días!”

Godric lifted his coffee mug as a greeting, his famous half-smile dancing over his lips.

“Well, aren’tcha bright as tha’ north star this mornin’!”

Otto beamed. Barlow had slept soundly through the night, and he was still fast asleep when they had checked on him. Not a sniffle or a sneeze came from that room.

“Severin, I was thinking we could pick up acorns today,” Otto thought aloud, buttoning their coat. “There is a beautiful place in the forest…”

Silence. The quill scratching only grew more manic. Otto glanced up.

Severin was hunched over the table, writing madly on several open scrolls, only pausing to move a few beads on his abacus. Otto went back to getting ready. Sometimes it took a while for Severin to answer if he was engrossed in his calculations. He would respond when he got to a stopping point.

After about fifteen minutes of fidgeting with their scarf, though, Otto tried again.

“From what I’ve seen, we should be ready for winter in a week, maybe less. All that’s left is the dried vegetables and a few more logs for firewood.”

Again, there was no answer. But now that Otto was a little closer, they could see why.

Severin’s eyes were inflamed and painful, as were his gaunt cheeks. His long, usually well-preened hair was matted against his forehead, with stray hairs sticking up this way and that. Thin shoulder blades came together with each labored breath. Long fingers shivered around a red quill, leaving stray marks on the parchment.

“Mi sombro,” Otto breathed.

The shadowling blinked, raising his head stiffly. Pools of sweat, shaken loose by the movement, streaked down their face.

“I…couldn’t sleep,” Severin croaked. “Have I…have I been awake…?”

Godric looked up from his mug, finally noticing the sorcerer’s state. “Stars above, lad! Ya look like hell frozen over!”

The shadowling stared straight ahead, his breath coming in ragged strains.

“Could someone…please put out the fireplace…?”

Otto clucked their tongue, putting their hands on either side of Severin’s neck. His dark eyes fluttered shut, as if with great relief.

“Mm…”

“Ay, tu cabeza,” Otto cooed, putting their hand on Severin’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”

Severin finally looked down at the doctor. His tense gaze was now dazed, vulnerable - even afraid.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said again, hoarsely.

Otto rubbed their thumb on Severin’s feverish cheek. “I know, cariño. I know.”

***************

It took a lot more doing to get Severin to bed than it did Barlow. Not only did he insist he was perfectly well, only warm from the unlit fireplace, but that he had seen terrifying visions outside the window.

“Their eyes, doctor…they stared into my very essence…a…a beast of some kind…we’ll be killed…”

“Shhh, my love. It’s only a nightmare from your fever. You will feel better soon.”

In the end, the only way Otto could leave the cottage was by taking a small talisman Severin had in his cloak. They weren’t superstitious, but Otto wanted to do anything they could to put the sick sorcerer at ease.

Now with one less healthy person in the group, Otto rushed to get the last of the supplies for the cold winter ahead. The first snowflakes were beginning to fall, which made finding acorns that much more difficult. Before the sun reached its peak, the ground was completely covered in a thin layer of snow. But, for once, Otto’s anxiety was an advantage.

They plowed through every task as if their life depended on it. Another of their friends falling ill had kicked their healer instinct into high gear; whenever they were fatigued or sore, all it took was a few words of the healing oath to get them going again.

“From the monsters of the cave, of the sea, of the heart,” they whispered while peeling wild wolf onions, “I shall protect and provide for those who cannot.”

As morning turned to afternoon, the light flurry of the morning became a bitter gale that howled through the trees like a hungry animal. The world was silent except for the frigid wind - all the creatures of the forest knew well enough that the winter ahead would not be kind to them.

But Otto knew nothing of this.

And so they marched forward.

It was quite past dark when Otto returned to the cottage. Much to their delight, a fire was flickering in the fireplace, and a wonderful, familiar smell lingered in the air - a mixture of tender meat and spices.

As Otto had hoped, there was a pot of stew left over the flames. The broth still bubbled with warmth, and the chicken and vegetables gave off a heavenly steam. Their stomach suddenly felt very hollow.

They hadn’t eaten all day, had they?

With raw fingers, the doctor tried their best to use the ladle, which was as big as their entire arm and weighed twice as much. Gripping the handle with both hands, they brought the brew to their lips, taking care not to burn their tongue.

A beautiful, soothing flavor poured down Otto’s throat. They leaned their head back and closed their eyes, making sure to drink up every last tasty morsel. It was a long time before the ladle was empty again.

Once they were finished, the healer felt a heaviness collect around their eyes. Finally, at long last, they could rest. The cottage was fast asleep - and now it was time for Otto to follow suit.

Sleep came upon Otto too quickly for them to retire to their own bed. Like a hound after a successful hunt, they crawled onto the sofa and curled into a ball, dead to the world before their head hit the soft cushions.

*******************

Otto wasn’t sure how long they slept. They remembered bits and pieces of dreams, of words, or memories - but mostly a comforting darkness that lulled them into a deep drowse.

When they finally awoke, the first thing they saw was the flitting of the fire. The flame had all but burned itself out during the night. Otto rolled over, stretching and sighing with satisfaction. That was the best they had slept in several days.

They indulged themselves in a large yawn and shifted off the sofa, cringing from cold stone against their bare feet.

The cottage was still silent with sleep - not a thing stirred but the creaks and groans of the wooden beams. A frigid wind had picked up outside, and bits of snow swirled in the air.

How cold Godric must be this morning, Otto thought as they padded towards the hallway. The warrior was always up and working by first light - quite before anyone else was awake - but came back inside to drink some hot coffee and see how the preparations were going. Godric made a strong cup of coffee. One could smell it and be ready for a new day; that’s usually all most could stand without sputtering.

Today, however, there was no earthy aroma of it brewing. All Otto could smell was a hint of the stew they had eaten the night before - the husk of a beautiful, delicious dream.

The doctor peeked his head into Barlow’s room. The sprite was laying on his stomach, eyes closed and breath soft. Though they had been feeling better for the past day or so, Barlow’s nose frequently ran away with him, and was still very pink and sensitive. His upright ear twitched ever so slightly, but there was no sign of him stirring any time soon.

Severin, on the other hand, had fared much worse. Despite the many wet rags coating almost every inch of his febrile body, his breathing was still heavy and labored, and his eyes darted under closed eyelids. Bite marks covered cracking lips. Otto made sure they made little noise as they tiptoed from the doorway. Severin needed all the rest he could get.

Otto turned from his patients, a familiar heaviness weighing upon their heart. Such misery in what was supposed to be a warm season of reaping and feasting.

Perhaps it came back with them from market, or from the many travelers that take the nearby road into town. With how hard everyone had been working, and how many nights were left unslept…

Otto massaged the bridge of their nose, dashing from one possibility to the next, feeling more and more ashamed by how little they prepared, how stupid they must have been, how utterly selfish! They had been so busy with preparations that they had barely noticed that their journeymates were wasting away!

They could have done something. This was all their fault, wasn’t it? How could they be a healer if they couldn’t even keep the ones they loved safe?

Otto was roused from their guilt by the sound of harsh coughing. They peeked their head into the past two rooms, fearing that one of them had been awakened by their footsteps. However, both of them were still out cold. Or out warm, in Severin’s case.

No, the coughing wasn’t coming from their rooms, Otto realized. It was coming from the third bedroom - the one that they and Godric shared.

The door creaked open as Otto shuffled inside, already knowing the worst was yet to come.

“Doc? Is tha’ you?”

Godric was sitting up in bed, quilt wrapped around him, his chest heaving with another hacking fit. His cheeks were flushed with effort and fever. Otto went to his bedside, their heart dropping into their stomach.

“Real nice ‘a this cold to leave the healer last, eh?” the warrior joked before laying back down with a quiet groan.

Otto pushed the hair off Godric’s neck and felt his lymph nodes, which were not only hot, but terribly swollen.

“I can chop those few pieces ‘a wood, an’ then I’ll-”

“You are not getting out of this bed,” Otto said sternly. Then, with a kinder tone, “I know you want to finish your work, but you are very sick. You shouldn’t be out in the snow.”

“But how-”

“I will take care of it, cariño. Just rest.”

Godric opened his mouth to say something else, but just coughed and covered himself up with his quilt.

“Take care of yerself, doc,” he said before Otto went to check on the others. “There isn’t anythin’ I can’t do after I’m back on m’feet.”

***************

Between taking care of three sick creatures and the final preparations, Otto ran themselves ragged over the next few days. None of their friends were particularly hard to take care of - especially after Severin’s fever broke - but the heaviness of their heart continued to weigh upon them.

With no other options, they threw themselves into work.

If they chopped enough wood for an extra week, they chopped enough wood for two extra weeks. The larder was more than full. Their fingers and hands and back and everything else was sore, but they couldn’t stop for long without feeling their guilt gnaw away at them.

One frigid morning, Otto had taken to the axe, splitting wood and putting them in the shed to keep them dry. They had run out of pre-cut trunks a long time ago, so they started cutting sticks in half for kindling. Out of the corner of their eye, mid-swing, they saw a figure marching through the snow - lifting their foot high before stomping it down again with a crunch.

After a few minutes, Otto could finally see a pair of long ears fluttering in the cold wind.

“Barlow!”

The sprite grinned as he approached Otto, holding up a steaming container of something in his mittened hands.

“I got soup!” he called out, trying to move faster in the deep snow. “Godric felt a lot better today, so he wanted to try somethin’ new. It��s real good! Even Severin ate a whole bowl of it, so you know it’s gotta be great.”

Barlow sat next to the chopping block, and patted a mound of snow next to him. Otto sat down, wincing as their sore muscles twinged.

“Godric says we’re all packed up for winter,” Barlow continued as he handed Otto the food. “And we’ll even have stuff to eat in the spring, too.”

