#ethereous writes

[ethereousdelirious]

Sicktember 2024 Day 3 - Con Crud

HEE HEE this is my favorite fill I think.

Malva gets stuck babysitting Siebold when he comes down sick on the last day of a summer camp

I meant to interpret "con" as "conference," and that sort of morphed into "giving speeches to kids at a nerdy summer camp for high-achievers."

Anyway.

Six days.

Six days of snot-nosed kids (no, literally) and Siebold's smarmy smiles, six days of getting sneezed on and drooled on and stared at. Six days of chain-smoking behind the latrines so she didn't snap at the next little delinquent who open-mouth coughed on her leg, and now the plague has reached her door.

Malva took a drag of her cigarette and blew the smoke in Siebold's face. “Don't stand so close to me.”

Siebold coughed and sputtered, his face going red, red, red. But he backed off, dabbing at his eyes with an honest-to-god handkerchief.

“I don't need your germs all over me,” Malva added, and took another drag. Silver-gray smoke curled in the air, warping her view of the placid waters sparkling outside the Kalos League castle.

Siebold pressed his fingertips to his chest, perfect nail beds on full display. “Germs?”

“I can hear you mouth-breathing from here.” Malva turned to him, the better to let him see her roll her eyes. “I'll venture a guess: you woke up with a sore throat and a stuffy nose, but you thought it was just your allergies acting up. So you took a pill, and you're just now starting to think ‘my, that’s strange, why do I still feel like Toxic Sludge?’”

Siebold blinked, jaw falling open in picture-perfect surprise. “Well—”

“Ask me how I know.”

He eyed her warily, tugging at his jabot. “How do you know?”

“Because—” she stubbed her cigarette out on the castle wall and tossed the butt in a nearby ashtray— “about a hundred sniveling little children have told me the exact same story over the course of this week.”

Siebold was quiet for a moment, looking her over like he was worried she might burst into flames. “I do have allergies.”

Malva pulled out her lighter and flicked it, and the little orange flame danced in Siebold's eyes. “And be assured, I wish you the best of health.”

—

Siebold fell asleep in the car. Malva stared at him, slack-jawed and snoring and no less handsome for it. Siebold embodied the kind of bland, blond beauty that smiled benignly out at the world in eternal passivity. He was safe. He was boring. And he was definitely sick.

His body was stiff in the backseat, legs splayed and knees bent awkwardly to accommodate the divider separating them from the driver. His pure white smock wrinkled against the cold black leather seat.

Clean, all of it.

Malva leaned over to better study her own reflection in the tinted divider. A beauty on the edge— audacious beauty teetering on the verge of ugliness. That was the only beauty worth pursuing.

Siebold awoke with a gasp and leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. “Oh.”

Malva smirked, though he couldn't see it. “Welcome back.”

“Malva.” Siebold sniffled and shifted his hands so he could speak without uncovering his eyes. “I'm afraid you were right.”

Of course she was. And now she'd have to deal with his whining for the rest of the trip— for the rest of the day. She settled back, leaning away from Siebold as much as she could lest he grab onto her hands in a fit of passion. “Well, it's only closing ceremonies. You can handle a little speech, can't you?”

“Not just a speech,” Siebold moaned, and indeed listed to the side like he wanted to rest his head on her shoulder. Instead, he flopped against the armrest, rattling the untouched bottles of water in the cupholders. “There's the battle, too.”

Malva squinted. “Battle?” Had anyone said anything about a battle? Maybe she'd read the word somewhere on the informational flier before the flames had fully engulfed it…

“That's the grand finale.” Siebold looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes. “You and me in a—” his breath hitched and he swallowed with visible discomfort— “in a glorious, 3v3 battle on the main stage. Ugh.”

Malva eyed him, flopping around on the armrest like a Magikarp. He really did look ill. Somewhere in the hours they'd been trapped in the car, his face had gone as pale as his smock. When he spoke, his consonants stuck together in the back of his palate, a sure sign of a dry mouth. “Drink some water.”

“Malvaaa.” Siebold, to his credit, heaved himself up and reached for one of the bottles. “What am I going to do?”

She turned away to look out the window. Red rock stretched out before her, reaching out toward a clear blue sky. “We're coming up on Coumarine City. I think you should beg me to buy you a to-go coffee from JavaJolt while you consult with a pharmacist.”

“Very well.” Siebold pressed the glass bottle, not to his lips, but to his forehead. “If I survive the trip.”

—

By the time they reached Coumarine, Siebold had gone red in the face and started to shiver and sniffle.

He got out of the car like every motion hurt him, and leaned against the door without shutting it. “I… I really don't feel well.”

Malva crossed her arms. The longer they spent here, the greater the chance she might just abandon the whole summer camp and check herself into the seaside spa for a day or three. “I can see a pharmacy right over your shoulder.” Siebold gave her a pathetic look under heavy lids before straightening up and shutting the door. Malva just stared at him. “Well?”

“Dearest Malva,” he began, and had to stop to cough. “Dearest, most esteemed Malva. Won't you please do me the favor of purchasing me the finest to-go swill from JavaJolt? I should be ever so grateful.”

She could keep pushing. But the sea breeze ruffled her braids and cooled the temper simmering under her sun-warmed skin, and Siebold truly did look like he was about to keel over. It was probably an act, at least partially— she'd seen him moved to tears over a hangnail. But she could hold the favor over him, maybe shame him into silence the next time he started whining.

“What's your order?” she asked, studying her fingernails.

“Oh, um.” He stifled a cough behind his lips and seemed to lose his patience for the game. He pressed a palm to his forehead and slumped against the car, smearing red dust up his sleeve. “I don't know. I don't— Whatever won't make me nauseous. Please.”

Malva gave him her best Holocaster smile. “As you wish, Duke Siebold.”

She turned her back to him and sauntered for the waterfront. Lysandre would drop dead if he ever saw her set foot in a JavaJolt. She'd have to send a gift card to the prison. One of the especially twee ones that featured the little Jolteon mascot making Baby-Doll Eyes up at nothing.

She pushed her way into the coffee shop's interior and walked straight up to the counter. Siebold needed espresso, a shot of DayQwil, and a gag over his mouth.

