#so it is not much of a contagion risk anymore!

[sleepinglionhearts]

Hating the torment of being home and not technically sick, so I've had energy to want and do home improvement projects but

My arms hurt too much ;;m;;

Going back to work is gonna suck ;;A;;

[artist-issues]

From one Christian to another, you seem like someone who stays true to your values, convenient or not, and that’s exactly what I need.

In short, what’s your stance on writing LGBTQ characters? Does including such characters normalize sin, or is it comparable to writing about any other flawed human? I’ve heard some say I could write such characters out of a sense of realism, but fiction is made up of a writer’s intentional choices, and I don’t think one can have those choices and not say something to the audience.

I’ve looked all over the internet for a definite answer to this, and most results are either vague or very permissive without any scriptural backing. Your thoughts?

I think your head is on good and straight!

I am not an expert on this but I'll give you my unprofessional opinion.

The truth is, sin is normal. I mean, it's normal in this world. We're living in a cursed, fallen world. So if you were going to write a story about wildlife in Africa, there'd be a place in the story for a zebra. Because zebras are normal... in Africa. You wouldn't have to be making a comment about zebras to include them in a story about Africa; they just naturally are in that setting.

When you're writing a story about this world, and humans, that same sense applies. There's a possibility for any and all sin to be mentioned in the story. Because that's normal in this world.

Now, I guess that wasn't always the case. Even ten years ago having a homosexual couple in your story would've been surprising, and you could've run the risk of "normalizing it," because of the low percentage of people identifying as homosexual. But now? With the social contagion and overwhelming popularity, especially in adolescents, of the very idea of gender-fluidity and open-ended attraction? You're not so much "normalizing it" anymore.

Everybody's talking about being LGBTQ+. Everybody's making a statement. The question is no longer "are you going to say something about it?" The question is kind of "WHAT are you going to say about it?" Even by leaving the topic out, if it's a story about modern day life in the West on Planet Earth, you're saying something by leaving it out.

(Note: if your story isn't on Planet Earth in the Modern ((and RECENT)) time period, and even if it isn't in the West, then I wouldn't put homosexuality in your story. I can elaborate on why if you'd like in a different ask.)

So I'm basically saying it's comparable to writing about any other flawed human. 😅

As for Scriptural basis, there's no verse that says "don't talk about homosexuality," --and talking about it is all that "telling a story which includes the topic" is.

For storytelling principles found in the Bible: Jesus put one guy choking another guy out over a debt into one of His stories. That was to illustrate the depravity of the guy who was forgiven of much, but wouldn't forgive his fellow man of a little.

So now I have two very important questions for you!

If you are going to put a homosexual couple in your story, why are they there?

You have to answer this question for every decision you make in a story...but with this, because you are putting a sin in your story, the important thing to note is that the culture we're in doesn't actually consider it a sin. So by putting the sin in the story at all, you're right, you have to say something about it. You have to say that it's good or it's bad.

Doesn't have to be super in-your-face. I mean, Kuzco's "sin" is that he's selfish. So in the first scene he insults a bunch of women. And they all react like he's a monster; one of them's crying, the other one's lunging at him, but it's all just in the background. The point of the scene is that he's funny but he's a jerk and he's selfish; and those traits, "jerk" and "selfish" are treated like they're bad things, not good things, about Kuzco. A good rule of thumb is "call what is good 'good,' and call what is bad ''bad."

2. And this is the really important one, from one Christian to another: why are you considering adding a homosexual couple to your story?

You don't have to answer me, but ask yourself that question super honestly and examine every possible reason. Of course it doesn't really apply if you're not writing a story, you're just wondering about it on principle.

More on the point: I think sometimes, Christians cover up some sins by not talking about them, and it's not out of a desire be self-controlled and careful with their words. It's out of a warped desire to appease the culture.

C.S. Lewis says something like this in Surprised By Joy. My understanding of him was, Christians in the 40s didn't want to ever talk about homosexuality because, to them, it seemed the worst of sins...but when you examined how they came to that conclusion, you realized that the only things that made homosexuality different from other sins was that, if you were discovered to be engaging in homosexual sin, you'd lose your job and your fame. So Christians were choosing not to talk about it, even if all they were planning on saying was "homosexuality is wrong and God's definition of sexuality is right," because to address it at all was taboo to your public appearance.

That's a really bad reason for Christians not to talk about something. Christians know that all sin has been defeated and conquered by Christ. So why are we acting like mentioning it gives it power? Mention the sin (not the people sinning, but the sin) like it's a monster that WAS terrible and scary, but once Jesus gets ahold of it it's actually powerless and slain.

Christians have done the same thing with sex. It's supposed to be this awesome act of worship that God created to point to the cosmic idea of oneness with Him. It's supposed to be a wonderful thing, like singing beautiful songs or eating good food; all in the right way, in the right time. But Christians saw people using it sometimes in the wrong way, at the wrong time, so they threw the whole freakin baby out with the bath water and now the Church in the West is just starting to turn the corner and talk about sex again. But young people really needed to hear about it, the right way, from the Church, generations ago.

Anyway. Soapbox. The point is, if you know that homosexuality is a sin that is only destructive when it isn't submitted to Christ, and you're going to call it THAT, then what's to fear? Why does the corrupt culture get to hog the mic? So what if it wasn't a widely-accepted sin again until recently? Acting like it wasn't worth addressing, or like calling attention to it would've made the sin expand, didn't do anything to actually stop the culture from treating it like a good thing.

If Christians don't remind everybody of truth, the culture will twist it.

It's like being at a kid's birthday party, and you notice a tiger slinking over the backyard fence. Only instead of warning everybody you just sit there and try not to look directly at it. Try not to draw attention to the tiger. Because if you do, the kids might run over and try to pet it. So it's best to just sit there and hush everybody who points the tiger out up? No! The tiger's in the yard! It's too late to ignore it! Point it out, and point it out for what it is: not a big kitty you can pet, but a big dangerous beast that will hurt you if you don't treat it like that's what it is.

Rrrrg.

Thank you for asking me this question.

P.S. VERY IMPORTANT:

If you ARE writing a story, and you DO feel convicted about putting homosexual couples in the story—don't do it. Why? After everything J just said?

Because the one scripture that trumps everything I said is the one about your personal convictions: Romans 14:23. It's talking about meat sacrifices to idols, but the principle is, if you make a decision that is not based in faith, it's sin. So if you read everything I just said and still feel convicted about writing in a homosexual couple, it's not a good idea to force yourself to do it anyway. Because if you're forcing yourself to ignore conviction, it means you're making a decision based on...what? Peer pressure? A sound argument? Neither of which are agreed with by your redeemed-conscience? Can't be a decision based on faith, then, right?

We can talk more about that if you want!

Pray about it. Have you done that? Sometimes I get so spun into my own reasoning and puzzling something out, and then I'm like, "God is literally watching the inside of my brain spin itself out, He's standing right there with the answers and I don't even bother to ask 😅" Don't do that!

Thanks again for the hard question.

[sapphicsnzs]

my wlw ocs<3

Hey!! I’ve been working on making wlw ocs for a while and I’m ready to introduce them to you! Meet Libby and Maisey!!

Feel free to ask any questions or send asks about them. The first fic I wrote is after they get together, but I have ideas to explore them as they get together. 

Info: Maisey and Libby met as sophomores in college. They go to the same college and met working at the same coffee shop. They worked the Tuesday/Thursday opening shifts together every week. After the first few shifts Libby started showing off her talent for making drinks, which Maisey in desperate need of caffeine fell hard for. They went out for a bit before making it official. 

Libby (She/they): Environmental science student who is also minoring in painting. One day she wants to work in environmental activism, but for now she's learning. She works at the coffee shop called, The Coffee Bean, which is how the two met and fell in love. They will typically be wearing some sort of second-hand clothing (that's usually covered in paint or mud) with their hair braided. She’s very relaxed, easy-going, but also is very social. They live with two roommates who are their best friends (Clara and Harper). Libby likes to take things a little slower. She appreciates having time to relax and take care of herself. She loves a good bath or a day resting, and hopefully she'll be able to get Maisey to join her. Her love language is acts of service so she loves taking care of her Maisey in any way whether it's making her favorite meal or doing tasks so she can relax when she gets home. Libby loves gardening, hiking, or doing anything outside, although she has the worst allergies. Maisey always jokes that she loves the earth but the earth doesn’t love her back. In addition she is an avid user of handkerchiefs because she is very environmentally friendly, however, she knows Maisey exclusively uses tissues so she has no problem buying them for her. Although she's more easy-going she puts her foot down when it comes to Maisey taking breaks. 

Maisey (She/her): Pre-med student who overworks herself constantly. She doesn't really know what field she wants to go into, but she loves science and helping people. She works at the coffee shop and volunteers at her local hospital. Despite being insanely busy, she always looks put together. Her friends always joke that they have no idea how she always looks so put together. She is typically seen wearing colorful fashionable clothing with her hair expertly styled. She has also perfected her skincare and everyday makeup routine. Maisey is very social and outgoing with classmates, friends, and patients. She's a bit of an oversharer, but that is how she humanizes herself to her peers and the people that love her. Maisey wants to be a perfectionist, but often falls short, however, she is very loved and the people around her always support her no matter what. Maisey lives with one roommate who she used to be close with but isn’t really anymore. She also has a small orange cat named Peaches (although her and Libby love calling her Princess Peach). As a pre-med student she is a natural caretaker, so the second Libby feels unwell she absolutely dotes on her. Maisey’s love language is physical touch, so whenever Libby is unwell she is all over her despite the risk of contagion. Additionally, she is a walking pharmacy and has anything her friends or Libby could possibly need, although she rarely uses it for herself. Maisey tends to catch any bug that she comes in contact with, which is a lot working at the hospital. A lot of the time she is able to work through her illnesses, but Libby is always there to remind her to take care of herself too. She is slightly allergic to cats, but loves them so much that she suffers through it. 

I'm really excited!!! They're so precious and I hope you like them!!! I’m hoping to have their first fic up in the next few days. Once I get more comfortable with writing for them I’ll probably open up requests but in the meantime feel free to send asks about them. I’ll tag all my fics under my fics and my ocs and their names. I’m super excited thank you<3

[bvckbiter]

I've come to ur askbox bearing percybaster and also trans!al

Alabaster doesn't like swimming bc gender dysphoria so Percy makes it a mission to find a lil secluded spot in the forest that nobody visits and makes a lil pond type thing for them to swim in 👁👁

took some liberties by making the lil forest pond a lagoon cave thingy instead but here ya go hehe

--

The little cave is beautiful, with columned walls and jagged domes of limestone embracing the glinting turquoise waters, which are so clear that Alabaster can see the bedrock several fathoms beneath them no problem. Hanging over the cave's northeast side is an eye to the sky, letting sunrays provide them natural light as Percy beaches their little kayak on a flat area next to the mouth of the cave.

It's beautiful, and trepidation cloys in Alabaster's throat. Percy has just barely managed to hammer into his head that all this care wasn't just a way to somehow fatten Alabaster up before he's offered up to a slaughter for the gods. Now, it was just a question of whether said care was out of pity or remorse.

Alabaster likes neither option. Even moreso now that they would make his discomfort look very, very bad. He doesn't wanna be ungrateful.

