#lysol your children

[deanaferal]

highly recommend extra cold strawberries and a buttery croissant be the first thing you eat after a stomach bug tries to eviscerate you bc it’s from Aldi but it tastes like it was delivered by the hand of God

[ddejavvu]

I saw a video on tiktok the other day of a man on his wedding day getting down to the level of his new stepdaughter and reading out vows to her about how he'll always love and care for her and I bawled my eyes out. Now all I can think about is Hotch and single!mom reader on their wedding day getting down and reading vows to each others children. I dont know if you write single! Parent reader, but if you do could you write something with this premise? Thank you lovely if you can

Your daughter is mildly confused when Aaron beckons her over during the ceremony, but at four years old, she's mostly obedient to her parents. Well- to Aaron. To you, she protests and screams and giggles maniacally, but you suppose you're the one that gave it to her, so you can't complain without sounding like a hypocrite.

You set a hand on Jack's shoulder, ushering the older boy into your own grip.

"You look so handsome," You gush, eyes teeming with tears that threaten to ruin your mascara, "Jack, I- I won't embarrass you by calling you a mushy nickname like CrackerJack, or JackAttack, or Jackers-"

"You're using them all right now-!" The teenager protests, but he doesn't shrug your hand off of his shoulder; his protests are for show.

"Sorry! Sorry," You sniffle, and you let the fifteen year old wipe a tear away from your eye before it ruins your makeup.

"Jack," You repeat, steeling yourself, "I- I just want you to know that I love you. It's not because I love your dad, it's not because we live together, it's not because you woke me up with breakfast in bed on my birthday. It's- it's because of you, sweetheart. I know you're getting older, and- and you might be going away to college soon," You poorly withhold a sob, thinking of an empty bed in the room down the hall, "-but I just- I need you to know that it's you that I love, just the same as I love June. Your mom was an amazing woman, and she made an amazing son, and I'm so honored that you've given me permission to be your stepmom. I love you- Jackers."

Perhaps its awkward for the teen to face such strong emotion head-on, but you won't tattle to his schoolfriends about the tears that well up in his eyes, or the red tint to his nose as he bites them back.

"Love you too," He supplies weakly, surging forwards to wrap his arms around your waist- but it's all you need. One of your photographers makes to readjust your veil where it's been momentarily crumpled beneath his arm, but damn the veil, your stepson is more important.

"They're gushy," Aaron accuses, holding little June in his arms and pointing at you, "Are we gonna be gushy, Junie B Jones?"

Her eyes are mystified as she stares at her mama and her brother, but she shakes her head dutifully at Aaron.

"Oh, go, you're sappier than I am," You tease Aaron, and it rouses a light chuckle from your guests.

"Loony-Junie," Aaron starts, and the girl in his grasp giggles at the name. Encouraged by her delight, he employs her favorite moniker; her most desired snack, "My little pickle. Thank you, for letting me marry your mama. And for giving her the ring, even if it fell in the eggs instead of the fully-baked cake."

The little girl roars with a squeal of laughter at the memory, and- now you know why the Lysol wipes were on the counter the night of Aaron's proposal.

"You were a super big helper to me and your brother," He continues, holding her close, "And I'm so happy I get to be your stepdad now. I know you're a big girl, and you can do pretty much everything by yourself now," He lets her pipe up, falling silent as her tiny voice rings out.

"-I can even put my own shoes on the right feet!"

Not every audience member manages to stifle their giggle, but the little girl doesn't look abashed for it. Aaron nods with a fond grin on his face, and Jack leans into your side where you've pinned him in a hug.

"She can not. I had to switch her mary janes before the ceremony."

"Stop," You pinch him in the side, snorting with laughter and concealing it in the warmth of his shoulder, "Do not make me turn into an evil stepmother, Jack. Let her have this." He concedes- oh, such a good brother.

"I know!" Aaron exclaims, one of his large palms spread wide across her belly as he holds her in his arms, "I'm super proud of you, baby. But. If you ever need help with your shoes, or with your hair, or with your friends, or with your teachers, or with your brother," He shoots a suspicious glance at Jack who sticks his tongue out at his father, "Or with anything at all, pickle, you come tell me. Okay? Even if it's a problem that I'm part of."

"Okay," She agrees easily, unaware of the dozens of painfully-swollen hearts watching the display, "Thanks, dada."

"Oh, pickle," He bites back a shallow, raw twinge to his voice as he hugs her and you hiss, 'Gushy.'

"I love you too," He promises June, "Forever, and always, and even longer after that."

"Infinity?" Her eyes shine; it's a concept her pre-k class came upon in a library comic book and she's fascinated with it.

"For infinity." Aaron confirms, and her teeth show in a grin as brilliantly white and gleaming as the beads sewn into your outfit.

Her response is two tiny, chubby arms slung around his neck, and a delicate face buried in his shoulder. Despite your no-photography request, you're fairly certain a camera shutter goes off that doesn't belong to the photographer you hired.

Garcia.

Oh, well.

"Alright you saps," You manage to blubber, your voice barely clear of the sobs creeping up your throat, "Let's get married before I cry and ruin my makeup. I paid so much for the stylist."

Jovial laughter rings through the tent you've set up, and Aaron sets June down, though she follows at his heels the same way Jack does at yours. They stand together, brother and sister, just as you do with Hotch, soon-to-be husband and wife.

"Don't cry." You command, "Or I'll cry."

"Don't cry," He repeats with a sheepish grin and a thick voice, blinking rapidly, as your babies join hands, "Or I'll cry."

"I'm crying," A faint voice from the audience rings out, but you can't manage to find any annoyance towards Garcia's repeated disruptions.

Aaron laughs, squeezing his eyes shut and letting a tear slip despite his best efforts. He presses his forehead to yours, and you do the same, feeling his breath fan over your face as he reels himself in.

"Come on, Hotchner," You urge, your voice wobbly, as your heart races in anticipation, the officiant stepping towards you, "Get it together, big guy. I'm not leaving this tent without your last name."

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved on our archive (Daily updates!)

An older (published in January 2024) but interesting and comprehensive look at long Covid's effect on Latino families and communities in the US.

By Lygia Navarro and Johanna Bejarano

Editor’s note: This story first appeared on palabra, the digital news site by the National Association of Hispanic Journalists. It is part of a series produced in partnership between palabra and Northwest Public Broadcasting (NWPB) with the collaboration of reporters Lygia Navarro and Johanna Bejarano. *Some people interviewed for this article requested anonymity to discuss private health issues.

Victoria* is already exhausted, and her story hasn’t even begun. It’s late January 2021 in rural Sunnyside, Washington. The town of 16,000 people is a sleepy handful of blocks flecked with pickup trocas, churches on nearly every corner, and the twangs of Clint Black and Vicente Fernández. Geometric emerald chunks of farmland encircle the town.

Thirty-nine-year-old Victoria drags herself back and forth to her parents’ bedroom in a uniform of baggy burgundy sweatpants, scarf, knit hat and mask. Always a mask. As the eldest sibling, her unspoken job is to protect the family. But COVID-19 hits before they can get vaccinated.

When Victoria’s mamá got sick and quickly infected her papá, Victoria quarantined them. She shut them in their room, only cracking the door briefly to slide food in before retreating in a fog of Lysol.

Working in the health field, Victoria knows if they make it through the first 14 days without hospitalization, they will likely survive. Yet, caregiving drains her: Keeping track of fevers. Checking oxygen saturation. Making sure they’re drinking Pedialyte to stay hydrated. Worrying whether they will live or die.

Five days in, COVID comes for Victoria. Hard. Later, when she repeatedly scrutinizes these events, Victoria will wonder if it was the stress that caused it all — and changed her life forever.

At the pandemic’s onset, Victoria’s family’s work dynamics fit the standard in Sunnyside, where 86% of residents are Latino. “Keeping the members of your household safe — it was hard for a lot of families,” Victoria says. Living in multigenerational homes, many adult children, who’d grown up in the United States with access to education, had professional jobs, and switched to working from home. Their immigrant elders, who’d often only been able to finish fourth grade, braved the world to toil in fields, produce packing plants, supermarkets, or delivery trucks. As Leydy Rangel of the UFW Foundation puts it: “You can’t harvest food through Zoom.”

More than three decades ago, when 6-year-old Victoria’s family migrated from rural northern Mexico to this fertile slip of land cradling the zigzagging Yakima River, their futures promised only prosperity and opportunity.

According to oral histories of the Confederated Tribes and Bands of the Yakama Nation — who white colonizers forced out of the Yakima Valley in 1855 — the valley’s fecund lands have fed humans since time immemorial. Soon after the Yakamas’ removal to a nearby reservation, settler agriculture exploded.

By World War II, employers were frantic to hire contracted bracero laborers from Mexico — themselves descendants of Indigenous ancestors — to harvest the valley’s bounty of asparagus, pears, cherries and other cornucopia. This was how Victoria’s family arrived here: her abuelo and his brother had traveled back and forth to Washington as braceros decades before.

Victoria’s path took similar twists, in a 21st century, first-gen way. She moved all over the country for her education and jobs, then returned before the pandemic, bringing a newfound appreciation for the taste of apples freshly plucked from a tree that morning, and for the ambrosial scent of mint and grapes permeating the valley before harvest.

Today, agriculture is the largest industry fueling the Yakima Valley, the country’s twelfth-largest agriculture production area. Here, 77% of the nation’s hops (an essential ingredient in beer) and 70% of the nation’s apples are grown. Latinos, who constitute more than half of Yakima County’s population, power the agricultural industry.

While the area’s agricultural enterprises paid out $1.1 billion in wages in 2020, 59% of the low-wage agriculture jobs are held by undocumented folks and contracted foreign seasonal laborers doing work many Americans spurn. Latinos here live on median incomes that are less than half of white residents’, with 16% of Latinos living in poverty. Also in 2020: as they watched co-workers fall ill and die, Latino farmworkers repeatedly went on strike protesting employers’ refusals to provide paid sick leave, hazard pay and basic COVID protections like social distancing, gloves and masks.

“Every aspect of health care is lacking in the valley,” Yakima Herald-Republic health reporter Santiago Ochoa tells me.

In interview after interview, Yakima Valley residents and health care workers sketch in the details of a dire landscape:

The state’s busiest emergency room. Abrupt shutdowns of hospital facilities. Impoverished people without transportation or internet access for telehealth. Eight-month waits for primary care appointments. Nearly one in five Latinos uninsured. More than half of residents receive Medicaid. Resident physicians cycling in and out, never getting to know their patients. Not enough specialists, resulting in day-long trips for specialized care in bigger cities. With its Latino essential workforce risking their lives to feed their families — and the country — by summer 2020, COVID blazed through Yakima County, which quickly became Washington’s most scorching of hot spots. Not only did Yakima County tally the highest per-capita case rate of all West Coast counties (with Latinos making up 67% versus, 26% for white people), it also saw more cases than the entire state of Oregon. Ask Latinos here about 2020, and they shiver and avert their gazes, the trauma and death still too near.

Their positive tests marked just the beginning of terrifying new journeys as COVID slammed Victoria and many other Yakima Valley Latinos. Mix in scanty rural health care, systemic racism and a complicated emerging illness, and what do you get? Chaos: a population hardest hit by long COVID, but massively untreated, underdiagnosed, and undercounted by the government and medicine itself.

It won’t go away The cough was the first clue something wasn’t right. When Victoria had COVID, she’d coughed a bit. But then, three months later, she started and couldn’t stop.

The Yakima Valley is so starved for physicians that it took five months to see a primary care doctor, who attributed Victoria’s incessant cough to allergies. Victoria tried every antihistamine and decongestant available; some brought relief for three, maybe four weeks, and then returned spasms of the dry, gasping bark. A few minutes apart, all day long. The worst was waking up coughing, at least hourly.

Victoria had chest x-rays. An ear, nose and throat specialist offered surgery on her nose’s deviated septum. As months passed, the black hair framing Victoria’s heart-shaped face started aging rapidly, until it was grayer than her mother’s.