Otto didn’t answer, but tucked into the soup, not even blowing it off before putting the spoon in their mouth. Barlow thought for a little bit, then spoke again.

“Doc, Godric told me that we got more than enough food and wood to last through the winter. If you wanna come inside, we’ve got a checker game goin’…”

Otto didn’t respond, but they had started to shiver from the cold. Barlow took of his coat and draped it around Otto’s shoulders.

“C’mon, let’s get back. Everybody’s waitin’ for us.”

Barlow took Otto by the hand and pulled them up, then led them back towards the cottage. Otto trailed behind like a quivering lamb, both exhausted and numb. They couldn’t think of much else than putting one foot in front of the other.

When the pair finally got back to the cottage, a warm, cozy scene awaited them. Severin was on the couch, doing needlepoint with half-open eyes and content look on his face. Godric was above the stove, stirring a pot and putting one seasoning or another into it. The fire was blazing in a lovely orange hue that painted the scene with a beautiful glow.

While Barlow went right inside and was greeted by the others, Otto stood in the doorway, weary eyes closed, soaking up the light and warmth as much as they could.

“Doctor?”

Severin was up now, his quiet wisdom regained. Before Otto could answer, the sorcerer started to remove their soaked outer layers with quick fingers.

“If Barlow didn’t bring you here,” Severin said, “you would have worked yourself to a frozen skeleton.”

Otto suddenly jerked his head to the side.

“het’TCH! TCH! TCH’UH!”

“Many blessings, doctor.”

Severin smiled and tilted his head.

“Many, many blessings.”

Otto sniffled, rubbing their nose with stiff fingers.

“Nngh…gracias. Just a little…heh…htch’CHU!”

“Aye, I don’ like tha’ sound of that,” Godric rumbled from the kitchen, turning his head to see the sickly healer.

Otto waved their hand. “Just a li-hih-ttle sdiffle…”

“One that is long overdue, I think,” Severin said, putting the last of their wet things away.

Otto was ushered in front of the fire, still at the mercy of his nose. With each sneeze came a chorus of blessings and, if need be, another handkerchief.

“That’s a real nasty cold, huh?” Barlow commented after a particularly forceful fit. “Even I didn’t sneeze that much.”

As the day came to a close, the group all gathered on the couch, listening to the wind howling outside and treating themselves to Godric’s famous roast and sweet apple tea. Otto didn’t eat very much, but the hot tea soothed their sore throat.

“Tank you for taking such good care of be,” Otto snuffled.

Godric chuckled. “Ya care so much about us, doc. It only makes sense that we’s care an awful lot about you, ‘specially when ya aren’t feelin’ well.”

“And after you tended so well to us, may I add,” Severin said, leaning his head back.

“Yeah!” Barlow agreed, not exactly as good with words as the others, but still just as thankful.

Otto, overcome, buried their face in Godric’s side and began to cry, letting out everything that they had felt in the past few days. They wanted to stop, they wanted to explain, but it was lost in desperate sobs and hiccuping. Godric held them closer to him while the others offered quiet support until the doctor quieted.

“There ya go,” Godric said, putting a large hand on Otto’s head. “It’s gonna be alright.”

Filled with comfort and warm food, Otto quickly dozed off, and the others weren’t far behind. The only sounds were the falling of fresh snow, the crackling of the fireplace, and the snores of deep, contented sleep.

And, as winter finally settled into Harbinger Woods, they all settled down for their long winter’s rest.

******************

Not only do I want to dedicate this to @perfectpaperbluebirds , who gave me the prompt, but also @sneezytomatosquish , who has been feeling emotionally and physically under the weather lately. That may have changed by the time this fic is finished, but I shall gift it to you anyway. You are one of my favorite creators, but I want to create something for you for a change. You deserve it.

Get well soon!

[rosemochi]

16

16. Daybreak.

"How much for a room?"

The innkeeper stares. Zack stares back. He knows he's getting blood all over the floor, but it's not as if he can help it, and if the man declines to help him, then the puddle will just get larger. Finally, the innkeeper sighs, and Zack's shoulders sag in relief. "Hundred gil. Only got single beds, though."

He limps towards the desk. It takes a great deal of effort to grab his wallet, considering Cloud is still slung over his back. "That's fine." After a pause, he says, "Sorry about the mess. I'll clean—"

"Don't worry about it." The innkeeper hands him a key. "Room charge includes a cleanin' fee."

Their accommodations are filthy, but it's still better than the lab. Zack sets Cloud down on the bed, strips him of his wet clothes, and covers him with as many blankets as he can find. He still looks uncomfortable — because anybody would've been uncomfortable on such a thin mattress — so Zack takes his own pillow and shoves it underneath Cloud's head, leaving his own side bare. Finally, he collapses into a nearby armchair and watches Cloud with half-lidded, heavy eyes. "What are we gonna do?"

Cloud doesn't answer, of course. The only noise that greets Zack is the sound of the slums outside the window; the bustling crowds, loud, inhospitable, naturally wary of broad-shouldered men in sleeveless turtlenecks. It was a miracle that he'd even managed to find this inn, considering most people in Sector 7 avoided him like the plague. "We'll figure it out." Zack's voice is light, airy, confident; the opposite of what he feels inside. "It'll be fine."

---

It's not fine.

The next day dawns. Zack counts out his remaining gil. There's only enough for a week's worth of food, and that's if he stretches it. Going to the hospital isn't an option, and it's far too late to take a potion, so he eventually resorts to digging out the bullets in his torso with a pocket knife. They make a strange kind of music as they hit the bathroom sink, clinking against the porcelain, accompanied by the steady drip, drip, drip of Zack's blood. Cloud sleeps through Zack's grunts of pain, which he's grateful for — he doesn't want Cloud to see him like this.

As Zack bandages his wounds, he thinks back to the encounter that gave him all of these injuries to begin with. He's pretty sure Cloud didn't get hit by anything, but it's not as if he's conscious enough to say otherwise.

"Sorry, buddy," Zack says. "Gotta do this."

He lifts the blankets up. Cloud's torso looks fine — other than the keloid scar in the center of his chest, stark against his pale skin, and the frightening way his ribs stick out from his body, made thin by five years of stillness and artificial nutrition. Zack doesn't look for very long, because it feels weird; he's oddly flustered by the time he finishes his pseudo-examination.

Once he's finished, Zack goes to sit on the side of the bed and misses it entirely. He slowly sinks to the threadbare carpet, his shirt catching on the rough comforter as he goes down. His head is pounding, as if somebody's hammering on the insides of his brain with a hammer. "Good," he murmurs, relieved. "Just me, then."

---

Zack wakes, his head still aching, and hastily dresses in the only outfit he has. He wants to run his errands before the slums awaken, but Sector 7 is full of early birds... that are naturally wary of Shinra-issued super-soldiers. Zack arrives at a grocery store, dressed in his infamous uniform (sans pauldrons, though it doesn't help much), beelines for the produce, and promptly gets spat at over a bushel of carrots.

"I'm an ex-SOLD—" Zack sighs. The old Wutain woman walks away, muttering curses under her breath. "Nevermind."

He heads to a nearby clothing store and spends far too much money (five gil) on a new set of clothes. The turtleneck, belt, and pants find their way into a nearby dumpster. Now incognito, Zack quickly buys some necessities — food, water, more bandages, a bar of soap — and races back to the hotel room, eager to check on Cloud.

"I'm home," he announces. Cloud doesn't respond. Zack sits on the side of the bed and rifles through the grocery bags, emerging with a container of fruit. "I bought blueberries." He hastily covers his mouth with his other hand as he coughs, his chest burning from the exertion of running up the stairs. "Your—" Another cough. "Your favourite."

---

Could he be a mercenary? He doesn't see why not, really, other than the fact that somebody might recognize him (when he's supposed to be dead). Could leveraging his ex-SOLDIER status help drum up more business? Is it worth the risk? He'll figure it out in the morning, he decides. Zack lies his throbbing head down on the mattress and falls asleep, dreaming of the painkillers he'll buy with his mercenary money.

The fourth day comes. Zack opens his eyes and hisses in pain; the sunlight feels like it's burning a hole through his skull. He flips onto his stomach, seeking darkness, and hears an unfamiliar groan.

It takes him a moment to recognize the sound.

Zack leaps out of bed and immediately sways on his feet. Something is wrong, terribly wrong, but he can't let whatever it is stop him — Cloud needs him. He grabs a bottle of water, brings it to Cloud, and holds his head up so he can drink it.

As soon as the bottle's empty, Cloud asks, "Where are we?"

"Sector 7," Zack says. "The slums."

Cloud's eyes roam up and down Zack's bare torso, pausing at the blood-stained bandages. "I remember the cliff," he croaks. "I thought I dreamed it."

Zack lays back down on the hard mattress. He laughs, but there's no humor in the sound. "I wish."

The mattress squeaks as Cloud turns to face him. Zack carefully looks at him, emaniciated but animated, taking in all of the features — sunken eyes, sharp cheekbones, dry lips — that display his illness, equivalent to Zack's own sorry state. Still, there's something about the sight of Cloud that Zack finds strangely wonderful, something that makes his heart race — a feeling made stronger by the fact that it's him, awake, present, right beside him.

"We're alive," Cloud whispers in wonder.

"Yeah." Zack smiles. "We're alive."

---

Though Zack might not stay that way for long.

Day five. The morning sun burns his eyes like acid. Whatever's been plaguing Zack has grown infinitely worse, and he suspects it has something to do with one of his bullet wounds — whatever's making his bandages stain yellow rather than red. Or perhaps it's because he sat in soaked clothes for hours upon hours as he hauled Cloud to Midgar, frozen to the bone in the frigid December weather.

Or perhaps it's both.