"C'mon, Torrington! Get in!" Percy yells, whooping as he leaps in headfirst. When he surfaces again, the water rolls off tanned skin in rivulets. "It's the perfect day for a swim!"

"For you, maybe," grumbles Alabaster, toying with the bottom of his shirt. "Any day is a perfect day for you to swim."

"Tsk, don't be so hotheaded. The sun today is oppressive enough as it is."

"Well, don't put the fault on me. Contact your rhyming fucker of a cousin and tell him to tone it down, since you're so chummy with the family."

Still, Percy is right; the day is hot. The crevices of his inner compression shirt are uncomfortable with damp sweat, and the glimmering water looks horribly tempting. Alabaster settles for sitting down where the limestone drops off beneath the water.

Percy wades towards him. "Did I do something?" he asks.

"No." Alabaster slowly kicks out his shins, creating gentle whirpools underwater. "For once."

"What is it, then? Is this... Is this too much?"

"Is what too much? Talking like you sculpted this place into the ideal date venue," Alabaster scoffs.

There's a beat, and Percy awkwardly chuckles. "Not entirely. Just smoothed out the dangerous edges, put the skylight there, cleared out some sharp rocks... But the rest is natural. I just happened to find it."

When he receives no reply, Percy hoists himself halfway out of the water. Alabaster's face grows hot in a way that has nothing to do with the weather—and everything to do with the way Percy settles himself, sculpted forearms and lean torso and all, in the space between his legs.

Contrary to the seeming audacity of that move, though, Percy's next words are laced with uncertainty. "If I overstepped, I really didn't mean to. We can just forget about this and go back—"

Alabaster grabs the Camp bead necklace before Percy can continue, and the son of Poseidon settles. Then, seized by some strange urge, he flattens his palm against Percy's firm sternum.

"One day, when I'm not constantly at the risk of dying," he says, "I won't have to rely on the Mist or my binders anymore. I'll be able to handle being—being seen. Then maybe I'll swim."

Percy blinks at him. "Being seen by others? I can swim outside if you want privacy."

A bitter smile crosses Alabaster's face. "Some days, I can barely look at myself. Today's one of those days, apparently. Especially when you look like goddamn Little Merman, in your element and all. It's annoying."

"Oh. Sorry?"

"For fuck's sake. You were all too happy to give me a show, weren't you? Go on." Alabaster pushes him away with his fingertips, and Percy topples back into the water with bubbling laughs.

He wasn't lying; the next several minutes, he leeches off the contagion of Percy's joy. "Look at this weird seashell I found down there," "How long can you hold your breath, just dunk your face in—haha you look stupid underwater," "SPLASH FIGHT!" and Alabaster actually fucking indulges him. The last one in particular gives him an idea of how to use this place. Just so Percy's effort doesn't go to waste, of course. If there's one thing Alabaster can appreciate, it's a masterful use of one's powers.

That's all there is to it. Really.

"Hey, Jackson!" he calls out, getting to his feet. "Fuck you!" And predictably, Percy shouts it back and sends another mini-tsunami at him.

Alabaster grins. "Incantare," he mutters under his breath, so that Percy can't hear him, "Furit Mare."

Immediately, the wave erupts from the surface with a roar, reversing its momentum and crashing down on its original caster.

"WHAT THE FUCK?!" Percy's voice reverberates from underneath, and Alabaster smugly grins. The dark head pops back out. "WHAT WAS THAT?!"

"Well, I figured," Alabaster replies, "if I can't fight you in your element, I'll just have to learn how to work with it to beat you."

"Oh, it's so on," Percy growls, commanding the water to raise him to his feet.

"Oh." Another incantation, and when Alabaster steps onto the water, the surface holds. "It is."

--

Note: "Furit Mare" roughly translates to... "The sea is raging" .... ? But I am no Latin scholar so I make no pretensions of expertise here HAHAHHA

[hard--headed--woman]

I get so frustrated at libfems who get dismissive when detrans people are mentioned they so badly don’t want to think about it. They think it is wrong to think to much about it. They don’t seem to care all these gay girls and just girls in general with anorexia and self harming behaviors are getting caught up in this social contagion and the risks to them. Libfems seem to only care for trans people and couldn’t care about anyone else and it just hurts a lot like why don’t they care? I feel like they would but they shut themselves down to paying attention to everything happening to girls and women as a result bc acknowledging it means acknowledging trans beliefs are hurting people

TRAs only care about trans people when they feed their rhetoric. They see detrans people are their enemies, because they talk about the flaws and lies of the trans community, and because they decided not to be trans anymore, which debunk their "being trans isn’t a choice and it is forever!" thing. This is very cult-like to me. It's easier for them to call detrans people traitors who were never even trans in the first place, or who refuse to accept their true self. I hate it.

[bugswarm]

You know, I really wonder how much Elliot Page’s coming out influenced Gerard to feel more comfortable expressing their gender nonconformity on stage. Not in like a gross “you can catch the queerness just by being around another one” kinda way but in the way that homophobic parents mistake their kids coming out as ‘social contagion’ when in reality their kid’s friend came out and they saw how all the negative repercussions they had built up as being major barriers to their life weren’t reality (anymore at least), and that they didn’t lose everything, so suddenly its just that bit easier to truly express themselves or whatever.

Ya know? Like I wonder how much getting to see, so up close and personal, exactly what happened when Elliot Page came out, and how, yeah there was some backlash and some things aren’t the same, but at the same time, Elliot Page still has a life. Still has a job. News articles about them don’t misgender them (unless it’s one of the terrible ones but that’s just evidence for which to avoid in the future). The Umbrella Academy still took the top of the Netflix charts for over a week straight in season 3 and got renewed for a 4th and final season (which is a pretty standard run length for a well running Netflix show. They’ve so far only had a total of 19 shows get a season 4 (not counting shows that have been renewed for a season 4 but haven’t released season 4 yet because Netflix has in the past changed its mind on show renewals), 8 of which were docuseries, reality tv, or a late night talk show style interview series all of which cost significantly less to produce).

So, I just wonder if getting to see that. Getting to see how, yes expressing yourself fully in regards to gender can still be a risk even in 20 fucking 22, overall, the fall out of doing so isn’t like it was in the 80’s, the 90’s or even the early to mid 2000’s when mcr got started and got called slurs for wearing makeup or masc-aligned-but-theatrical outfits. I wonder if seeing that kinda, nudged them towards the realization that we wouldn’t suddenly hate the entire band just because they wore a dress on stage. Or whatever else they probably thought (and probably would have earlier in their life) would happen.

[nobodybetterlookatme]

Part two of this one with Rowan and Blaire but they get to kiss this time

Slight mess and contagion but I think that’s about it

Nursing Rowan back to health did have its risks, but Blaire’s immune system had always been strong, so she just assumed that if she did end up catching his cold, it would hardly feel like anything. When she started feeling the beginnings of a sore throat, she thought nothing of it. Not even when her nose started running did she think anything was wrong. What was she supposed to do about it, anyway? Rowan was still battling the lingering effects of his miserable cold, and she had to help him first. Even if that meant staying up all night trying to convince herself that she didn't feel that bad when her symptoms took a turn for the worse about a day and a half in, desperately stifling sneezes and muffling coughs into her blanket. She managed to go the whole night without waking Rowan, and he was still asleep by the time she had to leave for class. Blaire left a note for him before she left, then headed to class, silently cursing the cold rain all the way over.

The day couldn't end soon enough, and Blaire almost considered ditching her last class. She was shivering so hard, she could hardly hold her pen and take notes, and her sinuses ached with stifled sneezes. She wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower and crawl into bed, but she knew she couldn't do that. Not when Rowan needed her. She debated on not even returning to their dorm until she knew he was asleep, but that thought was dashed when Rowan texted her asking when she'd be back from class. She sighed, which immediately turned into a coughing fit she had to catch in the crook of her elbow. She had no choice, she supposed, and headed back to the dorm.

Rowan looked up from his laptop when Blaire entered, and gave her a grin. It fell slightly when he noticed how tired she looked, and how flushed her cheeks were. "Hey… you okay?" He asked, his full attention on her. "You've been getting enough sleep, haven't you?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," she replied, her voice more hoarse and congested than she thought it would be. "Long day, I'm just tired." She sucked in a soupy sniffle, then tried to laugh it off, desperately trying to stave off another bout of coughing. "The walk in the rain didn't help much. I'm just gonna take a shower real quick." With that, she disappeared into the bathroom.

He frowned, trying to think of why she was acting so strange. The thought occurred to him that she could be sick, but this was Blaire, and she never got sick. He elected to just wait for her to come out. Maybe she really had just had a rough day, and maybe he could set up a movie for them to watch to help her unwind. Yeah, that's what he'd do.

Blaire sighed in defeat. She'd gone for a hot, steamy shower in hopes of chasing away her chills and alleviating some of her congestion, but the only thing it had done was make her feel dizzy. She clumsily got out of the shower and dried off, changing into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, then stepped out of the bathroom.

Rowan looked over when she emerged. "Hey, wanna watch a movie with me?" He asked, though his brow furrowed when she appeared to be swaying on her feet. "Jesus, Blaire, you wanna sit down? You look like you're about to pass out."

"Huh? Oh, no, no, I'm okay," she assured him weakly. "I just.. took too hot a shower, and my body didn't like the temperature change much." She laughed hoarsely, but she wasn’t able to hold back a coughing fit anymore, and grabbed the doorframe to steady herself while she doubled over, face buried in the crook of her arm.

His eyes widened, and he stood from his bed, the movie long forgotten. "Alright, new question: how long has that been going on?"

She shook her head, trying to stop coughing. "It's- it's fine, I'm fine, it's not- not a big deal," she wheezed, a hand on her chest as she managed to regain control of her breathing again. "Just- just from the steam. When I was showering."

"Oh, cut the shit," Rowan growled, concern building up inside of him. He placed a hand on her back, shocked at how warm she was even though her shirt. He placed a hand on her forehead, giving her a look of guilt and worry. "God, you're burning up…"

It took everything in her to not lean into his touch, and instead, she stepped away from him. “Don’t,” she croaked. “Don’t touch me. I’m fine. I told you, I took a hot shower.”

Rowan laughed incredulously. “Do you really expect me to believe that?” He asked, arching a brow at her. 

She glanced over to the bathroom; maybe he didn’t have to believe her. If she was quick enough, or perhaps inconspicuous enough, she could easily lock herself in and avoid this mess entirely. She met Rowan’s eyes again, then took a step towards the bathroom. She looked to the side again, then back at him, and took another step before trying to slink into the bathroom.

He looked confused for a moment, then his eyes widened. He quickly stepped in front of the door and grabbed Blaire’s wrist, preventing her from closing herself in, and narrowed his eyes slightly at her. “Seriously, Blaire, what the hell is with you?” He demanded, his tone a bit more harsh than he’d intended.

Blaire flinched slightly at his tone, and tensed up. She looked up at him with big, scared eyes, not daring to pull her arm from his grasp. "I'm sorry…" she whispered, shutting her eyes and willing herself not to cry. She couldn’t deny how awful she felt anymore, and she just wanted to lock herself in the bathroom and not come out until she felt okay again.

He felt horribly guilty for snapping; it was clear she was only acting the way she was because she wasn’t feeling well. "Don't apologize, you didn't do anything wrong. Come on, let's just get you to bed." He guided her over to his bed, laying her down and propping up the pillows just as she'd done for him. "There you are. Isn’t that better?"