Over a year after the cough began, an allergist prescribed allergy drops, and Victoria made a chilling discovery. Once the drops stopped the cough for a month, then two, Victoria realized that the extreme fatigue she’d thought was sleep deprivation from coughing all night persisted.

“The exhaustion comes from within your soul, it overpowers you,” she says. “It’s intolerable.”

And her mind was foggy. When interrupted at work every 10 minutes by a coughing jag, Victoria hadn’t realized COVID had substantially altered her brain. “There are things in my brain that I should have access to, like words, definitions, memories,” she says. “I know that they’re there but I can’t access them. It’s like a filing cabinet, but I can’t open it.”

Before long, the cough resurfaced. Sometime in 2021, reading COVID news for work, Victoria learned of long COVID: new or lingering health issues persisting at least three months after COVID infection.

How to get help if you think you might have long COVID Talk to your doctor, and if your doctor doesn’t listen to your concerns, bring a loved one to advocate for you at your next appointment. Bring this article (or other materials on long COVID) to show your doctor. Ask your doctor about seeing specialists for long COVID symptoms, such as a cardiologist (for dysautonomia symptoms like dizziness, heart palpitations and shortness of breath), a gastroenterologist (for digestive problems), or a neurologist (for chronic nerve pain). Ask to be referred to a long COVID clinic (if there is one in your area). Now four years into the pandemic, there is still no treatment or cure for long COVID. COVID long-haulers (as they call themselves) have reported over 200 varied symptoms, with fatigue, dizziness, heart palpitations, post-exertion exhaustion, gastrointestinal issues, and brain dysfunction among the most common.

Long COVID is far from a mysterious illness, as it’s often called by the medical establishment and some media. There are precedents: for at least a century, historical documentation has shown that, while most recover, some people remain sick after viral or other illnesses. Yet funds for research have been severely limited, and sufferers ignored. Myalgic Encephalomyelitis – sometimes called Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, or ME/CFS — is a prime example. Like ME/CFS, long COVID afflicts many more women (and people assigned female at birth) than men, with women comprising as many as 80% of COVID long-haulers. Most long-haulers are in their 30s, 40s and 50s — the busiest years for women with children, who often put their own needs last.

What should have been instantly clear, given how disproportionately Black and Brown communities were hit by COVID, was that long COVID would wallop Americans of color. Yet, the U.S. government waited until June 2022 to begin tracking long COVID. Even now, with 18 months of data showing Latinos are the population most impacted by long COVID, palabra is among the very few media outlets to report this fact. Are the nation and the medical community willfully ignoring Latino long-haulers — after sending them into clouds of coronavirus to keep society’s privileged safe?

Fighting for a diagnosis When Victoria mentioned long COVID, her doctor didn’t exactly ignore her: she listened, said “OK,” but never engaged on the topic. Same with Victoria’s allergist and the ear, nose and throat specialist. All they could do, the doctors said, was treat her symptoms.

“I’m highly educated and I know that you have to be your own advocate. But I kept asking, kept going on that line of thought, and they had nothing to say to me. Absolutely nothing,” she laments.

Victoria understood science on long COVID was limited, but still expected more. “All of the treatments we tried, it was as if COVID hadn’t existed. They should at least say that we need to investigate more, not continue acting like it wasn’t a factor. That was what was most frustrating.”

Just as Victoria fought to have her illness validated by doctors, 30 miles away in the northern Yakima Valley town of Moxee, 52-year-old María* waged a parallel battle. Both felt utterly alone.

When the pandemic began, María became the protector of her husband and children, all asthmatics. When she fell ill New Year’s Day 2021, she locked herself in her room, emerging weeks later to find her life unrecognizable.

Recounting her struggles, María reads deliberately from notes, holding back tears, then pushes her reading glasses atop her head. (María moved here from northern Mexico as an adult, and feels most comfortable in Spanish.) Her dyed brown hair, gold necklace and lightly made-up face project convivial warmth, but something intangible behind her expression belies a depth of grief María refuses to let escape. When I tell her I also have long COVID, and fell ill the exact same month, she breathes out some of her anxiety.

María’s long COVID includes chronic, full-body pain; memory lapses so severe she sometimes can’t remember if she’s eaten breakfast; such low energy that she’s constantly like a battery out of juice; unending shortness of breath; joint inflammation; and blood flow issues that leave her hands a deep purple. (The only time María ventured to the hospital, for her purple hands, she says staff attempted to clean them, thinking it was paint.) Like Victoria, María used to enjoy exercise and hiking in the valley’s foothills, but can do neither anymore.

María has no insurance, and receives care at the Yakima Valley Farm Workers Clinic, created in 1978 out of the farmworkers’ movement. The clinic’s multiple locations are the valley’s main providers of care irrespective of patients’ ability to pay.

Whereas Victoria’s doctors expressed indifference to the idea of COVID causing her health complaints, María’s doctors not only discounted this connection, but made serious errors of misdiagnosis.

“Every week I went to see my doctor. She got so stressed out (at not knowing what was wrong with me) that she stressed me out,” María says. “My doctor told me, ‘You know what? I think you have multiple sclerosis.’” María saw specialists, and afterwards, even without confirmation, María says her doctor still insisted she had MS. “I told her, ‘No. No, I don’t have multiple sclerosis. It’s COVID. This happened after COVID.’ I was really, really, really, really, really, really insistent on telling them that all of this was after COVID.”

Latinos uncovering the connections between their ill health and COVID is rare, partially due to the plummet in COVID coverage on Spanish-language news, says Monica Verduzco-Gutierrez, a long-hauler and head of the University of Texas Health Science Center San Antonio long COVID clinic. There has been no national public education on long COVID, in any language.

“It’s hard for people to understand what the real impact of long COVID is now and in the future,” says Lilián Bravo, Yakima Health District director of public health partnerships and the face of COVID updates on Yakima Valley television early in the pandemic. “We’re looking at a huge deficit in terms of people’s quality of life and ‘productivity.’”

Eventually, María’s doctor sent her to another specialist, who said that if she didn’t improve within a month, he’d operate on her hip. María’s never had hip problems. “He said, ‘Well, I don’t know what you’re going to do,’” and then put her on a strong steroid medication that made her vomit horribly, María says. She hasn’t tallied what she’s spent on medical bills, but after paying $1,548 for a single test, it must be many thousands of dollars.

Meanwhile, María’s family and friends kept insisting her maladies were psychological. “I never accepted that. I told them: ‘It’s not in my head. It’s in my body.’” It wasn’t until more than a year after becoming ill that María finally saw a rheumatologist who diagnosed her with long COVID and other immune dysfunctions. “I told her, ‘Yes, I knew that my body wasn’t working. I knew that something was wrong.’ I felt like I could relax. Finally someone is telling me that it’s not all in my head.” Once María was diagnosed, her extended family switched to asking how she was feeling and sympathizing with her.

Victoria, on the other hand, has never received a long COVID diagnosis. At Victoria’s request, her doctor referred her to the state’s only long COVID clinic, at the University of Washington in Seattle, but Victoria’s insurance, Kaiser Permanente, refused to pre-approve the visit — and the clinic wouldn’t accept cash from her. At present, the clinic isn’t even accepting patients from the Yakima Valley or any other part of Washington — they are only accepting patients in King County, which includes Seattle.

Victoria’s family hasn’t accepted her health struggles either. “I’d say, ‘I know that you think I’m crazy,’” Victoria says, chuckling, as she often does to lighten her discomfort. “My mom would fight with me: ‘You forgot to do this! Why are you so spacey?’ ‘Mami, it’s not that I forgot. In reality, I completely lost track of it.’” If Victoria is fatigued, her family asks how that’s possible after a full night’s sleep. “I’ve found that I have to defend myself. When I try to explain to people, they hear it as excuses from a lazy person — especially being Latinos.”

Karla Monterroso, a 42-year-old California Latina long-hauler since March 2020 who spent her first year bedbound, says, “(With long COVID), we have to rest in a way that, in our culture, is very difficult to achieve. We really judge exhaustion.” In fact, pushing physically or mentally for work can make long-haulers much sicker. Karla says Latino ethics of hard work like those of Victoria’s parents “aren’t the principles that are going to serve us with this illness.”

Long COVID diagnoses in Latinos are still too rare, due to untrained family medicine physicians and medical stereotypes, says Verduzco-Gutierrez. (Doctors might see blood sugar changes, for example, and assume that’s just because of Latinos’ high rates of diabetes, rather than long COVID.) She says “misinformation on long COVID” is rampant, with physicians claiming long COVID is a fad, or misdiagnosing the bone-deep exhaustion as depression. When Verduzco-Gutierrez’s own doctor invited her to speak to their practice, the assembled physicians weren’t aware of basic research, including that the drugs Paxlovid and Metformin can help prevent long COVID if taken at infection. In Washington, physicians must complete training on suicide, which takes 1,200 to 1,300 lives in the state yearly, but there’s no state-wide training on long COVID, which currently affects at least 498,290 Washingtonians.

Cultural skepticism about medicine — and entrenched stigmas about illness and disability — mean Sunnyside conversations about aftereffects don’t mention COVID itself. Victoria’s relatives push traditional herbal remedios, assuming that anyone still sick isn’t doing enough to recover. “(People suffering) feel like they’re complaining too much if they try to talk about it,” Victoria says. Meanwhile, her parents and others in her community avoid doctors out of stubbornness and mistrust, she says, “until they’re bleeding, when they’re super in pain…, when it’s gotten to the worst that they can handle.”

“People in this community use their bodies for work,” Victoria says. “If you’re Latino, you’re a hard worker. Period,” says Bravo. “What’s the opposite of that, if you’re not a hard worker? What are you? People don’t want to say, ‘I came to this country to work and all of a sudden I can’t anymore.’”

Victoria sees this with her parents, who’ve worked since the age of 10. Both have health issues inhibiting their lives since having COVID — her dad can’t take his daily hour-long walks anymore because of heart palpitations and shortness of breath, and her mom began getting headaches and saw her arthritis worsen dramatically — yet neither will admit they have long COVID. Nor will their friends and family. “If they noticed the patterns of what they themselves are saying and what their friends of the same age are suffering after COVID,” Victoria says of her community, “they’d hear that almost everyone is suffering some type of long COVID.”

Long COVID’s deep impact on Latinos The “back to normal” ethos is most obvious in the absence of long COVID messaging while as many as 41 million adults now have — or have recovered from — long COVID nationwide. “The way that we’re talking about the pandemic is delegitimizing some of (long COVID’s) real impacts,” says Bravo of the Yakima Health District.

Even with limited demographic data, statistics show a nationwide reality similar to Victoria’s Sunnyside. Through a recurring survey, the Census Bureau estimates that 36% of Latinos nationally have had long COVID — likely a vast underestimate, given that the survey takes 20 minutes to complete online (Latinos have lower rates of broadband internet), and reaches only a sliver of the U.S. population. Experts like Verduzo-Gutierrez believe that true rates of long COVID in Latinos are higher than any reported statistic. California long-hauler Karla Monterroso agrees: “We are underdiagnosed by a severe amount. I do not believe the numbers.”

This fall, a UC Berkeley study reported that 62% of a group of infected California farmworkers developed long COVID. Weeks later, a survey from the University of Washington’s Latino Center for Health found that, of a sample group of 1,546 Washington Latinos, 41% of those infected became long-haulers. The Washington results may also be an undercount: many long-haulers wouldn’t have the energy or brain clarity to complete the 12-page survey, which was mailed to patients who’d seen their doctor within the prior six months. Meanwhile, many long-haulers stop seeing doctors after tiring of the effort and cost with no answers.

“Our community has not bounced back,” says Angie Hinojos, executive director of Centro Cultural Mexicano, which has distributed $29 million in rent assistance in Washington and hasn’t seen need wane. “That is going to affect our earning potential for generations.” The United Farm Workers’ philanthropic sister organization, the UFW Foundation, says union organizers hear about long COVID, and how it’s keeping people out of work, frequently.

