#brought to you by: i'm sick. i'm allowed to be self-indulgent

[kitas-cleaning-supplies]

omi sits delicately on the edge of their bed, her legs spread a little too wide to be natural. there's a dirty joke waiting on the tip of atsumu's tongue but she bites it back, not trying to push her luck. not yet.

she's still a clingy piece of shit though: so she wraps her arms around her girlfriend's waist; shoves her wet head into her stomach, only to get slapped lightly with the towel in omi's hands.

omi doesn't say anything, but her body is relaxed against atsumu's, so atsumu lets herself enjoy the view. omi's face is screwed up in concentration as she steadily dries atsumu's hair. atsumu wants to kiss the pout off her face and smooth the furl of omi's eyebrows, but she savours the feeling of omi hands through the towel instead.

it started with an offhanded comment, and like most things in their relationship, developed into a pleasant surprise. atsumu wonders if omi's ever thought about it before, or if she offered because she didn't want atsumu to catch a cold. either way, atsumu's eternal curse of having hair that's impossible to dry at the roots is so worth it if this is her reward.

laying like this, it's not the most comfortable position, but when has atsumu ever liked anything that came easy?

the repetitive motions almost lull her to sleep, she barely notices omi removing the towel from her head before she gets assaulted with a light noogie through a dry part of the towel.

"omi-chan," atsumu whines, not upset in the slightest, "you're such a bitch."

atsumu squeezes omi's thighs and makes a show of getting up, groaning as if they're not both athletes in their prime. it's a nice change of view, looking down at her pretty girlfriend.

atsumu reaches around omi's head and tugs at the end of the towel there. "ya want me to dry yours babe?"

omi kicks her for tugging on her hair but nods all the same. atsumu wonders if it's possible to die from how cute her partner is before getting to work.

part 1 | part 2

[thebookshoparoundthecorner]

Sickfic Recs

I'm down for the count with Covid after avoiding it for three years, and thus have been reading/rereading some sickfics that have brought me comfort. I figured while I was at it, I may as well make a list of a few of my favorites, in case anyone else was in need of the same!

In no particular order:

1. A Tree of Life by aknightofthe7kingdoms

Summary:

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life. Proverbs 13:12 Crowley was certain that he wasn’t ill. He just wasn’t feeling...quite well.

2. La Grippe by LadyWallace

Summary: Aziraphale had watched it take too many lives already, he wasn't going to let it take his friend too. It was lucky then that he just happened to stumble across that deserted barn somewhere in the green fields of France. Sick!Crowley Historical backstory

3. Helped By Angels Unawares by Sodium_Azide

Summary: In the late middle ages, Aziraphale stumbles across a human tragedy that has somehow also affected his demonic adversary, and abruptly understands much more about what he is willing to do for the sake of the Serpent of Eden.

4. Fever Dreams by Lady of Prompts (Aethelflaed)

Summary:

Angels don’t get sick. They can, however, burn through enough of their grace that their corporations begin to malfunction. This happens to Aziraphale far more often than to other angels. Aziraphale gets a fever and Crowley takes care of him!

5. A Matter of Opportunity by PinkPenguinParade

Summary:

The pain danced sharp and angry, lit up ragged nerves. Pulled him on, toward that fuzzy promise of rest. Fifteen feet, maybe? He could do fifteen feet. Could do fifteen feet standing on his head, right?Seven feet.

Four.

He reached out for the door and slapped it once, twice, the wood pulsing against his skinned hands.

6. Such Selfish Prayers by spargelseason

Summary:

Crowley, while still apparently comatose, had somehow managed to wrap himself so thoroughly around Aziraphale on their way up, that any attempt at dropping him onto the mattress without being pulled down as well proved futile.

And hence, quite defeated, Aziraphale found himself lying in a warm tangle of Crowley and blankets. He felt a little stunned.

7. The Words We Say by QixxiQ

Summary: Aziraphale calls Crowley a plague rat one time and it kinda messes him up for roughly 300 years.

8. In Sickness And In Hell by entanglednow

Summary: Crowley picks up something unpleasant while mingling in Hell, and is determined that Aziraphale not see him while he's sick.

9. Temper by TeaCub90

Summary:

‘Angel, I told you not to fuss,’ Crowley croaks, somewhere underneath the blankets – and then he emerges, all tousled hair and black vest, looking both three shades paler than usual and more than a little annoyed at the absolute audacity of the angel for bringing him a hot drink.

‘It’s no bother,’ Aziraphale bats away his irritation, ‘this should be better for you, especially after you threw the Lemsip at the wall. And the hot Ribena.’

10. And In Health by Kalimyre

Summary:

One of the many ways Hell is awful is the demon flu that is always going around the office. Crowley comes down with it, and this time he allows Aziraphale to help.

Indulgent, soft fluffy fic, because Crowley deserves to be taken care of sometimes.

+1 Bonus self rec (cause I'm learning how to get better at doing that)

Our Side by theshoparoundthecorner

Summary:

Aziraphale gets sick. He doesn't know how, and it really shouldn't be possible, but he does and unfortunately there's nothing he can do about it. When he decides he has to cancel his plans to see Crowley, Crowley insists he come over to the bookshop with soup. When he arrives, he looks worse than Aziraphale.

Cue a mysteriously sick Angel and a mysteriously sick Demon, taking care of each other in a London Soho bookshop, drinking tea, eating soup, and having an oddly easy time of it.

Well, at least for the first forty-five minutes.

In which Crowley and Aziraphale see each other at their worst, love each other for it all the more, and learn that being on your own side isn't so bad after all.

Those ten are just a few of my favorites, and I have more that I've been reading and bookmarking, so I might do a second rec soon! Meanwhile, if anyone else has any good omens sickfic recs they want to make (or self recs!!), feel free to do so in the reblogs or comments!

[my-writings-and-musings]

I had intended to post some more self indulgent Earthspark stuff for my birthday on the 28th but better late than never, yeah?

I adore that Alex and Dot wholeheartedly adopted two towering robotic children without hesitation and were just like "yup these are our babies now we love them" and felt like writing something soft from that. Please enjoy a little fic of Dot comforting Thrash when the latter gets sick for the first time, because hurt/comfort is my absolute jam and he's baby.

Dorothy Malto didn't make a sound as she entered the barn, something that was easier for her than most thanks to her training as a soldier and experience as a mother. There wasn't even a creak from the old rusty hinges as she squeezed through the doors, though she still held her breath as she shut them behind herself, listening for any sign of movement from within. Hearing nothing, she allowed herself to move with a bit more swiftness.

She couldn't quiet the worry gnawing at her gut as she approached the ladder to the second level, but she pushed it down as she pulled herself up the rungs, reminding herself what she was here for. Someone else needed comfort far more than she did.

For all of her strength, there was no stopping the hurt that cut right through her heart as she beheld the familiar white, brass and blue curled miserably atop a makeshift Cybertronian bed. Thrash hadn't moved much since her last visit that morning, and while the sizable blanket she'd placed on him was fluttering with each ventilation, they were slow and haggard enough for her to tell his condition hadn't improved. Though she'd expected it, the sight still made her ache with sympathy. At least his siblings were being kept from their own worry thanks to the "special training" Bumblebee had cooked up to keep them busy, meaning she could focus all of her attention on the child that needed her most. 