…Maybe she could withhold the coffee until they reached Shalour. A good dose of decongestant ought to knock him right out.

Something to consider.

—

Siebold slurred his way through his closing ceremonies speech, his JavaJolt cup held lazily in one hand. He leaned hard into the shaky wooden podium and didn't bother to swipe his hair out of his eyes when the wind blew it out of place.

He finished and Malva gave her own speech, shorter and absent of the cloying sentiments in Siebold's.

When it came time to battle, some of the drugged haze lifted from Siebold’s eyes. He leaned hard into his Type advantage, but— Right at the end, the color drained from his cheeks. He gave commands seconds too late, choked on his words, staggered.

It lost him the battle.

Malva smirked and crossed her arms, recalling Pyroar with a lazy motion. “And that’s precisely why a bad Type match-up isn't the lost cause you might think it is,” she said, turning to the crowd.

Dozens of bug-eyed kids clapped and cheered and stamped their feet in the grass. Malva curtseyed, and somewhere in the corner of her eye, caught the tell-tale white sweep of Siebold’s apron. He staggered down the steps at the side of the stage and ducked behind a wide oak tree, just out of sight of the kids. Clutching at the trunk, he doubled over like he was about to be sick. His complexion, white as ash, corroborated the conclusion. Malva grinned.

There was her ticket out of here. No more Camp Junior Genius, or whatever it was called. She took her time down the steps, subtly bypassed her seat, and reached Siebold just in time to watch him faceplant into the dirt.

Oh. Wonderful.

Siebold stirred a few seconds later, mumbling and clutching at his chest, and Malva shushed him, staring out at the lake with her tongue between her teeth.

She needed a fucking cigarette.

“No ambulance,” Siebold muttered. “Don’ wanna scare the kids…”

“I had no intention of calling an ambulance.” Malva flicked her lighter open and shut, open and shut.

“Mmh.”

Malva stared into the tiny flame. She'd have to get Siebold out of here somehow, and he clearly needed a doctor.

Below her, Siebold got to his knees and coughed, and burying his face in his arm barely muffled the sound.

“Get up.” Malva looked down at him, red-faced and teary-eyed, his apron all stained with dirt. With a sigh, she extended her hand. “Come on. Before you frighten the children.”

—

Six hours.

Six hours waiting in the emergency department of the Shalour City Hospital while Siebold sniveled and coughed and burned, six hours of corralling herself with threats of Diantha's lecturing if she left Siebold alone here. Six hours of torture, and now Siebold had cost her a night on the town.

He shivered beneath the blanket some nurse had brought him, appraising Malva with dark, narrow eyes. “I suppose you want to leave,” he said, not for the first time that evening.

Malva crossed her legs, settling back in the vinyl chair she occupied. “Diantha would have my head if I left you here alone.”

“I'm in good hands,” Siebold said. Malva looked around at all the nothing. No doctors, no nurses. Siebold alone with his IV and his fever of precisely 39°. He bristled. “It's a hospital.”

He stared at her under dark, heavy lids, eyes dull and face slack. The ugly fluorescents only washed him out further, tinted him chemical green and blanched the pink on his cheeks and eyes to a cold lavender.

Malva sat up, heat raging into her face. She'd spent all day babysitting Siebold, and this was the thanks he levied at her? A tepid declaration of freedom, only nine hours too late. “Here's how this is going to go,” he said, clenching her hands on the chair's plastic armrests. “I'm going to stay right here until you're cleared to leave. Diantha is not going to give me another lecture on ‘bettering myself’ and ‘paying my debt to society.’ And you are going to spend the entirety of your recovery coming up with a way to thank me. Understood?”

Siebold hiked his blanket further up his shoulders, shrinking back into himself. He nodded and swallowed thickly. “I— Yes. I understand. Thank you, Malva.”

She smiled sweetly at him, so wide her eyes scrunched up. “That's more like it.”

[theetherealbloom]

CLOSE TO YOU

Summary: A commute crush turned meet cute with Pedro Pascal

Paring: Pedro Pascal x Fem!Reader

Warnings: strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, Commute Crush, TOOTH-ROTTING FLUFF, Slight Angst, Meet-Cute, Swearing, Anxiety, Surrounded by A-Listers, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Alcohol, Club/Bar Setting

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: Happy Close To You release day! I’ve waited for this song since 2018 LMAO. Usually, I don’t write about real-life people, but I really can’t help it since this song is SO Pedro Pascal-coded. Just know that this is fictional and if this isn’t for you, you don’t have to read it! Keep scrolling :> And for those who stay to read this delusion of a fic, hey girlieeee I see you <3 

P.S. I’ll be doing a bunch of fics related to Gracie’s new album that comes out next week!

Song: Close To You by Gracie Abrams

| Main Masterlist |

It all began as a harmless crush on your morning commute. The New York subway was your daily stage, a bustling backdrop as you headed to meet a client. As a social media coordinator, your days revolved around managing high-profile partnerships, coordinating with celebrities and Instagram influencers to craft campaigns that seamlessly blended their brands with consumer appeal. 

But today was different. And of course, you recognized him. 

You noticed him immediately – Pedro Pascal, seated right in front of you. Lost in his book, with a iced quad espresso in a venti cup with extra ice and six shots cradled in his hand, he exuded an effortless charm. His dark, curly hair framed those whisky eyes that glanced up and met yours. Just for a second, you were frozen in time, captivated by his gaze. You quickly looked away, not wanting to seem rude, yet feeling the familiar flutter of a crush brewing.

Did he smile? You swore he did, and your heart skipped a beat. The train doors opened, announcing your stop. Reluctantly, you stepped off, joining the throng of commuters spilling onto the platform. As you ascended the steps, the city's vibrant energy washed over you, but your mind was elsewhere.

Walking towards the restaurant for your client meeting, your thoughts kept drifting back to him. The way his presence ignited a spark within you, a longing that seemed almost irrational. Here you were, burning for a man who didn't even know your name. And yet, in the anonymity of the subway, a fleeting connection had stirred something deep inside you.