Being tucked into bed by Rowan, Blaire couldn't help but cry, the tears she had been holding back rolling down her cheeks. Small, hiccupping whimpers quickly turned into sobs, and before she realized what was happening, she was a mess.

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no. No, Blaire, come on, please don’t cry…” Rowan had never seen her come close to crying in the two years he’d known her, but now, it seemed like everything was coming out all at once. He immediately sat on the bed and pulled her into his arms, cradling her trembling frame against his chest. “Shh, shh, shh, it’s okay. It’s alright, I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

“I’m s-sorry,” she babbled again, repeating the two words like a broken record. “I’m s’pposed to be taking care of you, and I- I can’t even do that right, and- and- hh- hih’SCHiew! hih’SCHiew!”

He hushed her again, gently patting her back. “You’ve taken care of me all week, and gone to all your classes, and gotten groceries. In the rain. And all while running a fever, apparently. You’ve done plenty. You deserve a rest.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but instead, her breath hitched again. “Ih- ih- hih- hih’SCHiew! his’SCHiew! hih’CHiew! hih’SCHiew! hih’SCHiew!” She sniffled again, loose and wet, letting out a ‘guh’ when it did nothing to stop her nose from running. “I don’t wanna rest,” she muttered. “I wa-wanna- hih’CHiew!- finish my assignments, and- hih- and take care- hih’CHiew!- take care of- hih’SCHiew!- you.”

“Are you even hearing yourself right now? You sound dreadful.” Rowan gently sat her up in his bed, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders and making sure she was bundled up. He took a couple fresh tissues from the box, then pressed the small wad against her streaming nose. She took them from him and blew her nose while he fussed over the blanket a bit more. “I don’t need you to take care of me anymore, you know. You’ve done more than enough.”

She whined, dropping the soaked tissue wad onto the floor. Blaire had no idea how to properly communicate what she was feeling; words were Rowan’s strong suit, not hers. Besides, she figured, how was she supposed to explain to him that caring for him was the most useful she’d felt in years? That she wanted to prove she would do anything for him? That she- She felt like crying again. Some things she didn’t think she would ever be able to tell him, and that was alright. She took a breath, then looked at him. “Can you tell me you hate me?”

Rowan physically did a double take, shaking his head and blinking at her in surprise. “I’m sorry?” He asked, his tone more demanding than he would’ve liked it to be. “Why on earth would you ever ask me to say that? How- how can you even think for a moment that I could ever say something like that to you?”

“It’d be easier that way,” she muttered, rubbing her nose with her knuckles.

He almost laughed at how utterly ridiculous the whole situation was. “What the hell are you talking about? We’re roommates, for fuck’s sake! How would it be easier if I hated you?”

“I like you, Ro,” she blurted out, not even realizing what she’d said. “You’re smart, and funny, and so, so sweet. I didn’t think people like you actually existed, but you sure goddamn do, and I wanna kiss your stupid little face all the time, and-” Blaire sighed, muffling a few coughs with a blanket-covered fist. “At least if you hated me, there’d be no friendship to ruin.” It took her far longer than it should’ve to process what she’d said, and when she finally did, she looked at him with wide-eyed horror.

Oh. Oh. His cheeks were positively burning, and he hid his face behind a hand. Of all the ways he’d thought he might tell Blaire he liked her, her telling him wasn’t something he’d planned. Much less in the current situation. He couldn’t think of anything to say, and instead, gently grasped her chin and made her look at him. He held her gaze for just a moment before leaning forward to capture her lips with his. He could taste the saltiness of snot on her lips, but it did nothing to deter him. Not even when her nose squelched against his cheek and snot dribbled down to his lips did he stop.

Blaire was too shocked to move for a moment, but she relaxed, her lips melting against his as she kissed him back. She wanted to freeze time right there, but her nose had other ideas. She ignored the itchiness as long as she could, but eventually, her breath hitched, and she pulled away from him just as a sneeze overtook her. “hih’SCHiew! hih’SCHiew! hih’CHiew! hih’CHiew! hih’CHiew!” Snot rocketed from her nose and splattered onto Rowan’s chest, and the short fit was followed by a harsh bout of coughing. “Sorry, I’m so sorry,” she choked out, trying desperately to stop coughing.

Rowan laughed, gently patting her back. “Like this is any worse than what I’ve been doing all week,” he scoffed, giving her a reassuring smile. “I don’t think there’s a single fabric in this room I haven’t sneezed on.”

“Probably true,” Blaire agreed, shrugging her shoulders. She cleared her throat, though it did next to nothing; her voice was wrecked from all the sneezing and coughing she’d been doing. “But you get a pass.”

“Aw, ‘cause you like me?” He teased, batting his eyelashes at her. “That’s embarrassing.”

“It is!” She cried, so empathetically that she began coughing again. “Do you have any idea how mortifying it is to have to restart your entire lab experiment because you thought of your stupid roommate’s stupid smile and added the wrong chemical? I almost failed that class because of you, you know!”

He laughed again, reaching out to brush the back of his fingers against her warm cheek. “If it makes you feel any better, I totally said your name during a presentation in class instead of a character’s name from that book we were reading. That.. happened more than once, actually.”

Blaire snorted, leaning into his soft touch. “How the hell did that happen?”

He shrugged. “Thought about you.” Rowan tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, his cheeks flushing a bit. “I get nervous up there in front of the whole class, so I just.. imagine I’m back here at the dorm practicing with you.”

She couldn’t help but smile, though she panicked for a moment when Rowan began pulling his hand back. She grabbed his arm and pressed her cheek into the palm of his hand, giving him a pleading look. His hand was so cool, and felt so nice. And now that she knew her feelings were reciprocated, she felt the need to make up for lost time.

Rowan could feel his face burning, but he kept his hand on her face, gently caressing her cheek with his thumb. “Any chance you’ll let me go out to get you something to eat? Maybe some soup?” He suggested, giving her a small smile.

She shook her head. “Absolutely not,” she huffed, narrowing her eyes slightly with a pout. “Not when you’re just getting over being sick.” She could still hear the bit of congestion in his voice when he spoke, and how he’d cough and clear his throat or sniffle every now and then.

“I’ll be okay, really. I feel fine now,” he assured her, gently touching his forehead to hers. “You don’t need to worry so much.”

She responded with a whine, and wrapped her arms around him to prevent him from leaving. “Just stay. We can get food delivered here,” she mumbled, shutting her eyes as she nuzzled against him. “Please..?”

Rowan gave in, and pulled her into his arms again. “Of course.” He shifted himself to pull Blaire on top of him, then adjusted the blanket over her and kissed her forehead. “Maybe a nap for now?" He suggested, rhythmically running a hand up and down her back. "You can try to sleep off this cold a bit."

"Yeah, that- hih- hih'SCHiew! hih'SCHiew!- sounds nice," she said with a wet sniffle, rubbing her nose on Rowan’s shirt. She sniffled a few more times, then felt a wad of tissues placed over her nose. Without a second thought, she blew her nose into the tissues, then finished with several chesty coughs. If she could sleep off any part of this, she would consider it a win.

He gently patted her back as she coughed, feeling rather guilty; he was the reason she was this sick now, after all. Though, at least now, he was able to properly thank her for taking care of him by returning the favor. "Just rest, Blaire-bear," he told her gently, his voice barely above a whisper. "I've got you."

[kuramirocket]

On July 10, 1520, Aztec forces vanquished the Spanish conquistador Hernán Cortés and his men, driving them from Tenochtitlan, capital of the Aztec empire. The Spanish soldiers were wounded and killed as they fled, trying in vain to drag stolen gold and jewels with them.

By September, an unexpected ally of the would-be conquerors had reached the city: the variola virus, which causes smallpox.

How the Aztecs responded to this threat would prove critical.

The Aztecs were no strangers to plagues. Among the speeches recorded in their rhetoric and moral philosophy, we find a warning to new kings concerning their divinely ordained role in the event of contagion:

Sickness will arrive during your time. How will it be when the city becomes, is made, a place of desolation? Just how will it be when everything lies in darkness, despair? You will also go rushing to your death right then and there. In an instant, you will be over.

Facing a plague, it was vital that the king respond with grace. They warned:

Do not be a fool. Do not rush your words, do not interrupt or confuse people. Instead find, grasp, arrive at the truth. Make no one weep. Cause no sadness. Injure no one. Do not show rage or frighten folks. Do not create a scandal or speak with vanity. Do not ridicule. For vain words and mockery are no longer your office. Never, of your own will, make yourself less, diminished. Bring no scorn upon the nation, its leadership, the government.

Retract your teeth and claws. Gladden your people. Unite them, humor them, please them. Make your nation happy. Help each find their proper place. That way you’ll be esteemed, renowned. And when our Lord extinguishes you, the old ones will weep and sigh.

If a king did not follow this advice, if his rule caused more suffering than it abated, then the people prayed to Tezcatlipoca for any number of consequences, including his death:

May he be made an example of. Let him receive some reprimand, whatever you choose. Perhaps punishment. Disease. Perhaps you’ll let your honor and glory fall to another of your friends, those who weep in sorrow now. For they do exist. They live. You have no want of friends. They are sighing before you, humble. Choose one of them.

Perhaps he [the bad ruler] will experience what the common folk do: suffering, anguish, lack of food and clothing. And perhaps you will give him the greatest punishments: paralysis, blindness, rotting infection.

Or will he instead soon depart this world? Will you bring about his death? Will he get to know our future home, the place with no exits, no smoke holes? Maybe he will meet the Lord of Death, Mictlanteuctli, mother and father of us all.

Clearly, the Aztecs took the responsibilities of leadership very seriously. Beyond uplifting morale, a king’s principal duty in times of contagion was deploying his subjects to “their proper place” so that the kingdom could continue to function. This included mobilizing the titicih, doctor-healers with vast herbal knowledge, most of them women pledged to the primal mother goddess Teteoh Innan.

What about the rest of the people? As with our own modern call for “thoughts and prayers,” the Aztecs believed their principal collective tool for fending off epidemics was a humble appeal to Tezcatlipoca. The very first speech of their text of rhetoric and moral philosophy was a supplication to destroy plague. After admitting how much they might deserve this scourge and recognizing the divine right of Tezcatlipoca to punish them however he sees fit, the desperate Aztecs tried to get their powerful god to consider the worst-case outcome of his vengeance:

O Master, how in truth can your heart desire this? How can you wish it? Have you abandoned your subjects? Is this all? Is this how it is now? Will the common folk just go away, be destroyed? Will the governed perish? Will emptiness and darkness prevail? Will your cities become choked with trees and vines, filled with fallen stones? Will the pyramids in your sacred places crumble to the ground?

Will your anger never be reversed? Will you look no more upon the common folk? For—ah!—this plague is destroying them! Darkness has fallen! Let this be enough. Stop amusing yourself, O Master, O Lord. Let the earth be at rest! I fall before you. I throw myself before you, casting myself into the place from which no one rises, the place of terror and fear, crying out: O Master, perform your office … do your job!

Smallpox arrived in Mesoamerica with a second wave of Spaniards who joined forces with Cortés. According to one account, they had with them an enslaved African man known as Francisco Eguía, who was suffering from smallpox. He, like many others on the continent of his birth, had no immunity to the disease carried there by the slave traders.