As soon as her foot met the floor, the young Terran cracked his optics open, and their dimness deepened her concern. In record time she repeated to herself what Optimus had told her; this would pass, illness was a normal but unpleasant part of Cybertronian development, his immune system was just calibrating itself to the environment he'd been born in…

Smiling softly, she got to her knees beside his bed of straw overlaid with blankets, speaking with as much comfort as could be conveyed through tone. A tender hand on his shoulder allowed her to feel his still unbroken fever, but she didn't let a trace of her worry creep into her voice. "Hey Thrash, how do you feel?"

He looked at her a moment longer before he winced and pushed his helm deeper into the stack of pillows she'd personally arranged for him, looking ready to be sick but soldiering on with a strained murmur. "I'm okay."

Having expected such mock bravado, she moved her hand from his shoulder to the side of his helm, encouraging him to look at her with a tender stroke of his cheek plating. Dim optics flicked in her direction, looking up at her as she tried to encourage him to be honest in the most gentle way possible. "You don't look okay." she said softly, adjusting her hand and sliding her thumb back and forth along his temple. Memories of doing the same for Mo and Robby brought her back to their first times being sick. They'd been a great deal smaller than Thrash, but somehow he still stirred the same protective instinct within her, and she halfway wished for the ability to cradle him as she had them. 

The weight of his helm pressed into her palm as he closed his optics with a weak shudder, expression tightening in pain and discomfort before he spoke up just loudly enough for her to hear. "Head hurts…" he confessed, walls slowly coming down as he allowed himself to admit some of his struggle. That was something they'd been told to expect, but hearing it didn't make her feel any better.

"I can call Optimus and see if their medic has anything for that." she offered, speaking somewhat quickly as her concern briefly got the better of her. It didn't matter that he was nearly twice her height; as far as she was concerned Thrash was her baby, and seeing him like this made her feel an indescribable need to provide some kind of relief. With her first two she'd at least had human doctors and a competitive wealth of resources… The ailing bot made a soft sound of discomfort and leaned even more heavily into her touch, his trembling compelling her to speak again, albeit with much more control of her tone. "Can I get you anything for now?"

Thrash was silent, his brows briefly furrowing as he once again fought to be strong and hide all the discomforts she knew was making him miserable. For a moment it seemed like he would succeed, and that he would mutter something about just wanting rest as he had that morning, but Dot felt something falter within him. A wave of exhaustion passed through the young mech, and he let his helm go limp in her grasp.

"Mom…" he said in the weakest whisper she'd ever heard, voice breaking as his dim optics turned back to her before going foggy. She couldn't keep the heartbreak off her face as she heard him speak, especially as his shoulders trembled with a weak sob and her usually upbeat and happy boy confessed his true feelings in a single, pained sentence.

"I don't feel good…"

"Shhh…" she soothed without delay, adjusting herself to gently guide his helm into her lap. Forcing her voice to stay steady and her heart to remain strong, she held him close, hoping he could feel her love and support while he needed it most. She'd seen the same reaction from her older two many times, and remembered the feeling well from her own youth; the helpless misery of being sick and young and just wanting the pain to stop. "I know baby, I know…"

Thrash whimpered again, and though her leg began to go numb she didn't even think of moving him from her lap as she cradled him as well as her smaller form allowed. It brought a small measure of relief to her son, who quieted and closed his optics after a few minutes of her soothing touch, his ventilations slowing as he finally relaxed enough to drift off in her grasp. After a solid twenty minutes he was powered down and her leg was buzzing with pins and needles. Despite all of that, the sight of him recharging peacefully brought a soft smile to her face. 

"Mom's here." she whispered with a tender kiss on his helm, intending to stay as long as necessary if it brought him the smallest amount of comfort. 

[acacia-may]

Hi Acacia! 💕

For your 100 writer's ask game what about 2, 16, 31 and 78?

Thank you so much for the ask, Lola and for playing the ask game for fic writers! I'd love to answer these for you. Sorry my responses got so rambly 😅🙈 I've gone ahead and put them under the cut.

2. Talk about a notable time a narrative or character has looked you dead in the eyes and said “f*** your plan, here’s what we’re actually doing.”

So in my very first big fanfiction project ever (which thankfully was never posted to the internet & we can all just forget about...or we could if I just never brought it up lol), I had an OC completely change his personality from what was in my head in the minute I started writing him. He was supposed to be serious, principled, driven, and intense, but when I put him in the scene, he just kept cracking jokes and was charismatic, outgoing, and kind of goofy. I was stunned but kept going with the draft not really knowing what to do and thinking I'd just fix it later, and when I gave the draft of the chapter to my friend (irl) who was Beta-reading for me, I shared my frustrations with how this character wasn't anything like I imagined in my head and she said, "Acacia, he is my new favorite character, and if you change his personality from what it is now, I will stop reading this and never talk to you again" so he stayed lol 😂 (And eventually became one of my favorites too!)

That's probably the most dramatic example I can think of, but as an extensive plotter, I have definitely had my fair share of scenarios where my stories take a turn during the actual writing process that I wasn't expecting and I have to readjust (which is never fun but I think is often for the best). For instance, in my role-reversal/magic-swap Astelle fic "Broken Angel" Liebe just randomly showed up towards the end when Noelle tapped into her Anti-Magic and that was nowhere in any draft, outline, or even a thought I had had about the story before he just appeared there, but I think getting to explore the connection between him and Noelle was an important addition to that story in the end. It can be good to deviate from our original plans sometimes, even though I do struggle to stay flexible & tend to get frustrated when it happens. 😅

16. Where is your favorite place to write?

I write in my room more often than not [or sometimes I'll write while I'm undergoing medical treatment because there's nothing else to do 😅], BUT my favorite place to plot & walk through scenes in my head is outside in my yard or on my porch swing. Not sure why but I just always feel really creative there, especially when I listen to music.

31. Tell us about one of your characters who’s an absolute joy to write

One of my characters...like an OC? 😳 I mean I'm pretty biased but I have an absolute blast writing Zoey. She's so dry and quick-witted (at least I hope she comes off that way) and writing her bantering with the other characters is just so much fun for me to write, especially when she's such a foil to the POV character (Hero) who is so reserved and sincere. That said, we get to see in the canon that he likes to tease to show affection to his friends & family too--he's just shy about it so I like to think the two of them can play off each other really well, especially when they become closer friends and feel more comfortable teasing each other, like in "Under the Weather" which is the self-indulgent story I wrote for my birthday.