The reason doesn't matter, really, because that's not the point. Isn't he supposed to be immune to these sorts of things? What on earth was the point of his augmentations if he still gets things like colds and infections?

Zack ventures back outside in search of medicine, for things he hasn't taken since he was a child in Gongaga, fighting against strep throat and bronchitis. He heads to the nearest pharmacy, because he still can't afford a doctor. Unfortunately, he finds out he can't afford basic remedies either.

"You got wounded?" The pharmacist says, eyes wide. "How long ago?"

"Five days."

"Way too late for a potion," he murmurs. He looks Zack up and down, then rifles underneath the counter. "I'm not supposed to sell these without a prescription, but..." He rings up the antibiotics. "Two hundred gil."

Zack grimaces. "I have fifty."

The pharmacist directs Zack to the veterinarian next door: somebody who sells drugs under the table for cheap. Zack pays ten gil for a bottle of canine antibiotics (which is still too much, but he can't take care of Cloud if he's dead himself) and stumbles back outside. His head swims as he wobbles down the street, knocking shoulders with Sector 7's many residents. He hits one woman particularly hard. "Sorry," he slurs.

The black-haired woman whirls around to face him. She gasps. "Wait—"

"Sorry."

The woman says something else, but Zack rushes forward, eager to get back to Cloud. He makes it back to the inn (though he's not quite sure how), tears his way back into the room, and promptly rushes for the toilet. The bile tears through his esophagus as it comes up, leaving his throat raw and scorched in its wake.

Something crashes in the bedroom. Zack looks over the rim and sees Cloud crawling towards him, a blanket tangled around his legs. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"Nothing," Zack insists, though he's sure he's not doing a very convincing job of it. He flushes the bile away. "Got meds."

Cloud hunts around for the bag that Zack dropped on the floor. Exhausted, he leans back on the bathroom cupboard, rips the bag open, and inspects the bottle. "This says 'for Fido'."

"He said something about 'equivalent doses'," Zack groans. "No idea what that means."

Somehow, he musters up the energy to pull himself up to the sink so he can brush his teeth. Cloud crawls up with him, using the counter as leverage. The image in the mirror is a frightening sight; Zack can barely recognize himself. Cloud reaches up and pulls a sweat-soaked strand of hair from Zack's temple. "When was the last time either of us showered?"

Zack grimaces as he thinks back. "Five years ago?"

It's a good thing they decide to shower together, because they end up having to hold each other up. Cloud doesn't have the dexterity to unbutton his own pants, so Zack does it for him; Zack doesn't have the strength to lift his arms above his head, so Cloud hooks his arms underneath Zack's shirt and pulls. They take turns scrubbing each other clean, trying to make up for each other's deficiencies. Zack's bandages get soaked, but he simply doesn't have the energy to care. "Bend down," Cloud says. "I'll get your hair."

The hot water doesn't last long. Strength spent, they end up on the floor, gasping for air and clutching each other for warmth. Zack's feverish forehead lands on Cloud's cold shoulder; the sensation makes him groan in relief, even though the rest of his body is frozen to the bone. "We might have to stay here forever," Cloud gasps. "I don't have the strength to haul you up."

Zack slowly drags his head up. Droplets of cold water drip down Cloud's chin, his jaw, his neck, collecting in the hollow of his throat. Zack's mouth is impossibly dry; if he didn't know any better, he might've tried to drink from it. "I'd be fine with that," he admits.

---

"Why did you give me your pillow?"

Zack drags his eyes open. Dim streaks of light pierce through the blinds, highlighting the dust in the air. The clock on the nightstand reads 5:30 AM. "You needed it more."

"How?" Cloud croaks. "I was unconscious."

Zack doesn't have a good answer for that, so he stays silent. Cloud sighs and tugs at his shoulders. "Roll over," he says, and Zack slowly complies. His head lands in the center of Cloud's chest — a much comfier surface than the hard mattress. "Stupid," Cloud whispers into his hair. "You're so stupid."

They slowly drift back to sleep. Zack dreams of everything — his childhood in Gongaga, his days as a SOLDIER, the bloodshed in Wutai, the pain, the glory, the atrocities, all blending together into a whirlpool of dreams and nightmares. At the center of the maelstrom, always present, is the laboratory and the years he spent with Cloud, so close and yet so far, within arm's reach but miles away. In his dreams, the glass is impenetrable, no matter how hard he tries to smash it; his screams are muffled by the mako that spills into his throat, filling his lungs, robbing him of freedom.

But not anymore.

Cloud is here. He's in front of him, beneath him, warm, breathing and alive. Cloud's arms rise up to hold him, enveloping Zack in a comforting warmth that feels like home; Zack's hands clutch at Cloud's shirt as if it's the only thing tethering him to the Planet. The fabric underneath his eyes quickly grows damp.

"Still feverish," Cloud whispers, his lips moving against Zack's forehead.

"Yeah?" Zack mumbles, as if he can't tell — though he obviously can. His head is swimming; he feels like a child again, sitting in the bow of his dad's fishing boat, feeling the ocean tug him to and fro. "Not enough dog meds."

"I'll go get them."

Zack's arms tighten around Cloud's waist. "Don't," he says. "They're not doing anything anyway."

"You have to keep taking them for them to work," Cloud argues. He eventually wiggles out from underneath him, though Zack does his best to make him stay put. An eternity passes before he returns, medicine and water in hand. "Open your mouth."

Zack's throat, still raw from bile, aches as he swallows the pills down. Cloud puts the medicine aside and collapses on top of him, utterly spent. They lay there for a while, arms twisted around each other, Zack taking comfort in Cloud's steady heartbeat. "Don't know what I'd do if I lost you," Cloud whispers.

Zack gently runs his fingers through Cloud's sweat-soaked hair. "You'd be fine."

"No," Cloud quietly argues. "No, I wouldn't."

Zack slowly sinks back into unconsciousness. For once, he dreams of nothing; his mind is a dark, cool abyss, a refuge from the fever. When he's pulled back into the world of the living, his surroundings are much of the same. Zack awakens to soft fingers running through his hair, stroking his burning forehead, caressing his sunken cheeks. Is he still dreaming? "Don't stop," Zack croaks. "Feels good."

The stroking continues. The fingers trace his brow, the slope of his nose, the bow of his parched mouth, thumb swiping against his bottom lip — where they suddenly stop. Zack opens his mouth to speak, to breathe, to ask for more, when something else presses against his lips: a mouth as chapped as his own.

The kiss is light, because it has to be; even in his dreams, there's no energy for passion. In its absence, the gentlest of movements becomes profound. Zack sighs as he gently presses his lips to Cloud's, swipes his tongue against his bottom lip, seeking his warmth. A shiver tears through him as Cloud's tongue brushes against his own—

—until Cloud abruptly pulls away. He coughs, his chest rattling as he desperately tries to catch his breath. Zack holds him tight and rubs his back until the coughing fit passes. "Shh," he whispers against Cloud's forehead. "Shh."

Cloud eventually stills. Zack can tell he's feverish too; the skin underneath his lips is hot to the touch. "Sorry," Cloud croaks. The misery in his voice makes Zack's chest hurt. "I'm sorry."

Zack shakes his head. What on earth could he ever be sorry for? "Don't be."

They lay there for what feels like an eternity. Zack drifts in and out of consciousness, through the past and present. The fever tries to pull him under, but he briefly comes up for air. "I'll kiss you properly," Zack croaks, "when we're better."

Cloud's arms tighten around him. "We're not getting better."

He's right. Zack's fever persists, no matter what meds he throws at it; he can feel death hovering nearby, waiting to pull him into the ether. "If you can move," Zack slowly says, "I want you to go to the hospital. Don't—" He coughs. "Don't worry about the—"

Cloud inches himself up Zack's body and kisses him again. He coughs, then kisses the corner of Zack's mouth, coughs, then kisses his cheek; the hacking sound is loud and startling, as if it's tearing his lungs into two. "Shut up," he says. "I'm not leaving you."

Zack's eyes close against his will, robbing him of the opportunity to argue. As he slowly sinks into darkness, he feels something wet drip onto his face, like a familiar droplet of rain from a stormy sky. If he were to open his eyes, would he see dark clouds? Would he still be on the cliff, lying in the torrent, waiting for death?

He opens his mouth to the rain, eager to soothe his parched throat, and tastes salt on his tongue.

---

Zack awakens. The light behind his closed eyelids is warm, soothing, like the sunlight that dries the earth after a storm. A soft breeze brushes against his neck, stirring his hair.

"Hey."

Zack cracks his mouth open. "Hey," he croaks.

The weight of Cloud's body pushes him into the ground. Is he alive? Dead? Has he always been dead? Zack doesn't know much about the afterlife, but he knows it's supposed to be a paradise, and an eternity with Cloud is the closest he'll ever get to it.

The sunlight grows warmer, enveloping him from within. The pain in his body ebbs, replaced by something that Zack can only describe as peace. "I love you," Cloud says.

He turns his head towards the sound. "I love you too," he says, smiling. "Always have."

Another sound slowly enters Zack's consciousness; two sets of heavy boots, smacking against wooden floors. "Somebody's coming," Cloud says. "Shinra?"

Zack wraps his arms around Cloud, holding him tight, tighter, until they're as close as two people could possibly be. Their bodies meld into one entity, one soul, impossible to separate, together for eternity. "I'm not going anywhere without you," Cloud says.

The boots come to a stop. "No," Zack agrees, shaking his head. "Never."

Knock.

Every single thing Zack meant to say over the past five years comes out in a rush. "I love you," he croaks, because he can never say it enough. "I love you, I love you—"

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"I love you too," Cloud says, his voice thick with tears.

"What are you tryin' to do, tear the damn door down?!" the innkeeper growls. "Hold on. I've got a key."