Cultural and linguistic disconnects abound between doctors and Latinos on long COVID symptoms, some of which, like brain fog and fatigue, are nebulous. If doctors lack patient rapport — or don’t speak their language — they’ll miss what patients aren’t sharing about how long COVID changed their lives, work and relationships. That’s if Latinos actually go to the doctor.

“If you’re working in the orchards and your muscles are always sore, it’s just part of the day-to-day reality,” says Jesús Hernández, chief executive officer of Family Health Centers in north-central Washington. “If you’re constantly being exposed to dust and even chemicals in the work environment, it’s easy to just say, ‘Well, that’s just because of this or that,’ and not necessarily be readily willing to consider that this is something as unique as long COVID.”

Even Victoria says if not for the cough, she wouldn’t have sought medical advice for her fatigue. “There are a lot of people out there that are really tired, in a lot of pain and have no idea why. None,” says Karla, who was a nonprofit CEO when she became sick. “I have heard in the last three-and-a-half years the most racist and fatphobic things I have ever heard in my life. Like, ‘Oh, sometimes you got to lay off the beans and rice.’ I have a college education. I’m an executive. I am in the top 10% of wage earners in my community. If this is my experience, what is happening to the rest of my people?”

Conspiracy theories and misinformation As Yakima Valley’s Latino vaccination rates continue dropping, I hear all the COVID conspiracy theories: the vaccine has a chip that’ll track you; the vaccine makes you and your children infertile; COVID tests are rigged to all be positive; that hospitals get paid more for COVID patients. Victoria laughs at the most absurd one she’s heard. Her mom’s explanation for her health problems nearly three years after COVID: the vaccine.

Across the Latino United States, social media algorithms and WhatsApp threads promoting COVID disinformation proliferate. Last summer, Latino Center for Health co-director Dr. Leo Morales did a long COVID community presentation just south of Yakima Valley. The audience’s first question: Are vaccines safe? “This is where we’re still at,” Morales says. “That’ll be a big stumbling block for people…in terms of getting to talking about long COVID.”

One morning in early November, Morales and his team gather in Toppenish at Heritage University, where 69% of students are Latino, to present their survey data. Neither presenters nor attendees wear masks, an essential tool for preventing COVID transmission and long COVID. “The only conversation that I’m having about COVID is in this room,” says María Sigüenza, executive director of the Washington State Commission on Hispanic Affairs.

Yakima Valley health institutions are also ignoring long COVID. Of the two main hospital systems, Astria Health declines interview requests and MultiCare reports that of 325,491 patients seen between January and November 2023, 112 — or 0.03% — were diagnosed with long COVID. The Yakima Valley Farmworkers Clinic, where María’s doctor works, refuses to let me speak to anyone about long COVID, despite providing patient information for the Latino Center for Health’s survey. Their doctors simply aren’t seeing long COVID, the clinic claims. Same with the other main community provider, Yakima Neighborhood Health Services, whose media officer responds to my interview requests with: “It’s not going to happen.”

“I think they’re not asking, they’re not looking,” Verduzco-Gutierrez says. “Do the doctors just…look at your diabetes or your blood pressure, but not ask you, ‘Did your diabetes get worse when you had COVID? Did your blood pressure get worse? Did you not have blood pressure problems before? And now do you get dizzy? Do you get headaches? Do you have pains?’” She believes that many, if not most, Latinos with long COVID aren’t getting care, whom she calls “the ones that we’re missing.”

An uncertain future The outlook for Latinos with long COVID is grim. Cultural stigma and ableism cause now-disabled long-haulers to feel shame. (Ableism is societal prejudice and discrimination against disabled people.) Disability benefits are nearly impossible to get. Long-haulers are losing their homes, jobs and insurance. Latinos’ overrepresentation in sectors that don’t offer sick pay and are heavily physical — cleaning, service, agriculture, construction, manufacturing, homecare and healthcare among them — may automatically put them at higher long COVID risk, given ample anecdotal evidence that pushing through a COVID infection instead of resting can lead to long COVID. Latino care providers will become ill in greater numbers, imperiling the healthcare industry.

But Latinos may not be clear on these factors, says long-hauler Karla Monterroso. “My tío had said…'We must be defective because we get sick more than the white people.’ And I’m like ‘No, tío. We are exposed to the illness more. There’s nothing defective about our bodies.’ I’m afraid for us. It’s just going to be disability after disability after disability. We have to start in our small communities building caring infrastructure so that we can help each other. I am clear: No one is coming to save us. We’ve got to save us.”

Disability justice advocates worry about systems unable to cope with inevitable disabling waves of COVID in the future. “(Latinos) aren’t taking it as serious as they should,” says Mayra Colazo, executive director of Central Washington Disability Resources. “They’re not protecting each other. They’re not protecting themselves.” Karla sees the psychology behind this denial: “I have thought a lot about how much it takes to put yourself in danger every single day. (You have) to say ‘Oh, it’s fine. People are exaggerating,’ or you get that you’re in existential hell all of the time.”

Reinfection brings additional risk of long COVID, research shows, and Verduzco-Gutierrez says, “We still don’t know the impact of what is going to happen with all these reinfections. Is it going to cause more autoimmune disease? Is it going to be causing more dementia? Is it going to be causing more cancer?” She believes that every medical chart should include a COVID history, to guide doctors to look for the right clues.

“If we were to be lucky enough to capture everybody who has long COVID, we would overwhelm our (health) system and not be able to do anything for them,” Victoria says. “What’s the motivation for the medical field, for practitioners to find all those people?” For now, Victoria sees none. “And until that changes, I don’t think we will (properly count Latino long-haulers),” she adds.

Flashes of hope do exist. In September 2023, the federal government granted $5 million each to multiple long COVID clinics, including three with Latino-specific projects. In New York City, Mt. Sinai Hospital will soon open a new long COVID clinic near largely-Latino East Harlem, embedded in a primary care clinic with staff from the community to reach Latino long-haulers. Verduzco-Gutierrez’s San Antonio clinic will teach primary care providers across largely rural, Latino South Texas to conduct 15-minute low-tech long COVID examinations (the protocol for which is still being devised), and will deploy community tools to educate Latinos on long COVID.

Meanwhile, at the University of Washington long COVID clinic, staff are preparing a patient handbook, which will be adapted for Latinos and then translated into Spanish. They will also train primary care physicians to be local long COVID experts, and will return to treating patients from the whole state rather than just the county containing Seattle. After palabra’s inquiry, the UFW Foundation now has plans to survey United Farm Workers members to gauge long COVID pervasiveness, so the Foundation can lobby legislators and other decision makers to improve Latino long-hauler care.

Back at the Yakima Valley survey presentation, attendees brainstorm new care models: Adding long COVID screening to pediatric checkups, given that long COVID most impacts child-bearing-age women, so moms can bring information to their families and community. Using accessible language for long COVID messaging, or, as Heritage University nursing faculty member Genevieve Aguilar puts it: “How would I talk to my tía, how would I talk to my abuelita? If they can understand me, we’re good to go. If they can’t, olvídate. We have to reframe.”

More than anything, personal narratives will be the key to open people’s minds about long COVID — although that path may be challenging. In Los Angeles, Karla has dealt with a lack of full family and community support, in part, she believes, because her body represents COVID. “I am living, breathing proof of a pandemic no one wants to admit is still happening, and that there is no cure for what I have. That is a really scary possibility.”

While Karla does identify as disabled, Victoria and María don’t. Victoria has learned to live and move within her physical limits. At work, she sometimes feels inhibited by her cognitive issues. “I tell my boss all the time, ‘Oh man, you guys hired such a smart person. But what you got was after COVID, so it’s not the same.’” At times, she worries about the trajectory of her career, about how her work’s intense problem-solving wears out her brain. Will she be able to pursue larger challenges in work in the future? Or will long COVID ultimately make her fail?

Victoria tells me she “remains hopeful that there is a solution.” In a surprising twist, her cough completely disappeared eight months ago — when she became pregnant. (Other long-haulers have seen their symptoms improve with pregnancy, as well, likely due to immune system changes allowing a pregnant person’s body to not reject their baby’s growing cells). Victoria is optimistic that her other symptoms might disappear after she gives birth. And that, maybe someday, her parents will admit they have long COVID, too.

[thewintersoldierdisaster]

a/n: trade? what trade? brady’s a cane, always will be 😭 seriously tho, odds are pretty good that i just keep writing him as a cane bc i have no interest in having to learn the preds beyond beau and josi 🤷🏼‍♀️ had this written for a bit but never posted it bc i was yelled at during the playoffs for even thinking about the canes 🙄

tw: stomach flu, mentions of vomiting, mentions of dizziness

word count: 3.4k

summary: norovirus makes its way around the canes’ locker room and it finally takes you and brady down

Brady’s fingers are cool as they card through your hair, brushing gently against your temple and scratching lightly at your scalp. Your cheek is pressed against his thigh, smushed up so it interferes with your vision - not that you’re really focused on the TV. Comedy Central has a repeat of The Office on and above you, Brady chuckles faintly as Dwight complains about identity theft.

You roll your eyes back to cut your gaze at him and Brady’s head is resting against the back of the couch, his eyes partially shut. He’s mostly just listening to the TV.

Norovirus had swept through the Canes’ locker room, taking the players and their families out one by one - starting with Burnzie, which had led Jarvy to conclude that one of the Burns’ children had brought it home from school. As one player recovered, another was taken out. Last week had been Brett and Jordan, this week it’s yours and Brady’s turn to be down for the count. He’d come home from morning skate two days ago looking paler than usual, a greenish-grey tinge to his skin. You’d already dry heaved over breakfast that morning, thinking it was pre-period nausea.

Less than an hour later, you’d each retreated to separate bathrooms and hadn’t emerged until there was nothing left to purge. Brady had managed to text Rod, who was entirely unsurprised by the turn of events.

The next day and a half had been a blur of Instacarted Gatorade and crackers, the smell of Clorox and Lysol a permanent fixture in the house. Unfortunately, the smell of Clorox only triggered your gag reflex even more. Only this morning you’d managed to keep down more than a few spoonfuls of chicken broth.

Your stomach cramps a little and you curl your body into a tighter fetal position, turning your head to muffle your groan against Brady’s thigh. His fingers pause in your hair and he asks, “you okay, sweetheart? Need the bowl?”

“The bowl” is your combo popcorn/salad/vomit stainless steel bowl and it’s resting on the couch next to Brady, easily within arm’s reach just in case. The bowl has seen a lot of action the last two days and honestly, you’re contemplating tossing it out at the end of this. Or burning it, if stainless steel even burns. Hell, you’ll just throw it into the ocean at this point. You never want to see the bowl again.

“No,” you mumble against the fabric of his shorts, voice raspy and throat sore. “I think my stomach is eating itself.”

Brady nods his agreement and you can hear his stomach growl slightly behind your head. “Think we can manage more soup?” His fingers continue their work in your hair and it’s so soothing you find your eyelids fluttering, fighting to stay open.

“Honestly?” You nuzzle your face against his leg, tucking one hand under your cheek and the other underneath Brady’s thick thigh. “No, but you should try. You don’t want to be too weak when you get back to practicing.”

He hums and his fingers slow down, tangling gently in your hair. “Maybe ‘fter a nap,” he mumbles, head going back against the couch and body slouching a little deeper into the cushions. You can’t really argue with him - like clockwork, you’d both been with your heads in the toilet every thirty minutes. You don’t remember what a good night’s sleep feels like.

Brady falls asleep quickly, his hand covering the side of your head like a mask. The dogs pad into the den, semi left to their own devices the last two days and you feel bad about it. Reese settles on top of Brady’s feet, curling into a little ball and letting his tail swish along the floor while he looks up at you with big brown puppy eyes that bear a striking resemblance to your boyfriend’s.

“Sorry, pup,” you murmur, reaching out to scratch his head. “We’ve been bad pet parents, huh?”

He lets out a little whine that you take to be golden retriever for ‘yeah, mom, you guys suck lately.’