Apologies but I'll allow myself an excerpt here just to show you what I'm talking about. I had way too much fun writing all these jokes about Hero's "grandpa pajamas" (which he actually wears for a big portion of the actual game/canon 😂) and having the two of them banter about it. (A/N: this story is a sick fic & he has the flu which is why he is in pajamas in the first place):

"It’s just…that’s not what I meant. I was just…embarrassed. I mean you’ve already had to see me in my pajamas.” Hero stared down at his pajama shirt and pulled on the collar as his face burned and not just from the fever. “Your grandpa pajamas?” Zoey teased dryly. His face flushed, but he nodded. Chuckling lightly, Zoey shook her head. “You do realize I’ve seen Kyle in his underwear more times than I’d care to admit, right? This is nothing. And besides, I’ve already seen them before.” “You’ve”—Hero’s voice cracked—“seen my pajamas?” “Well not in person, but Sunny drew me a picture of you in them.” “Sunny drew you a picture of me in my pajamas?” Hero repeated incredulously in a disbelieving, hoarse voice. Zoey shrugged but answered matter-of-factly. “He only draws you in your pajamas. He draws everybody in pajamas. You know, the last time I saw him he asked me about my pajamas so he could draw me in pajamas too.” “Why—?” Hero’s voice hitched—cut off by an awkward laugh and wheezy coughing. “Why would he do that?” “No idea. You tell me.” She paused, but Hero could only shrug his shoulders. Sunny was a talented artist, but Hero would be lying if he said he understood a lot of his abstract pieces or the reasoning behind them. Zoey’s guess as to why Sunny wanted to draw everyone in pajamas was as good as his, he supposed. “But I’m pretty sure he always draws you in these exact pajamas—long sleeves, button down shirt, stripes. I remember thinking ‘why does Sunny think Hero wears grandpa pajamas?’ but clearly it’s because you do.” Hero chuckled lightly but tilted his head at her. “What’s wrong with my pajamas?” “Nothing—if you’re over the age of 70,” bantered Zoey.

78. How do you choose where to end a chapter?

I'll admit I struggle a lot with endings, especially in the chapters of a multi-chapter fic. I usually know how the story or chapter will end in a general, vague sense, but it's always a struggle to decide what exact sentence or sentiment to end with. Sometimes I'll accidentally stumble into writing the perfect ending sentence which is always such a relief or I will have those "last words" in mind from the time I start writing. But most of the time it's more of a struggle to determine that cut-off point and I'll just start rambling until I find something I like. More so than anything else, endings are probably what I rewrite the most between drafts before posting. Some stories will have the ending written 4 or 5 times before I finally find something I like.

I hope I manage to write some poignant endings. I think the ending of "Tell Me Where It Hurts" is probably the one I'm most proud of, but that was a one shot. I think ending chapters of an ongoing story is a lot harder because you have to wrap up the main ideas of the chapter while also setting up the next one. I'll admit I get a little overwhelming by how daunting that is sometimes. I don't have a lot of multi-chapter works to choose examples from, but I think my favorite ending to any chapter in "When Sun Shines Again" so far was this one from Chapter 6 because it got really deep & philosophical (A/N: I don't think there are any big/specific OMORI spoilers in here, but uh...if you know, you know I guess...):

His chest ached—hollow and panging with a pain that would never really go away. He almost wanted to say that all of his experiences with the butterfly effect had been negative, painful…but then he thought about Kel…thought about him knocking on Sunny’s door three days before he was supposed to move away. He thought about Sunny opening it for him and venturing outside for the first time in four years. He thought about Aubrey suggesting they all stay at Basil’s house on Sunny’s last night in Faraway Town. And venturing deep into his memories of that long, distant past that often felt like nothing but a dream now, Hero thought about Mari again—her insistence that they help Aubrey when she was just a crying little girl who lost her shoe or that they take care of Basil and his garden. Or long, long before that…he thought about his dad buying a potted cactus and suggesting they take it over to their new neighbors. People never seemed to think of the impact of their smallest decisions. Hero certainly hadn’t before, and even now, he wasn’t really thinking of it, wasn’t really expecting Kyle’s assertions to be anything more than impassioned attempts to get him out of the house and to play ‘designated driver.’ But as it turned out, years later, whenever Hero would mentally list those seemingly insignificant but life-altering decisions, he would always throw in this moment when his mouth twitched into a conceding smile and he sighed, “Alright, Kyle. Just let me go change my clothes first; then we’ll head out.”

[brown-little-robin]

Fic writers asks:

4. What detail in Strange Redemption are you really proud of?

5. What do you wish someone would ask you about Strange Redemption? Answer it now!

10. How do you decide what to write?

21. If you wrote a “missing scene” in Strange Redemption, what would it be?

24. Are there any easter eggs in Strange Redemption, and if so, what are they?

26. Would you rather write a fic that had no dialogue or one that was only dialogue?

42. Have you ever received a comment that particularly stood out to you for whatever reason?

45. What’s something you’ve improved on since you started writing fic?

Oh man, okay, let's see. Good questions!!

4. What detail in Strange Redemption are you really proud of?

The motif of hands (gentle hands), especially how Thad often has to do a double take when he sees his own hands. Being a clone is rough.

5. What do you wish someone would ask you about Strange Redemption? Answer it now!

A question I'd like to answer: how do you recommend reading Strange Redemption? The answer: at your own pace! I don't have any expectation that people will read it all in one go; it's already over 100,000 words long. I would ask that you pick it up like it's a novel, knowing it's not an easy read, and read it with grace for yourself if you can't do it all at once. The emotions can get overwhelming! I write and publish only one to two chapters per month; it's fine to stop and start, I promise.

10. How do you decide what to write?

Well, I start with daydreams, where I allow myself to be as stupid dramatic as I want. And then I figure out how to incorporate various scenes and plot points based on how they work with the meaning of Strange Redemption as a whole. I keep myself in careful balance between "the purpose of the story is CATHARSIS and so I'm going to be SELF-INDULGENT" and "but I want the story to have momentum and intentional pacing so I'm going to be very very careful about how I do things".

21. If you wrote a “missing scene” in Strange Redemption, what would it be?

I'd like to write some of Bart's POV! Maybe when Thad gets brought in to the watchtower with his peculiar sickness? But the main reason I haven't written Bart's POV as an excerpt yet is that... I'd have to write it. In words. And Bart doesn't think in words!

It could be a fun challenge to try to write him well, though!

24. Are there any easter eggs in Strange Redemption, and if so, what are they?

Oh, there's quite a few! I actually wish I'd written down each reference in Strange Redemption in the end notes; that would have been fun and explained a lot. But anyway, one that I can remember off the top of my head is in Open Ocean (chapter 26, I think?) when Wally West seizes Thad by the shirt and drags him out across the ocean. That's a reference to this panel of Wally and Thad, which lives in my head rent free:

26. Would you rather write a fic that had no dialogue or one that was only dialogue?

It would be easier for me to write a fic that was only dialogue. But I'd rather write a fic that had no dialogue just for the challenge!

42. Have you ever received a comment that particularly stood out to you for whatever reason?

There have been a lot of comments that particularly stood out to me! But here are the two that are the most present to me as I write:

"The presence of the fact that he was wretchedly and monstrously mistreated both actively in his development and passively in his deprivation haunts this story like a ghost even when you’re not addressing the theme specifically in a scene. It’s a remarkably skillful thing you do, actually. Like you’re playing many instruments at once in the telling of this story and the sorrowful minor-key cello theme is always running in the lower layers."

"NOT maudlin. The emotions are real and poignant. NOT rambling. Appropriately decelerated, because redemption doesn't happen overnight. NOT pointless. Growth and healing never are, and it's cathartic to read about."

—I have that last one saved in the "CORE IDEAS" section of the fic writing document, the one where I save the things that remind me why I'm writing.

45. What’s something you’ve improved on since you started writing fic?

Being comfortable with deleting and rewriting. I have SO many more deleted scenes from recent chapters than from the first ones. When I get stuck, just taking out the last three to five paragraphs and restarting with a different direction from there will get me unstuck.