It doesn't matter. None of it does. It doesn't matter what will happen, if they're alive or dead or somewhere in between, if they're spirits wandering through the ether, souls flitting through hazy dreams — because they'll always have each other.

"I love you."

The door opens.

[jenroses]

So 30 years ago today I almost died of a massive saddle pulmonary embolism caused by birth control pills and medical ignorance.

I went undiagnosed for 3 weeks despite telling every medical provider I saw from the moment I asked if it would be safe for me to take the pill, "my mother had a pulmonary embolism while pregnant, and then 2 more after she lost the baby."

I was told "It's not genetic" even though they just didn't know yet... Most coagulopathy that is genetic had not been figured out yet.

When I first told a care provider I got short of breath walking to the store, and that my mother had had an embolism while pregnant, and that I was on birth control pills, she said, "you're obviously depressed."

When I told the student health clinic that I was horribly short of breath just sitting up in bed and that I was concerned because my mother had nearly died of an embolism while pregnant and I was on birth control pills, they diagnosed me with asthma and bronchitis, gave me antibiotics and an inhaler, and said, "sleep here so we can keep an eye on you overnight."

I took the meds as directed and lay there desperate for oxygen and waited for the nurse to come back so I could tell her that the meds were not helping. She never came back.

The next morning I dragged myself to the nurse's office and she wasn't there, so I used her phone to call my mother who said, basically, "why are you messing around with the student health clinic, go to the ER and tell them they need to rule out a blood clot."

The ER did not, in fact, rule it out.

A vq scan and angiogram later, they have me a then-experimental clot buster and told me not to move for 12 hours. I recovered most of my lung oxygenating capacity, eventually. I did not recover my ability to manage college effectively long term.

17 years later I had another embolism, and asked about the drug I've been given, and they said, "we don't use that for this. People are never quite the same, after."

If my first instinct had been to go to the ER and ask them to rule out a clot, i probably would not have needed that drug at all. Because the clot would have been so much smaller.

The entire time it was happening, I tried to minimize it, because I'd always been told that I made too much of things, that I just wanted attention.

What has been demonstrated time and time again in my life is that if anything, I routinely downplay how bad things are.

So a moment to be frank about my current health: it's not good. The ra is bad enough that we're far down the list of treatment options. The current drug is requiring me to take other meds to quell my reaction to it and this week it started wearing off on day 5, I did everything I do to prevent migraines, and I still developed an immediate headache.

RA is not usually considered "terminal" but it does shorten lives and my case... The numbers are very bad and my response to treatment has been mediocre to terrible. I have not been fully off steroids for more than a few months in 4 years.

This is not a request for money or fundraising. I'm blessed to have a secure home and double insurance. I'm not alone. I have a supportive spouse, caregivers who knows how to quarantine properly who take my health seriously, and most of the adaptive equipment that could possibly do any good and a source for the stuff I don't have yet.

What this is a request for is to take yourself and your health seriously.

If a doctor doesn't know why you are having symptoms or the treatment doesn't help, it's okay to say, "if you don't have an answer, please send me to a specialist."

If you think you know what might be the problem, challenge them to rule it out.

If they ask why you want the diagnosis, say, "obviously I don't want to be right, but I'd rather know what I'm dealing with so we don't try to treat the wrong problem." (The albuterol was probably dangerous given what it does to heart rate and blood pressure, with the massive clots.)

It may help to act a little bored by it. "I know this might be nothing but given my risk factors we don't get to guess."

They only get to decide it's anxiety or depression when they rule out more life threatening causes. I have both, partly because of, you know, The Medical Trauma. But sometimes something being seriously wrong will have anxiety or depression as a side effect. Most of the people I know with RA had new anxiety months before diagnosis.

The thing I heard the most?

"Oh, you're too young for an embolism!"

What they didn't know is that at the time I had two genetic risk factors on top of the pills. I now have several additional acquired risk factors. But the science wasn't there yet, and I had not been diagnosed yet.

I'd had four embolisms before we learned about the second genetic issue that makes me particularly likely to have multiple embolisms.

There's no tidy ending. One of my many health issues will probably get me sooner or later. I had to break it to my kid the other day that yes, I've been such his whole life and it's not looking like it's getting better but it's only getting worse slowly. He has no memory of me well. Sometimes I think I have no memory of that, either.

[awhitehead17]

Whumptober 2020: Day 20 - Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore

Prompt: Lost

Summary: When their plane crashes, the four of them end up on a small island with no way to communicate with the rest of the world. While they can get by using the skills they’ve been taught, it becomes much more challenging when half of them become ill.

Enjoy! :D

“This is ridiculous! What’s taking them so long?” Jason snaps, glaring out into the darkness.

Dick sighs and leans back against the cold rock behind him, also choosing to stare out into the darkness. He understands Jason’s frustrations but being angry won’t get them anywhere.

The sound of crackling gets his attention and he looks over his shoulder at his youngest brothers. Both Tim and Damian were lying on the floor with a jacket balled up underneath their heads as a poor substitute for a pillow and another jacket covering their bodies as a substitute for a blanket. 

Between them is a small bonfire that the four of them had managed to get started. The flames were low, thankfully controlled and produced just about enough heat to stay warm. It wasn’t ideal but it’s all they could do considering their circumstances.

The four of them had been flying back to America from France in a private jet when the weather across the Atlantic Ocean took a turn for the worst. Their pilots had done everything they could have to try to get them to safety but it wasn’t enough and the plane went down into the water.

It’s all a blur but Dick soon found himself in the middle of the ocean, disoriented, treading water and trying to find his brothers and the pilots. He soon found Jason and the two of them grouped together to find their younger siblings. Time became a blur but no matter what, they couldn’t seem to find the younger boys or the pilots.

It was then him and Jason floating in the middle of the ocean, alone, wet and cold. Despite not finding their brother’s, some luck must have been on their side because in the distance some land could be seen. Without any words he and Jason immediately headed in that direction, it was heart breaking that they didn’t know where Tim or Damian were but they couldn’t swim forever.

They got the land and collapsed just away from the shore. Once the two of them seemed to have gained some energy and strength back they made plans to start surviving on a deserted island in the middle of the ocean.

It was as they were finding shelter they miraculously bumped into a rough looking Tim. The three of them seemed to be in a state of shock that they found one another but in the end Dick got over himself and instantly crushed the kid in a hug.

They briefly exchanged stories to what had happened and Dick and Jason soon learn that Tim had arrived on this little island with Damian. The two of them had found a small cave within the forest which they’re using for shelter and they even found a small stream as a water source.

Tim guides the elder two to the shelter where they all group in with Damian. Thankfully none of them had been hurt in the crash (except the pilots god rest their souls) and they’ve somehow all managed to get back together.

The four of them began to make more plans on surviving and worked as a team (surprisingly with little arguments) to build a fire, gather water and collect a variety of things they could eat.

Their situation only grows worse, however, as both Tim and Damian suddenly fall ill. As far as Dick could tell, Tim has developed bronchitis and Damian’s developed the flu, both most likely as a result from being in the ocean for too long (and because of Tim’s crappy immune system.)

They couldn’t communicate with anyone as they had no gear on them and their phones were wrecked, this resulted in them shouting for Superman hourly, hoping that Clark would hear them. Dick and Jason take in turns looking after their younger siblings, making sure they have water and trying their best to keep them warm and fed.

It’s been four days since the wreck and Dick was more than ready to go home, have a hot cooked meal and a clean shower. So yeah, he could understand Jason’s frustrations on why Bruce and the League were taking so long to find them but there wasn’t anything they could do.

For all they know, the world probably thinks they’re dead.

It was now dark out and he and Jason stand at the entrance of the cave looking out into the tiny island that’s temporarily their home.

“I don’t know how much longer the kids are going to survive Dick.” Jason says looking out into the darkness with a serious and sullen expression. “They need medicine and actual warmth, with food and comfort! Not some dingy cave in the middle of fucking nowhere!”

“I know,” Dick whispers feeling guilty about it all. It’s not fair that their younger brothers have to go through the horrible ordeal of being lost and then being ill on top of that. If Dick could, he would switch positions with them in a heartbeat. “I know and it’s awful, but all we can do is pray and keep shouting in hopes Clark will find us. There isn’t a lot we can do.”

Jason huff and shakes his head in denial. Dick Watches his brother carefully. Jason was all about image, he has a ‘reputation’ to uphold which apparently means no one can see him show any kind of emotion except for anger and sarcasm. Dick could see that being here on this island was affecting him in more ways than just anger, seeing their brother’s weak and ill is affecting him in worse ways.

Jason finally looks at him and Dick could see tears running down his face. “I don’t want them to die Dick. They don’t deserve it and it’s only a matter of time.”

Dick’s heart shatters at the broken whisper. It’s easy to forget that Jason was too his younger brother who also needed to be comforted in times of trouble. Maintaining a good grip on his emotions he steps across the space and pulls Jason into a tight hug. Fuck reputations, they both need this.

He presses tightly against Jason. “They aren’t going to die Jason. We have to believe that they’ll keep fighting through this. They’re strong, they both can make it, they both will make it.” He doesn’t know who’s he’s trying to convince more, himself or Jason.

Jason doesn’t respond but he keeps on hugging Dick so Dick simply keeps the contact, finding it grounding for himself. As the oldest he needs to stay strong for them all. As much as he wants to break down and cry about how unfair this situation is he needs to remain focused and strong. He’ll have his breakdown once they’re all safe back home in the Manor.

He eventually forces himself to pull away from Jason. “Why don’t you try and get some sleep. I’ll take watch tonight and then you can take over in the morning.”

Jason looks like he’s about to protest so Dick sends him a hard look which does the job. Jason pouts at him but starts moving further into the cave towards the boys. “Fine but wake me up if anything happens or you feel like you need a break.”