Sully hops up on the couch and wedges his body between your back and the back of the couch, a warm, solid presence. His nose presses against your shoulder and you wiggle forward a little to make more room for the big dog. Neither of them are supposed to be on the furniture, but you have no energy to shove him off.

“Just for today,” you warn him in a rasp. “Back to the floor with you tomorrow.”

Sully yawns, tongue lolling out of his mouth, showing just how much he cares about your proclamation.

With a soft scoff of your breath, you roll your eyes and keep them shut, pressing your face more solidly against Brady’s thigh. The muscle twitches under your cheek and you blink slowly. Soon enough, the combination of the low volume of the TV, Brady’s gentle snores, and the dogs’ soft breathing lulls you to sleep.

You wake with a jolt, your mouth filling with saliva and your stomach lurching. Sully’s draped over your legs and you don’t think, panic flooding your senses. Clamping your lips together tightly, you lunge over Brady’s lap and grab for the bowl, heaving into it. You empty the minimal contents of your stomach into the bowl, feeling Brady’s legs move under your torso. His hand fists in your hair, pulling it back into a makeshift ponytail so it stays out of your way.

“Okay, there you go,” Brady’s voice is low and soothing, his other hand rubbing circles on your back as you spit into the bowl. After a moment, nothing is coming up anymore and you groan, easing back carefully onto your knees.

Brady squints at you. “You okay?”

“I love your teammates,” you groan. “But I could kill every single one of them.”

Your boyfriend laughs and then winces when his stomach muscles tense. “Fuck, this shit really is no joke,” he mutters, stretching his arms over his head.

Your mouth tastes disgusting and your entire body hurts from heaving. On shaky legs, you carefully step off the couch, snatching the bowl and padding slowly into the bathroom to get clean it out. You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror over the sink and wince. Dark purple circles under your eyes highlight just how pale you look. Little red pinpricks of broken blood vessels are scattered over your cheeks like freckles and your hair is a matted, knotted mess in a limp bun on the side of your head.

“Ugh,” you mutter to your reflection, honestly surprised that you look so awful. You’d been avoiding mirrors as much as possible. You rinse out the bowl and douse it with Clorox, leaving it in the bathtub for now, before rinsing your mouth twice with Listerine and brushing your hair back into a semi-decent ponytail. This bathroom’s going to need a major disinfecting too.

Add it to the list.

Brady’s in the kitchen when you leave the bathroom, his body hidden behind the open fridge door. Both dogs are at his feet, circling his legs like he’s about to drop some food for them. He pulls back and shuts the door, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his head and a wan look on his face.

“Nothing looks appetizing,” he explains, leaning a shoulder against the fridge.

You slump over the kitchen island, one arm folded between the granite and your chest. Reese lopes over to you, brushing his head against your thigh and you reach down to scratch behind his ears. “What, blue Gatorade and saltines lose their appeal on the third day?” You joke, tucking your chin into the stretched out neck of your ancient crewneck.

Brady’s lips twist up in a small smile. “I would kill for the ability to keep something else down,” he scrubs a hand over his face, dragging his skin down on the second pass.

“We could try the golden diet,” your head feels so heavy, so you prop your chin up on your palm and look over at Brady. He lifts an eyebrow and you continue, “plain boiled chicken breast and rice.”

Both dogs bark, excited, and you wince at the noise and how it feels like an ice pick in your brain.

“I’d rather not feel like one of the dogs,” Brady laughs faintly. Almost immediately, he clamps his lips together and freezes in place, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows harshly. He doesn’t make a move for the bathroom and you wait another moment before it passes and he frowns. “Sorry,” he mumbles, “thought I might have to make a run for it.”

“I could try and make some more soup,” you suggest, your stomach rumbling a little. You honestly have no idea if you’re actually hungry or if you’re going to have to run off again. Reese butts your thigh with his head and you sigh down at him. “I feel bad that these guys haven’t been getting as much outside time.”

“How do you feel about a short w-a-l-k?” Brady spells out the word because the dogs will go insane otherwise and it always makes you giggle a little.

You hum and skirt around the island so you can wrap your arms around Brady’s waist and bury your face into his chest. His arms come around your back, warm and strong. “Not great,” you mumble into the fabric of his sweatshirt. “But maybe some fresh air and sun will do us some good?”

He nods, chin bumping the top of your head. “A short one, like two blocks,” he suggests. “And then right back to the couch.”

Agreeing, you give Brady a little squeeze around the waist before reluctantly pulling away. You clap and grin down at the dogs, “okay, puppies, time for a little walk!”

Predictably, they go nuts, barking and jumping at you so that Brady holds his arms out to brace his hands at your lower back so you don’t fall over. He laughs a little in your ear before whistling to get the dogs to calm down. They stop barking, but they’re still bouncing around your legs and you laugh as you push past them, heading for the hall closet. It’s warm enough in Raleigh that you don’t have to change out of the thin sweats and crewneck, but you do pull on a plain black vest just so you have a pocket for your phone.

Brady clips the leashes onto both dogs’ collars and steps into a pair of slides, holding the leashes out to you so he can lock the front door. You let the dogs have some leeway with the leashes, watching them as they roll around together on the front lawn. It’s bright and sunny and you squint even behind your sunglasses.

“Has it been this bright out all week?” Brady asks, taking a leash in one hand and lacing his fingers with yours. He still has the hood up on his hoodie and when you look up at him, all you can see is the side profile of his nose and chin. His nose wrinkles up and you can’t help but mimic the expression.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” you sigh, starting to walk down to the sidewalk. You feel like a baby deer, all wobbly legged and weak, but the breeze is nice and you have to admit that it feels good to not be breathing in Lysol scented air.

The dogs tug at their leashes and you give them more leeway, walking slowly down the sidewalk. Brady’s thumb rubs over the backs of your fingers, your linked hands swinging slightly between your bodies as you walk. It’s quiet in the neighborhood since it’s the middle of the day on a Wednesday and you savor the peace.

Your stomach cramps a little and you lean into Brady’s side as you walk, huffing a frustrated breath through your nose. “When I get my hands on Jagger…” you trail off the threat, ruining the effect with a little laugh. You’re on board with Jarvy’s theory about patient zero for the Great Norovirus Crisis.

Brady’s laugh wraps around you like a hug and trails off into a brief cough as he catches his breath. “You and Svechy, beefing with a middle schooler,” he shakes his head, sounding a little breathless.

“For valid reasons,” you grumble, stumbling a little when Reese pulls on his leash. Brady’s fingers tighten around yours and you manage to keep your footing, but your heart pounds in your chest and you suck in a startled breath. Your head spins a little and you close your eyes to stave off the lingering nausea from your stomach lurching.

Brady’s hand is warm in your own and he squeezes your fingers to draw your attention. “Ready to go back home?” He asks, a concerned frown turning his lips downward. You nod and Brady whistles for the dogs.

It’s been the world’s shortest walk, just two blocks away from the house, but your head is throbbing and you’re feeling lightheaded. Brady still looks pale too, his jaw tight as if he’s trying not to vomit. He rubs the tips of his index and middle fingers against the space between his eyebrows and you know he’s probably developing the same headache you’ve got pinching your brain.

“I think we pushed it enough for today,” you murmur, tugging on the leash so Reese will come back from where he’s sniffing at a patch of flowers at the base of a tree.

Brady nods and he looks a little better after his pause. He leans in and kisses your forehead, where you can feel his lips turn down in another frown. “You feel kind of warm, sweetheart,” he says.

You tug at the neck of your sweatshirt and shrug. “Probably just a little overheated,” you start back towards the house. “I’m going to put shorts on when we get back, I think.” Your phone vibrates in your pocket and you pull it out, reading the texts on the screen as Brady talks.

“I think we need some lunch too,” Brady says, digging his phone out of the pocket on his hoodie. “I’ll order something. Even if we can’t manage all of it, we probably need something with protein.”

“No need,” you laugh a little, waving your phone in his direction. “Amy felt bad we caught the plague from Brett, she dropped off chicken noodle soup and fresh sourdough.”

Brady grins and pumps his fist, making you laugh even more. “Oh hell yes. I think I’ll be able to manage that,” he unclips the leashes from the dogs’ collars and lets them into your backyard, closing the gate behind them before following you up to the front porch. You cradle the giant brown paper bag in your arms like a baby.

“It’s still warm,” you sigh happily, wiggling your shoulders a little. “I love Amy, god, she’s the best.”

You kick off your slides and head into the kitchen, getting lunch ready while Brady pulls open the back door so the dogs can traipse in and out of the house. They’re both barking up a storm while they roll around on the lawn, so you figure you might actually have a minute to eat in peace. Brady reaches around you to pick a piece of the crust off the loaf of bread, popping it into his mouth with a happy little noise. You laugh a little under your breath at how adorable he is and finish divvying up the soup into bowls.

“Bigger bowl is yours,” you tilt your head and Brady sets a glass of ginger ale in front of you, tugging lightly on the end of your ponytail as he withdraws his hand. You lean lightly back against his chest, bumping your head against his collarbone and Brady dips his chin to kiss your forehead.

“Still a little warm,” he murmurs against your skin.

You shrug, “I’ll take another Tylenol and sleep in the guest room, just in case.”

Brady snorts and drapes one arm over your shoulder to hold you in place since you’re leaning heavily into him. “Sweetheart, if you’ve got a fever, I’ve probably got a fever. The house is germ central,” he rips a piece of bread off the loaf with his other hand and tosses it into his mouth. Around the mouthful, he continues, “no use in separating now.”

You’re not about to argue with him because you’re feeling clingy and needy, desperate for the comfort of Brady at your side while you’re recovering. So you nod and reluctantly let him step to the side to eat.

Amy’s soup is probably magic because you both manage to polish off your bowls, with Brady going back for seconds, and a few hours later, nothing threatens to reappear.

You and Brady spend the rest of the afternoon lazing around, disinfecting the house, and just generally relaxing in preparation for return to normal. You’re planning on working remotely, easing back into your inbox after three days away. Brady will see how he’s feeling, if he’ll go to practice. But for now, Brady sits on the floor, his back against the couch, and tosses tennis balls for the dogs to chase after and fetch.

“Please don’t hit the glass,” you sigh, sprawled out on your side on the couch, one hand propped up under your head and the other working its way through Brady’s hair, a mirror of Brady’s actions earlier in the day. The salt and peppered strands are soft under your fingers and you can’t resist tugging gently, just to get a reaction out of your boyfriend.

He groans low in the back of his throat, the noise sending a little wave of heat through your body. “I was a quarterback, sweetheart,” Brady grumbles, affectionate teasing laced throughout his tone. “I never miss my target.”

Sully comes bounding back with the tennis ball clamped in his jaw and Brady wrestles it away from the dog with a laugh, sending the tennis ball flying through the air and out through the open French doors. You can see it land with a little bounce in the grass before Sully pounces on it. Reese jumps on his brother and they roll around in the grass for a bit.

“Cocky, former quarterback Brady is my favorite version of you,” you tease, scratching your nails against his scalp.

He laughs and reaches back to rub a hand over the top of your head. You curl up a little, bringing your knees closer to your chest and Brady’s head by default. He shifts, turning to the side so he can look at you and wedge his hand in between your knees, fingers curling around the back of your thigh. Your hand falls from his hair, coming down to rest on his shoulder, fingers dipping beneath the collar of his shirt to brush against warm skin.

Brady’s head tilts to the side, cheek coming to rest on the edge of the couch cushion, trapping your hand. You flutter your fingers against his collarbone, smiling softly. His lips curl up too, lifting his cheeks and crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“Whatcha thinking, Mr. Skjei?” You ask quietly. “I can see your gears turning.”

“Nothing really,” he replies, tickling the back of your knee lightly. You squirm and press your knees together, squishing his fingers to try and get him to stop. “Just…been nice to relax with you.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, a skeptical smirk on your lips. “Norovirus was relaxing?”

“Well,” he snorts a laugh through his nose, “the last few hours were relaxing anyway.” He presses a kiss against the back of your wrist and brushes his nose against your skin.