It had been a few weeks since that subway encounter, the memory of Pedro Pascal’s whisky eyes lingering in your mind. In the meantime, you had started managing social media for Sarah Paulson, whose busy schedule had her juggling multiple projects and interviews.

Sarah's latest project, a Broadway play titled Appropriate, was garnering critical acclaim and several award nominations. Your job was to promote her involvement, ensuring every post captured the essence of her talent and the play’s success. Though you hadn't been working with her long, you were pleasantly surprised when she invited you to watch one of her performances.

That night, you arrived early at the Belasco Theatre, adorned in your favorite long dress and practical flats, mindful of the commute back to your apartment. Ushered to a seat close to the front, you settled into the plush red velvet, feeling a mix of excitement and anticipation. As the audience trickled in, you busied yourself with casual texts to friends before putting your phone away, taking in the theatre's intricate architecture and the stage's grandeur.

Moments later, an usher guided someone to the seat next to you. Curiosity made you glance to your right, and there he was—Pedro Pascal, settling in beside you. Your eyes widened in recognition before you quickly looked away, a quiet panic bubbling in your stomach and tightening your chest. You fidgeted with your fingers, a nervous habit, trying to quell the flurry of emotions and resist the urge to stare.

As the house lights dimmed and the show began, you couldn’t help but steal occasional glances at him. The man who had unknowingly captured your heart was now mere inches away. The performance on stage was captivating, but you found yourself equally entranced by the man sitting next to you. In the soft glow of the theatre lights, you wondered if he remembered that brief moment on the subway, and if fate had just given you a second chance to connect.

When the show ended and the cast took their bows, the theatre erupted in applause. Pedro, sitting right next to you, cheered loudly when Sarah stood with the rest of the cast on stage. His genuine enthusiasm for his friend made you smile, and as you glanced at him, he looked down at you with a radiant grin. 

Your heart raced, and for a moment, you felt a concrete connection that was almost tangible. Both of you opened your mouths to speak, but just then, an usher cleared their throat, drawing your attention.

“Mr. Pascal, Sarah Paulson is asking for you backstage… if you would follow me, please,” the usher said, causing Pedro to hesitate, torn between staying with you and fulfilling his friend's request.

“Uh,” Pedro began, glancing between you and the usher. Seeing his dilemma, you made the decision for him. Gathering your things, you offered a polite smile to both Pedro and the starstruck usher.

As Pedro glanced back at the usher, you seized the moment to make your getaway. You might have heard him call out, "Wait!" but you didn't stop. Stepping out onto the bustling street, the city lights of Broadway twinkled around you, a stark contrast to the growing ache in your heart.

The possibility of what might have been gnawed at you, the fleeting connection slipping through your fingers. A voice in the back of your mind echoed doubts, whispering that you didn't quite belong in this world of beautiful, glamorous people. You tried to shake off the feeling, but the bittersweet sting lingered.

You begin to walk away from the theatre, weaving through the crowd lined up for autographs by the backstage door. Just as you're about to cross the street to catch your subway, your phone vibrates in your clutch. Stepping aside, you see Sarah Paulson’s name flashing on the screen.

Shit. 

You quickly answer, praying your voice doesn't betray your nerves. "Hello?"

"Hey!" Sarah's voice is warm and enthusiastic. "How are you? Did you enjoy the show?"

"Yeah, I did! You were absolutely incredible," you say, offering genuine praise and shifting your weight to your other leg.

"Thank you so much! Oh, where are you right now? Are you still nearby? I had told the usher to bring you backstage with Pedro, but it seems like they forgot."

"Oh, um, yeah, I'm near the backstage door," you reply, glancing at the crowd still waiting for autographs.

"Perfect! Some of us are going out for drinks later, and you are welcome to join us!" Sarah’s excitement is infectious.

You stammer, "Uh, I..."

"It'll be great! I promise. I'll introduce you to everyone. You're my best social media manager by far."

Taking a deep breath, you muster, "Okay, yeah, I'd love to come."

"Great! I'll send you the address of where we're headed. We'll meet you there!" Sarah says, her smile practically audible.

"Alright, see you soon." You end the call with a click, clutching your phone tightly as you take another deep breath to steady your nerves and keep the world from spinning.

A ping alerts you to a new message. Glancing at the notification, you read the address and know exactly where to go. With a mixture of excitement and anxiety, you put away your phone and head towards the bar, the city's lights guiding your way.

It took you a while to figure out how to get there, but eventually, you arrive at the bar. As you step inside, a warm hum fills your body, the lights and the pulse of music thrumming through the room. The smoky, dark atmosphere feels electric, bodies moving in a rhythm that seems to make the air itself burn. 

Under the soft pink light, everything seems slightly surreal, yet oddly perfect. You spot Sarah, who immediately pulls you into a warm hug, which you happily accept. As you exchange pleasantries near their table, you feel at ease, enjoying the camaraderie. 

Then, suddenly, you sense a shift. You glance up and see Pedro looking right back at you. Your heart skips a beat as your eyes meet, and in that instant, the crowded room seems to fade away. 

There he is, the man who had unknowingly captured your heart, his gaze steady and intense. As Sarah guides you over to introduce the rest of her friends, castmates, and of course, Pedro, you feel a pull between the two of you.

You muster the courage to speak, telling him your name, and even through the loud speakers and endless chatter, you hear him say your name with a breathless relief. Finally meeting the mystery girl he saw on the subway seems to have stirred something within him.

When you shake hands, there's a lingering touch, a silent acknowledgment of the connection between you. You can't help but duck your head a little, feeling shy under the intensity of his gaze. 

"Nice to finally meet you," Pedro says, his voice soft yet filled with warmth.

"Likewise," you reply, your own voice tinged with a hint of nervousness.

In that brief exchange, you both sense something unspoken, a silent understanding that this meeting is more than just chance. And as the night unfolds, amidst the laughter and music, you find yourself drawn to him, unable to resist the magnetic pull of fate.

As Sarah goes to mingle with the rest of the group, you both stand there, caught in a moment suspended in time. The air crackles with anticipation, and you can't shake the feeling that if you asked him to, he'd give up everything just to be close to you.