Thanks for the ask! <3

[fushipurro]

In Sickness and in Health

☆ Content: super fluffy, caretaking toji, pet names, very self indulging

☆ Notes: short drabble i wrote while i was sick <3

toji knew the moment something was wrong with you. as you two were going to bed, you had been complaining about a migraine and some sniffles but figured it was just some rainy weather moving in as the cause.

usually you're out like a light and as still as a corpse while you sleep until you subconsciously creep closer to cuddle. this night in particular, all you could do was toss and turn trying to find what was comfortable.

he doesn't think, no, he knows you only slept for about thirty minutes at a time when you could finally fall asleep before waking up and struggling to fall back to bed.

"you okay, y/n?"

"head hurts so much," you groaned, coughing suddenly.

the man pulled you close, allowing you to use his body as a pillow. his calloused hands running up and down your bare back gently while softly cooing, "there there, sweetheart".

something your mom used to do when you were younger to help you sleep.it wasn't for long, but it was the most comfortable you were able to for that night.

toji realized when you became feverish when you kept trying to kick the blankets off to cool down only to start shivering and wrapping yourself right back up.

when morning arrived, toji began to get out of bed to get ready for work. you were still in bed wrapped up in a cocoon of every blanket on the bed.

he sat down next to you, caressing what little of your face was sticking out, "do you want anything before i head out, baby?"

you looked at him weakly, your skin clammy and pale, "a cold washcloth, please?" you muttered.

"of course, i'll be right back," he smiled.

he gently laid the washcloth down over your head, kissing your cheek, "i'll be back soon, just rest up, okay?"

you barely could nod your head, "don't go..." you whispered, not realizing you spoke your thought out loud.

a short while passed and toji came home, with him some of your favorite soup and comfort snacks. he walked into your shared bedroom and found you still in your chrysalis surrounded by tissues.

"toji? shouldn't you be at work still?" you looked up at him from the laptop in front of you.

the man climbed into bed with you, setting down the soup in front of you. "i took the day off, they're not the ones who need me right now."

you sat up, your expression still jaded. a weak smile formed on your lips. "you didn't have to do that, i'd be fine on my own."

"i want to be here, y/n," he brought the soup up to your hands, "you should eat something, i brought medicine for your head as well."

taking the soup from him, you looked down, tears welling up in your eyes. "i'm sorry, i don't want to burden you".

he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close, kissing your cheekbone and wiping the tears with his thumb.

"t-toji!" you stopped to cough, "i don't want to get you sick!"

"you think a cold could beat me?" he laughed, his lips meeting your flushed cheeks once more. "you're not a burden either, we're married. in sickness and in health."

"thank you, honey, i love you."

"i love you too, sugar."

when the following day came, you felt back to normal and no longer sick or in pain. rising up from your pillow in a nice big stretch.

"good morning, toji," you caressed his face.

he opened his eyes partly to your loving face, groaning deeply, "mornin'" he coughed.

"uh oh, did you lose the fight?"

the man quickly threw his arm around your waist and pulled you against him, burying his face against the nape of your neck.

"shuddup, i don't lose any fight, princess."

you laughed, gently rubbing his forearm the same way he did for you. "looks like i'm the nurse now."

"you gonna wear one of those dresses and heels too for me?"

you playfully slapped his hand, "little late for a halloween costume now, toji, but~ i'll think about it."

"good girl," he kissed your neck and no sooner fell back asleep, snoring softly.

[uchihashisuii]

can i request 8. things you said when you were crying with akari + shisui and is it ok if you make our boy the one crying 🥺

8. things you said when you were crying

prompt list

okokok this is SUPREMELY self-indulgent and is a pseudo-continuation of my fic about Akari's dream in the Infinite Tsukuyomi cause I've had this scene bumping around in my brain for a while now

Read the first half on Ao3 here

Akari blinks awake, and everything comes rushing back through her mind. The battlefield, the war. Facing revived members of Akatsuki, fighting back-to-back with Sai. The way Kakashi's hands had trembled, when she showed up late to the climax of the war. The moon bleeding red, and then -

The nightmare giving way to peaceful days -too many to count- in a world of her mind's creation. The laughter of her closest friends, the orphans from the Foundation allowed to be children instead of weapons. Shisui's hand, strong and familiar enough it nearly brought her to tears.

It had been beautiful, a balm to her aching soul - and yet a lie. A facade. Akari knows she'll look back, fondly, secretly, on the time she spent in the dream - but right now there's too much to do, too much to focus on, as she awakens.

Relief floods her veins as Akari lets out a stuttering breath, pressing her palms to her temples. She isn't angry at herself for having fallen victim to the dream, more so the fact that she hadn't realized it was a dream in the first place. Her heart aches, just a bit, at having lost Shisui all over again, but Akari tries to remind herself it wasn't him, it wasn't real; it was her deepest fantasy brought to life. And now she's home, and there will be time to cry over it later. For now, she has her kids and her friends to worry over. She's going to hold Sai until he suffocates, and nag that he should wear a shirt that covers him more, and get that dinner Kakashi owes her, and perhaps find the bravery to visit a particular Uchiha grave.

There is a problem, however.

A rather stark one.

She isn't on the battlefield.

Akari stands in a dimly lit grove, oddly reminiscent of the one from within the Uchiha Compound, where she had spent long days and longer nights alone with Shisui. She hadn't been back here since before his death, and it's with a growing sickness in her heart that she remembers the grove is long gone, razed with the rest of the Compound when the Elders had decided to bury their secrets. Akari's brow furrows, stomach dropping somewhere around her knees as she realizes that perhaps she hadn't escaped the dream at all.

But she remembers, the distinct feeling of her mind jolting into consciousness; a sudden shift as her memories came roaring back, realization at being locked in a genjutsu making her dizzy. And now she's neither back in reality nor trapped in a dream, and Akari rakes a hand back through her hair in frustration. She turns on her heel, an attempt to gather her wits and her bearings, but goes suddenly still.

Anger immediately unfurls beneath her breast, as she finds herself scoffing with a shake of her head. "This is just cruelty, at this point," she says, more to herself than to the man that stands in the clearing nearby.

Shisui's smile is sad as he tilts his head to the side. "This isn't a dream," is all he says, and Akari snorts.

"Right. And I'm Hokage."

"Look closer," he says with a roll of his eyes, chuckling despite himself. Akari cocks a brow, hand curling into a fist at her side. She's tired - tired of tricks, of her heart being pulled apart at the seams. She just wants to go home -

Akari blinks, lips parting silently. Her heart begins to pound, nervous energy bubbling in her chest. He looks - well, he looks nineteen. The age he had been when he died, and not like the man in her dream, the man she imagined he would have grown into, had he lived. Her analytical mind races, and she realizes -

If he's dead, and he's here, and she's with him, that means -

That means -

"Oh," Akari cant bring herself to speak, words swallowed by the lump in her throat, a strange pang echoing in her heart.

"I'm sorry," Shisui says, voice breaking. He steps closer, hands held out and arms open, and Akari can no longer hold herself back. She trips over her own feet as she launches herself at him, nearly tipping his normally perfect balance. She wraps her arms over his broad shoulders, face buried in his neck as she laughs, airy and free.