Dick nods and silently watches as Jason checks both Tim and Damian over. Seeming satisfied for now, he settles on the ground, leaning against the wall and lets his eyes drift shut. Dick turns his attention back out to the darkness, hopefully this won’t be for much longer. Hopefully Clark (or anyone) finds them soon because Dick honestly doesn’t know much longer any of them could take it.

[black-streak]

Waiting for the Worms - Don't Leave Me Now

Part 20

So funny thing, I had this chapter 90% finished at the beginning of last weekend and planned on having it out by then. Instead I got horrifically sick AGAIN. I hate January through February. I either stay consistently sick or contract acute bronchitis. There are no exceptions.

Anyways, there's probably only four chapters left of this story, if that. So hopefully I'll get those out faster without so many pauses between. As always, thank you for your patience and support.

CLOSED LIST of ridiculously nice and patient people: @northernbluetongue @thethirdwheelfriend @shizukiryuu @theatreandcomicfreak @michellemagic @karategirl119 @moonlightstar64 @my-name-is-michell @mystery-5-5 @zalladane @queen-of-the-trash-planet-tm @miraculousdisapointment @dorkus-minimus @jardimazul @allthebooksandcrannies @g-arya @worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry @persephonescat @mycupisbroken @luciferge @18-fandoms-unite-08 @dawnwave16 @alwaysreblogneverpost @kris-pines04 @emjrabbitwolf @mysteriouslyswimmingfan-blo-blog @weird-pale-blonde-person @you-will-never-know-how-i-think @kokotaru @naclychilli @slytherinhquinn @clumsy-owl-4178 @ladybug-182 @darkthunder1589 @evil-elf16 @dast218 @lysslovsanime @emilytopaz @naoryllis @iloontjeboontje @thepeacetea @danielslilangel @finallyaniguana @i-like-fairytail-and-stuff @vixen-uchiha @yuulxd @bleeding-heart-romantic @magic-inthe-stars @st0rmy-w1th1n

~---~

Barbara knocked on their door at eleven on the dot, rolling in and immediately greeting Tim, who laid across the couch where he'd spent the night until they could find a more permanent sleeping situation. Jason stood frozen in the doorway to the bedroom, barely registering as Mari came up behind him from the bathroom only to stop dead as well.

"Hey Jay. Been a while, hasn't it?" Babs spoke with a strained smile, tears glittering in the corners of her eyes.

He saw Tim dart his eyes back and forth between the two before a startled expression stretched across his features, turning back towards him and Mari, the latter gripping tightly to the back of his shirt, "You were gone before the incident."

"What incident?" Mari growled out behind him, hands clawing at his back in agitation until his hand reached back for her own, in which she immediately adjusted to hold on.

"The Joker. He captured me not long after you died. I hear someone took care of that though?" She rolled closer from her wheelchair, and wasn't Jason just so grateful his soulmate chose an accessible complex. Exhaling a shaky breath, he moved forward to give her a hug.

"Yeah. Yeah, he's gone now."

…

The four of them sat together for an hour, discussing what had happened to them all, Tim staying mostly quiet about his own past, but cutting in to help Barbara along with her story at times. Damian stayed away in his room, tuckered out socially from the last few days and deciding today would be dedicated to drawing in his room away from prying eyes. Occasionally he ventured out to get a drink or check on them, but otherwise kept away.

As time seemed to pass and Babs reacquainted herself to the two, finally understanding why Alfred use to treat Jason like two seperate people at times, the boy to Jason's left slowly seem to slouch in his seat. Apparently the ease in which they interacted with someone he trusted helped them into the teen's better graces. When the teen came to rest on folded arms and fell into a doze, he considered this an appropriate time to ask, "How often does he get sleep? I know for a fact he didn't get any last night."

"He's a work in progress on the sleep front. Never had anyone to force a sleep schedule on him so he's been awake most nights."

"You mean?" Mari asked.

"Absentee parents. Gone now, but just not present when he was growing up. Between the neglect and lack of praise, he's got a bit of a complex. Stays up even more since he's been with Bruce."

"I wonder how much he'd hate being kept to a more rigorous schedule," Mari wondered.

"Well, it couldn't hurt to try. You seem pretty good at using logic to force him into seeing your way and with how he's been acting since we found him, that's likely what he'll respond to," he stood up and made his way closer to the sleeping figure, "I'm going to lay him up in our bed, hopefully he'll take a while to wake up."

With that, he wrapped tucked an arm under legs and tilted Tim carefully into his chest in a bridal carry. The second he lifted, the teen jerked awake, attempting to escape his hold that had tightened to keep him steady. 

"Yo, Tim, knock it off," he half growled as he avoided another flailed limb only to relax when the smaller one went still, eyes training on him.

"What… Why are you carrying me?"

"You fell asleep on the table. Just getting you somewhere more comfy. Relax birdy, I'll set you down in a second," Jason relayed, continuing into the main bedroom, ignoring the watchful look from behind as he sat Tim down into the bed, "Just go back to sleep, we'll wake you up to say goodbye to Babs before she leaves," he called over his shoulder, leaving the door open behind him so that the cautious Robin could keep track of them and listen in enough to calm once more.

"You're taking this a lot better than I would expect," Barbara commented as he rejoined them around the counter.

"Which part?"

"Being replaced."

"I wouldn't say we took it well, per say. We did go after Bruce a little and launch him across the sky," Mari cut in quietly, sipping from her mug.

"Well yeah, there's that," she chuckled, "but I was speaking more towards your reaction towards Tim specifically."

"It's not like it's his fault Bruce doesn't know when enough is enough. I get that Tim sought the position himself, but that doesn't take the responsibility off of Bruce's shoulders. I'm not going to hold that over his head, especially considering he was, what, twelve? Thirteen when he became Robin? Just a kid. I doubt his intentions were so dark as to want to replace a dead boy."

"Thirteen, yeah. He's fifteen now, but he seems so much older and yet so much younger at times. It's strange," Babs responded, looking towards where she knew Tim lay awake, listening.

"We were all forced to grow up too fast. It's insane to think we're only two years older than him. I feel ancient and yet he looks so young."

"You still look young yourself."

"Oh shut up, you know what I meant."

"What do you plan to do with him?" Babs asked carefully, looking towards Mari more than himself.

"Nothing," he responded for her.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing," he offered a small grimace, "If he'd like to stay with us, we'll take him in, but that's up to him. We're not going to push him to do something just because we deem it the right thing to do."

"Hmm, I'm sure he'll appreciate that."

Out of his peripheral, he took satisfaction at seeing Tim finally settle fully into the bed, slowly drifting back to sleep.

…

Three nights passed when Tim overstepped an unknown boundary. In hindsight, it should have been obvious, if not expected to happen. The innocence in the act only made it all the worse for those involved. 

Everyone knew Tim never slept proper hours. The other occupants, however, tried to keep relatively normal hours if only for the sake of the youngest, who needed a consistent schedule. Tim assumed the others to sleep lightly if at all, considering all of their pasts. In a way, they proved him right.

Marinette heard a whisper in the night, pulling her from her slumber and into full, rigid consciousness. That was not Damian.

It ghosted softly across the floor, picking its way over to her side where she could almost feel the soft breath it released near to her face. Had it not been for her training, the sounds and air pressure change would never even occur to her. As it was, she felt her muscles coil tight as a spring, keeping everything still so as not to give herself away. When the hand descended towards her shoulder, she grabbed the thin wrist and twisted it down, forcing the body to kneel bedside with the captured arm atop the bed as she launched herself behind him and yanked a dagger from under her pillow tight across his throat, not enough to cut, but enough to get the warning across. 

Move and you die.

The person cleared their throat a few times and called up tentatively to her bedmate, who sat up the moment they moved, "Jason?"

Jason jumped up immediately and gripped large, callused hands about her shoulders, ducking his lips near her ear, "Mari? Bit of a hostile hold you got on Tim there. Mind loosening it up?"

Snapping into focus once more, she took in her captive, seeing the thin frame and silky black locks, the slight fearful tinge to icy blues. Marinette couldn't help but scramble back into Jason's arms, dropping the dagger and kicking it across the room. Tim turned slowly, eyes meeting her own in a wary stare.

"I'm so sorry, Tim, I didn't even recognize you and I- that's. That's no excuse. I'm so very sorry I hurt you, you don't deserve to deal with that," she felt her body shake, eyes watering in the corners as she felt arms tighten around her.

"Are you okay? Did you need something?" Jason inquired in a deep soothing voice, eyes trained on the teen before them.

"I'm fine. It was nothing, I'll leave you be. Sorry I came in without permission," he stated calmly, ice blues not betraying anything.

"It's alright. If you need something at night, approach me, yeah? Less jumpy."

His eyes flashed before her with something, maybe surprise, before shutting off again, "of course. I'm going to move now," Tim directed at her, making her flinch, but nod slightly.

He picked his way around the edge of the room, closing the door behind him. Marinette slumped into Jason's chest, "I fucked up, didn't I?"

"Not your fault, buttercup. It'll probably be a set back, but there's not a thing you could do bout your gut instincts."

The next morning, Tim was gone.

…

A week passed before he reappeared.

They heard from Barbara that he stayed at her place for a few of the days, traveling on others, but never returned to the Manor. When he showed up, his lips gave a sheepish little smile, eyes squinting ever so slightly and shoulders tense as Damian answered the door for him.

"Ugh, the stray is back," Damian stared up at him, narrow eyed at the boy who upset his Mari. When Tim didn't move, the kid's lip curled up, "Well get in already," he prompted, watching Tim enter and closing the door behind him.

Marinette kept quiet as Jason and her prepared dinner, exchanging glances and coming to a decision wirelessly as they placed down a fourth plate. When they all sat about the table, Tim hesitated by his chair, a confused twist to his lips.