"You have a way of lighting up a room," he says, his voice low and full of sincerity as he leans in closer.

A blush creeps up your cheeks at his words, and you find yourself smiling despite yourself. "And you have a way of making me feel like I'm the only one in it," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

As the night wears on, you find yourself completely enchanted by Pedro. His easy charm and quick wit captivate you, and it's as if the two of you are in your own little world, separate from the chaos of the club.

He tells you stories about his acting career and his passion for music. You share your dreams and aspirations, feeling a sense of comfort in his presence that you've never experienced with anyone before.

Throughout the night, there are moments where your hands brush against each other or your eyes meet in a lingering gaze. Each time it happens, a spark of electricity shoots through your body, igniting a fire within you.

At one point, he leans in closer to whisper in your ear over the loud music. "I have a confession to make," he says, his warm breath tickling your skin.

You turn to face him, your heart racing with anticipation.

He chuckles softly, the sound sending a delightful shiver down your spine. "I can't deny that you've caught my attention since the moment I saw you on the subway."

The admission sends your heart racing, and you can't help but feel a surge of boldness. "Funny, because you've been on my mind ever since," you confess, meeting his gaze with newfound confidence.

His eyes light up with a mixture of surprise and delight, and you can't help but be drawn to the way his lips curl into a playful smirk. "Is that so?" he teases, his voice a low, husky whisper that sends a shiver down your spine.

You nod, feeling a rush of exhilaration coursing through your veins. "Absolutely," you reply, unable to tear your gaze away from his captivating stare.

Before you can say another word, he takes a step closer, his movements slow and deliberate, like a dance choreographed just for the two of you. Your breath catches in your throat as his hand brushes against your neck, sending tingles of anticipation racing across your skin.

And then, in a moment that feels like it's been plucked straight from a romance film, his lips meet yours in a soft, tender kiss. Time seems to stand still as you melt into his embrace, the world around you fading away until there's nothing left but the two of you.

As you pull away, breathless and exhilarated, a sense of euphoria washes over you, like a chemical override in ultraviolet. "I just wanna be close to you," he murmurs, his words sending a thrill through your entire being. A smile dances at the corners of your lips as you revel in the electric connection between you.

"And you could be mine tonight," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper, the words tinged with a hint of playful flirtation.

He chuckles softly, his eyes sparkling with affection as he leans in closer. "I think I could get used to being yours," he says, his voice filled with warmth and sincerity, melting away any lingering doubts or fears.

He can't wait to fall in love with you.

[hajimeseyo]

You're staring, Izana notices. 

He has no idea who you are, really, but you've been trying (and obviously failing) to sneak subtle glances at him the entire time since he stepped into the convenience store. It's starting to throw him off, just a little. For all he knows, you could be a spy from an opposing gang. Not a very good one, though. 

Your gaze follows him as he walks towards the cashier and pays, and even as he walks towards the exit, plastic bags in hand. He pays it no mind as he feels it shift off him, the sound of the cashier greeting you the last thing he hears as he steps outside the store. 

It didn't seem like you were going to pick a fight with him, he might as well just leave it be. 

Besides, any gang that dared to come after Tenjiku would just be mercilessly crushed under his heel. A spy or two wouldn't change that fact.

The clouds above him rumble, dark and heavy, and he frowns, looking up at the cloudy sky. It would be a pain in the ass if it rained while he was in the middle of walking home. Maybe he could call Kakucho to pick him up. Or he could just buy an umbrella from the store right behind him…

The sound of footsteps snap him out of his thoughts, and he glances to the side to see you, head lowered and lips mouthing numbers as you take inventory of the things in your plastic bag. You don't seem to have noticed him, he notes in amusement.

His theory proves true when you look up, done from counting, and nearly jump at the sight of him staring straight at you. Your eyes are wide, the way you freeze reminding him of a prey caught by its hunter, and he can't stop himself from having a little fun. 

“You were staring at me quite a lot earlier, huh?” He says, relishing in the way your face flushes with embarrassment, and the way you instantly try (and fail) to school it into a look of nonchalance. “Is there a problem?”

You cough awkwardly, eyes suddenly unable to look at him despite being fully glued onto him just minutes ago. Izana watches you squirm, all too used to these shows of discomfort. Based on most of his past interactions, you'll probably come up with some lame excuse on why you were staring at him, then take the first opportunity you have to run away. Or get defensive, and aggressively deny you were doing anything of the sort. People always act the same when confronted with their actions. Izana's used to the same old song and dance. 

He wonders which route you’ll take.

To his surprise, you take neither of them. 

You seem to come to a decision, gaze snapping up to him, nervous but suddenly full of what seems like determination.

“There's no problem, I was just staring because–” You falter a little here, cheeks reddening a little again, before you pull yourself together with a quick shake of the head. “Because, well…your eyes.”

“Hm?” That response certainly wasn’t what he was expecting. “What about them?”

“They're beautiful.”

The words are said so plainly, without a trace of any doubt, and Izana is shocked speechless. 

While he doesn't deny that he's good looking, the word ‘beautiful’ and any part of him have never been together in the same sentence before. That he's heard of, at least. Even if any of his subordinates had the guts to consider him ‘beautiful’, they definitely wouldn’t have the guts to say it to his face. Granted, you probably don’t have any idea who he is, but still. This is definitely a first.

(And even so, the thought that something about him could be beautiful was something that had never occurred to him.)

“...Really?” The words come out in a whisper before he could stop himself.

You nod vigorously, and once again Izana is thrown off by the fact that it's something you're so sure of. As if the thought of it being untrue has never even crossed your mind.

His response seems to appear to you as an invitation to talk more, as you continue speaking, hesitation fading away with each word that comes out of your mouth. “They're just such a beautiful shade of purple, like amethysts. I've never seen anything like it before. And paired with your long white eyelashes and white hair, you look like someone's painting came to life.”

"I don't know if anyone's told you before, but you're really a sight to behold."

There's a light, pleasant feeling in his chest.

He doesn't know what it is. 