Eguía died in the care of Totonac people near Veracruz, the port city established by the Spanish some 250 miles east of the Aztec capital. His caretakers became infected. Smallpox spreads easily: not only blood and saliva, but also skin-to-skin contact (handshakes, hugs) and airborne respiratory droplets. It raced through a population with no herd immunity at all: along the coast, over the mountains, across the waters of Lake Texcoco, into the very heart of the populous empire.

The epidemic lasted 70 days in the city of Tenochtitlan. It killed 40 percent of the inhabitants, including the emperor, Cuitlahuac. Had he found it increasingly difficult to keep his people’s spirits up as tradition commanded? Had his leadership faltered? Did his subjects pray for his death?

Whatever the case, the memory of that devastation would echo for centuries. Some Nahuas—mostly the sons and grandsons of Aztec nobility—described the devastation decades after the conquest.

Their account harrows the soul:

It started during Tepeilhuitl [the 13th month of the solar calendar], when a vast human devastation spread over everyone. Some were covered in pustules, which spread everywhere, on people’s faces, heads, chests, etc. There was great loss of life; many people died of it.

They could not walk anymore. They just lay in bed in their homes. They could not move anymore, could not shift themselves, could not sit up or stretch out on their sides. They could not lay flat on their backs or even face down. If they even stirred, they screamed out in pain.

Many died of hunger, too. They starved because no one was left to care for the others; no one could attend to anyone else. On some people, the pustules were few and far between. They caused little discomfort, and those folks did not die. Still others had their faces marred.

By Panquetzaliztli [the 15th month of the solar year], it began to fade. At that time the brave warriors of the Mexica managed to recover.

But a hard lesson had been learned. None of the old remedies had worked. Entire families were gone. Funeral pyres effaced the sun.

The epidemic was only the beginning of the unexpected forces working in tandem to bring down the Aztec empire. On May 22, 1521—just as Tenochtitlan was beginning to recover, trying to rebuild trade routes, restock its supplies, replant its fields and aquatic chinampa gardens—Cortés returned.

This time he commanded more Spanish troops, men from the same second wave that had brought the smallpox. With them marched tens of thousands of Tlaxcaltecah warriors, the sworn enemies of the Aztecs. Smallpox had reached Tlaxcallan first, but its people—not as densely packed in urban areas like the Mexica—had fared better and were now ready to finish off their rivals.

The massive military force laid siege to the Aztec capital. Even with more than half the population dead or disabled, with little food or water or supplies, the Mexica held the city for three months.

Then, on August 13, 1521, it fell. Emptiness and darkness indeed prevailed.

Lines from a song composed by an unknown Mexica not long afterward sums up the emotions of the survivors:

It is our God who brings down

His wrath, His awesome might

upon our heads.

So friends, weep at the realization—

we abandon the Mexica Way.

Now the water is bitter,

the food is bitter: that

is what the Giver of Life

has wrought.

Without the smallpox, it’s much less likely Cortés and his allies could have taken Tenochtitlan. 

The plague—cocoliztli—was the most devastating post-conquest epidemic in large parts of Mexico, wiping out somewhere around 80 percent of the native population.

“Somewhere around” because population estimates are difficult to come by, with extrapolations made from incomplete colonial sources that date back to precolonial times. For the ethnohistorian Charles Gibson, there is no “sure method for determining whether the later [colonial era] counts were more accurate or less accurate than the earlier ones,” so that “the magnitude of the unrecorded population seems unrecoverable.”

Nevertheless, Gibson’s best estimate is a population of 1,500,000 inhabitants of the Valley of Mexico at the time of first contact with Europeans. There was a sharp fall of about 325,000 by 1570; a drastic fall to about 70,000 by the mid-seventeenth century; followed by slow growth to about 275,000 by 1800. Gibson’s figures are simply staggering. They give us a rough impression, but tell us little about the suffering and massive social upheaval caused by these catastrophes.

Slavery, forced labor, wars, and large-scale resettlements all worked together to make indigenous communities more vulnerable to disease.

According to the “Virgin Soil” theory, the epidemics were so desctructive because “the populations at risk have had no previous contact with the diseases that strike them and are therefore immunologically… defenceless,” as the psychiatrist David Jones writes in the William & Mary Quarterly. The theory is still widespread, often devolving into vague claims that indigenous people had “no immunity” to the new epidemics. By now we know that the lack of immunity played a role, but mostly early on. Current research instead emphasizes an interplay of influences, for the most part triggered by Europeans: slavery, forced labor, wars, and large-scale resettlements all worked together to make indigenous communities more vulnerable to disease.

According to a group of scholars writing in the journal Latin American Antiquity, in colonial Mexico, “by the mid-17th century, many… communities had failed, victims of massive population decline, environmental degradation, and economic collapse.” This is why it’s crucial for today’s scholars to emphasize the influence of colonial policies—as opposed to the Virgin Soil theory, which shifts responsibility away from Europeans.

One peak of the epidemic occurred in the 1570s. The exact pathogen that caused that epidemic is not yet known. Some scholars have speculated that, since it struck mostly younger people, it might have been something unique to the New World and reminiscent of the Spanish Influenza outbreak, possibly a tropical hemorrhagic fever. Other recent theories include Salmonella, or a combination of diseases. Native communities were the main victims of this epidemic due to their poverty, malnourishment, and harsh working conditions compared to the Spanish population.

Three Circles in the Sun

Aztec authors from central Mexico noted their reactions to the epidemics in fascinating detail. Writing 100 years after the Spanish military takeover, they were painfully aware of the consequences of epidemics and colonization: epidemics had taken place before, but the unprecedented scale of the disasters caused widespread incomprehension, sadness, and anger.

Much of the extant writing by Aztec authors dates to the turn of the seventeenth century. Many of the authors had experienced the plague themselves, its effects still fresh in their memories. I want to focus on two pieces of writing: a report by the well-known historian Diego Muñoz Camargo from Tlaxcala, written in Spanish; and an anonymous text in the indigenous language, Nahuatl, from the Puebla region.

As Diego Muñoz Camargo, the famous historian from the era, wrote:

In 1576, another great pestilence struck this land, bringing death and destruction to the native population. It lasted over a year and brought ruin and decay to most of New Spain [the Spanish Viceroyalty covering today’s Mexico], as the native population was then almost extinct. One month before the outbreak of the disease, an obvious sign had been seen in the sky: three circles in the sun, resembling bleeding or exploding suns, in which the colours merged. The colours of those three circles were those of the rainbow and could be seen from eight o’clock until almost one o’clock at noon.

This passage demonstrates the great importance of omens for the Aztecs. 

It is not surprising that the second report, from the smaller community of Tecamachalco, also links diseases with the appearance of a comet. Probably written by the native noble Don Mateo Sánchez, the text shows the extent of the catastrophe in words quite similar to Diego Muñoz Camargo’s:

On the first day of August [of 1576] the great sickness began here in Techamachalco. It was really strong; there was no resisting. At the end of August began the processions because of the sickness. They finished on the ninth day. Because of it, many people died, young men and women, those who were old men and women, or children… When the month of October began, thirty people had been buried. In just two or three days they would die… They lost their senses. They thought of just anything and would die.

Several of Don Mateo’s family members also died, including his wife and the alcalde (mayor) of his quarter. Don Mateo then took over the post of alcalde. One can sense his incomprehension and anguish. The decimation of the indigenous elites is evident throughout his account.

This decimation contributed to the transformation of native societies well into the seventeenth century, including forced native labor and resettlements, the introduction of hierarchical Spanish laws and government, Christianity, and the alphabet. Together with increasing European immigration, the epidemic led to a massive upheaval of indigenous sociopolitical organization and ways of life, especially in the Valley of Mexico.

Don Mateo’s is not the only surviving account of the epidemic from an indigenous perspective. Other anonymous annals from Puebla and Tlaxcala from the era discuss earlier waves of disease, which remained firmly rooted in collective memory more than 100 years after the events. Like Mateo, these sources do not try to account for the origin of the disease, but they provide an idea of the scale and horror of the epidemic and the personal tragedies involved, the uprooting of families, of whole towns.

Meanwhile, the Spaniards’ narratives tried to explain the catastrophic effect the disease had on the indigenous population by pointing to difficult living conditions. But they also interpreted it as divine punishment for paganism and a sign of the native peoples’ alleged inferiority to Europeans. Of course, European remedies such as bloodletting, used in hospitals to treat indigenous patients, worsened conditions instead of healing them. Ultimately, the Spanish Crown feared above all a further loss of cheap or unpaid labour; the priests a loss of souls to be converted.

Holding Off Oblivion

Despite the harsh conditions, the descendants of the Aztecs did not give up—as has long been claimed in traditional scholarship. As the historian Camilla Townsend has argued, the demographic collapse lent urgency to the projects of major native historians—including the authors I’ve cited in this essay. Nearly all pre-Hispanic sources were destroyed by the Spanish, with some lost over time. The Chalca scholar Domingo de Chimalpahin commented on this confluence of factors: the destruction of sources and abandonment of communities strengthened his sense of responsibility to future generations. By writing history, he attempted to save his ancestors’ past from looming oblivion. Drawing on pre-Hispanic faith, continuing political participation, and recording the histories of their people: these are some of the ways in which Aztecs proactively shaped their lives following colonial devastation.

Centuries of colonial exploitation and violence have made the indigenous peoples of both Americas disproportionately vulnerable to current epidemics. This makes the resilience of indigenous peoples and cultures all the more incredible. Such resilience has developed over more than 500 years, in the face of continual adversity and disregard. Native American peoples provide varied and remarkable testimonies on weathering existential crises. The least we can do, in the midst of the current pandemic, is listen.

Other Source

[albonium]

Just happy that McLaren kept repeatedly testing Daniel, even though they kept coming back Negative. Even though they didn't have to.

f1 saying no testing? I think some of the countries still require it. they might change it now....

Its just scary here in the uk, he wouldn't by law have to isolate. It would just be recommended.

same thing here, the masks won't be mandatory anymore on the 14th but transmission is on the rise again and our r factor is > 1 again, things had only lowered a bit because it was the school holidays and kids weren't in schools where nothing is done to prevent contagion. there's no systematic testing, parents lie and bring their kids even if they're positive/their siblings are. nothing is done to make air quality better and my teacher friends had to pay for their own co2 monitors and ffp2 masks.

all of this + people in general not giving a fuck and hanging out with their families and friends as if nothing was happening. people are dying, people will keep dying and get long covid, some will become disabled, even non symptomatic people have a higher risk of cardio vascular problems post covid (and that's only the things we know of in two year)

people at risk and their families have to live in fear and secluded from the world because there's still a risk of getting it, passing it to a fragile relative that we live with and killing them.

no one is taking it seriously anymore and it pisses me off so much

good on mclaren for testing daniel but maybe they should remind him that their business depends on his physical well being too and that if he doesn't care about his own health (and the health of the entire fucking world), he still has a job to do

[haikyuu-sickfics]

Vomit warning!

I feel bad about how poorly written my first Suna centric fic was so heres attempt #2

First it was Atsumu who came down with the horrible bug.  Though, thanks to his whiny nature, the abnormality in his condition was noticed quickly by his family. The early detection of the ailment allowed for him to not leave the house and spread his illness throughout the school- or worse his team.

This plan had one weak spot though.