"You don't have to eat if you're not hungry, but I would like if you sat with us," Marinette addressed him, with enough reassurance on her voice and apology in her eyes to convince him to sit down and tuck in to the meal they set before him. As the other three talked, listening whenever he decided to speak up or moving on when he seemed uncomfortable with a topic, they watched as Tim's shoulders slowly relaxed, forearms no longer pressing into the table, fists delicately cradling his fork instead of in fists around the metal. Marinette couldn't be sure what changed his mind and made him come back, but Jason had a hunch.

Dinner ended with Tim asking to stay the night. One night turned into many.

…

On his fourth night, Marinette and Jason woke to the sounds of hushed voices outside their door.

"Don't go in, she won't recognize you in sleep. It's dangerous."

"Of course she is dangerous in her sleep. She was trained to assume any approaching unknown is set to attack and kill. She will not attack me. Let go."

"She didn't even recognize me, you're going to get yourself killed."

"Did you go to her before in her room? Make yourself familiar at a time she wasn't sleeping?"

There was silence for a long while, until finally a hushed response, "Her subconscious mind sees me as an unknown. I haven't really leaned one way or the other to them while awake either. Of course neither of them would take well to me coming into their sanctuary while they're vulnerable. You're their kid, I'm just a flighty presence until I tell them otherwise." 

At this point, Damian opened the door, casting a look back at Tim as he walked up to her and climbed up between the two and snuggling into her waiting arms.

She met eyes with Tim over Damian's head, sure that Jason was doing the same. The teen had a contemplative look, before pained understanding dawned upon his features. He nodded to them and closed the door. They could hear him shuffle back over to the couch, settling down into it. 

Soon. 

Whether anyone was ready for it or not, Tim would make his decision soon, and they all knew it.

[blueoatmeal]

Not feeling it?

hey, pro tip? if u know you’re like, insensitive to pain or illness, like you react way less than your peers to scrapes or fevers or whatever, consider lowering your mental bar for “things bad enough that they need attention”

Cuz like, whether you can feel it or not, that’s still damage to your body. Like whether ur the kid who screams their head off over a cut or the one who shrugs it off, the same objective damage has been done, and needs the same attention. You’re maybe just not wired with the automatic “need help” siren that the screaming kid has, and as a result might not get the same help so quickly

Just something to keep in mind. I know a kid who doesn’t sense temperatures right and nearly burned his hands up touching the stove, because he doesn’t get that automatic “aah hot! remove hands!” alarm. He just kept touching. Now he’s old enough to know what’s up, he’s just gotta be extra aware. I have another friend that has trouble sensing how cold things are, and has to be careful to keep an eye on the reported temp in the winter, because without it she just can’t tell if it’s too cold like most ppl can

And me! I was hot and wheezy for a week but kept forgetting about it / ignoring it until I literally collapsed with a fever and found out I had pneumonia. No thinking it was a cold or flu first, no bronchitis, just straight to pneumonia, because I wasn’t paying enough attention to my body. As a child, my parents learned quickly that if I so much as hinted at feeling a little unwell, that I needed to stay home. And it was usually justified, like sure enough, I’d get worse the next day before whatever it was cleared up. Meanwhile my sis would pretend to have a fever to skip out on school, and also tended to be a hypochondriac, which required a slightly different approach from my parents lol

For some things, like sprains / strains, I’ve learned that for me, if I feel anything sore that doesn’t go away in a couple days, it’s definitely worth keeping an eye on and might warrant looking into. And I have to consciously do that, and acknowledge that, or else it’s way too easy to just forget or push through it and have whatever it is just get worse because I didn’t pay attention sooner

So again, just a tip: if you tend to be oblivious / insensitive / stoic about pain and illness, consider readjusting your reactions to your body’s existing alarm signals, however faint, to give yourself a little more care and grace and probably save yourself a lot of trouble in the long run. You may be able to continue functioning without help, but that doesn’t always mean you should

P.S. if this is an issue you have or think you have, it’s probably worth mentioning to a health professional

[firesoulstuff]

Captain Canary prompt 1.

1. “You look like an angel.”

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27544165/chapters/67365241

He’s dying.

Leonard knows he’s dying; he has for a few hours now. Maybe days. Weeks? Not years, no, not years; maybe not even weeks. Oh, he’s been in this shitty situation for months and maybe years, but he hasn’t been actively dying up until some more recent point.

Whenever that was, consciousness comes and goes lately.

He tries to breathe, to focus on the world around him. He breathes in through his nose and as a result finds himself violently coughing. His shoulders shake, and he gags on something wet foul tasting in his mouth, the scent of copper filling his nostrils and if he weren’t so busy coughing he would groan. He does, eventually. He knows its blood without opening his eyes, which is fine, because he doesn’t have the strength anymore to try opening his eyes.

He tries to breathe again, and this time is a little more successful. His entire body still shudders when he lets the breath out, and his lungs burn when he takes another one in, but there is no coughing this time.

He has to admit, of all the ways he ever considered his life would end, he never thought it would be like this.

He always figured however he went out it would be quick. Maybe his old man would finally tip over the edge, or Mick would. He thought he might catch a cop on an off day and get a bullet in the chest. As a kid he thought he might get locked up too far from Mick and that shiv wouldn’t be stopped the second time around. As an adult he thought Lisa might get herself into some kid of trouble and he’d find himself seeing red, and the guy would be too much for him to handle without a plan.

Lisa.

He whimpers at the thought of her. He’s been trying not to think about her lately and what she must be going through, thinking he’ s dead. At first he had been holding onto the hope that he would get himself out of here, or the team would do it, and he would be able to go back to her. Mick would never let him blow himself up and then not tell Lisa what happened, so he knows she thinks he’s dead. His plan was to hug her. His plan was to hold her close and promise her a million times over he was so sorry for leaving her like that. His plan… His plan…

“Throw away the plan.” He mumbles, so quiet he barely hears the echo of the words. He tries to groan again, some confirmation to himself that he is still alive, and all he gets for his efforts is more coughing.

No, he never thought he would go out like this.

No matter how far off the rails his life went, he always had one ultimate plan; he was going to be remembered.

He had always operated under the mindset that he would be remembered as a crook, and a damn good one at that. Then the Legends happened. Rip Hunter and his mission happened. Sar… He doesn’t want to think about her, but she happened. Things changed, and he blew himself up to save free will. If he knows anything about the Legends he knows they – Raymond – would’ve called him a hero. That’s fine, in fact it pulls a tiny smile to his mouth. Leonard Snart, remembered as a hero.

He sighs, the breath shakier than the last.

He hasn’t been remembered.

The Oculus blew, but he didn’t. He was about to, but then there was a feeling of static all around him and a man in a yellow suit.

Thawne.

Eobard Thawne saved him, and then locked him up here, in the depths of the Vanishing Point. He called him an insurance policy.

“Just in case 2014 doesn’t work out.”

Leonard hadn’t known what that meant – he still doesn’t – but thinking about it makes his stomach twist.

Or, maybe that’s the hunger.

It’s been weeks since he’s heard so much as a peep from anywhere in this place, much less Thawne or one of his lackeys brought him any food or water. Something happened, the Legends or Barry or whoever fought Thawne and his whack-job crew must’ve won, and they never knew he was here.

Leonard Snart, forgotten.

All of a sudden he thinks he hears footsteps coming and if he had the strength he would laugh at himself. He’s hearing things now, summoned by his thoughts. Great, death can’t be far off now.

He thinks he hears the creak of a door, and the hope it instills almost feels like enough to motivate his eyes to open.

But he can’t handle that disappointment.

He’ll be looking at a dark, empty room, and despite what his senses are telling him he knows there is no person standing in front of-

“Leonard.”

He wants to cry.

Her voice, it sounds so real. Full of concern and tears, almost identical to how it sounded when she told him she wouldn’t leave him behind, right before he made her do it anyway.

Almost identical, with the tiny exception of a trace of hope.

Maybe that’s why he forces his eyes open. He knows… He knows she isn’t real. She’s a delusion. But… What if… If she might be real, if there is even the tiniest chance, then he can’t risk disappointing her.

He wants to laugh when he opens his eyes, and he thinks he does smile. There she is, crouching in front of him and looking down with tears shining in her eyes. She’s dressed all in white, with a light shining behind her like a crown around the back of her head.

“You look like an angel.” He manages to whisper, and if he had the strength to jump he would, because she toucheshim.

She touches him, and he feels it.

God, he really is dead isn’t he?

She looks away from him, she says something, be he doesn’t hear whatever it is. The temptation of unconsciousness is overpowering, he has no choice but to give in.

As he slips under one final thought manages to cross his mind; she was wrong.

She said dying felt lonely, like everyone she loved was a million miles away.

For weeks he’s been thinking about that and how painfully right she was, but now? It feels like she’s right here with him.

.

.

“Come on Crook, rise and shine.”

His eyes are still closed but he can feel his brow furrowing, as well as his thoughts and senses getting clearer.

He isn’t dead.

Right?

Opening his eyes is much easier this time, though he isn’t sure if that should signal something good or something bad. Despite his eyes opening he can’t see much at first due to the bright light that forces him to close his eyes again. Somewhere in his mind he realizes that the light isn’t that bright, but he hasn’t seen light in somewhere between weeks and years.

“Gideon, dim the lights.”

His entire body freezes.

That voice, her voice, it’s real.

He opens his eyes again, and this time he only has to blink to adjust to the light, as it’s much lower than it was a moment ago.

But it’s still bright enough he can see her.

She’s next to him, her eyes about on level with his so at least one of them sitting down. Both of them, actually, he realizes upon further inspection. They’re in the med bay of the Waverider and he’s laid up in one of the chairs while she’s on a stool next to him.