“Ah!” You suddenly slap your hands over your mouth. “I spoke too much! God, I must've sounded like a creep, I'm so sorry–”

A laugh cuts you off from your panicked rambling. Izana doesn't quite know why he's laughing, but seeing you panicking over saying the wrong things despite being fully shameless literally right before just seemed so funny, and well, there's such a nice warmth in his chest; indulging in it doesn't hurt, right?

(He doesn’t notice the stars in your eyes as you stare, almost in awe, at his laughing visage.)

“What’s your name?” You’re interesting, he’s decided. It would be a shame to let you just slip away.

“[name].”

He lets out a hum. “[name], huh…got it.” 

“Wait.” You call out to him, just as he turns and begins to walk away. “What’s yours?”

He doesn’t notice, but as he turns back, there’s a genuine, serene smile on his face that would’ve shocked even the noisiest Haitani twins into silence at seeing it on the face of the highly feared leader of Tenjiku.

“Izana. Don’t forget it.”

(He’s scolded nonstop by Kakucho when he shows up at home, soaking wet from the heavy downpour outside.

“It’s not like you to be so careless.” Kakucho huffs, drying his hair roughly with all the fierceness of an Asian mom. “You knew it was going to start raining on your way back, why didn’t you just call for one of us to get you from the store?”

Izana hums unconcernedly. “I was already walking away from the store, I couldn’t just stop and turn back.”

“Huh?? Why the hell not??”

“Don’t be stupid, Kakucho. I would’ve looked so uncool.”

“??????”)

(part 2 here!)

[pencilofawesomeness]

Fairy Tail Platonic Week: Day 5 [Prompt: Injury, “Nobody hurts my friends”]

(and the scar prompt if you count how I draw Erza but that is less than intentional lol). For @ft-platonicweek

Erza and Natsu have such a great dynamic, in this sort of murky water between friends who share a braincell and Erza taking on the scary older sister role. Natsu having his first real on screen breakdown when Erza got hurt/almost died in the Tower of Heaven arc did something to my brain so it was time to reverse the situation. ahaha. I don't have full context to this other than what I imagined whilst drawing it, but let's say Erza is rightfully pissed and wearing her ass-kicking clothes for a reason. True friends can be feral together and feral for the sake of each other—one of my favorite dynamics :)

[sen-ya]

part 6/7

can u guess at which point I rewrote this a few months after the fact lmao

[op comic masterpost]

[pg1]

no dialogue

[pg2]

panel 2:

Note (from Law): I've been thinking of my parents a lot these last few weeks. Thinking of Lami. Those happy days I got with them. At first I thought I was even considering this because I might catch a glimpse of them in our kid, and that's a piss poor justification for having a baby. But what I've realized this week is I'm not just nostalgic for a family I've lost. Lu-ya, I'm enamored by the idea of enjoying that comfort with you. (the note trails off, continuing down the entire page)

panel 3:

Luffy: You got a lotta words here, Tra--

panel 4:

Luffy: Oh, shit. I said the wrong thing, didn't I?

panel 7:

Law: ...No, we said the same thing.

[pg3]

panel 8:

Law: So we're doing this.

Luffy: Guess so

panel 9:

Law: We're doing this. Fuck. I'm doing this.

panel 10:

Law: When did I get as stupid as you?? This is gonna suck so fucking much!

panel 11:

Luffy: If you're not gonna be okay then I'm changing my answer.

Law: I've done worse for less.

Luffy: I don't like that.

Law: We're decided, alright?

[pg4]

panel 12:

Law: I'll be uncomfortable for awhile. What else is new? I can handle it.

panel 14:

Luffy: Fine.

Law: Heh.

[pg5]

panel 15:

Law: Sigh. I should probably talk to Kaya-ya again. I don't think I actually had to stop my SSRI at least...

panel 17:

Luffy: Did you say again?!

Law (speaking over him): Oh, no.

Luffy: You told Kaya?!

Law: It was a...m-medical consultation!!

Luffy (speaking over him): So I can tell my whole crew?!

Law (speaking over him): That is an entirely different conversation that I will not be having right now.

[megamindsecretlair]

To those who don't know, I took a mini break this week. The election really got to me, more than I thought it would, and I was taking spiritual damage from the world collectively grieving. I haven't mastered blocking that shit out 🤣

Between my call center job, my family, and everything else in my life, my brain went on a hard chill. Im doing what I need to survive. Which is staying the hell off my phone.

And yknow what, it has really helped. My emotions are starting to level out now that I can pick out what's actually mine.

Maybe I'll update this week, maybe I still need to chill, who knows.

Rest is important yall 😗😗😗

And as a friendly reminder, demanding pt 2 to any of my works is the opposite of motivation yall think it is. Especially if it's your first time commenting. You may be new to my blog, and if so, welcome 😗 but while it's hard to infer tone, my sensitive ass interprets it as youre not really appreciating the work. I'm not a machine. It seems like I'm cranking these out and im not. It takes a huge emotional toll to write these fics. And I aint had it this week.

Do you have to comment and reblog to enjoy my work? No. I will never ask you to do something you're too shy to do. I juss want folks to have fun on my blog. But I promise, telling me what you liked about the fic will 200% motivate me to write more.

This isn't directed at anyone. Juss a heads up for the new folks.

[mothinabottle]

Possessive woman 😮

Whenever I think of fem! Syd, especially when it's the yandere Syd, I think of Chae Yuri design wise

Bonus commentary of the day: Women are pretty, I like those who are a bit unhinged or really strong. Maybe that's why I also adore Maki Zenin, Akali or Reze

I've also been thinking that I might need more mutuals, as I barely know ppl who play DoL. Oh, well, too shy for that ;;

[starrfallj]

the whole workshop cast.. mainly just trying to make them fit in my style 🥹

(doodles below)

(and some tear you down scrambled there.... heheha)

[ethereousdelirious]

Happy birthday to meeee I just cranked this out almost effortlessly haha

Anyway I decided I should give myself a present and I did, it is nearly 3k words of me hitting my OC with my OC squishing hammer, what else is new

He has the flu, but there is a brief mention of vomiting in this, but it's non-graphic and pretty vague

This is EXTREMELY queerplatonic. The girls that get it get it

Gilles had a remarkably honest face for a serial liar. He lied frequently and badly, with the heart of the matter often expressed there in the quiver of his full lower lip or back in the distance of his rich brown eyes. He'd built a whole citadel out of white lies, and he carried their bulk with him wherever he went.