That weak spot had a name, and a position on the volleyball team the Miya's tried so hard to keep healthy.

Though they struck luck, in a way.  Thanks to Osamu's reserved nature, it seemed that no one on the team was at risk of contagion.

No one but the only person closer to Osamu than Atsumu.

Rintarou.

The two were practically joined at the hip, if one of them was having a bad day- they both were.  If one of them sprained their ankle, magically the other did as well.  And, obviously, if one of them got sick, the other would definately catch it.

But they didn't get sick, one of the pros of being an observer and not a engager- like Atsumu.

"If ya got me sick I swear to everything I'm gonna pummel yer head in," Osamu threatened as his dull headache throbbed on the walk to school.

"Okay lemme just," Atsumu pursed his lips and sucked in as though a straw was in his mouth.

"The fuck was that?"

"Oh I'm just sucking all the sickness out of you because appearantly I can control where that shit goes," Atsumu sassed.

His attitude dropped quickly after recieving a knock on the head by his twin.

"The hell was that for?"

"You had immunity while you were sick, I've been holding that in for so damn long."

Atsumu pouted, absentmindedly rubbing the sore spot on his head and distancing himself a bit from his walking partner.

Todays walk to school felt significantly longer and more treacherous today, the suns rays beating down harder than they ever had, enveloping Osamu into a sweaty unwanted hug and injecting grogginess into his every movement.

Atsumu didn't point out Osamu's slow movements, fear of another rutheless attack providing more than enough restraint.

The sight of the schools familiar architechture proved a very welcomed sight to the both of them.  Atsumu waved goodbye before hurrying to join his group of friends, desperate to get away from his twin.

Osamu mumbled some line about his brothers rudeness before beginning the search for Rintarou.

They usually met up outside of their shared class, but Osamu wished to talk with him earlier.  As much as he disliked falling behind in work, there was no way he would be able to make it through a full day of school.  Having the same train of thought as Osamu, Rintarou was pacing to the left of the enterance, slender eyes scanning for the formers familiar presence.

Once the two caught eye contact they quickly walked up to eachother.

"Where did you say your brother has been?" Rintarou question immediately.

"Stomach bug," Osamu replied sullenly, knowing where this conversation was headed.

"Ok and did he sleep on the couch or something?"

"Nope, he stayed in our room because the couch was 'too hot,'" he surrounded the last bit with air quotes.

"So do you think-"

"That I caught it?  Yes," Osamu knew enough about his body to know that the bubbling sensation in his stomach was a sign of some sort of ailment.

"So it's contagious," Rintarou confirmed.

"Mhm."

Rintarou groaned, burying his face in his hands.  The moment he woke up with nausea pummeling down on him, his subconsious knew what had happened.  But it took Osamu strengthening his theory to make him sure

"So... are you going to school today?  Maybe you should stay home, I could walk you and make sure you get there safe," Rintarou hid his own eagerness to skip school by masking it with Osamu's.

"Yea okay."

Smiling inwardly at this small victory, Rintarou began the familiar trek to the Miya house.  The walk was blessfully short, the cool morning air and light traffic cruising by singing a soft lullaby.  By the time the house came into view, the two were practically sleep walking.

"M' moms not home, she missed a lotta work last week," Osamu informed between yawns.

Rintarou nodded, a small part of him hoped that the eldest Miya would be present,  her presence was always comforting and her extense experience in the ways of parenthood allowed for her to always know exactly what to do next.

Honestly, Rintarou really needed her right now, he hated to admit it but she was the closest thing he had to a mother figure, and doesn't everyone want to be nurtured when they're sick?

"When's she coming back," he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

Osamu shrugged, slipping his key into the lock on the door and turning it.

"Dunno, she usually gets off at like 5 but she might stay longer to catch up."

Biting his inner cheek to suffocate his dissapointment, Rintarou followed Osamu into his house.

"I'll go make soup," Rintarou offered as Osamu dissapeared down the hall.

"Ugh no!  I've had soup for the past week, just make some sandwhiches or something."

That didn't sound like the best sick-day meal, but hey, it wasn't his house.

Rintarou knew his way around the Miya's kitchen as if it were his own, allowing him to effortlessly find the ingredients for a simple fruit sandwich.

With the two snacks on a plate, Rintarou walked down the hall to the twin's room where Osamu was huddled under the blankets on his bed, back to the door.

"I have food."

"Mneh."

"Yea ok."

Rintarou gently placed the food on a dresser before sitting next to Osamu on his bed.

"How you feeling?"

"Like shit," Osamu groaned, peeking his head out of the safety of his covers, "you?"

"Tired."

Osamu scooched over, pressing himself against the wall and patting the now empty space next to him, "then sleep."

Rintarou nodded thankfully before tucking himself under the blankets and curling into a ball on his side.  The bed was hot, or was that just him?  He didn't know anymore.  All he knew was that these blankets kept every degree of body heat trapped under its fibers, sticking it to the sweat beading on the both of their body's.

"Do you have shorts and a tank I could borrow?" Rintarou asked, tugging at the collar of his uniform.

"Mhm," Osamu lightly pushed Rintarou out of the bed before pulling himself up.

He rocked in place for a moment, eyes shut and jaw clenched and relaxing periodically.

"You good?"

Osamu held a finger up, waiting for the spell to pass.  It didn't pass.  He sat down quickly on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees holding his head in his hands.

"No no no, not now," Rintarou scanned to room for a bag or bucket or anything that would keep Osamu from making a mess.

The only thing he could find was Atsumu's old sport duffle.

Better than nothing.

Rintarou grabbed it, not even checking to see if it was empty before thrusting it onto Osamu's lap.

A smile flashed behind Osamu's eyes as he imagine how pissed his twin would be when he saw this.

His devious joy didn't last for long though as his barely digested breakfast came barreling up his throat.  Lips parting slightly, a light wave of disgustingly sour stomach contents splashed into Atsumu's property.

"He's gonna be," Osamu passed to stifle a burp, "pissed y'know."

Rintarou hummed, purposely staring in the opposite direction.

Before Osamu could ask of his friends wellbeing, vomit took the place of words and a thicker wave of cereal landed on top of the previous with a sickening splat.

Rintarou walked out of the room at this, his head spinning with intense nausea.  He took deep breaths, trying desperately to calm his stomach long enough for him to make it to the toilet without incident.  The smell of fruit lingering on his hands assaulted Rintarou's nose as he covered his mouth.  A quick gag tore its way out, pressing ruthlessly against his stomach as the boys legs threatened to collapse beneath him.

He tried so hard to make it.  The bathroom was right there, he could see the door knob, practically touch it.  So close to turning it and entering into the clean comfort of the cool tiled floor and porceline bowl.  He didn't make it.

Of course he didn't.

Rintarou's inner struggle forced it's way out to paint the restroom door a dark abstract splash.

"The fuck was that?" Osamu called after hearing the splash.

Rintarou groaned, wanting nothing more than to sink into the floor below him and allow dirt to hug every crevice of his body.  Maybe if he sat still enough that would happen.  Or maybe enough dust would accumilate to hide his existance from the rest of the world, just another speck of dirt on the floor.

That was unreasonable thinking.  There was no avoiding the cold hard fact about what had just happened.  Rintarou just repayed the years of hospitality from the Miya's by decorating their interior with whatever the hell he ate the last handful of hours.

A sob forced it's way out before he had a chance to stop it.

It was at this moment he realized he had outstayed his welcome.  Sinking to the floor and giving up on the idea of going to the bathroom, Rintarou curled into a ball- his mind a blur of fever and frantic thoughts.  The floor felt uncomfortably comfortable, maybe it was the knowledge that this may be the last time he would ever know the bliss of touching the floor of this house.  The last time he'll be allowed to make sandwhiches in the kitchen a short walk away.  The last time he'll be allowed to cuddle up with Osamu and stay up late watching videos without headphones, much to the chagrin of Atsumu.

More tears forced their way out, completely distracting Rintarou from the fact that he was sick at all.  The only thing he felt right now was remorse and pure sadness.  His chest heaved as breath refused to come normally.

A goldball edged with burning metal was lodged deep in his throat, attracting his stomach contents with a strong magnetic pull but refusing it to go all the way up.  He coughed desperatly, trying to rid of the horrendous feeling plaguing his upper body or at the very least dislodge the ball.  It worked, not in the way he had hoped for, but relief was provided nontheless as the cough brought up another wave of sick to splash down between his chest and knees.

The door pushed open at this moment.

"Hello?  Is anybody home?  The doors unlocked."

Rintarou's breath caught as the familiar feminine voice reached his cotton stuffed ears.  His body froze with icy terror, trying his best to stay completely still and camoflauge into the wall.

"Ma?" Osamu's voice yelled out, ""M here with Rin, I think we're sick."

Rintarou shook his head as Osamu outed him and delicate footsteps made their way closer.

"No no no no no," he whispered to himself, eyes squeezed shut as if to force himself awake.

"Oh dear," Osamu's mother commented as Rintarou's pityful sight came into view.

"'M sorry, I'll clean it, I tried to make it, I'll leave when it's clean, I can run down to the store for supplies," he began his semi rehereased spiel.

"Sweetheart, no," she made her way closer to him, eyebrows furrowed in concern as tears ebbed the edges of her eyes, "It's alright, it's not your fault you feel like this."

She rubbed his hair away from his forehead before using her soft thumb to wipe his tears away.

"Let's get you cleaned up, hm?" She gently scooped her arms under his shoulder before opening the bathroom door and lowering him onto the toilet seat. "I'll grab some clothes and water, feel free to use the paper towels to wipe yourself down.

Rintarou didn't respond, too ashamed to look her in the eyes even to thank her.  He knew he was only making the situation worse, the absolute least the mother deserved was a heartfelt thanks.

So he just sat there, frown etched deeply on his face and eyes glued to the floor as the Miya went to check on her biological son.

Osamu was much neater looking, his mess had all been contained within Atsumu's sporting bag.  Still, his face was a mess.  A deep flush decorated his sickly pale skin which was glistening with thin beads of sweat and tears of exertion.

"Oh, did ya catch what 'Tsumu had?" She asked, sitting next to him and rubbing between his shoulder blades.

He nodded with a pout, leaning onto his mother's forehead who was working on zipping up the bag and setting it on the floor.

"Do you feel a little better now?"

He nodded.

"Great, would you please help me with a couple things?  I hate to make you do stuff, but I just need to get Rintarou a new set of clothes and I would hate to rummage around your closet.

Osamu nodded once more, standing up to search for suitable clothes as his mother took the soiled bag outside.  Once it was properly disposed of (next to the door to be dealt with later) she grabbed a couple rags, some cleaning solution and a bucket.

When she arrived to the bathroom, Osamu was already there with the clothes, trying to hand them to a refusing Rintarou.

"C'mon it;'s okay, please wear them."

Rintarou refused, fresh tears streaming down his face as his lips frowned deeply.

"I don't," he sniffed, struggling to speak between rapid breaths, "I don't deserve them."

"Don't be silly!" The eldest assured, quickly standing in front of Rintarou- forcing him to look into her caring, concerned eyes, "Please put them on, as long as you're under this roof- you're a Miya and you get the Miya-family-treatment whether you like it or not!"