He opens his mouth to speak, to ask how, but he starts coughing instead. His whole body lurches with the movement, his senses focused entirely on it to the point he doesn’t notice Sara getting up and retrieving a glass of water until the spell has mostly passed and he’s grimacing at the sight of fresh red droplets joining the smattering of old and dried ones on his shirt.

“It’ll stop soon.” She comments as she hands him the water, one hand on his shoulder. “Gideon said you have bronchitis, and the blood is from coughing while your throat was so dry. We’ve got you on fluids, Gideon says the infection should clear up in a few days.”

He nods, though frankly he is almost too caught up in the feeling of the cool water slipping down his throat to care about anything she’s saying. The water tastes so good. He drains the glass sooner than he would like and she smirks as she takes it back from him.

“Pace yourself.” She warns him, “You don’t want to make yourself sick.”

He nods, and she returns to the sink and refills the glass. He drinks it slower this time, though it’s a force. He only lets himself drink half the glass and then he hands it back to her. She looks at him for a moment, as though she’s waiting for him to change his mind, but eventually she sets the glass aside on the pivoting tray attached to the side of the chair. She sits back on her stool, and for a moment it’s quiet.

“How long?” He finally asks, his voice still raspy and he has to clear his throat, but he doesn’t launch into a coughing fit this time.

“Over a year.” She tells him. “Things are… Things are a little different now.” She sighs, “We killed Savage, so Kendra and Carter left. Rip left too, after he had been missing for a while. He’s started this thing called The Time Bureau, he impounded the Waverider for a little while, we just stole her back the other day and now…”

She trails off, looking down at her hands in her lap like they might suddenly give her the words she’s looking for.

“It’s a long story.” She settles on.

“Sounds like it.” He says, “And it doesn’t sound like anything good.”

He gives that a moment, waits to see if she’s going to say anything more, and when she doesn’t he presses on.

“What were you doing at The Vanishing Point?”

“Rip had been held there.” She tells him, and the look she gives him is a silent question. Did he know? Were they held together?

He didn’t know, and she must see that on his face.

“After we got him back he… I mean, he was Rip but… I don’t know. He seemed proud of us. Then he turned around and created the Time Bureau to replace us?”

“It didn’t feel right.” He supplies and she shakes her head.

“We wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything there left behind by The Legion, or worse anything Rip might be hiding.”

She looks to him then with a whole new question in her eyes.

“Please don’t tell me-”

“No.” He promises before she can finish. “It was Thawne.”

She nods, and that’s something at least.

“I’m sorry.” She eventually says. “We should’ve looked harder.”

“Sure.” He scoffs, “And what would you have done when Thawne caught you snooping around his hideout?”

She shrugs, “At least we might have found you.”

“You did find me.” He insists, “When there was no one there to stop you. I’m alive, I think.”

She chuckles at that, “You’re alive Crook, don’t worry.”

“You’re sure?” He teases.

“I’m sure.” She says, “Even though you mistook me for an angel.”

“I said that out loud?” He asks, smirking.

“You did.” She confirms, “And Ray already gushed about it to Mick, so good luck living it down.”

He hums, if that’s the price he has to pay for living, never being allowed to forget he called Sara an angel, he’s more than willing.

“Captain.” Gideon’s voice suddenly interrupts the moment, and Sara glances up at the ceiling. “You have an incoming message from 2017.”

“Coming Gideon.” She answers, and Leonard raises his eyebrows.

“I’ll explain later.” She laughs as she rises to her feet. “For now you get some rest.”

Before she goes she bends down and presses a kiss to his cheek, smirking at the surprise on his face when she pulls away.

“Welcome back, Leonard.”

[lorelounge]

Environmental E-Zine Task - Practical Research

These are the 5 topics I have explored-

Pollution

Nearly 2,500 deaths in Scotland every year have been caused by pollution with 38 places officially in Pollution Zones as the towns have been failing air quality safety standards. Air Pollution has been a worlds problem for years, even before the industrial revolution. Research shows that 9 out of 10 people breath in polluted air.

Air Pollution has been associated with causing cancer, respiratory issues, and more recently, dementia and diabetes.

There are five major air pollutants:

Particle Materials-

These are inhalable particles made out of sulphate, nitrates, ammonia, sodium chloride, black carbon, mineral dust, and water.

Particles with diameters less than 10microns (P10) pose the greatest threat of death as they can penetrate the lungs and enter the bloodstream

They are from Combustion engines (diesel and petrol), solid-fuel (coal, lignite, heavy oil) and industrial activities (building, mining, manufacturing of cement)

Black Carbon-

Black Carbon is a major component of PM2.5 and is a main element of climate change

Despite having a short atmospheric lifetime, it is one of the largest contributors to global warming, after CO2, as it expedites glacier melting

As well as that, it also is known to decrease agricultural yields

Carbon Monoxide (CO)-

CO is a colourless and odourless gas that is sourced from motor vehicle exhaust and machines that burn fossil fuels

High levels of this gas are harmful as they can reduce the amount of oxygen in the bloodstream and reaching important organs

Recent studies also show that long term exposure to low concentrations can also lead to large amounts of health issues

Sulphur Dioxide (SO2)

SO2 is mainly caused by fossil fuels (coal and oil)

It can affect the respiratory system and lung function, which could lead to aggravation of previous lung issues such as asthma or bronchitis

It can also irritate the eyes

Also, SO2 combining with water in the air forms sulphuric acid, which is a main component of acid rain

Ground Level Ozone

GLO is a major component in photochemical smog (which is a haze in the air, characterised by high levels of nitrogen oxides) and is a secondary pollutant, meaning that it is not directly emitted.

Key health risks linked to Ground Level Ozone are breathing problems, asthma, reduced lung function, and respiratory disease.

Stopping air pollution is difficult, as it would require global cooperation. Windblown dust from heavily polluted countries (such as China or Bangladesh) carry large concentrations of particle matter.

Poverty

In Scotland alone, around one million people are in poverty (even before Covid-19). This is the lowest rate in the UK, second only behind Nothern Ireland. Poverty is defined as an income of an individual or household not being able to meet the needs of people, resulting in restrictions in the ability to work in society. It is also used to describe when a large portion/all of an income is used for one specific thing (such as rent), leaving less money for other deemed essentials (food, fuel, funerals, broadband). There have been many different factors that could lead to poverty, such as:

Unemployment or Low Paying Jobs-

A lot of jobs do not provide efficient pay, prospects, or security. Most places are in high concentration of those types of jobs, or failing that, having not enough jobs.

Lack of Education-

Young people and adults without the necessary skill or qualification often can't get any high paying, or any, jobs.

Benefit System Failing-

Welfare system not giving enough money to those in need to live off of. More often than not it has people staying in poverty when it really should be trying to lift people over the line. It is also somewhat confusing and hard to engage with, leaving many people unable to access it.

High Cost-

The high cost of housing and essentials (food, credit, gas, electricity, water, council tax, broadband) creates poverty as even if individuals are able to get enough money, they have to spend it on items that are considered essential.

Abuse, Trauma, Chaotic Living-

Abuse/Trauma can cause a bad impact on mental health, leading to unemployment, educational/motivational issues, and low earnings. Prison time, criminal records, drug misuse can also lead to a deepening in poverty.

Here are some consequences of Poverty,

health issues

housing problems

being victims or perpetrators of crime

drug of alcohol abuse

lower educational achievements

poverty for later generations (studies show that children in poverty often grow up to live in similar situations)

homelessness

biological effects (young children growing in poverty has shown to have an effect on the brains development)

Street Dumping

Street Dumping is the act of leaving rubbish in places where it isn't meant to be, i.e. not in a bin. This can negatively impact the environment. The most commonly littered items are,

food packaging

cigarette butts

used drink bottles

chewing gum wrappers

toys

glass

food scraps

There are many reasons for littering, such as,

Litter being in the area (studies show that there is a correlation between litter already being in an area and the intentional act of throwing litter)

Construction sites (Workers lunchtime waste and inevitable building waste)

Laziness (People not wanting to properly through away their waste)

Belief of no consequence

Lack of bins

Lack of education (Smokers, as an example, are sometimes unaware of the damage cigarettes cause)

The main problems with street dumping are how it affects the environment and the people in the area.

Littering can cause serious harm (Needles, blades, and broken glass can harm or kill humans and wildlife)

Spread Disease (Littering can encourage the spread of pests and disease as it can provide adequate breeding grounds for both that can then be passed onto humans and animals)

Pollutes Environment (Toxic material from Litter can be blown/washed into lakes, oceans, creeks, seas, etc. which pollutes waterways, land, soil, and forest areas)

Kill Wildlife (Many wildlife and ocean life are found dead with glass, plastic, cigarette butts found in their stomachs. They can be poisoned over long periods of time through eating litter, or they can become trapped and suffocating in waste)

Affects Aesthetics and Local Tourism (Litter isn't very nice to look at and it can cause people to not want to go to places, which prevents local businesses from making money out of tourism)

Governments have been trying to prevent the dropping of litter through fines, education, signs, and campaigns but litter is still a major issue and a major pollutant.

Renewable Energy

Over 90% of Scotlands electricity is from Renewable sources, proving it is possible to live off this energy. Renewable energy is the step forward in viable, clean energy. It’s sustainable. Every type uses natural reserves that can be replenished over the years.

Other benefits include little to no waste or carbon footprint, economic improvements and less overall maintenance. This will be able to help with air and water pollution as many pollutants come from burning fossil fuels for energy. However, there are disadvantages to some, as renewable energy sources can be expensive. There are areas that just can’t afford to get it operating in place of coal-fired power.

The different types of Renewable energy include,

Solar Energy

Wind Energy

Hydro Energy

Tidal Energy

Geothermal Energy

Biomass Energy

It is estimated that the number of renewable energy sources will increase as the demand for power rises, which will also cause the price of renewable energy to fall, making it the cheaper, and cleaner, alternative.