Autumn's gentle gray light filtered in through the dirty windows. Sterling leaned against the kitchen island and traced the contours of Hewitt's fingers with his eyes, following their path around the curve of a coffee mug.

One man missing.

But he'd be down soon.

Gilles was light on his feet, but not so light that his steps didn't make the floorboards creak. The stairs announced his imminent presence long before his shadow appeared on the wall.

Hewitt turned expectantly. Sterling lifted his eyes. And Gilles appeared, heraldic by the sudden drum beat of raindrops against the roof.

“Morning,” he said, and yawned into his palm.

“You're sure you're awake?” Hewitt teased. “I think you might be sleepwalking.”

“No— wide awake.” Gilles ran a hand down his face and picked his feet up, halting the shuffle of his socks against the hardwood.

“I'll get you some coffee,” Sterling said, turning, “just in case you're not.”

Gilles’ ‘thank you’ was swallowed up in another yawn.

“Did you not sleep well?” Hewitt asked.

Sterling breathed deeply as he poured the coffee. Gilles liked it black. Sterling had fought tooth and nail for that tidbit, prising it out of Gilles like a pearl from an oyster.

Gilles answered softly, very softly. “I slept. I slept hard.”

“Did you now? You look terrible.” Hewitt chuckled.

“I do?”

Sterling turned around, coffee mug in hand. Gilles had situated himself next to Hewitt at the kitchen island. His eyes had gone enormous, his expression wounded. Sterling set the coffee in front of him, but it wasn't enough to halt Gilles’ frantic examination of himself. He ran a hand over his face, over the neat rows of his locs, smoothed out his sweater.

“I do?” he asked again, his full lower lip sticking out slightly.

“You look tired?” Hewitt cast a glance at Sterling.

“You look fine, Gilles.” Sterling nudged the mug closer to him. “But you do seem a bit sleepy.”

Gilles shook his head. “I slept well.”

He didn't look like he had. He leaned on the countertop, his eyelids heavy. It would have been a strange thing to lie about, but even these three short weeks had shown that Gilles kept a right hold over things others found inconsequential— his likes and dislikes, his mildest of opinions, his general wellbeing…

“It's alright if you didn't,” Sterling said.

Gilles looked at him sideways, confused. “I had… very vivid dreams.”

“Did you?” Hewitt asked, grinning. “Your body was asleep but your mind was awake eh? Go on, then. Was I in them?”

Gilles blushed, his dark skin flooding with a hint of red. “Nothing like that!” He stifled a cough somewhere in his chest and the force of it shook his shoulders. “J had a dream I was chasing a dog—” Another cough threatened to break loose from his chest, and he took a long drink of coffee.

“You're a dog,” Hewitt said. “Come on, who was it? You can say.”

“It was a dog,” Gilles said, setting his coffee mug down with a decisive clink. “Or several.”

Hewitt crossed his arms, playing at irritation. “You might have at least made something up.”

Gilles turned away and coughed into his sleeve, deep and rough. Sterling lunged forward on pure instinct, wrapping his fingers around Gilles’ bicep to keep him from toppling out of the chair.

He didn't, of course. He was in no danger of that. But Sterling kept a hold on him anyway, shifting his hand from Gilles’ arm to his back. The edge of the counter pinched at his hips.

“Sorry,” Gilles said, turning back and dislodging Sterling’s hand. “Excuse me, I mean.”

Sterling squinted. The silver light, diffused by the dirty windows, cast everything in flattering softness. But Gilles… Sterling knew well what pallor looked like on dark skin; he should have spotted it the moment Gilles had gotten near.

“Sterling?” Gilles ran a hand over his face, resting his fingers gently over his jaw as though to hide himself. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Are you feeling alright?”

“Yes.”

Another white lie for Gilles’ fortress? He shivered, visibly.

Without any sort of fanfare, Hewitt planted a palm on Gilles’ forehead. “You shouldn’t be,” he said drily.

Gilles swallowed, shaking off Hewitt's hand with visible irritation. But he didn't say a word.

They had him trapped. Sterling leaned on his elbow. “And why is that?” he asked, though the ghost of Gilles’ body heat still pulsed on his palm.

“Feels to me like he's running a temperature.”

Gilles drew in on himself, looking very small in the folds of his sweater. He always did this, withdrawing physically as though to compensate for his inability to do so emotionally. Sterling softened his gaze. “Do you feel feverish, Gilles?”

“There's nothing wrong with me,” Gilles said gently, his eyes wide and pleading. He was really too handsome for his own good. No one seeking his approval could have stood up to such a display. That he didn't feel safe enough to tell the truth, though… That was a problem.

“You're allowed to be sick,” Sterling said, reaching forward to feel Gilles’ pulse at the wrist.

It was racing.

Gilles started to cough again, turning away so far that he really did risk falling out of his chair this time. Hewitt beat Sterling to the punch and reached out, steadying Gilles with one hand to the arm and one to the back.

“E-exc…” The word drowned in wave after wave of dry, scraping coughs. “P-please ex—”

Hewitt looked at Sterling, brow twisted in concern. “He's really warm.”

Gilles slipped out of his chair. Sterling's heart dropped, but he landed steadily on his feet, finally catching his breath with a great shudder and a look of terror.

“Hey, Gilles—” Sterling took a half-step toward him, but stopped dead when he flinched. “Sit back down. It's okay.”

“N-no, ah, sorry.” Gilles took off for the front door before Sterling could do much more than raise his hands in alarm. A cold breeze swept over the room, the sound of raindrops crescendoed, and Gilles disappeared behind the slamming of the door.

“What the hell was that?” Hewitt demanded.

“He's barefoot,” Sterling hissed, stifling a curse. This didn't make any sense.

“Sterling—”

“He's having a panic attack.” Sterling stalked to the front door and shoved his feet into his boots. “I don't know why— come on.” He stuck his head out the door, but Gilles was nowhere to be seen. A thin but persistent drizzle turned the air to a thick mist, and a breeze stirred up the leaves. “He can't be out in this with a fever. Dammit.”