And - there it is. What had held her back, in the dream; she slots into his arms and relaxes against his chest, his hands warm on her back and it's right there, familiar and beautiful and kami, she's missed this feeling.

Right. Belonging. Home.

She'll allow herself to drown in it, happily this time. He's here, in her arms, and it isn't fake this time, isn't wrong. They're together, and her heart is whole, and it's with a small bit of shame that she realizes right now, in this moment; she doesn't care if she's dead. Doesn't care if there was more for her to do. Her heart and body can rest, and she'll do it beside the boy who loved her.

"I'm sorry," Shisui says again, voice a low rasp that sounds suspiciously like tears, "I'm so sorry. You shouldn't be here, not for another forty years at least -" She snorts at that; the life of a shinobi is hardly ever a long one. "- you should've died old and happy and, and not yet."

"You waited," Akari whispers, gentle smile curving her lips as she ignores his words, desperate and despairing as they are. Tears spill down her cheeks as her arms tighten around him, her mouth pressed to his neck. "You waited for me."

Shisui sighs at that, turning his head to press a kiss to her temple and murmuring something about a stubborn woman and making her laugh.

"Of course I did. I promised you wouldn't be alone, remember? I might have left you a little earlier than I wanted, but hey. No way in hell was I gonna let you go once you joined me here," he admits with a sniffle, pulling back enough to catch her eye. "I'm sorry I left you. It was just - everything happened so fast, and I knew what I needed to do but - but I'm so sorry I hurt you, sweetheart."

Akari is shaking her head before he can finish, lifting a palm to his cheek and smiling at that old endearment he only ever used for her. "None of that, please. Your death, it broke my heart - but I know now, none of it was your choice. There's nothing to forgive, but - if it makes you feel better, I forgave you a long time ago."

Shisui grins, tears in his eyes, and then his mouth is on hers and Akari feels a warmth beneath her breast she hasn't felt in a decade. He fists a hand in her hair and tilts her head back, deepening their kiss as she melts into his touch.

The warmth in her chest rises, and though Akari knew she had burned for him like no other, she doesn't quite remember her feelings being this hot -

"Oh." It's Shisui's turn to be taken off-guard, it seems. He pulls away, dark eyes focused, unblinking, on her chest. Akari arches a brow, teasing words already poised on her tongue at his unrepentant staring, but then she feels it again.

A hot pulse, starting from her heart and surging through her chakra pathways. She feels it tingle through her body, choking on her breath as she feels phantom hands on her shoulders, her back, and one right over her heart. And when she looks, there is the soft glow of chakra, right between her breasts.

"You're still alive," Shisui whispers, tone coloured with wonder. He looks up at her with wide eyes, grabbing her shoulders with a bright and crooked smile. "You're still alive! Someone's healing you, pouring chakra into you, or - or something. But you're alive, sweetheart."

Her mind is a whirlwind of warring thoughts and feelings; Akari can only nod at Shisui's joy, swallowing down the tide of hurt that suddenly washes over her. Hope is forefront in her heart - she'll see the kids again, will be able to train Takumi with a tantō like she promised, will be able to sit in the shade and laugh and eat ramen and spar.

But the cost -

Akari looks wordlessly up into Shisui's face, palms moving to cradle his cheeks as she feels the smallest, gentlest tug on her heart. Pulling her free of this in-between place she's found herself in; pulling her home. She wants to go back, wants to live - but she wants him, too; wants her heart once more filled with his laughter and love.

"I love you," Akari whispers, almost forcefully. She needs - she needs him to know, right now, immediately - when she never had the chance to properly tell him before he was gone. "I'll always carry you in my heart."

Shisui kisses her soundly, tasting her confession and stealing her breath. "I've loved you since the moment I crashed into you on that branch," he whispers back, making her laugh even as her vision blurs from tears. He presses her forehead against hers, sharing the same breath and the same sorrow.

"I'll be here, when your time comes. Live, sweetheart. Live and love and then come back to me. Make it later rather than sooner, yeah?"

Akari is nodding eagerly, choking on the ache and stark burn of tears at the back of her throat. "I'll find you again," she whispers, tilting her head for one final kiss -

- And then she's blinking awake, sucking in a deep and shuddering breath. Shisui's touch falls away to dust, and she smiles, sadly, at their long overdue goodbye.

Akari tilts her head to see the source of those ghosting touches, now corporeal and utterly real. She is on mud-churned ground, laying back on Kakashi's lap with his hands holding her up by her shoulders. Sai has a hand on her spine, gazing down at her with too-wide eyes and naked fear on his face. There's a hand between her breasts, a dimly glowing palm pressed right over her heart, that pours a pleasant tingle of chakra through her battered body.

"Why," Akari croaks quietly after a beat, voice breaking from disuse as she looks from her son to the owner of that hand - the man who saved her from the brink, "is the war criminal touching my tits?"

Obito has enough decency to flush, though he keeps his hand where it is. "No one else had enough chakra to spare," he explains, voice low in his chagrin.

Akari snorts, eyes rolling before they drift shut. "You use that line on all the girls, or am I just lucky?" Obito barks a laugh, the last thing she hears before promptly passing out.

Her dreams are filled with Shisui, and she knows nothing but peace.

[notthatiwilleverwriteit]

I don't know if I'm the only one, but I love she li character. I'm totally against what he's done to mo and he should be held accountable, but I still love his character and want to know more about him. His first fight with he tian, I was so curious to know why he seemed to enjoy it and even licking the blood from his lip, from then on I wanted to know his story. And I dont think he should be paired up with someone in the story it would ruin his whole esthetic. what are your thoughts about him?

Hello, dear anon!

This answer could weird out some people, so...Uh. Consider yourselves warned, I guess? It’s pretty much downhill from here on.

I’m sorry it took me so long to get to your ask. Thank you for your patience!

Do I have thoughts about SL? ...Let’s just say “a lot” is the answer:

My favorite 19 Days character(s)

My favorite 19 Days chapter(s)

SL’s bracelet

SL’s lip piercing

SL and ships:

My 19 Days NOTP (why I don’t ship MGS and SL)

My thoughts on SL and JY

My thoughts on SL and JY (vol. 2)

My thoughts on SL and HC

My thoughts on SL and Cuntou (Buzzcut)

My thoughts on SL’s sexuality

SL and MGS’s story:

Backstory revelation

SL and MGS’s development (the beginning vs. the train station scene)

That’s quite a reading list, but if you’re interested in my SL-related thoughts and mullings, I recommend checking out those previous posts. It’s possible I will repeat some things I’ve already talked about but this time I’m not going to give an overall brief summary. It would probably end up being anything but brief.

“I'm totally against what he's done to mo and he should be held accountable, but I still love his character and want to know more about him.”

This is partly why I’m hesitant to say I love SL’s character because I feel like I have to follow that with a small disclaimer that no, I don’t condone his behavior. I find him endlessly intriguing, complex, and layered. Every time he appears I never know what will happen and he always instantly steals the scene for me. I’m drawn to his darkness and disturbed, impossible-to-predict ruthlessness.

In addition to that, my “love” for him also goes deeper. I always feel like a weirdo talking about this but I see some of myself and my own shortcomings in SL’s character. Jealousy and envy. The misery loves company mentality. I don’t go around manipulating and threatening people but on some morbid level, his character allows me to go to that dark place and almost relish in all the disturbing thoughts I can muster. To me, some of the rawest and primitive parts of human nature are embodied and amplified in his character.