A little shiver races down your spine, warm love for Brady flooding your entire body. He keeps his cheek pressed to the back of your hand and taps the back of your knee. “Think I can rejoin you in bed tonight?” He asks, breath warm against your skin.

“I’d really like that,” you grin, having missed his body curled around yours. Decamping to separate bedrooms had been a protective measure over the last few days since every time you heard Brady gag, you’d gone and puked.

The dogs traipse back inside and Brady shifts so he can stand and close the door, pressing a sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth as he goes. Tomorrow the routine will go back to normal, but when Brady comes back and lifts your legs to sit on the couch next to you, your legs draped over his lap and your ass pressed against the outside of his thigh, you soak up the quiet moment in your little bubble.

[whaleofatjme1920]

Mentors and Their Shadows | Part 1

Proxies X GN!Reader

[Warnings: Nothing, really]

[AN: It's... a very general fic. I wanted to write about proxy society, all that kind of jazz. Will be a part 2. Wallace, Theo, Ruth and Nyein are mine. 1.8K words]

Reblogs are appreciated!

“Go entertain yourself,” Wallace hums. His voice is low and much too tired. His glassy eyes stare over the scene as you anxiously fidget beside him. He adjusts his coat slightly and looks down at you. There, you see a ghost of a smile on his lips. 

You take in the atmosphere. Loud, raucous, but surprisingly not as destructive as Theo had told you it might be. The scent of proxies fills the air alongside blood, alcohol, and some lysol in a vain attempt to keep the place clean as per the Operator’s orders. The lights here are yellowed and dimmed, some bulbs are red. In your peripheral vision, you can see your group’s independent slinking off much like the overgrown cat they are, accompanied by your group’s right hand, Theo. The blue eyed man sends a barely reassuring grin your way before pushing against some other group’s poor runt telling them to watch themself. To the left of you stands Ruth, your group’s middle child. She’s at your side, a comforting hand on your shoulder. 

You gulp slightly when you feel Wallace and Ruth’s eyes on you. “What?” You ask. 

“Stop over thinking it,” Ruth says to you. She sets her eyes on the crowd, seemingly looking for someone dear to her. Proxies aren’t supposed to have connections to anyone other than the Operator, but if relationships costuming as human keep them sane, he has yet to hammer them with a ban. 

Wallace stretches a bit and nods in agreement. He knows it’s your first time in one of these places. Well, first might be an exaggeration, but he knows you’re a bit of a velcro runt. Why wouldn’t you be? The Operator stole you unfairly, and here you are, attached to your group’s hip. Your group leader, he wants you to be comfortable navigating this space by yourself in case you’re ever separated. Why not now? It’s a perfect time as ever. He knows he’s right there in case you need him, Ruth is always watching, Theo as well and Nyein can sniff out trouble from a mile away. This safe zone is particularly safe, and not too uptight. Mirror Mountain has always been loved by independents and proxies alike. 

Slowly, you nod. “Okay.”

Ruth smiles and pats your back, “nice, you got this.” She shimmies away from you to find that proxy dear to her and taps at her temple reminding you much like an older sister might of head-talk, a proxy’s unique bond with their group should anything go south. 

You turn your head to the side to see Wallace off as well only to find he’s disappeared in the crowd. Though, if you focus hard enough, you can hear his worn laughter as he talks to an eyeless cannibal with a Polish accent about where he’s been all these weeks. You’re aware of some of the local legends in the Operator’s society. He runs around with favorites, but names like the ones you’re sharing space with tonight are all well known and beloved. 

Fate would have it that, after a few minutes of awkwardly moving around various proxies that have been in the game longer than you, that you would find a seat at the table of the Operator’s most beloved group. Perhaps ‘beloved’ isn’t the right word, but they’re definitely favored. 

Masky, otherwise known as Tim Wright, is surrounded by cigarette smoke. Mirror Mountain is one of the only proxy spaces that allows him to smoke as much as he does, or rather, it’s one of the only safe zones where his right hand doesn’t complain to him to stop. His right hand is Hoodie, or Brian Thomas, and their middle children are Toby, and Kate the Chaser. They have no runt ever since Kate broke free from her runt status, and are not accompanied by any independents except for the few that pair up with them on operations as per the Operator’s orders. 

So, here you sit across from the two men, a leader and his right hand, once again awkwardly messing with the hem of your shirt and scared to even look them in the eye. Wallace isn’t usually insane about adhering to proxy social norms, but respecting leaders and their right hands is of utmost importance to him as a leader himself. 

“We’ve seen you around before,” Masky says as he puffs out smoke from his cigarette. “We’re actually due for working with you soon,” he muses as he casts a look to Hoodie, who nods to confirm the statement. He leans back in his chair to show his comfort and as he does so, studies you closely. You’re nervous, but not incapable. Just anxious to be around him and Hoodie. It makes him chuckle softly. “You remind me of someone,” he says in passing. 

Hoodie rolls his eyes in response. “He means you’re an anxious little shit,” he says point blank. His eyes twinkle with mischief, mostly to let you know he’s playing before he too adjusts his posture to show his comfort around you. When you pull a small face, Hoodie snorts a laugh. You remind him so much of Kate when he’d pull her leg too. 

They ask about you despite knowing so much already. Who are you? Where did you come from? What has the hazing process been like for you so far? It’s quite pleasant, honestly. You haven’t been afforded a real conversation in quite some time, so having it with a group that isn’t yours is a nice surprise. You’re able to voice so many thoughts in your head and not have to risk your group breathing down your neck about it despite generally liking your group. You tell them about your experiences working, but there’s a surprising lack of being enmeshed in the Operator’s society. 

“This is my first time in a place like this,” you say. “I mean, I guess, not a first but I haven’t been in these places long enough to know what to… do. Etiquette?” You attempt to explain. You’re much more relaxed as you share their company now. You stretch just a little bit, a nonverbal sign of comfort and clear your throat. 

“Did you want anything to drink?” He asks as a formality, wanting to sew good tidings between his group and yours even though you, as a runt, are subject to abuse from nearly every proxy ranking above you. However, Hoodie believes that groups he’s due to work with should have slightly better, more preferable treatment as opposed to those he’s barely made acquaintanceship with. So, you get treated a bit nicer even if you’re just a runt in his eyes. 

“Just water, please.” 

Hoodie nods once more, and then whistles. When a lowly independent walks by, he greets them politely and asks for a glass of water. You raise your brows in surprise, never really having seen other proxies treat independents like they’re equals outside of your group - and even your Theo treats them awfully. 

“We work a lot with independents,” Masky covers to satiate your budding curiosity. “I’m sure you heard of Jeff the Killer, Eyeless Jack, Ben Drowned,” he trails off, listing off well known friends, “Hood, Toby, Kate and I have never been fans of being dicks for the sake of status,” he shrugs to end his statement. Masky shares a small glance with his right hand, and a million thoughts rush through their shared stream of consciousness. Masky leans forward and smiles at the independent who briefly cuts in to place the glass of water down on the table before he slides it over to you and urges you to take a sip. “You don’t have a mentor, do you?” He inquires, very curious on the subject of you appropriately merging into proxy society. The dark haired man had already assumed appropriately that you didn’t, but he just wanted to hear it directly from you. 

“Ruth’s mentioned wanting me to find one, she says that Ny doesn’t count,” you tell them. You slide your index finger over the rim of the glass and feel the cool, smooth texture under your touch. The warmth of body heat in the room seems to die down as you raise the glass to your lips and start to drink some of the water. You feel calmed having some, more prepared to talk to proxies that are being surprisingly gentle to you. “But I never really see any independents outside of when we’re… here,” you finish with a soft chuckle. How are you meant to get experience if none is provided? 

Hoodie clears his throat and looks around, “where’s your leader?”

You cock your head to the side but ask inside your head. In your mind’s eye, you can visualize your voice as a wave of light. It bounces, and takes on the color of your soul. It’s odd that proxies even have souls, in your opinion. 

‘Where are you?’

‘Near the back drinking some beer with EJ. Why?’

‘Hoodie is asking.’

‘What? Stay right there.’

You blink a few times to break out of the trance head talk often puts new proxies in and turn your attention back to the men sitting in front of you. Hanging off to the side of them with a keen eye is Toby himself. He’s got a stupid little red cup of redbull vodka but he’s invested in whatever the hell is going on between his leader, right hand and you even as he sips his drink. It’s odd how in tune you are with your own group. You can feel Wallace’s footsteps like the beating of your own heart. He doesn’t sound upset, more so annoyed that he knows why the two of them are asking. 

Slinking up from behind you is Wallace. His eyes still carry that glazed, dead look but he’s subtly stewing at the insinuation Hoodie and Masky have thrown his way. “What do you need?” His voice is clipped, like he’d rather be drinking instead of holding an audience with them. 

“You’re embarrassing,” Masky says in response. “You’ve had this one for… 6 months already? Not even let them find a mentor?” He challenges. 

It’s just like proxies to start a fight over something so minor. 

You lean forward to hear more and more of the conversation, feeling Wallace’s hand grip on your shoulder as he defends not forcing you to find a mentor sooner, and Masky’s biting responses that question Wallace’s ability as a group leader. You lean further and further before feeling yourself gripped back when Wallace lunges, and Masky and Hoodie laugh. 

You gasp softly as gloved hands grip you from the back of your neck like a dog might it’s puppy and shove you away from the budding fight. “Eh, you don’t wanna see that,” Toby’s low voice chuckles. “Come on, I’ll solve the independent bit with you.” He gives you a toothy grin, you can see his teeth pressed together from the open cheek he has, while he guides you towards a different part of the bar. 

You glance over your shoulder to hear the commotion caused by your group leader, now your right hand, and Toby's.

"It's really nothing special," Toby quips.

You look forward and then up at him. "Independents?"

"Yeah, some of the best are here tonight."

He smiles.

And you do too.

[rainmustfallts4]

Project Pisces ◇ Bustos G1, Part 2

⊶⊰Information⊱⊷ ⊶⊰Chronological (all)⊱⊷ ⊶⊰Chronological (Bustos)⊱⊷

─────────────⊶⊰⊱⊷─────────────

Like I stated in part one, our girl was close to aging up because I forgot to turn aging off when placing the families lol so, she aged up to a kid! I didn’t realize it was her birthday so she was sad about not having a party, oops.

“Hey, ma, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, bunny. What is it?”

“How can we afford to pay for this house?”

Veronica was shocked by the question. Why did her boy have to be so damn nosy? “W-Well, um… it’s from your father’s life insurance!”

“Dad didn’t have* life insurance.” He quirked a brow at her. “Don’t worry, ma, your secret is safe with me!”

Veronica sighed deeply. “You can’t tell your brother and sister, understand?”

He nodded excitedly, leaning forward in anticipation of some juicy gossip.

Little does Veronica know, that money DID come from her husband. He set up a fund through his boss, part of his check going into it every month. The money was to be released to his family, anonymously, should he die. Granted, he hadn’t known it would come so soon.

Veronica was in the mood to make some waffles and why not test put her new waffle maker in the process? This had been a gift from her mother-in-law.

At school, Bruce was introduced to the art of programming by one of his classmates. He thought it would be boring, but he found that he had a knack for it and really enjoyed it!

On the other hand, Gary wanted to lose weight and get into shape. Could he be thinking of joining the military like his father? 👀

Gee, I wonder who is spying on him…

Gary could only giggle from around the corner as his brother let out a string of profanities.

As soon as Bryanna got home from school, she started working on her homework. She wants to be an A student!

Veronica is having a hard time lately. Being a single mother to three children, fresh off losing her husband, she feels like a sinking ship.

Bruce may be lactose intolerant, but he can still enjoy his favorite foods!

…nevermind. That is the face of regret. I hope Veronica remembered to by lysol spray for the bathroom…

He tried to ignore his discomfort by watching TV and rocking in the rocking chair.

It was actually working, but then his sister wanted to play dolls with him. Despite feeling like literal shit, he agreed without a second thought.

“How the heck do I even play with these?”

“You just use your imagination, silly!”

Bruce had no feckin’ idea what she was talking about but started waving the doll around while she put on different voices for each one.

