the year is 1691 and you’re dying of the plague. there’s a gentle knock at the door and a hooked mask peers at you, concern and love in their eyes. it’s the plague doctor. they caress your sweaty brow as you cough feebly, swaying in their strong hold. “i don’t wanna die a virgin,” you murmur. the doctor understands. they remove your clothes, admiring your swollen lymph nodes in your groin, and begin to press against your cold, naked body, wracked with chills. you can taste death as you suck their toes, and you wish you could live in this moment forever, with your androgynous bird lover. alas, you die that evening, no longer a virgin.