“His first fight with he tian, I was so curious to know why he seemed to enjoy it and even licking the blood from his lip, from then on I wanted to know his story.”

SL almost enjoying the fight and licking the blood are interesting notions that I haven’t really thought of before (ch. 184):

I’m glad you brought this up because I’ve been wanting to talk about SL and fighting ever since MGS mentioned how SL had a reputation of being “very vicious in fights” (ch. 319). I saw people thinking that was because of his Guillain–Barré syndrome. And sure, I’m not saying that couldn’t be the reason or a part of it. After all, we don’t know how far along his treatment was by that time. If you don’t feel pain as well as others, I can imagine you’re more fearless in fights.

However, I think his “viciousness” was more about SL’s overall nature. I mean, he picked up a heavy whiskey bottle and smashed someone in the head with it and didn’t seem to even blink. He was unpredictable and didn’t shy away from taking things further than probably most kids his age. Nothing was really off-limits for SL and whoever opposed him could never know what his next move would be. If you’re fighting someone and they lick their own blood - looking like they’re almost savoring the taste - I think you might want to start coming up with an exit plan. SL has a disturbing, cold-blooded aura as a fighter, and cruel, dirty violence is his style.

I’m also interested in MGS mentioning SL had transferred schools. We don’t know if he already had group-affiliations in his new school but imagine if he didn’t. Did he take over a group as an outsider by vicious violence? Did he make his own group from scratch?

���I dont think he should be paired up with someone in the story it would ruin his whole esthetic”

I don’t personally ship SL with anyone “in canon” as in I don’t think he has canonical romantic/sexual feelings for anyone in the comic. I don’t interpret his possessive behavior with MGS as romantic jealousy. Nor do I think he’s interested in JY in a romantic way. That being said, I do believe anyone is free to ship whatever they and however they want, so I don’t know about “shouldn’t be paired up with someone”.

But I think I get what you mean. I think if he had romantic feelings for someone we’re familiar with in the comic it would skew his character. “Interrupt” him, in a way. I’m not saying SL couldn’t be in a romantic relationship or even love someone but I’m not sure if that kind of “side-track” would quite fit how his role in the story has been built up so far. I would love to see more sides to him, but romantic love would feel too forced. It would kind of make me tilt my head and go “huh?”.

I feel the same way about his redemption. Again, I would love to know more about him and what’s going on in his head and heart and life general. What made him like this and what makes him tick. But I don’t know if I want him to be redeemed that way in the boys’ eyes. I kind of want him to stay as the villain to them. If they somehow started to see SL from a different light, it would kind of make his character “hollow” and crumble in on itself.

As far as my ships for SL go, I ship him with Cuntou (MGS’s Buzzcut friend) and HC. However, those ships are purely “AUs” in my head in a sense that I know they have no base in canon. I basically run with the characters and the scenarios build for them are for my own self-indulgence.

Because I couldn’t really give you any new “thoughts” but a reading list instead, let me try to make it up by raving about some of my favorite SL panels:

“We are here” (ch. 178):

I’ve always wondered what kind of an underling SL is. He might be the leader of his own group at school, but even SL must have a boss. Especially given that organized groups are heavily based on hierarchy and seniority.

But I can’t help but wonder how that kind of power dynamic works with SL. What do his superiors think about him? Do they know about his disturbing, unpredictable side? Do they feel like they have control over him? Have they ever taken advantage of his vicious side and kind of “let him loose”? Does his boss know how to handle him? And what about SL’s POV: Does he respect his superiors or just does what he’s told? What could make his obedience stop? What he would do if his superiors insulted him or somehow screwed him over?

Either way, I’m fascinated by seeing SL in a submissive position, taking orders from someone else.

“Jian Yi? Is it...” (ch. 179):

The thing I love about this panel is the tempo/rhythm/whatever-you-call-it of SL’s words. I can hear how he said them in my head. Where he paused and let there be a moment of silence that kind of rearranged the dynamic of the situation. JY had barged in and momentarily stolen the flow and control. He went all out talking back to SL and pointing him and being all JY-y. That little tilt of SL’s head, that short pause he had kind of flipped it back SL being in control. When he says “Jian Yi? Is it...” it has a dangerous vibe. As in, “Are you really sure you want me to notice you?”. That is a question asked by someone who’s mentally in control of the situation.

I can hear those speech bubbles in my head.

“Lick it clean for me” (ch. 203):

Do I even need to justify why I love this panel?

Aside from the obvious, I love this panel because it gives me strong “zero fucks given” vibes. I doubt SL was expecting JY to obey him but saying that kind of stuff fits his character perfectly. Unpredictable and difficult to tell if he’s being serious or not.

Thrown out (ch. 249):

This panel will never not amuse me. Every time I see them being thrown out like that, especially SL, I hear a “Pew!” bing in my head. Like the nurse had flicked them with her middle finger and thumb and shot them out of the room.

Pouring Coke (ch. 267):

Another panel that makes me think about SL being in a submissive position, overpowered. The idea of overpowering and submitting his kind of crazy fascinates me. A part of me wants to see him dominated, sullied, and made to take it. (Just to make sure I’m not misunderstood, I don’t mean “it” in a sexual way.) Like, I imagine the carbonated Coke stinging in his eyes. It’s more foam and fizz than actual liquid as it pours down his face. It makes him uncomfortable and wanting to try to wipe it off with his shoulder when the trickles slide down the side of his neck but he can’t. When Coke is spilled like that it goes from a nice, enjoyable beverage to a sickly sweet, sticky substance that kind of grosses you out.

This is a panel that always makes me think of shipping SL with HC.

[...I warned you it would get weird.]

Wandering in the hospital (ch. 294):

If you weren’t weirded out enough yet...

Every time I see these panels I’m reminded of being like that as a child. I remember my grandparents sometimes had to stay at the hospital when they got sick. When I went to visit them with my mom I had this habit of wandering off by myself. I could walk the ward through multiple times and just...kind of...be morbidly interested in watching the sick people in their beds. And of course, as a kid, I had no problem with openly staring at them, too. The sicker, the better. I wanted to see tubes going in and out of body orifices, wounds and stitches, bandages that have that faint shine of blood seeping through on the back when they’re due to a change. If you gave me an old person just laying in bed with their mouth open and not even being in this world anymore because they’re so old and ill, you could just sit me down and go take care of whatever parents need to take care of.

I’m not saying SL was like that but him silently wandering off always reminds me of how I was a kid.

Encounter (ch. 294):

I’ve talked about this panel quite a lot already, so I won’t go into it more in this answer. But I will say it’s probably my most favorite panel of the whole comic.

“I almost forgot” (ch. 317):

As weird as it sounds to point this out when talking about SL’s character, but I think SL was lying in this panel. Although, I guess a better way to put it would be to say it wasn’t his “usual” lying. I think he was lying about forgetting he had given MGS the piercings to make it look like he didn’t care about such trivial matters. That violating MGS like that and basically marking him as his property hadn’t meant anything to him. Seeing MGS wear HT’s earrings irked him but he’s lying about it. MGS inching further and further away from SL’s grasp is getting to him but I think this was the first time he’s trying to hide it.