“Why the hell should he be having a panic attack?” Hewitt demanded, following Sterling into the street.

Rain attacked them both immediately, slipping under Sterling’s collar and down inside his boots. “I don't know, Hewitt.”

They circled the block to no avail, Hewitt’s speculations growing less frequent as the minutes stretched out.

They'd both gone dead quiet by the time they reached their townhouse again, the strange, three-storied structure towering above their heads.

“He’ll catch his death out here,” Hewitt said, running his hands through his damp curls. “You said he was barefoot?”

Sterling sighed and leaned against the stairs railing, the wrought iron cold against his hip. “He had socks on. Not that that makes any difference.”

“Well, what do we do?” Hewitt demanded. “Call the police? Or maybe the poetry club. Who do you think would help us find a missing French dandy faster?”

“Not the time.” Sterling shoved his thumbnail between his teeth and bit down. Gilles couldn't have gotten far, and anyone who stumbled across him would inevitably want to help. It wasn't like he was delirious, anyway, just frightened…

The sound of coughing broke through Sterling's racing thoughts. He looked down at Hewitt, who'd gone wide-eyed. Without a word, they dashed around the corner, barreling over the dilapidated garden gate and into the overgrown chaos of the back yard.

Wet vegetation clung to Sterling's hand and ankles as he pressed further into the tall weeds. The coughing tapered off, replaced by the sound of heavy breathing, and— and there was Gilles, tucked up against the side of the shed.

“Gilles?” Sterling stopped a good distance away, raising his hands in surrender. “Are you alright?”

“Sorry,” Gilles said hoarsely. Tears gleamed along the bridge of his nose. “I don't know why I did that.”

“It’s alright. Can I come closer?”

Gilles shook his head. “I didn't mean to make you chase after me.” Tremors ran up and down his body, and his wet sweater clung to his chest and arms. “You don't need to— to—”

“To what, care about you?” Hewitt stepped out of the weeds and crossed his arms. “That's what friends do. So if you want to get us out of the rain, you'd better come inside.”

Gilles hesitated, his lip quivering. Sterling took a small step forward. “Come on. I'll help you up.” When Gilles didn't protest, Sterling closed the distance between them and extended his hand. “It’s alright, Gilles. We're just worried about you.”

“I— I just…” Gilles extended his trembling hand and let Sterling help him up. “I don't know why I did that.” He wrapped his arms around himself, looking far smaller than he ever had.

Sterling led him around to the backdoor, Hewitt on his heels. “You've never had a panic attack before?”

“N-no.” Gilles paused and almost doubled over, another coughing fit wrenching out of his lungs.

Hewitt and Sterling shepherded him to the downstairs bathroom, wherein Sterling paused and surveyed the scene.

Gilles did not look good. The warm brown of his skin had blanched to a dull, sickly color. Water dripped from his locs and streamed down his face in rivulets. Worse still, his breathing hadn't gone back to normal; he was still practically hyperventilating.

He hadn't said a word except to apologize and excuse himself. Now he sat, shivering, on the edge of the tub, glancing fearfully between Sterling and Hewitt like they might start yelling at him.

“Poor Gilles.” Hewitt yanked a towel off the rack and wrapped it around Gilles’ shoulders. “You've really never had a panic attack before? You must have thought you were dying.”

Gilles shook his head, pulling the towel tighter about his shoulders. “I have n-not, uh… heard of such a thing.”

“Wait, wait.” Sterling leaned down to turn on the baseboard heater. “Gilles, do you mind if one of us runs up to your bedroom? We've got to get you out of those wet clothes, and you're in no shape to climb all those stairs.”

Gilles stiffened and hesitated. “I…”

“We want to help you,” Sterling said gently. “We're not angry, we're not resentful.”

“Frankly,” Hewitt interjected, “you're breaking our hearts.”

“I don't… m-mean to do that.” Gilles muttered something under his breath in French, his fingers in continual motion against the towel. “You are welcome to enter my room.”

“Hewitt, would you?”

“I'm on it.” Hewitt took off at a run.

Sterling returned his attention to Gilles, who somehow looked worse. He was shaking harder than ever and he looked like he was about to cry, his handsome features contorted in absolute misery. He still hadn't caught his breath. “Here, let me help you get your clothes off. You'll feel better once you get dry.”

Gilles swallowed hard. “You really, y-you—” He broke off with a shaky sound, almost a whimper, then pitched forward and vomited.

“Whoa!” Sterling jumped forward, not back, falling onto his knees so he could hold Gilles locs out of his face. Mercifully, the toilet lid had been open, so he had a convenient place to aim.

“Ah.” Sterling could have kicked himself. Gilles had a nervous stomach, he knew that. He should have seen this coming.

Gilles said something in French and flushed the toilet, his lip quivering. “This is… terribly embarrassing… I am sorry, Sterling.”

“No, no, no. Come here.” Sterling tugged Gilles over to his chest and held him. God, he was burning up. “What on Earth is making you think you have to apologize like this?”

“I'm not the one who asks for things,” Gilles muttered into Sterling's chest.

Well, that certainly didn't make any sense. Sterling sat Gilles back and pulled his damp sweater over his head, casting it aside so he could start on Gilles’ shirt buttons. “What does that mean? Relationships are meant to be reciprocal. That is, they're supposed to have a give-and-take.”

“I don't want to take,” Gilles said, looking up at Sterling through damp lashes.

Sterling sighed and pressed a kiss to Gilles’ forehead, unable to help himself. “You don't know how, do you?”

“I suppose not.”

Sterling smiled humorously. “Well, you'd better get ready to learn.”

Hewitt returned a moment later with Gilles’ pajamas. They got him dried off and tucked into Hewitt’s bed (which he accepted with only mild protest), and then… silence.

“You don't have to look so mortified,” Hewitt said. “Honestly, you'd think you'd never had friends before.”

Gilles didn't answer.

Sterling's heart fractured, a hairline crack shooting across it. “Gilles… people haven't been very kind to you, have they?”