Rintarou clenched his jaw, appreciation and love flooding through him in a way which only these people had ever been able to make him feel.  He had longed for this all of his childhood, the caring presence of an adult who wanted nothing but the best for you.  Who didn't care about how much of a mess you made, how rude you had been.  Someone who looked past all his faults and cared- truly cared- for the person beneath it all.

"Thank you," Rintarou finally whispered, a sad happiness taking over his expression as he collected the change of clothes, "Thank you so much."

The mother hugged him close, not caring about whatever may stain her shirt at this point.

"Anytime."

[celosiaa]

avoidance

From a wonderful prompt I received! “A cold going around the season 1 archival staff and them just actively avoiding Jon because they don't want him to get sick because they know it'll be worst for him with his asthma. What they don't know is Jon's already caught it and is getting the wrong idea and just thinks he's being avoided because they don't want to catch it from him.”

Hope you enjoy this short little sickfic! Featuring hard of hearing Tim, especially for @haunted-by-catholic-guilt :)

“Oh, there he comes, Sash.”

“How does he look?” she replies, being sure to speak louder while Tim has his face turned away.

“Can’t tell yet.”

Tim cranes his neck and squints to better catch a glimpse of Martin, who walks toward their office from the lift, bundled up against the unseasonably cold weather in a knit scarf and hat.

“God, I need to get new prescriptions,” he says, rubbing his eyes against the blurriness.  “He’s got a hat and scarf on, though.”

“Ooh, things are looking promising!”

Turning back to her, jaw hanging open in mock-indigence, Tim places a shocked hand against his chest.

“Miss James, I’m horrified!  You would wish illness on our poor poet, Martin Blackwood, Esquire?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” she says, sniffling a bit as she punches lightly at his arm.

“Morning, everyone,” Martin croaks as he steps in—though it must sound rather congested, judging by Sasha’s satisfied smirk, and she holds out her outstretched palm to him.

“Morning, Martin,��� Tim replies at once, not willing to hand over his fiver just yet.  “How are you today?  Just peachy, I’ll bet?”

Throwing him a glare from where he’s sat down at his desk, Martin’s face suddenly goes hazy, his eyes unfocused as he pulls his scarf quickly over his nose—before sneezing thrice, harsh and miserable, breaking off into painful coughs to finish.

“Aw, Martin, I’m sorry,” Sasha coos in sympathy, patting his back with one hand while reaching out to accept Tim’s begrudging fiver with the other.

“Don’t you apologize, Sasha,” Martin croaks after he recovers himself, rubbing a tissue against his dreadfully pink nose.  “We all know this is Tim’s fault.”

“Excuse me???” Tim bursts, throwing his arms wide in a gesture of disbelief.

“Shut it, you know it’s true,” Sasha concurs, unwrapping a spare tissue box to donate to Martin’s desk.  “You’re the one who fraternized with Research, knowing they’ve had this bug going around for weeks.”

“Why are you both attacking me?” Tim shouts, breaking off to cough for a moment, his own illness not yet entirely abated.  “This is homophobic.”

“Not if we’re all queer, you arse!”

He returns to clutching at his chest, taking a dramatic inhale.

“Martin, she’s slinging me with the cruelest of insults!  Are you really going to sit there and do nothing?”

“Basically, yeah,” Martin replies, voice whittled down to a hoarse whisper—he makes sure to speak slowly, such that Tim can read his lips.  “Because she’s right, and you deserve it.”

“I’ll have you know, sir—“

Tim’s scolding is interrupted by the opening of the heavy door to document storage, from which Jon emerges—looking unkempt as ever, carrying a stack of files tucked beneath his left arm.  Nodding briefly at them in greeting, he hastens across the room to his office, and Tim just barely manages a glimpse of him pulling his inhaler out of his pocket before the door shuts. 

“Is he coughing?” Tim asks, turning to gauge their reactions.

“Yeah.  God, he sounds absolutely horrendous,” Martin croaks, wincing at the dreadful wheezing coughs, ineffectively muffled behind the door.

“It’s his own fault,” Tim mutters, earning him looks from both Martin and Sasha.  “What?  He could ask one of us to root through the dusty shelves for him,  you know, like a normal boss.  But he won’t, because he’s too damn stubborn.”

Knowing he’s at least a little bit right, Sasha and Martin say nothing, only continuing to listen with concern as Jon pulls twice from his inhaler, before finally seeming to get his breath back.

“We should all try to keep our distance from him,” Martin says at last, giving them both a significant look.  “I don’t want him to get this—not when he’s coughing like that.  Don’t want to put him at risk.”

Grin dropping from his face, Tim nods solemnly back at Martin, and Sasha follows suit.

“You’re right, mate.  We’ll do our best.”

“Yeah, it’s a deal, Martin.”

“Thanks,” Martin replies, flashing them a sunny, if not stuffed-up, smile.  “Right then, anything specific to work on today?”

—

For what feels like the hundredth time that day, Jon slams the pause button on the tape recorder, snatching up a tissue as fast as he can—near-silently stifling two into it.  It makes his head pound every time, tears at his already-battered throat, but he’d rather not spread whatever miserable illness he’s managed to catch all around the office.

Though it seems that they’d all been avoiding him well enough as it is.

He’s not a fool—he knows he’s got a fever, knows that he’s contagious and really ought to be avoided—but when Martin had neglected to bring him his afternoon tea that day, well…he was more than happy to blame the lump in his throat on the fever.  For all he tells himself that it doesn’t matter, that he ought to take care of himself, it does nothing to settle the ache in his chest.  The one that his inhaler can no longer take the edge off.

Sighing in frustration, Jon does his best to turn his focus back to his work—rising unsteadily to his feet to search for the next file.

What was the number again?

God, I’m dizzy.

He stretches out a hand to brace himself against the filing cabinet, blinking away the stars sparkling across his vision as he adjusts to standing.

Right.  01319…0…8?  9?

Wait, did I—did I finish the last statement?

He muffles a cough into his elbow, bracing even heavier on the cabinet.

Doesn’t matter, I’ll just get this one anyway.

Won’t need to get up again, at least.

“Looking for something, boss?”

Tim calls from his office door, which he’s propped open—perhaps in the subconscious effort to tempt Martin into bringing him tea. 

Pathetic.

“Jon?  You alright?”

“Oh—err, of course,” he says at once, lifting his head toward him.  “Can I help you?”

“I was the one asking,” Tim chuckles, stepping forward into his office—before immediately retreating again.

Oh.

“Sorry, I would help you, it’s just—you know, with this cold going around, better not.”

“R-right.”

Jon buries his hurt as quickly as possible, refusing to let it show on his face.

“Right, of course.  Then, err, just—carry on then, I suppose, Tim.”

Turning back to the cabinets, Jon tries to leave the conversation there, feeling his chest beginning to tighten with every passing moment.  He doesn’t want to get Tim ill, not when they’re all so clearly worried about catching it—

“Jon?  You’re—you look shaky, are you alright?”

Don’t cough don’t cough don’t cough

“Fine,” he croaks, even as he brings a hand up to press against his fluttering chest.

“What was that?” Tim asks, stepping just a bit closer, tilting his head to better read Jon’s lips.

Don’t don’t don’t

He can’t hold it back anymore.

At once, Jon doubles over with coughing, shallow wheezing accented by the rumbling of congestion deep within his lungs—all of it nearly sending him to the ground with the force of it.

“Jesus, Jon—just sit down, alright?  Christ,” Tim urges, at last entering the room to grab him by the shoulders, lowering him to sitting with his back against the filing cabinet.

Every thought of hiding or sparing Tim from contagion flies from his head, replaced only with the gasping need for air, his body screaming at him to breathe—

“What’s going on?” Martin asks from the door, scanning across the scene quickly, alarm rising at once.

“Get his inhaler,” Tim orders, tipping Jon’s head forward between his knees.

“Oh god.  Right—right, h-here, I’ve got it—Jon?”

He taps gently on Jon’s upper arm as he crouches.

“I’ve got it here, can you look up?”

It takes every shred of focus he has left to his power, but he does—reaching out to cover Martin’s hands with his own as he guides the inhaler to his lips, pressing down on the button and drawing as deeply as he can from it.

“Good, good, that’s—that’s good, Jon,” Martin stammers, still holding the inhaler within his reach.

“Take another,” Tim demands, voice leaving no room for argument.  “When you can.”

After a few more labored breaths, Jon complies—chest expanding a little more now, though he can still feel the crackling wetness at the edges of it.

“Here, Jon, I’ve got you some water,” Sasha says as she enters the room, undoubtedly having heard the commotion from outside.  “You alright?”

“Shouldn’t be here,” Jon rasps, seeing Martin’s hands in his periphery, reaching up to sign for Tim’s understanding.

“I know—we didn’t want to get you ill, Jon, but—“ Tim cuts off momentarily, running a hand through his hair in frustration.  “I mean, it sort of seemed like you needed help, right?”

Wait.

“You didn’t…you didn’t want…to get me ill?” Jon asks through panting breaths, finally feeling steady enough to lift his head.

“Well, no, we—“ Martin suddenly breaks off, scooting a little ways back from Jon as he realizes their proximity.  “Of course we didn’t want you to get ill, your asthma’s been so terrible the past few days.”

Jon shakes his head in confusion, brows furrowing as he glances between the three of them.

“I...I don’t—“

Oh.

Oh.

“You didn’t…know I was ill?” he asks, and Tim’s eyebrows shoot into his hair, turning back to share a glance with both Sasha and Martin.

“Oh no, Jon, I’m so sorry,” Martin laments at last, sniffling a bit into his sleeve.  “We didn’t—we thought that, well…we thought we were protecting you from getting it.”

The relief Jon feels at this is astonishing—certainly inordinate for the situation, but…he finds he does not care much altogether.  Even if just a bit, the knot in his chest seems to loosen—his breathing made easier just for a moment.

“Woah—you alright?” Tim asks with renewed concern, the cause uncertain to him, before—

He feels a tear beginning to slip down his face.

“Oh,” he says, hurriedly scrubbing it away.  “Oh, I—I’m sorry, I—I-I’m fine, it’s alright, I don’t know why—“

“It’s alright, Jon,” Sasha says from above him, leaning down to press a warm hand on his shoulder.  “Look, if you feel like you can stand, I’ll drive you home, okay?  You need to rest.  I’m serious.”

The look she gives him now, that they all give him—it’s nearly enough to bring a smile to his face, his mouth barely quirking up at one corner. 

“Y-yes, I—thank you, Sasha,” he says, allowing Tim and Martin to lift him slowly to his feet, leaning against them momentarily as he sways just a bit.

“You’re calling your doctor on the way,” Sasha continues, leading them out of his office and toward the lift.  “I’m not leaving you alone until you do.”

“R-right,” he pants against the exertion of their slow-paced walking.  “I—thank you.  I suppose.”

“Don’t mention it Jon,” Martin says softly as they bundle him into the lift.  “Just get well, okay?”

Something warm and lovely floods through Jon’s chest at this, and he cannot help but nod—a half-smile flickering across his face as the lift doors close.

[notapaladin]

a king he was on carven throne (2/3)

The Emperor Ahuitzotl takes the throne. And Acatl.

...yeah this is pure smut.

Also on AO3!