Because I believe he remembers piercing MGS. I bet he remembers it vividly.

I think this panel and the way he lashed out at HT with the knife without having any regard for the consequences are interesting details that maybe SL’s mask is slipping. He’s getting more out of control. Almost desperate, I would say.

So yeah, I would say I have a few thoughts about SL.

Thank you for your question, dear anon! And for your patience as well.

[dmcdrabbles]

Could I look for some angst/comfort with the guys and a female s/o that's really sick? A bit self indulgent since I'm currently dealing with it now but perhaps they're having really bad trouble breathing and coughing hard enough there's blood? Asthma related sickness that they are struggling with due to a spike that's sorta sent them into a sickness that includes fever and migraines, fluid in the lungs and so on. Sorry if this is an odd ask or if you aren't comfortable doing it!

No problem at all! I’m not uncomfortable with it and it’s not too odd, I’d love a comfort fic when I’m not feeling well :’D I hope you feel better soon

Under the cut because it gets pretty long:

Nero

Nero brought you into urgent care early- maybe too early, but he was always so overprotective. Both of you knew that he could have carried you there scooped up in his arms, deaf to your protests and stubborn as ever. But he didn’t. He held your hands, still curled around a blood-spotted tissue, and begged you to let him take you there. You had a way of making him lose his ego like that.

He even bothered to spare yours when halfway through the appointment, you took a turn for the worse. There was no hint of ‘I told you so’ in his voice as he held your hand and told you he’d be there with you. There was just patience, and concern, and love.

V

Though your conditions were different, V knew a thing or two about feeling as weak as you did now. He didn’t condone you trying to power through it on your own, but well… he would be a hypocrite if he tried to make you stop. He tried to be as helpful as you would allow, no pity seeping through even when he felt the way your forehead burned up against his palm. He would just bring you another glass of water and a cold compress for your forehead, rubbing your back as you coughed. He was ready to bring you to the doctor if you decided it was too much, but until then he’d be there to patiently grab you anything you needed.

Dante

Dante wasn’t great at taking care of others. The “just let it handle itself” method didn’t exactly work with humans. For you, he tried his best- bringing you at least the things you knew to ask for, trying to cheer you up with lame jokes and ruffled hair. Between naps he insisted you have to “save up your strength”, you found him curled around you in one way or another. Once it was around you entirely, pulling your back to his chest with his arms around you. Another time his head was pillowed against your chest and before you could even think a “really, Dante?”, you realized he was listening to your breathing. Did he sleep much those days? It was hard to tell. Every time you woke up he was at your side, a smile pasted on but worry etched onto his brow.

Vergil

The worst part for Vergil was the powerlessness. The utter inability to fix this, no force of will or strength enough to make you better. It was evident as he stewed in his own frustration at your side, your hand held tight between his own. He promised you not to whisk you off to the hospital until you asked or really needed it, and so he spent days watching you like a hawk. Like he was bursting at the seams for something, anything more he could do other than stay by your side and watch you cough blood into tissues. It felt like inaction to him. It felt powerless.

A few days into your plight and he finally broke- through gritted teeth, eyes turned to the floor, he asked you to let him take you to the hospital.

“Please,” he said, so low it was barely a growl in his throat, “Let me do something.”

[kidsviral-blog]

How I'm Coping With Life Inside The Ebola Bubble

New Post has been published on https://kidsviral.info/how-im-coping-with-life-inside-the-ebola-bubble/

How I'm Coping With Life Inside The Ebola Bubble

When Ebola takes away the ability to touch, you have to reinvent the language of compassion.

View this image ›

Jina Moore talks to nurses at Refuge Clinic on the rural outskirts of Monrovia. Samwar Fallah for BuzzFeed News

MONROVIA, Liberia — Back in August, I was one of the first foreign journalists to land in Liberia to cover the Ebola outbreak. There weren’t very many of us willing to go to the world’s hottest hot zone, and there was a general global malaise about the disease, so there wasn’t very much information around about how to prepare.

As the story took off, colleagues called me and asked what they should do. I told them stupid things, like how I didn’t use a razor for a week before coming because I’m a klutz with a blade, and a slice on your leg or your neck (for the dudes who were calling) is a little Ebola door. I told them more useful things, like make sure you trim your nails so they don’t puncture your latex gloves — but not so short you expose the nail bed. Hands are at greatest risk for contact with the virus — we human beings put our hands everywhere, without thinking, all day long — and raw flesh at the tip of your fingers is basically a welcome mat for Ebola.

But the most right-on thing I told them was to break the rules. When foreigners come to less developed countries, there’s a slew of kindnesses we’re not supposed to indulge: Don’t give candy to kids. Don’t give coins to beggars. Don’t give cash to working-age men. Why? Because apparently the kids will turn into grabby little candy-munchers, and the beggars will stay dependent on your handouts, and any working-age man asking for “something small” is just going to piss it away on booze or women — or, if you were generous, both.

This is a fairly uncharitable interpretation of the developed world’s approach to the developing world’s poor, but it’s not far off. And the best advice I gave anyone who asked about what to do when coming here was to break those rules.

Bring gloves to give nurses you meet at clinics, even if you’re there for a story. Get small change to give to the kids who have been out of school for months and are selling ground nuts for pitiful sums on the side of road. Hell, give them candy. Violate all the principles of ostensibly good aid stewardship, because the good stewardship of the developed world didn’t get help here in time, and now everyone is dying around you.

Do not mistake all your giving for generosity. This is selfish. In the midst of Ebola, the kindest thing you can do for yourself is a tiny, ordinary kindness for someone else. Because you can’t touch anyone here, and when you are deprived of human touch, you can go a special kind of mad.

I’ve been back in Liberia this time for two weeks. Not being able to shake someone’s hand makes me feel like someone cut off my arm. Not being able to hug friends I haven’t seen in so long hurts. The disease inserts a physical distance between you and the world that no words can overcome, and that distance feels corporeal, like you’ve smacked into the end of a fat wooden pole keeping you away from the world.

We are trying small, as they say here — the motley we of foreigners and locals that Ebola has brought together in Liberia. In my hotel there is a friendly American general, two stars on his lapel. After a pleasant chat, we can’t shake hands, so I offer him my card, as if that’s a substitute for my humanity. He takes it, studies it, and bows. A two-star general in fatigues, whom every other person in the dining room is required to salute.

When I meet Dr. Moses Massaquoi, a key figure in the Ebola response and a Liberian who’s been working for decades to build his country’s health sector, he radiates compassion. We have a friend in common — a friend in common overpowers distance between strangers here — and if this had not been the time of Ebola, we would have shared a vigorous, smiling handshake, maybe even a hug.

Instead, he stands back, rests his hand over his heart, and holds eye contact just a little bit longer than feels normal.

Because the world where the doctor can’t welcome me literally with open arms, where a general opts to bow, this world is not normal.

The missing handshake also affects my work. I never appreciated just how much groundwork is laid in the way I extend my hand, the strength and length of the handshake. I never understood that it is qualitatively different to say, “A pleasure to meet you,” while you are holding on to a stranger. Touch transforms everything. Without it, I’ve also lost a skill.