Face Masks

Face masks have made a jump in popularity ever since the start of Covid-19, considering that they are now mandatory. Face Masks have been proven to work in preventing the spread of viruses, but the effect on the environment hasn't been for the better. Roughly 53 million face masks have been filling up in landfills daily, which is not counting the amount abandoned in towns and cities. Like with most disposable things, people tend to just drop them after they've finished using them. Masks are slowly becoming similar to disposable plastic bags, meaning that it is another waste product slowly becoming another infectious, irreversible mark on the environment. Over 90% of people use disposable masks rather than reusable ones, in these masks, three layers of plastic are used, including polypropylene.

Abandoned face masks are polluting streams, oceans, green lands, etc. and since Covid-19 has been shown to be able to last on surfaces for up to 9 days, they are also a biohazard.

The only thing we can do to try help stop this is to buy and use washable face masks that we don't throw out.

I chose to research these topics as all of them hit fairly close to home. I feel like all of these topics are very similar in the sense that they all connect. Many of these hits close to home, the main two being pollution and street dumping. I will be focusing on Pollution. There are different types of pollution, caused by different things.

[feynavaley]

Do you headcanon the FACE characters having any cronic illness or health issues?

Thanks for the question! 😊

This is a matter I’m actually not so sure about. You see, based on the fact Romano healed from Huntington’s Chorea in canon, I’d say that personifications, in general, cannot have chronic illnesses the way humans do. They aren’t built for them – they’re built for reliance, optimized for fighting. They heal.

I guess there are some exceptions, though. For example, I have already talked about the fact that Canada’s eyes were permanently damaged following the battle of Ypres (resulting in him suffering from a very slight form of hypermetropia) [x]. Same goes for his lungs. [x] It isn’t truly a chronic illness, though – they are just weaker than they were before, and if he ends up feeling sick, it’s most likely to affect his lungs.

On a similar note, while he doesn’t suffer from any specific illness, I have already mentioned that I picture France having a delicate stomach. [x]

I can also see both Canada and England having quite a frail health for nations and being more prone to illnesses. (In particular, England tends to suffer from tension migraines when he’s stressed.) However, this is still considering that they’re personifications and, as such, healthier than human beings.

America, instead, is in perfect health and it’s almost impossible for him to fall ill. (This is basically canon, by the way.)

———

Things would change if I were considering a human AU, though.

Even there, I would picture Arthur and Matthew having a weak immune system in general. They’re constantly getting sick – especially when the weather isn’t optimal – and their ailments easily turn into something a bit more serious. (A cold always ends up developing at least into bronchitis, what looked like a simple stomach bug turns out to be flu…)

I can easily picture Matthew suffering from asthma. It’s moderate persistent when he gets diagnosed and throughout his childhood and adolescence, then he grows out of it a bit and it becomes mild persistent (even if quite borderline – and while still taking his maintenance meds). He’s quite stable with treatment, however, he’s prone to developing bronchitis or even pneumonia if he isn’t careful. Being a good child who doesn’t want to cause trouble to anybody, he has always been compliant with taking his meds. Due to the same reasons, however, he’s very hesitant to say when he isn’t feeling well so he runs into a few issues if his meds aren’t working properly anymore, letting the situations reach even dangerous levels before intervening. He doesn’t have too many allergies, though, only mould and dust. And he’s bothered a lot by ambient perfumes, smoke, incense, candles etc. On a different note, Matthew’s blood pressure is tendentially low, with all this entails (dizzy spells when he doesn’t eat enough/gets up too quickly/stands still for too long, low tolerance for heat as his blood pressure gets even lower and makes him constantly feel weak…). He also tends to somatize stress with nausea and low-grade fevers.

Arthur starts suffering from high blood pressure when he’s still relatively young. By the time he reaches his forties, it’s bad enough that he has to be medicated. His blood pressure issues result in frequent headaches, too. He’s also affected by seasonal allergies (it’s particularly bad in Spring) and they frequently develop in unpleasant rashes in addition to the other more common symptoms.

Francis, instead, is generally quite healthy (digestive issues aside, but they aren’t dangerous or even truly bothersome as long as he’s careful) except for having tendentially low blood pressure (he’s a bit better than Matthew, though). Growing older, he develops frequent back pain. Maybe even a herniated disk that isn’t bad enough to require surgery but bothers him from time to time.

Alfred is blessed with incredible health in a human AU as well. No allergies, he hardly ever falls ill and even when he does, it’s something light. He goes through his entire life without ever needing a single drop of antibiotic. He also has a very good metabolism that, along with all the physical activity he does, compensates perfectly for his bad diet. It lasts only until he’s young, though. Once he gets to his late forties/early fifties, his metabolism slows down and he starts putting on a bit of weight before (regretfully) realizing that he has to rethink his diet. He jumps back into shape, but his body isn’t the same anymore. He has tendentially high blood pressure and cholesterol levels, even though not to a dangerous extent. Due to his unbalanced diet, Alfred develops type 2 diabetes only in his mid-fifties. Aside from this, he keeps being uncommonly healthy and full of energy, though.

———

I think the Nyotalia versions would be the same as their canon counterparts (in a human AU, as I don’t use Nyos in a canon setting) with only a few specifications.

Marianne/Francine (Nyo!France) is very sensitive to hormonal changes and PMS. She has bad mood swings, going back and forth between being hyper and giddy to nearly inconsolable several times per day.

Maggie (Nyo!Canada) suffers from crippling cramps (the excruciating, in-too-much-pain-to-stand-straight kind) the first two days of her period (and sometimes, especially if she’s under a lot of stress, the cramps may last for her entire period or also flare up when she’s ovulating). I’m on the fence on whether it’s a purely psychosomatic issue or she has developed some cysts (I’m not talking about PCOS but 2/3 big cysts).

[happyburrito]

> Go to PCP for cold/flu symptoms that are causing my asthma to act up. Thinking maybe I have bronchitis.

> Immediately have face mask slapped on my face, making my ability to breathe even worse than it already is.

> Sweet.

> Asked symptoms - a little congested, productive cough, short of breath, sinus pressure, headache, ear ache, hearing muffled, feel like I’m wheezing a lot but not sure I actually am.

> While listening to my symptoms, she’s swabbing my nose for influenza A and B.

> PCP: How long has this been going on for?

> Me: Almost a week

> PCP: Why wouldn’t you come sooner, as an asthmatic?

> Me: I was on a cruise ship in the Bahamas... their medical people said I had a cold but now my breathing sucks so I’m here.

> PCP: *panic sweat* “Brb. Gotta call infectious disease.”

> PCP: “Hey ID said I gotta call the dept of health now, brb.”

> Get immediately flagged for coronavirus 🎉

> Fever - 100.3. Underlying health condition - asthma. Traveled recently - Bahamas / cruise. Shortness of breath - um... duh. Respiratory infection symptoms - again... duh.

> PCP: “Go to the ED they know you’re coming, keep your face mask on”

> Me: “Uhh... my husband and 2 year old are in the car waiting for me... what do I do with them?”

> PCP: *further panic and backing away* “They have to go too, good luck.”

> Head to ED, immediately get waved over. Confirm my information. Asked symptoms. Get told specifically and LOUDLY to sit as far away from other people as possible until I can be seen, which should only be a few moments.

> Cool, but the neon yellow ugly ass face mask keeps people away from me anyway 👌🏼

> Pulled into triage. Nose swabbed for flu. Asked symptoms. Considers drawing blood from me, decides to wait. Asked same questions again. “I have to call Infectious Disease.”

> “My doctor called them and the dept of health, what’s why I’m here. They said come here.”

> “.... imma call them anyway”

> Triage gets told to put me in a waiting room by myself with my family until I can get a fancy isolation room.

> Sweet.

> Get told it’s not a big deal, don’t panic. They have to make some more calls though. Asks symptoms again.

> Sweet.

> Nurse comes in into the room wearing lame ass coronavirus hazmat gear.

> Notices my daughter and her soul leaves her body. “Um. You really shouldn’t have brought her in here if you might be getting tested.”

> “I was told they need to be here ‘cause if I’m getting tested they’ve been very exposed at this point.”

> “Makes sense.”

> Get brought back to fancy isolation quarantine room. “Make yourself comfortable this could be a while.”

> Sweet.

> Doctor and nurse come in with lame ass hazmat gear. Ask same questions over again. Twice. Ask husband to verify if I’m telling the truth. Seem unsure.

> “What are your symptoms?”

> “The asthmatic with bronchitis and a cold kind.”

> Leave again to call department of health. Again.

> *eyes rolling back into my skull even further*

> Come back with just a face mask. “Well Department of Health is finally convinced you’re low enough risk you don’t need to be officially tested. But we still want a chest X-ray and to swab you for the flu again.”

> Swab me again?! This will be my THIRD flu swab within a few hours. T H I R D.

> Sweet.

> Chest X-ray shows I don’t have TB or pneumonia or something.

> Doctor comes back in clearly annoyed a PCP case is clogging up his ED when he was told he might have a fun coronavirus case.

> Throws scripts at me for a short course of antibiotics and a steroid. Get rudely rushed to leave. Diagnosis: sinus infection 🤔

> Wasn’t even physically evaluated. Nobody even listened to my breathing. Nobody looked in my ears, nose, or throat. All I had was weight and blood pressure taken, not even a pulse ox.

> MFW I literally wasted 7 hours of my day over something that should have taken 15 minutes... 😑

I legitimately don’t wish for anyone to get caught up in this hysteria. Oh. my. God. I get people are following protocol and doing their jobs but oh. my. god.

Wash. Your. Hands.

Cover. Your. Mouths.

Stop. Being. Unhygienic.

Calm. Down.