-

The Revered Speaker’s chambers are very bright and very warm. It’s still the rainy season, after all, and the moonlight sparkles off the remains of the earlier downpour. In daylight the windows open onto a beautiful garden, blooming in a riot of color, but now the only evidence of their existence is a change in the texture of shadows and the reflection of glittering droplets of water like stars fallen to earth. (Stars that will never fall again.) The flickering torches—and there are many—spill their golden light through the windows, but they’re intended solely to illuminate the room.

And they do that admirably. The walls and columns have all been repainted since Tizoc’s death; the scenes of bloodstained captives and equally bloodstained gods he favored have given way to the rich blues and greens of the lake. Flowers march up the columns, bright flashes of orange and red, but everything else has turned...cool. Soothing. A perfect place for the Revered Speaker to rest his head. Chalchiuhtlicue holds pride of place in the middle of a wall-trimming frieze of ahuitzotls playing among the reeds. Acatl can’t see it, but he knows that somewhere there is a very small depiction of Lord Death tucked safely in a corner, and it makes his heart warm.

Tizoc’s bedding has been burned. There was a risk of contagion, Teomitl said, but Acatl thinks he just doesn’t want to sleep where his predecessor slept (where Acatl killed him). He can’t blame him. Instead there are freshly-tanned jaguar and ocelot pelts spread across intricately woven mats, with a few fine blankets folded neatly to the side in case the night turns chill; that’s impossible in the depths of summer, but then, the Revered Speaker shall want for no material comfort.

Acatl’s gaze sweeps his surroundings and dismisses them as unimportant. All his focus is on the man sitting on the bed. The Revered Speaker Ahuitzotl—his Teomitl, gods—is still dressed in all the finery of his coronation and the grand feast that followed it, and if possible he’s even more breathtaking than he was in daylight. His turquoise cape pools in rich folds on the mat, firelight making the feathers and thread of its intricate pattern shine like jewels. There are actual jewels sewn into the hem, coral alternating with mirrorlike squares of gold. More gold gleams on his fingers, his wrists, his ankles, and his usual small lip plug has been swapped for a much longer one of jade. The slender emerald rod piercing his septum is new; he’d flatly refused to wear the one Tizoc had died with.

And almost all of it is being stripped, slow and unconcerned. Or almost unconcerned; every so often he shoots a sly little glance Acatl’s way, checking to see if he’s still watching. As if Acatl could possibly tear his eyes away. Off come the rings, the arm bands, the cape. Out comes the lip plug, with a muttered curse. The emerald rod stays; the High Priest of Patecatl said healing spells over it, but it’s still only two days old. With a private, wicked smirk, the embroidered crimson loincloth falls as well.

He’s still wearing the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown. Acatl loves him so much it hurts.

But Teomitl hasn’t said he can approach yet; he’s still testing the limits of his new power, and he’d ordered Acatl to stay. He’s obeyed patiently, standing barefoot on stone tiles, and he’s shed only his cloak and rings. All the rest—the jade and silver beads in his hair, the silver bracelets and anklets—are staying on. Teomitl had said he looks beautiful in them. Acatl thinks he doesn’t spend enough time looking in a mirror. “My lord,” he breathes, when he can’t take it anymore.

Teomitl looks up, and his smile is like a rising sun. “Acatl. You’re too far away. Come here.”

He inhales. Licks his lips. Finally. “As you wish.”

He lowers himself to the dais slowly. Teomitl doesn’t help; he’s gazing at Acatl as though he’s some rare and precious treasure. Acatl doesn’t know how he can, not when he himself is a jaguar in human shape, all lazy languorous power. Even his presence is intoxicating. Acatl kneels over him, drunk on his proximity, but keeps his hands on the mat underneath them. For now.

Teomitl reaches for him first, a hand skimming Acatl’s jaw to pull him in. “Kiss me,” he murmurs.

His gaze drops to that lovely full mouth, but the emerald in Teomitl’s nose gives him pause. If nothing else, it’s a minor logistical problem. “...Are you sure?”

Teomitl wrinkles his nose automatically, and then winces. “It doesn’t hurt.” At Acatl’s unimpressed stare, he adds, “That much.”

He exhales. You never will accept your own limits, will you? But it makes him feel impossibly fond, even so. “Well, then.”

Their mouths meet. Slow at first; Teomitl may be eager, but he’s still sore, and Acatl is being as careful as he can. But then Teomitl’s hand slides up into Acatl’s loose hair and he moans out loud, and that breaks the spell. The hand in his hair tightens, all but yanking him in, and he goes willingly. The slide of their bodies together as he presses Teomitl—his Emperor!—down onto the mat is the sweetest torture he’s ever felt, hot and solid and perfect, and he spares a thought to regret that he’s still wearing a loincloth.

When Teomitl breaks the kiss, his clever, callused fingers immediately begin rectifying that dreadful oversight. He doesn’t even look at what he’s doing; his gaze is entirely fixed on Acatl’s face, as though he can’t get enough of looking at him. It’s nearly too much to bear, and Acatl feels himself blush. He can’t meet his eyes. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t. I’m just a man. But Teomitl keeps staring, and so finally he asks, “What?”

He doesn’t need to look at Teomitl to know he’s beaming. “Gods, Acatl, you...” There’s so much fondness in that voice—so much love—that his heart skips a beat. But then he’s properly naked, and he has more important things to think about; he rocks his hips, shuddering in pleasure at the friction of their half-hard cocks against each other, and Teomitl closes his eyes as he breathes, “You gave me a crown.”

Acatl shivers, and not just at the stimulation. “No. You earned your crown. I only made sure you could claim it.”

Teomitl kisses him again. This time it’s hard and rough and messy, and either Acatl rolls or he lunges but somehow they wind up with their positions reversed, Acatl flat on his back with jaguar fur tickling his ear and a carelessly discarded fortune in gold getting lightly caught in his hair. It barely registers next to the way Teomitl is touching him, hands skimming down over his hips and in to wrap around his cock. He’s achingly hard in an instant, shuddering at each teasing stroke.

“Mmm.” Teomitl’s grin shows sharp teeth as he settles between Acatl’s spread legs; his crown is askew, and it’s somehow the most erotic thing Acatl’s ever seen. “What say we celebrate my ascension properly?”

He sucks in a hard breath. Gods, yes. “Yes,” he whispers, and then Teomitl is reaching for the oil and he takes the moment of clarity due to those glorious hands not actually being on his body to ask, “How do you want me?”

Oil gleams on Teomitl’s fingers, golden as his crown. His smile is positively feral. “Like this.”

Acatl doesn’t try to bite back the noises that escape him when Teomitl’s fingers slide into him. They’ve been discreet since the beginning. Indeed, he’s spent so long being quiet that letting his voice out now sends his heart tripping a stuttery little cascade of embarrassment. But Teomitl is the Revered Speaker, and if he wants what he’s always saying he does—to hear Acatl scream—then Acatl has to obey. He can’t do anything else, not with the way Teomitl is working him open so damn slowly. “Ahh—nnh, please...” He rocks his hips, trying to urge him on, and finally gasps—pleads—“Faster.”

“No,” Teomitl whispers. “For once we have all night long, and I’m going to take advantage of it.”

“Teomitl!” he snaps, but then Teomitl’s fingers curl and lightning flashes through his veins and he bucks hard, grabbing up fistfuls of jaguar fur underneath him to have something to hang onto. “Oh—oh, my lord, please.”

But Teomitl doesn’t vary the movement of his hand at all. No, he just keeps working him, slow and careful and so deliciously slick, letting the heat and the hunger build in Acatl’s core until he’s letting out breathless little cries with each slide inwards. He’s past begging by now—you need words for that—but he doesn’t have to. Teomitl’s not that cruel, or that patient. He looks downright smug at the sight of Acatl’s legs falling open a little wider, and gives his hip an encouraging squeeze with his free hand. “Mmm. That’s it.”

Then Teomitl’s replacing his fingers with his cock and oh, maybe he hadn’t gone slow enough, but that’s alright. That’s more than alright. At a time like this, Acatl welcomes the stretch and the burn of being filled. Of being claimed. His eyelids flutter as he takes Teomitl deeper, arching his back—yes, there it is, the angle that sends sparks down his spine. “Gods,” he pants, and then, “My Emperor.”

“Yes,” Teomitl growls. Then he draws back—but before Acatl can do more than open his mouth, he thrusts back in, rough and hard enough to punch a cry out of him. “Yours.”

He sets a fast pace after that, and it’s all Acatl can do to hang on. His legs wrap around Teomitl’s waist, hiking his hips up at an angle that he knows his back won’t like in the morning, but right now he absolutely doesn’t care. It’s more important to cling to him, his nails marking half-moons in Teomitl’s back and his face buried in his shoulder. He mouths hard at Teomitl’s skin, not quite bites but certainly hard enough to bruise. He hopes that they do bruise, that his Emperor can carry the marks for a week.

He doesn’t have the focus for anything else. He doesn’t have the mind for anything else. Teomitl is driving that right out of him, and the only word he can find is a heartfelt, “Fuck.” Another thrust. Another. “Fuck.” And then, half choked out of him because Teomitl’s not so much as slowing down, pounding into him like he means to leave a permanent imprint of their bodies in the mats, “Gods—more.”

Teomitl grins, wild and bright. “More? Like this?” His hips snap forward, jarring a cry out of Acatl’s throat, and then he reaches down between their bodies and wraps a firm hand around Acatl’s cock. Acatl writhes, thrusting into his pumping fist, and Teomitl squeezes.

It’s too much. He comes with a near-scream, clawing down Teomitl’s back, and his lover snarls in his ear as he follows him over the edge.

Finally Teomitl pulls out with a shudder, eyes squeezing shut. He has to take a few deep breaths before he wrenches them open again. When he shakes his head, his crown finally falls off. “Duality preserve me. That was...”

“A wonderful beginning to your reign,” Acatl murmurs as Teomitl draws away. He’s not sure his legs will obey him yet, but luckily he doesn’t have to test that idea; Teomitl is cleaning them up gently, and all he has to do is shift positions as he’s directed. His eyes slide shut. There’s sweat drying on his skin, leaving him chilled—that’s why there are blankets laid out, he suspects—but Teomitl’s hands are so warm.

His lover will be a wonderful Revered Speaker. Huitzilopochtli’s magic flowed down over him like a cloak as soon as the Turquoise-and-Gold crown was placed on his head; Acatl, standing in the crowd below, had had to shield his eyes. He’d actually felt the boundaries settle into place, shivering as they solidified into something as solid as the walls of the Sacred Precinct or the painted ceiling above his head. For the first time in years, he’d drawn a deep breath. Yes, he’d thought, and now he thinks Yes again. He knows deep in his bones that not even the scandal of half a dozen foreign rulers failing to attend (gods, another sin to lay at Tizoc’s feet) will dent Teomitl’s might for long; already, there are plans to rededicate the Great Temple as it should be, with a river of blood flowing down the steps. He will erase Tizoc’s name as the sun burns away morning mist, and spread the Empire from one end of the world to the other. His army will march under the shade of the Southern Hummingbird’s wings, and He will laugh to see the carnage they bring.

And yet, for all that—oh, Acatl knows the shape of the soft caresses petting over the insides of his thighs, and it makes him smile. His Emperor will be magnificent, but underneath all the gold and turquoise will be the heart of a man who loves him. A man he’ll be proud to serve.