I get to leave Liberia, and after a responsible period of self-monitoring, I get to go back to all those fantastically banal human things. And let me tell you, mine was good advice, because if you are stripped of basic human touch, and you don’t find a new language of compassion and connection and basic fucking humanity, you will go mad. A deep, difficult, people-will-study-it kind of mad.

But we who get to leave will never understand the real kind of mad that’s folded deep in this virus. The kind of mad that not being able to touch your dying mom makes you. The kind of mad losing 18 people in your home makes you. The kind of mad being shunned by your neighbors after you come home from the Ebola hospital makes you. Except for a brave and determined few Liberians, there isn’t even anyone talking about that kind of mad yet.

In August, almost everything in Liberia was need. Ambulances were needed to pick up bodies and beds were needed for the sick and labs were needed to sort Ebola patients from those with something else, and it felt like every last person in the country needed a pair of latex gloves, to say nothing of the personal protective “moon suits” that insulate health workers from the deadly virus ripping through their patients. And in the absence of resources to meet those needs, what there was in Liberia were bodies everywhere, waiting for some of the only people — the moon-suited burial teams — who are allowed to touch anyone. And even they are only allowed to touch the dead.

Now, there are beds and nurses and gloves and moon suits in Liberia. Not enough, and not everywhere in the country yet, to be sure. There are still people dying, but the numbers at the moment blessedly appear to be dropping off. There are also more and more people walking out of Ebola wards as survivors.

Neither circumstance means we’re anywhere close to done with Ebola. Surviving Ebola, ending the disease, that’s one thing, one damn difficult thing. But healing? That’s a long, long, long, long way off.

Read more: http://www.buzzfeed.com/jinamoore/how-im-coping-with-life-inside-the-ebola-bubble

[kidsviral-blog]

How I'm Coping With Life Inside The Ebola Bubble

New Post has been published on https://kidsviral.info/how-im-coping-with-life-inside-the-ebola-bubble/

How I'm Coping With Life Inside The Ebola Bubble

When Ebola takes away the ability to touch, you have to reinvent the language of compassion.

View this image ›

Jina Moore talks to nurses at Refuge Clinic on the rural outskirts of Monrovia. Samwar Fallah for BuzzFeed News

MONROVIA, Liberia — Back in August, I was one of the first foreign journalists to land in Liberia to cover the Ebola outbreak. There weren’t very many of us willing to go to the world’s hottest hot zone, and there was a general global malaise about the disease, so there wasn’t very much information around about how to prepare.

As the story took off, colleagues called me and asked what they should do. I told them stupid things, like how I didn’t use a razor for a week before coming because I’m a klutz with a blade, and a slice on your leg or your neck (for the dudes who were calling) is a little Ebola door. I told them more useful things, like make sure you trim your nails so they don’t puncture your latex gloves — but not so short you expose the nail bed. Hands are at greatest risk for contact with the virus — we human beings put our hands everywhere, without thinking, all day long — and raw flesh at the tip of your fingers is basically a welcome mat for Ebola.

But the most right-on thing I told them was to break the rules. When foreigners come to less developed countries, there’s a slew of kindnesses we’re not supposed to indulge: Don’t give candy to kids. Don’t give coins to beggars. Don’t give cash to working-age men. Why? Because apparently the kids will turn into grabby little candy-munchers, and the beggars will stay dependent on your handouts, and any working-age man asking for “something small” is just going to piss it away on booze or women — or, if you were generous, both.

This is a fairly uncharitable interpretation of the developed world’s approach to the developing world’s poor, but it’s not far off. And the best advice I gave anyone who asked about what to do when coming here was to break those rules.

Bring gloves to give nurses you meet at clinics, even if you’re there for a story. Get small change to give to the kids who have been out of school for months and are selling ground nuts for pitiful sums on the side of road. Hell, give them candy. Violate all the principles of ostensibly good aid stewardship, because the good stewardship of the developed world didn’t get help here in time, and now everyone is dying around you.

Do not mistake all your giving for generosity. This is selfish. In the midst of Ebola, the kindest thing you can do for yourself is a tiny, ordinary kindness for someone else. Because you can’t touch anyone here, and when you are deprived of human touch, you can go a special kind of mad.

I’ve been back in Liberia this time for two weeks. Not being able to shake someone’s hand makes me feel like someone cut off my arm. Not being able to hug friends I haven’t seen in so long hurts. The disease inserts a physical distance between you and the world that no words can overcome, and that distance feels corporeal, like you’ve smacked into the end of a fat wooden pole keeping you away from the world.

We are trying small, as they say here — the motley we of foreigners and locals that Ebola has brought together in Liberia. In my hotel there is a friendly American general, two stars on his lapel. After a pleasant chat, we can’t shake hands, so I offer him my card, as if that’s a substitute for my humanity. He takes it, studies it, and bows. A two-star general in fatigues, whom every other person in the dining room is required to salute.

When I meet Dr. Moses Massaquoi, a key figure in the Ebola response and a Liberian who’s been working for decades to build his country’s health sector, he radiates compassion. We have a friend in common — a friend in common overpowers distance between strangers here — and if this had not been the time of Ebola, we would have shared a vigorous, smiling handshake, maybe even a hug.

Instead, he stands back, rests his hand over his heart, and holds eye contact just a little bit longer than feels normal.

Because the world where the doctor can’t welcome me literally with open arms, where a general opts to bow, this world is not normal.

The missing handshake also affects my work. I never appreciated just how much groundwork is laid in the way I extend my hand, the strength and length of the handshake. I never understood that it is qualitatively different to say, “A pleasure to meet you,” while you are holding on to a stranger. Touch transforms everything. Without it, I’ve also lost a skill.

I get to leave Liberia, and after a responsible period of self-monitoring, I get to go back to all those fantastically banal human things. And let me tell you, mine was good advice, because if you are stripped of basic human touch, and you don’t find a new language of compassion and connection and basic fucking humanity, you will go mad. A deep, difficult, people-will-study-it kind of mad.

But we who get to leave will never understand the real kind of mad that’s folded deep in this virus. The kind of mad that not being able to touch your dying mom makes you. The kind of mad losing 18 people in your home makes you. The kind of mad being shunned by your neighbors after you come home from the Ebola hospital makes you. Except for a brave and determined few Liberians, there isn’t even anyone talking about that kind of mad yet.

In August, almost everything in Liberia was need. Ambulances were needed to pick up bodies and beds were needed for the sick and labs were needed to sort Ebola patients from those with something else, and it felt like every last person in the country needed a pair of latex gloves, to say nothing of the personal protective “moon suits” that insulate health workers from the deadly virus ripping through their patients. And in the absence of resources to meet those needs, what there was in Liberia were bodies everywhere, waiting for some of the only people — the moon-suited burial teams — who are allowed to touch anyone. And even they are only allowed to touch the dead.

Now, there are beds and nurses and gloves and moon suits in Liberia. Not enough, and not everywhere in the country yet, to be sure. There are still people dying, but the numbers at the moment blessedly appear to be dropping off. There are also more and more people walking out of Ebola wards as survivors.

Neither circumstance means we’re anywhere close to done with Ebola. Surviving Ebola, ending the disease, that’s one thing, one damn difficult thing. But healing? That’s a long, long, long, long way off.

Read more: http://www.buzzfeed.com/jinamoore/how-im-coping-with-life-inside-the-ebola-bubble