[vintagepresley]

OH MY GOD NO - 50s E

70s E JUST SHAT OH MY GOD IT SMELLS SO BAD HELP

SEND US SOME LYSOL IN A TIME MACHINE -60s E

whats lysol - 40s E

shut up, loser - 50s E

EXCUSE ME?! oh and please send cookies too YOURE THE LOSER LOSERRRR LOSER - 40s E

It's like dealing with children. 😂

[jurassicsickfics]

No1 asked me, but if u feel like a 2caretakers scenario: sickie, puking Alan Grant being looked after by Ian Malcolm and Ellie Sattler! Tbh idk who'd be the calm vs frazzled/anxious caretaker. Wait, i think i can guess... Hehe!

Glad to do it! Hope you enjoy!

It was a rainy day on Isla Nublar. Ellie Sattler normally would've been outside, examining the freshly dampened soil around her prized paleo plants. But, instead, she was cuddled up in bed with her boyfriend, Alan Grant, who had a nasty stomach bug. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun and she was wearing an old beige tank top with what was probably a vomit stain on the back of her left shoulder, and leggings. She'd been holding and making over her boyfriend all day. She's gotten thrown up on 4 times now and didn't flinch any of those times. She was as cool as a cucumber.

Then there was Ian Malcolm.

Ian stood on the far side of the room, shirt pulled up over his face as he reached forward to hand Ellie a towel, then quickly stepped right back. He was trying his hardest to be empathetic and helpful, but he just did not have the stomach to deal with vomit.

All day long he'd been watching from afar, gagging occasionally, pondering how Ellie could possibly handle this with such grace. His theory was that women had a better tolerance for such things, they were wired to take care of sick children, after all. But the chaotician still couldn't wrap his head around it.

On the flipside, it took all of Ellie's willpower not to roll her eyes at Ian's recoiling and gagging. She understood that different people had different tolerances but, heck, it's just puke. What's the big freakin' deal?

As Alan jolted out of his fever induced daze and started gagging for the umpteenth time, Ellie decided against reaching for the trashcan, as this had taken too much time, and cost her a sheet change more than once. She, instead, opted to cup her hands under her boyfriend's mouth. Her logic was that, it would be faster and, he didn't have much left in his stomach anyway. And her method proved to be effective.

"Ugh...oh, jeez, Ellie..." Ian groaned, his face twisted up in a disgusted grimace.

"What?" Ellie asked, her voice and facial expression entitled nonchalant.

Ian shuddered. "You will remember to wash your hands before you eat anything?"

Ellie shook her head with a smirk and turned her attention back to Alan.

"You done, honey?" She asked, her voice soft and motherly.

"Yeah...sorry about that..." the paleontologist slurred through a fevered haze. Ellie smiled softly. "Don't apologize, baby." She cood.

Ellie dumped the small amount of vomit off her hands into a trashcan, and wiped her hands with the towel that Ian had brought her earlier.

Ian gagged into his fist. "How do you do it, Ellie? Just, please, tell me how." He said.

Ellie shrugged. "I dunno, this type of stuff just never bothered me. " she said.

Ian shuddered, but gave the paleobotanist an admiring look.

When night fell upon the island, Alan was passed out asleep on Ellie's chest as the two of them laid on the couch. Ian was across the house, bleaching everything, with a mask and gloves on.

Ellie chuckled as she watched Ian scamper from room to room with a can of Lysol, and she mumbled to herself.

"We are very different people, Ian. That's for sure."

[autisticsuperpower]

My Thoughts on This "Election" #FDT

So I needed to wait for a few days so I can process the absolute mess and the “wtf”s of the outcome of this recent election. Now I got some things to say.

8 years ago, I sat in my bed, sad and confused about why a bully who physically mocked a disabled reporter could be elected to hold the highest position in this country. Now, 8 years later, I am livid.

I am angry.

I am outraged.

This is an absolute joke and a slap across the face to the founding fathers of this country, and to the world.

Donald Trump is a disgrace to American democracy, and the fact that 7.1 million people voted for him, despite him being convicted on 34 felony counts of falsified business records, being rightfully impeached twice, and committing an act of treason against American democracy, is an absolute joke.

The only thing that I can take away from this catastrophe of an election is that I voted against this ableist idiot.

Not once, not twice, but all three times that he has tried running for office. 

I will always vote against a vindictive villain who has no plans for this country, but to try to pound his chest like he’s so tough.

He’s a fragile little POS who has no place running a country, especially when he says that drinking Lysol will cure you of Covid.

Elon Musk, you know how I feel about you, you Autistic sellout.

I’ve seen you brag about being the first person on the Autism Spectrum to do this and that while you promote hatred and division.

No respect for you, you are NOT one of us in the Autism community. Not at all.

RFK Jr, you sir are an embarrassment to your uncle and to your father, who both held office or ran for president. 

And for you to constantly sit there and say that vaccines cause Autism when that myth has been debunked again and again and again. 

No respect for you, you have embarrassed your own father and mother and your own family. You’re a disgrace to the Kennedy name.

To all the politicians that have been defending this guy again and again, I want to honestly know what your thought process is. 

Like, do you really think he cares about you? 

He’s called you spineless, said things about your wives, he’s said horrible things about your states, and yet, you allow him and enable him to be psychotic and out of his mind?

You’re all pathetic and you all are an embarrassment to this country and its people. Shame on you.

As I sit here in boiled blood and rage, I think about the people that voted against Donald Trump and I think about their rights being at risk of being taken away.

I think about fellow Autistic children whose educational and civil rights are at risk.

I think about trans and LGBTQ+ Autistic people at risk of being further discriminated against.

I think about women everywhere, Autistic or not, who are at risk of losing rights to their own bodies.

I think about other minorities in this country being taken advantage of because of the language that they speak instead of English, or the color of their skin.

Being a straight white man on the Autism Spectrum, I see how painful this election outcome has been for others, not just myself.

But we are not throwing in the towel, we are not leaving the country, and we are not going back.

We are staying, we are organizing, and we are going to fight for the soul of this country.

In the words of Tom Petty, we are not backing down. The revolution is only beginning.

[fresh-widow]

The Preexisting Conditions

Demi-dogs and Republi-cats

Good cop bad cop-

It’s the same

One world order.

Pro fascism

It’s a great cure for

The Pandemonium.

Buy more stay home bot war

Big pharma fake phood are

The preexisting conditions.

All aboard the pandemic ship-

Everyone must do exactly the same

Or it’s just not safe.

One shot two shot red shot blue shot

Absolutely no guarantee.

Sign here_______________.

You’ve handed your life over to

A one size fits for profit corporation

Pre-absolved of any and all liability.

I’d pledge allegiance

To buy more shit but

I believe in vaccinations

I believe in vaccinations that actually work.

I think we should vacumn pack our minds

And seal everything in all the plastic

That we’ve been consuming anyway

I think there should be a spray on solution

Maybe huffing more Lysol

Would help us think of a better one

And what about Round Up

Isn’t it in just about everything?

According to the science

It’s benign, you can drink it.

It’s the secret ingredient in our food

and in our water

Blows holes wide open

In the gut

Mutating the brain.

I think we are are a selfish species

What about all the other species that have gone

Extinct because of our homosapiencentric selves?

Well,

What if we  fix the water the air and the earth first?

Stop poisoning ourselves,

And the plant and animal kingdom

That sustains all life?

Hail Science! We must

Mandate experimental  vaccines for children.

Ruining their immune systems for profit

So that the elderly might live to 110.

Lots more pills  to be sold

To keep the old

Frankensteins alive.

One shot- it’s not as effective as

Two shots. Whoops not good enough.

Three shots? Nah

A shot in the ass daily

Might do the trick and anyway,

The focus is just to get us

Back to to business as usual

With extra surveillance

To  insure the insatiable corporations

Get their extra share

Of mass destruction.

We are so conditioned

To unconvincing half truths and

Conflictingly statistical proof

Via sound bite brain washing blips

Big Science knows

How to keep people buying more shit.

There is only one idea to sell a seat

On the global airplane game.

Hurry up it’s a win all

Or lose everything kind of situation.

Humanity’s strained immune system

Was just discovered by the Frankenstein flu.

Can’t we just buy more shit

To make it all go away?

[chaosmultiverse]

Daniil looks a little surprised by the condolences, no one had really given him that on the subject "Well... I had not actually met him porper yet, but he had agreed to an interview to help me with my research in defeating death." He explained.

"And while I like the spirit of that the bigger issues would be contaminated water and food, along with the pest's ability to stay in the air, also I don't know where one would get enough Lysol, especially out here." Daniil continued on, not sure yet how to explain the finer details of the sand pest to someone who just got here.

"Good questions Thursday, to properly introduce myself as opposed to before I am Daniil Dankovsky a bachelor of medicine and as for your questions not everyone in town is sick, myself for example along with my charges, as for how, while you probably noticed my face covering for starters-" he gestured to the red banana that he was wearing "-I have also some safety gear for when I am directly interacting with the ill, and... I feel pretty confident you are unlikely to be sick, normally someone can tell if they are infected.

But please do tell me if you start experiencing any of the following: dry throat & coughing, dry skin that flanks off, dehydration as a whole, fever, paranoia, hearing things, confusion and brain fog, tissue becoming soft & easily damaged, constricted pupils, or honestly if you start feeling ill in general it is probably the sand pest, the illness, it's a sneaky thing that likes to hit as many things as it can in the human body as it can before it kills its victim." Daniil had to pause once or twice with some words, things like dehydration or flank which weren't words he was as used to reading or trying to pronounce.

He continued to explain

"And some advice, to avoid getting sick, three most important tips are to be selective as possible with food and drink, both are easily infected, avoid going into any homes of the infected which are normally covered in dirt and a flesh appearing mold and if you see a cloud of what looks like ash run and keep running, that would be miasma and it might give some uh... Oh what's the word again when something goes after another? You get my point either way I hope, the other things should hopefully be more obvious such as not interacting with the infected and try and avoid letting the infected rats bite you, ultimately though if me nor any of the others can find a cure or a vaccine or uh... Miracle as Clara would say she's doing there isn't much to do be sure you won't get infected.

If you do become infected I would advise going to the theater it has been turned into a hospital and while Rubin is drowning in work I trust he is doing his best to treat everyone there he can.

...Also just three more things, since like myself you are a stranger to this town, the folk here are superstitious, mostly based off the beliefs of the kin, digging into the earth or... Cutting into flesh is frowned on for the most part unless you have gotten some sort of special pilvage to, naturally this doesn't stop criminals from having knives but unless you are ready to deal with odd looks don't bring out a blade or suggest anything that cuts into someone, nextly the stores are right now overpriced, it's not as bad as it was when the news of the plague broke out but it is still unaffordable instead I would advise trading with people, I don't know how that will go given the language barrier but I am sure if you hold up items to someone with uh- pleadful, pleadful eyes long enough they will understand, and this includes children, I think they might have actually started that trading thing, if one of them has some sort of small box full of a powder please try and trade for it, I will happily reqard you if you bring me any of those you find."

At this point the pair where getting clear of the more abandoned part of town, at the egde of this district was what appeared to be a ww1 era Russian soilder who narrowed his eyes at the pair for a moment but allowed them to leave the district freely.

Daniil stopped dead in his tracks when she started explaining she was from a different dimension, on one hand that explained a lot about how she got here and why she won't be sure of things like what planet she was on, on another this made no sense in the already confused grasp of reality he had.

"...Different dimension? You got spat out here from a different dimension? I- Do you know anything about The Powers That Be?"

Daniil does give her a strained sympathic look, he can't picture how it would he would have felt had he been somehow tossed into this all serveal days into it instead of being there from the start.

"I don't know if I would call this my town, I am from the capital, traveled here to interview someone for a scientific study but sadly... He passed the night before the outbreak started." Daniil explained, his voice strained when talking about the passing of this mysterious individual.