They’re both clean now; Teomitl has snuffed the torches, and it’s cooler still when the room’s lit only by moonlight, but he doesn’t have the time to feel cold. Not when Teomitl (his Emperor, his Emperor) stretches out on the mat by his side, the heat of his body like a furnace, and starts running his fingers through his hair. As he gently picks out some of the heavier jewels braided into it, Acatl yawns. He’s tired after their exertions, and the feeling is intensely soothing. Maybe there’s something to displaying his lover’s presents after all. “Mmm...”

He’s half asleep when Teomitl whispers, “Stay?”

It strikes him to the core—that Teomitl would ask, that Teomitl would think he has to ask. Oh, my love, he thinks, and out loud he says again, “Yes.”

When the sun rises, they greet it together.

[sonoundiocreaturaottusa]

Covid-19 Pandemic, a first hand explanation

I want to write this post for a very specific reason: people are underestimating the situation, and due to the nature of this virus, the consequences may be terrible.

I want to start by saying that I was one of the people underestimating the situation. I thought it was only a flu, something that wouldn’t have changed my life at all since luckily I’m an averagely healthy young person, so not a category at risk. Something that was just a distant threat, something to laugh about with friends, mocking those who were scared.

Well, now that I’m in quarantine I’ve had time to get informed, and I can tell you how big my mistake was. I can tell you first hand what are the mistakes in considering this just as another seasonal diseases that we think we can brush off.

The biggest issue with Covid-19 is the fact that it has a low death rate, and this leads us to underestimate it. This is true, but it’s true so long as people are able to access to hospitals and to get cured. The moment hospitals get overcrowded, that’s when the death rate gets higher.

To be clearer I will bring you the numbers I know, the ones from Italy, a State that is currently on a total lockdown, with police in the streets using speakers to tell people to stay inside their houses like in a Romero movie.

Italian Population: 60.359.546 people

4629 intensive care units, sufficient for the 0,006% of the population

Now, people who think the situation is being treated in an over dramatic way say that 3 out of 5 people who will get infected will be asymptomatic, ad thus won’t require treatment, but medical sources talk about a likely contagion of the 70% of the entire population. This means that:

42.251.682 people may get infected

16.900.672 would show symptoms, and possibly require medical assistance

4629 ICU available

It may be objected that these numbers include also young people, who are less likely to require to be hospitalised in ICU. I see the point, so let’s do the maths using only the category at risk, and using very optimistic proxies:

18.107.863 people over 60, a 30% of the Italian population

let’s assume only the 20% (an unlikely and really optimistic percentage) of them gets infected: 3.621.572 people at risk are infected

4629 ICU available

1 every 782 patients has the chance to get into ICU, assuming that all previous patients have been sent home, and that no other emergencies (e.g car crashes, heart attacks, brain emorragies, ...) occur

Now the numbers start to get a bit more shocking, because remember than in all of this we are only considering people who are considered highly at risk, and completely disregarding that also people below 60 get sick and may require ICU, for the sake of simplicity.

But now we should also see what the death rate is, and try to apply it to the numbers we have here:

8 - 45% death rate for people over 60

289.725 - 1.629.707 people die

All of this, only considering people over 60.

Now, what is the point? The point is that we must do all it takes in order to contain the spreading of this disease. The major problem we face is the collapse of the sanitary system because hospitals can’t handle anymore the number of patients requiring cares. 

The numbers I’ve brought you here are voluntarily computed assuming that all people will get sick simultaneously, because they show what will happen if we don’t do our best to try and keep the number of cases at bay; Covid-19 has a R factor of around 2,5 which means that every sick person, other 3 may get sick as well.

If we don’t do anything on that front, hospitals won’t be able to take care of all of those people who may require cares, and the death rate will get much higher.

And not only people with Covid-19 will be left to die due to finite number of beds available in hospitals; in some zones of Italy, they’re already adopting the same procedures used during wars or catastrophes: the less likely to survive is left to die, and precedence is given to the one with the most chances to be saved.

To be clearer: let’s say a 25 yo person gets infected and require ICU (it happens, just yesterday a 23 yo required such procedures), and one of their parents is involved in a car crash and requires ICU as well, but there’s only one bed available: the 25 yo is in, the parent is left in the corridor.

Same can be said for all people with other diseases, terminal patients, people whose immune system isn’t working properly.

This is why it’s so important to #stayhome : this disease can be fought - at least until we will have medicines and vaccines - by staying inside, limiting contacts with other people, and most of all by not underestimating it.

So stop saying that people are being over dramatic, that they are treating a common flu as if it were the plague. Of course this isn’t the plague of 1300, but this does not mean that we can brush it off and keep on living as if nothing were happening.

What is most dangerous isn’t the disease itself, but how things may easily spiral out of control if we decide to treat a disease our bodies aren’t used to as a common flu, ignoring what OMS is saying only because we assume to know better

[feelingbluepolitics]

"The virus has spread to more than two dozen countries since it originated in China, despite the government’s crackdown in an attempt to stop the contagion. There are 53 confirmed cases in the United States out of more than 80,000 around the globe, according to the World Health Organization, but Harvard epidemiology professor Marc Lipsitch told The Atlantic the real number is likely closer to 100 to 200 people. Only about a dozen states have the tests necessary to check patients for the virus because the Centers for Disease Control sent out faulty testing equipment and many people who are infected may show no symptoms even as they spread the virus.

"Lipsitch estimates that 40% to 70% of the world population will become infected with the virus, though he stressed that many of those will not become seriously ill. The virus appears to have a fatality rate of around 2%, according to the report, which is much higher than the flu but considerably lower than past outbreaks, like the avian flu, SARS (severe acute respiratory syndrome) and MERS (Middle East respiratory syndrome). Some people may be completely asymptomatic, though people with weakened immune systems and the elderly are particularly at risk of death. More than 2,600 people have died from the virus.

..."CDC Director Nancy Messonnier deflated any sense of optimism during a news conference on Tuesday, saying that 'community spread' in the U.S. was inevitable and that two of the three conditions defining a pandemic have already been met. 'It’s not so much a question of if this will happen anymore,' she said, 'but rather more a question of exactly when this will happen and how many people in this country will have severe illness.'

"Messonnier urged parents to prepare for a potential nationwide spread: 'You should ask your children’s schools about their plans for school dismissals or school closures. Ask about plans for teleschool.'"

trump has gutted budget and personnel to manage widespread illness, and is still lying about the situation, pretending it will all go away. He is worried that it will make him look bad, because that's the type of "leader" he is.

[joniblue]

quarantine days

asleep next to me in bed is the whole world, a pair of lungs  I can’t live without. I stroke his hair and count the space between breaths. for now, we are safe inside.

we share a biome, a germ pool, every risk he takes, I share, to expose myself to contagion is to expose him, as well. to go to the grocery store is to enter a war zone: gloves. mask. no speaking, no breathing, until we are outside, gasping the spring air like it’s in limited supply, clutching each other behind closed doors like there’s only so much time left to us, when there’s also all the time in the world left to us.

we biked to the cemetery to look at the graves. we step into the road to keep clear of the sidewalk. I hold him in the morning while the sirens wail. it never ends anymore.

the spring trees are blooming, despite everything. we wash the dishes and wash the clothes. we boil pasta, sit with each other, eat it.

every day, a new kind of breath.

[feelception]

My take on 2020

             January came, and with it, the year 2020, that will haunt humanity for many years to come. This brand-new year was merely three days old when news of a possible World War reached our screens. Accounts of an American strike in Iraq that ended with the termination of Commander Qassim Suleimani of the Iranian Forces and a possible retribution by the affected part terrified the globe and filled the media for days, and the threats made by both governments escalated quickly in severity and energy. One of the many results of this event was a stampede that occurred during the commander’s funeral, which caused the loss of at least 56 lives. At almost the exact same time, the world also watched in apprehension as the Australian wildfires began spreading across the land. The merciless fire’s path of mayhem and destruction left no soul untouched, and we were forced to watch as such natural beauty remained destroyed, solely by the folly and irresponsibility of men. Meanwhile, North Korea did not remain indifferent, and began to imply that they possessed very dangerous weapons that could hypothetically obliterate their rival nations.

             Beneath all those seemingly grandiose political protagonists of the year, a new threat waited in the shadows, lingering until its time finally came. On December 31st, 2019, a cluster of pneumonia was detected in the otherwise unknown province of Wuhan, in the distant land of China. By January 5th, 2020, the World Health Organization had already issued a statement about this strange outbreak but reported no deaths and merely advised the general public about the risks of a possible contagion, reporting on the efforts being done to subdue this strange event. On the 10th, a more extensive statement was made by the WHO, detailing how this outbreak was to be dealt with based on the little information they had at the time. As our calendars marked 11th of January, a 61-year-old man sadly passed away from wat was thought to be a pneumonia in the central Chinese city of Wuhan in an outbreak of an unidentified virus, while seven others remained in critical condition. The genetic sequence of the virus we all came to know as COVID-19 was released soon after, on January 12th, 2020 and, as swiftly as that, this new enemy gained a face and a name. Right the next day, the first case of this new pathogen was diagnosed outside of China. The person in question was a traveler from Wuhan and was identified and hospitalized on the 8th.

             One month. That is all it takes for this fragile world to change. It is a strange feeling as a write about these events. The facts are all here, yet I cannot convey the emotions I felt at the moment. As a young lady, who had just vanquished a disease, I allowed myself to be confident and hopeful. However, this new year and its strange beginning enveloped the days that led from winter to spring in a thin mist. Something that is always right in the corner of your eye, and when you turn your head, it has already vanished.

             Humans are so resilient. They adapt in order to live and dare not look back at what they left behind in this readjustment of their conditions. Like horses in a battlefield, they use their blinkers to turn away from the horrors of the raging war around them and look straight ahead to their destination. That was our first mistake. If only humanity had known what the consequences of their negligence would be, and how different the world would have been if they had only listened.

             Spain went into quarantine on March 11th and was initially supposed to stay that way for 15 days. That day, we learned a new concept: state of alarm, which means that the Government can create and enforce rules at their discretion. We were, therefore, confined to our homes and not allowed to leave unless we had a good reason (shopping for groceries and medication or going to a hospital). What fools we were to believe such words! This state of alarm would eventually last until June the 21st.

             During these one hundred and one days, the Earth stood still. No sound came from the streets and nature began to reclaim what was hers, since there was no man or woman to threaten them anymore. In the meantime, we watched in horror from our homes as this monster, COVID-19, spread throughout the planet, leaving nothing but destruction and pain in its path.

             There are feelings that words simply cannot describe, and a despair too terrible to even attempt to comprehend. Loss, grief, sorrow, fear… The tears that were shed this year would flood this Earth. The impossible had happened, and no one but God had any comfort to offer to those who buried their loved ones without so much as a chance to say goodbye.

            How does one say goodbye? Does one ever bid farewell to a loved one? Especially in this situation, those who perished leave an open would in our hearts that will never fully heal. You hug them tightly and say, “I love you”, and the next thing you know, they are not there anymore. You cannot hug them anymore. They cannot feel your tender love anymore.

            What can I say about those who had to work long hours at the many hospitals? They witnessed the death and suffering firsthand. My heart goes out to those who had to work long hours only to have their patient pass away the next night. To those who had to say “there’s nothing we can do to help” to anguished family members and to aching patients. To those who had to handle the bodies, still warm, in dull plastic bags. What would I give to erase this pain from the world! No one deserves to go through what these brave men and women did.