"As for how this started... Well thats the million dollar question everyone has their own theories on, but my own research suggests it is a bacteria, from what I've been told this is the second outbreak of it within this town and right now there is no way to know who paitent zero was or how they got infected." That last part was... Not strictly a lie, there was no reasonable way to know and by the script he shouldn't but... In short it was interesting to read the others scripts backstage.

"As for how we got to the point where serveal parts of town are abandoned or infested with the sick, in short despite my best efforts and the efforts of... My fellow 'healers', I won't call then doctors one is a surgeon though, either despite our best efforts I haven't defeated The Sand Pest yet, but I am working on it, once I finish my vaccine it will be nothing more than a unpleasant memory."

As they turn a corner while Daniil grimaces at what he is assuming is a attempt at a joke from Thursday the source of the glow becomes clear.

In the distance, looming over the town like a monolith was a impossible structure, it could perhaps be compared to how some viruses are depected or perhaps to some sort of vile or upside-down beaker, in simplest terms possible it was a triangle shaped thing that was shaped like a paper lantern, it got thinner & thinner until a point where the triangle stopped & there was simplely a thin stairwell & a long thing structure pricing into the land below it, it & the starcase were seemingly the only things that could have been supporting it despite how impossible a task it would be.

Much closer to the pair in a grass space between buildings was a white staircase that breached off in a few directions but none of them lead anywhere they just suddenly stopped.

"Hm, I see, either way I have a question, how did you get here? Do you remember anything before arriving within this town?" Daniil asked, seemingly completely unfazed by the impossible structures around the town.

[theysayitscrazy]

Sick Day

Clay Spenser x Reader

You and the kids fall sick while Clay is gone. He comes home to chaos and proceeds to work the problem.

The house was chaos when Clay walked in the front door. Toys were strewn everywhere. Cocomelon blasted from the living room TV. It was like dodging a mine field trying to navigate the toys littering the floor. A glance in the kitchen showed the kitchen overrun with dirty dishes and a pile on the counter next to it. The table still had breakfast dishes, cereal bowls and a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch the kids liked.

Clay glanced at the clock on the oven, 2:00 pm. It was the kid’s usual naptime, so he shut off the TV and headed upstairs to check on everyone. Both kids’ bedroom doors were shut, so he shuffled down the hall to the master. He found you passed out in bed, a pile of used tissues lay on the floor next to bed. Your hair was a mess, your nose was red, and your eyes were puffy, but you were peacefully sleeping.

Clay sighed and headed out of the room, closing the door behind him. He knew the kids had been sick when he called home from Mexico the day before, but at the time you had been fine.

Obviously, that had changed.

He got to work picking up the house. He started with the kitchen, knowing how you could live in a ‘controlled chaos’ as you called it, with the rest of the house, as long as your kitchen was clean. He loaded the dishwasher and started it, then washed all the sippy cups and pots and pans that hadn’t fit in the dishwasher.

When the counters and table were spotless, he headed into the living room to get a handle on all the toys.

He found another pile of tissues next to the couch and a throw blanket in a messy heap; evidence that you had passed out on the couch and let the kids have their way with their toys. He took his time putting each toy into the correct bin in the organizer. He threw out all the used tissues and folded the blanket and laid it over the back of the couch.

He washed his hands and grabbed a bottle of Lysol from the cleaning supplies in the pantry and sprayed down all the doorknobs and light switches. If something was going around the house, he did not want to catch it too. Not when he could be spun up at a moment’s notice.

Kids were notoriously germy and dirty to begin with. Sick? Kids were just plain gross. Once the main level was picked up, Clay headed down to the basement to check on the play area and laundry room. The play area hadn’t been too bad. A couple toys on the floor, but nothing like the disaster that the living room had been. Clearly the kids hadn’t been down there in a while.

The laundry room had piles of clothes sorted on the floor waiting to go in the washer, but it was organized chaos. He opened the lid on the washer and grimaced at the smell. The wet clothes inside had clearly been sitting there a couple day, forgotten about. He threw in more detergent and started the machine back up.

He checked the dryer and pulled out all the dry clothes and headed upstairs with the clean clothes. He got to work folding things in the living room. He’d have to wait to put everything away until everyone woke up, but at least it would be done.

When he was finished, he headed into the kitchen to check the fridge. Not much there. He’d have to run out later after you woke up, but it could wait. He didn’t want to leave again with you and the kids sleeping. He’d rather take care of the kids, so you could sleep.

So, he pulled out his phone and placed a grub hub order to your favorite soup place. He ordered enough for you and the kids and laid back on the couch. All he could do was wait for the food to be delivered and the kids to wake up.

~*~

You woke up to a silent house and panicked. The clock read 4pm. No way the kids napped that long, not when you put them down at 12. You threw the covers off you and dragged your aching body out of bed. Everything hurt, you were fairly sure you were running a fever and your head felt like a balloon floating above your body.

You made a pitstop in the master bathroom before you opened your bedroom door and headed into the hallway. You panicked again when you saw both kids’ bedroom doors opened. A quick glance in their rooms, showed them empty.

You groaned and headed for the stairs, knowing how quickly your house could be trashed by your unsupervised toddlers. You stop dead in your tracks at the bottom of the stairs when you realize the living room is clean. Spotless, even. It was quiet too. No TV blaring some ridiculous show for the 900th time.

In fact, the whole house was quiet. Too quiet for the children that lived there.

You head into the kitchen to find it also completely spotless. You looked around in confused amazement, still not comprehending what had happened. You spot a note pinned to the fridge and walk over to investigate. You recognize the chicken scratch immediately.

Took the kids grocery shopping.

There’s soup in the fridge.

Just have to heat it up.

Love you.

God damn, that man of yours.

With a watery grin, you grab the note off the fridge and head upstairs. You weren’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. You were gonna run an extra hot bath and soak up the quiet while it lasted.

[lothcatlovesysalamiri]

Thinking about all the people who are actually praying for Roe v. Wade to be struck down makes me physically sick. Outlawing abortion solves nothing. It only further oppresses economically disadvantaged women and forces them to risk their lives and turn to dangerous alternatives like Lysol. Whether you want to believe it or not, even if (when?) abortion is outlawed like you are praying to God it will be, it does not stop it from happening. It does not make women change their minds. It only kills them. (Read the damn article, even though I know it won’t change your mind because you have White privilege and it’s so easy and comfortable to judge from your ivory tower.)

You know what, pro-lifers? I am a pro-choice progressive Democrat who DOESN’T like abortion myself. You also know what? I recognize it ain’t my fucken business what other women do, and I don’t believe in holding women back or down. Being pro-life IS making a choice — you are CHOOSING to FORCE THEM to carry a baby they do not want, over a mistaken belief that the Bible says it’s wrong to abort. The law does not even acknowledge a fetus is a life and will not prosecute death of a fetus. Ever heard of that marble/mountain argument? At what point is a clump of cells an actual baby? A heartbeat? A brain? Furthermore — and I have held back from posting this next part for so long because it terrifies me to know the answer — if you believe a woman should be forced to carry to birth, and her life would be at risk as mine would should I become pregnant against my will, do you believe I deserve to die in childbirth? Do you believe it is “God’s Will”? Can you look me in the eye and say, “Yes, I am okay with you dying and leaving behind your young child, because that unborn child that was forced upon you against your will was more important”? Do you believe children being raised without a mother are better off, because by GOD if a woman becomes pregnant, abortion is SO WRONG that that bitch better carry till she spreads her legs again to deliver? I take it you’ve never heard of original loss, then, and how fucked up kids are when they lose their mothers. And a very merry FUCK YOU to you as well. 🙃

Tl;dr: OUTLAWING ABORTION SOLVES NOTHING AND ONLY SERVES TO HOLD WOMEN DOWN AND HOLD THEM BACK. YOU HAVE RUTH BADER GINSBERG TO THANK FOR YOUR WHITE PRIVILEGE TODAY, AND YET YOU THINK ABORTION IS SO WRONG OUT OF A MISGUIDED RELIGIOUS BELIEF. ALSO WE ARE NOT A FUCKING THEOCRACY!!! IF A FETUS IS NOT CONSIDERED A LIFE UNDER THE LAW, IT CANNOT BE MURDER! YOUR ARGUMENT IS FUNDAMENTALLY FLAWED!!!!

But there I go again, tryna argue with the right with silly things like LOGIC, when they argue with FEELINGS. UGH.

[from-a-reckless-writer]

wrote a thing.

She is sitting behind you; back propped up against the harsh cement wall the double-deck is pushed against. She isn’t wearing her shirt, merely draped it over her frame. She is like this with you. Always partially naked, almost always bare but never completely. A sleeping short but no bra, there; grinding on your thigh with only a tank top and no underwear, here; and now, chest bare with only a shirt draped over.

You hear rustling and you know she is reaching for the pack of cigarettes and lighter on the head of the bed.

You are proven right.

You hear the flicker of the flames and the string of cigarette smoke climbs into your nostrils. You lace your shoes first before even wearing a bra. The first time you did this in front of her she laughed at you.

Shoes first before a bra? If you hadn’t just fucked my brains out I’d have half a mind to call you a psychopath.

She always smokes the same brand of cigarette. The ones whose sticks are black, as if a premonition of the blackening of her lungs if she keeps at it. It is always the one with the menthol aftertaste.

“Do you always have to have cigarettes after sex?”

“They're called stimulants for good reason you know? And besides…”

She trails off and it irritates you, because her trailing off means that she knows you’re thinking the same thing; implies that with you, she doesn’t feel the need to finish her words out loud because she is all too aware that you have already finished the sentence in your head.

It is most irksome.

“Besides what?” You spit out, even though you already know the answer; even though you know that she knows you know.

“Besides,” she drawls, and even with your back to her, you know there is a puff of smoke around that one word.

“You like the taste.”

You feel liquid fire running in your veins. Of course, that’s what she would say. That’s what you were thinking of, wasn’t it?

“They’re bad for you.”

You hook the clasps of your bra together.

“Mm. Like how I’m bad for you?”

“Fuck you.”

“You just did, baby.”

******

There is no love there, you think as you wait for a cab below her apartment.

Above, you know she is listening to the trashy music you know she doesn’t really like but always listens to. You hate that you don’t know the reason why she does this. You hate that she always seems to know more about you, than you about her.

You imagine what she does when she’s alone in her apartment.

In that cramped space of a studio apartment, where the kitchen faces the door of the bathroom and the bedroom is three steps away from said kitchen. The one place you’re sure would always be burned to the back of your lids till the day you die.

It’s yellow walls eternally living in the gray matter of your brain. It has embedded itself there, along with the image of her spread open for you each time and every time.

You raise your hand to hail a cab. A car stops in front of you, you look up one last time.

There’s the silhouette of a woman behind the curtains.

You leave.

******

The city rolls past your windows. Manila in the middle of the night feels like a neon lucid dream. Well, it is, if you look past the homeless children in the streets and the rows of carton boxes inhabited by cold bodies on the sidewalk.

You think about her and how cold the metal frame of a double-deck feels at night. You never ask about the person who used to occupy the top part of the deck. You don’t ask about how there is a whole drawer of clothes that she doesn’t touch.

You don’t ask and she doesn’t answer.

It’s always been like that between you, hasn’t it? An eye for an eye. A tit for tat. What you give is what you get.

The entire taxi smells like orange Lysol and you suppress a gag reflex. It gives you a headache. But the pain of it is nothing compared to the chasm inside your chest.

It’s been getting bigger and bigger, wider and wider, you notice. The gap always increases whenever you decide to lace your shoes and hail a cab.

You ignore it.

******

She doesn’t call you, the next Friday.

It’s not the first time she failed to call. Often, it’s a work thing or a university thing...or both.

She’ll call the next evening; always eager to fuck off the stress the prior day has inevitably brought.

She wouldn’t even bother with foreplay on days like those. It’s fine by you. You’re more than happy to get down and get to work.

You’ve always been an efficient employee after all.

Because that’s it, isn’t it? This is just a contract between the two of you. If you need an itch scratched, you'll dial the familiar number and she'll show up on your doorstep and the next minute her hands would be down your pants and vice versa.

It works. It’s fine.

But then, she doesn’t call.

Not during that Friday night and not during the next evening and before you know it, a whole weekend passes by.

You find your hand on her doorknob on Monday morning.

******

She slams the door in your face the moment she realizes you’re behind it.

You pound your fist on the locked door three times, twist the knob roughly for good measure.

“Tangina, just let me in.”

You hate how fucking needy you sound.

******

You wake up falling backwards, the back of your head hitting the bone of her legs painfully.

“Aw. Pucha, what the-”

You look up and there she is, looking down on you and then she is muttering under her breath.

“Idiot. Who fucking waits outside somebody’s door?”

You scramble to your feet.

You embrace her. Tightly. It surprises you both. You hear the breath get whooshed out of her lungs.

You feel her stop fighting against the hug. She turns soft. She sobs.

You let your shirt get soaked.

******

You don’t fuck that night.

You hold her instead.

******

You feel nauseous on the ride home again but this time you know it isn’t because of some cheap air freshener.

There is something different churning in your gut. It makes you want to throw up. It’s got to do with the ever widening chasm in your chest and the woman in the studio flat, you think.

No, you don’t think. You know.

You elect to ignore it again.

******

There is a man with his arm around you when you run into each other in the LRT. In the distance you can hear the whistle of a security guard. You can feel the rumble of the oncoming train underneath your feet. Somebody says, Please observe the following for your safety and protection while inside the station...Thank you for patronizing the LRT.

You watch in real time how a nebula dies.

The light bursting, exploding and then blinking out of existence all in the same breath.

“Nice to meet you.”

She extends a hand to the man beside you.

You try not to think about the fact that that same hand had trailed up and down your body not only two nights ago, how those fingers had mapped out every single scar down the back of your thighs, how that hand had cradled your face so softly before even softer lips descended on your own.

“Well, I should probably get going. I’ll let you go now.”

The five words grate against your veins like broken glass atop cement walls grazing trespassing robbers.

You try to crane your neck to follow her disappearing figure.

His arm gets in the way.

******

She doesn’t answer your Friday night call.

And the Saturday morning call.

And the Saturday afternoon call and the evening call.

And the Sunday morning call and the afternoon call and the evening call.

Once again, you find your back against her door on a Monday.

******

She finds you there; sitting stupidly, head thumping repeatedly against the wood.

You scramble to stand up so quickly you almost trip over your own feet.

“Hi.“

—is the most stupid thing to say in the history of stupid things to say.

“You didn’t answer my calls,” you’re quick to add.

“No answer is an answer.”

She jams her keys into the door.

“Yeah, I figured.”

You twiddle your thumbs, eyes cast to the floor.

She opens the door. You follow, naturally.

She takes off her shirt.

“W-what are you doing?”

“Well, isn’t this what you came for? Let’s get it done and over with. The sooner the better, I have an essay deadline tonight.”

“No, I-”

“You what?”

You stare stupidly, mouth closing and opening like a fish, with no words coming out.

“Ano?” She demands, “Wala? Well, if you’re not gonna fuck me I suggest you get out and stop wasting my time. Like I said, I have a deadline tonight.”

You can take the dismissal for what it is.

Or...

You can fight back.

You can call her out on her bullshit.

You can apologize for your stupidity.

You can-

You rush towards her and smash your mouths together harshly.

You make her cum three times that night, her letting out your name in breathy whimpers.

It doesn’t feel satisfying. It just leaves you feeling empty.

She doesn’t smoke after, this time. She just gets out of your arms, pulls out a chair, a charger and her laptop.

She gets to work.

You dress yourself. Shoes first, then bra.

“I’m sorry.”

******

You stop hearing from her.

You know better than to call her non-stop.

No answer is an answer.

******

The apartment is empty when you get there.

The landlord says it’s been empty for two weeks now.

She didn’t leave her future destination nor her new address nor her new number.

She didn’t leave anything behind.

Well, except maybe for…you.

[luvrgirl555]

hospital halls -- S.R.

an: this is an angst fic,, hope u all enjoy leave me feedback pls and let me know if u want me to write more 

warnings: infertility 

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

the scalding water lie still around you as you sat fully clothed in the bathtub.

you just wanted to feel the weight of the sodden clothes pulling you down into the depths of the heat.

spencer had tried desperately to get you to take your clothes off before getting in but you screamed and cried so hard he didn't try for more than a couple of minutes.

he just sat on the floor beside you, his floppy brown hair covering his beautiful brown eyes, staring at the ground.

how many hours has it been? was it one, two, or more than that? how long had you been here?

you finally lifted your hand from the water as the sleeves of your shirt got heavier before reaching your face and wiping away tears from your red, swollen cheeks.

spencer took a deep breath as the moonlight started to shine through the window.

"you haven't eaten all day," he stated. you just stared at the bathroom wall behind you as tears brimmed your eyes.

the darkness enveloped the room around you and the water was no longer hot. "love, let's get you dry," spencer tried to coax you out but you breathed shakily in return while your face bent in anger.

"why?" you shouted, broken. the first your voice had been used since this morning.

"you're going to get cold and i-" he tried but you cut him off, turning violently and splashing water all over the floor.

"no, why us? why me?" you screamed, your voice hoarse. spencer just closed his eyes and winced silently when your voice cracked.

he thought about what he could possibly reply, but soon decided that he couldn't say anything without turning into a mess himself.

you walked hand in hand with spencer through the lysol smelling halls, clutching to your purse without even realizing you were doing so.

nerves wracked your body and spencer rubbed his thumb on your hand, like he knew exactly what was going through your brain.

hospital hallways were never someplace you'd been fond of, was anyone fond of them anyway? but you needed answers.

after trying so desperately for a child with spencer, you had to figure out why it turned out to be so much harder than it looked in films.

sex had turned into a chore for the two of you, and you had always wanted to give spencer some little brown-eyes geniuses to mold. there had to be a way to make this easier.

you threw your face in your wet hands and just wept snotty, wet tears. half bathtub water, half the salty water that seemed to flow from your eyes, no matter how dehydrated you were.

"do you mind if we take a couple tests?" the doctor asked, looking up from a clipboard of information. you looked at spencer, worriedly and he just nodded softly.

"su-sure," you stuttered and stood, running your sweaty hands on your striped pants.

spencer left abruptly and returned seconds later with a change of clothes in his arms.

finally tired of seeing you so tortured, he pulled you out of the cold water, and you didn't fight back.

your sobs turned to heaving breaths of panic as he dried you best he could and held your face, wiping away tears as quickly as they came.

"breathe," he took a deep breath in and connected your foreheads. "breathe."

"just breathe," the nurse spoke sternly and you wriggled your nose uncomfortably.

what could be so wrong, that this was happening?

what was she doing? what did she need all this information for?

spencer sat between your spread-out legs and held your torso close to him as he cuddled into your neck and you just sat there, still. all emotion that had manifested itself so clearly only minutes ago was gone.

"i'm so sorry," your eyes widened as you processed what had been said moments before. "there's nothing you could have done, this isn't your fault," the doctor assured.

spencer just nodded and the doctor swiftly left the room. you turned slowly to spencer and your lip quivered.

"i'm-"  you started.

"don't-" he put his fingers to your plump lips.

"i'm sorry," you insisted.

"don't."

he held your hand tightly, leading you to the dining room where there was still half-finished meals on the table.

you walked slowly behind him as and held his hand as he made tea with the free one. your other hand fidgeting with the strings of one of his hoodies, keeping your shivering frame warm.

he poured the warm liquid into mugs and helped you drink carefully.

"spence," you breathed and he just turned to you, wiping the tears from your cheeks that you didn't notice.

you lifted your hands to wipe the salty liquid from the brims of his eyes.

"i'm so sorry," you finished your thought.

"love, i-" he started but you stopped him.

"i wanted to give you everything. i wanted to give you a family. i wanted to give you children," you whispered and his breathing became shallow. "isn't that what a woman's supposed to do?"

he shook his head at the thought.

"you're not incomplete, y/n," he insisted and shook your arms gently. "you are going to give me all of those things. you already have. you are my family."

you bit your lip tiredly and stood to get closer to his face.

you kissed away the tears on his red, swollen cheeks before planting a kiss directly on his lips.

you felt him melt beneath you and reach up to the back of your head to push you closer.

breathlessly, you pulled away slowly and rested your forehead on his.

he tiredly picked you by the waist before walking slowly to your shared bedroom and setting you down on the bed softly.

his hand found a place in your hair and around your waist and his sleepy eyes met yours.

your fingers lifted underneath his shirt and you ran your fingernails across his stomach slowly.

"i love-" he started and you quickly spelled 'you' across his warm chest.

you felt his tired grin as he pulled your head close and kissed your forehead softly.

[nerdforestgirl]

Note:  I know I haven’t written anything Shamy for a minute, but It’s @franymol‘s birthday.  So, you know, I had to write a little something.  Happy birthday!

Like everyone else, Sheldon and Amy were spending a lot more time alone together this year. Luckily, they still enjoyed each other quite a bit. They heard horror stories about couples getting divorced from the sheer amount of time they had to be alone together. However, Sheldon and Amy were already used to living and working together. Other than the occasional trip to chat with Leonard or Penny in person out in the fresh air of the roof, they spent most of their time alone together. If Sheldon had the option, he would keep it that way forever. His wife was his favorite person in the world. If he had to be stuck with one person for the rest of his life, it would be her. No question.

The problem was what they were doing alone together. It seemed that enough time alone in an apartment with one's wife was enough to convince even Dr. Sheldon Cooper that coitus was something fun one could do while stuck at home day after day. Well, that wasn't even really a problem other than the pregnancy test Amy held in her hand.

“Oops,” she said to herself as she looked at the positive result, but she was grinning from ear to ear. She and Sheldon had spoken about starting a family, but Sheldon wanted to wait until there wasn't a global pandemic. Amy had gone right into the bathroom when she got home to go through Sheldon's decontamination protocols after she got back from grocery shopping. But she wanted to do this first. She had picked up a test after she was a couple weeks later. She opened the door to tell her husband the news.

“Amy Farrah Fowler, I did not hear that shower running. You are not about to come out into my apartment without showering,” Sheldon told her. “And you are still wearing your clothes,” he added when he saw her.

“Sheldon,” Amy started.

“No. We have protocols for a reason,” Sheldon cut her off. He went over while wearing his mask and gloves. He closed the door in Amy's face and sprayed Lysol on the closed door. Amy knew what she needed to do while he put away the groceries from her weekly trip.

Amy pounded on the door while Sheldon held it shut from the outside.

“Sheldon, let me out of here,” Amy yelled through the door.

“After you shower and put your clothes in a bag. You know the rules, Amy. We've been doing this for months already,” Sheldon told her. He didn't know what had gotten into her. She had never failed to properly decontaminate before.

“I need to tell you something,” Amy said. She knew that Sheldon was rigid about his protocols when one of them got home from an outing, but he was being ridiculous. She pushed the test under the door. “Just look at that,” she added.

There was silence from the other side of the door. Amy listened close for a thud in case Sheldon fainted, but there was nothing. Of course, they both agreed that they should wait until things were safer, but they both wanted children. He couldn't possibly be mad at her, could he? Amy was just about to check the door again when it flew open.

“You're pregnant?” Sheldon asked.

“I am,” Amy said.

Sheldon rushed forward and wrapped his arms around Amy. For as terrible as this year had been, this was nearly enough to make it the best year ever. He kissed Amy.

“I still haven't showered,” Amy reminded him.

“Then I will join you,” Sheldon said. He was contaminated now since he had hugged her. He reached into the shower and turned it on so that the water could heat up. Then he started stripping and putting his own clothes in the contamination bag for laundry.

Amy stared at him in surprise.

“Come on,” he said as he offered his hand to Amy.

“You've never wanted to have shower sex,” Amy reminded him.

“And I don't now. It was dangerous before. Now it's not just the two of us at risk,” he told her. Then he waited while she stripped out of her clothes. “Though, perhaps we can move things to the bed once we're out of here,” he added when he looked at Amy without her clothes.