“I wouldn't say that,” Gilles said, his voice hoarse from coughing. “Please don't feel as though you have to fuss over me.”

“No, no, no.” Hewitt sat down on the edge of his bed. “Gilles, you've got to stop talking to us like that. You don't have to stop being afraid, but think about how it makes us feel when you— you just— you make yourself so small. And you make us so big. We're not going to hurt you. Can you really not see that?”

Predictably, this did nothing to alter the expression of humiliation on Gilles’ face. His eyes watered, and Sterling would have stepped in, but.

Well.

It was a conversation they'd need to have eventually. Better this way than with a shouting match, which he'd been bracing for . Hewitt had come a long way.

“Do you not want our help?” Sterling pressed. “Or… do you not think you're allowed to want it?”

An explosion of coughs burst forth from Gilles’ chest. He buried his face in his sleeve and came up crying, sobs shaking his shoulders between every scarling expulsion of breath. “I don't want—” he started, and then dissolved into incoherent French. “I want it,” he choked. “I— Just, please be a little more p-patient—!”

“Nobody's mad!” Sterling said hurriedly, motioning hurriedly for Hewitt to… do something.

“Nobody's mad,” Hewitt agreed, sandwiching one of Gilles’ hands between his own. “It's okay, it's okay. I'm sorry I, er… wasn't patient. God, you're really burning up.”

Sterling sighed, absently chewing at his thumbnail. Gilles had seemed like the callous sort when they'd met, the sort of glib womanizer who would turn his charms to insults in a moment if he felt threatened. How wrong they'd been.

Neither Hewitt nor Sterling was easily moved to tears, and they'd managed to dodge the weepiest sort of person for a good many years. And here they'd accidentally gone and gotten attached to someone they had no hope of understanding. Their problems had mostly been resolved with negotiations and shouting matches. How did you work things out with someone who couldn't stop crying?

Of course, Gilles would probably be a little more stable without a fever slowly cooking his brain.

“I'm going to get you some water and some medicine,” Sterling said, interrupting Hewitt's train of platitudes and Gilles confusingly bilingual ramblings. “I'm going to give you something to help you sleep, alright? You need to rest. We can talk more when you're feeling better.”

Gilles nodded. Sterling went out.

Gilles had better recover quickly.

[the-witchhunter]

Phantom Punk X DC Crossover

Since I’m going on about this, crossover time

Just punk Danny being Jason’s neighbor and Jason hating it. Not because of the ghost thing, but because he’s a musician. 

Jason: “I’m trying to sleep!” Danny, who’d been practicing: “It’s noon” Jason: “Your point?”

Just imagine the look on a Bat’s face after Danny praised Poison Ivy

Tim: “She’s an eco-terrorist” Danny: “It’s called direct action”

Just him and Harley vibing and the chaos of that

[lime-ether]

A little bit bad

By the end I was already feeling lazy, so...

Yes

Characters by

Ivy @lime-ether

Shi @jirlshi @chill-shi (Thanks for the song by the way)

Ali @shirkshingatumadre

Catri @catribone

Den And Dravolo @dravolobones666

Phasim Hampert and Javier @phasimsigma

Eredus @kurokarpi

And the others is BONEHEADS, you all know them

Song from -

And the line with glottis from -

[theetherealbloom]

LORD I’M SO UNWELLLLLLL PLEASEEEE AHHHHHHHHHHHHH

[ethereal-feline]

Know what have a rambling headcanon before I go to bed

Hawks doesn't scold Tokoyami.

Half the time he treats him like a peer, other half he's treating him "like a kid", but Hawks doesn't really have a concept of that because HPSC reasons. So for Hawks showing Tokoyami any sort of genuine positivity probably manifests as either gift giving(like when his mom got the Endeavor plush), and acts of service(being a hero). I headcanon he always get food. Favorite burger place, favorite restaurant(like in Team Up Missions, that waitress said Hawks ONLY brings people he likes), heck they probably have a favorite street vendor or two.

There's also like a 25% time of Hawks purposely babying or even pranking Tokoyami if it isn't under "treating like a peer", but the spoiling and professional annoying babying is mostly in private with the sidekicks. Gotta protect that street cred...sort of lol

Point is Hawks doesn't really lecture Tokoyami. He tells him to lighten up, learn to joke around(birbs eating birbs, its funny!), but doesn't go full "okay kid, serious talk, pop a squat" you know? He'll call out risky moves, but doesn't go "that was super dangerous, young man! do you know all the ways that could have gone wrong?" Lectures are boring, he isn't a teacher.

But there was ONE instance. Two versions.

Version 1: Maybe Tokoyami had been a little reckless during a villain encounter the same day Hawks was supposed to be doing Super Spy things, so Hawks was a bit more anxious than he would like to admit. All anyone heard was Hawks, top of his lungs, with a certain tone, go:

"TSUKUYOMI NO MIKOTO"

Tokoyami freezes up. He doesn't know what to do. Hawks has NEVER used that voice before. Its new. Its alarming. What has possessed him?

Meanwhile Hawks is giving The Look. He is fully aware he just shouted in a very un-Hawks like way and needs to save face. How exactly? Well, do something Hawks-like of course! He just...picks up a still confused Tokoyami and flies off while looking so Done TM.

Its a meme within the hour. Now all Pro Hero students have "full names" like Redius Riotson or some shit. I'm thinking of that one Batman post of Batman wanting ti full name his kids but using their vigilante names because secret identity.

Version 2: If it was in private like at the agency, I can see the sidekicks being equally as confused especially if it was triggered by something small and mundane by comparison like dropping some glass. If its in the privacy of the agency, Hawks goes go Mother Hen mode and starts fussing. Tokoyami just silently takes the sudden lecture but the anxiety of this being some joke builds up until he realizes Hawks is serious. It also takes Hawks a solid moment to realize he's lecturing and by then he's on a tangent ("should I have picked up a book about parenting? Probably! Where was I going with this? I had a point-")

Does Tokoyami get him back with a "WINGARDIUM HAWKINGTON" or scientific name for some hawk species? Maybe but only after one of the wars, and ONLY when its just them because Tokoyami is still a little shy even after all this time.

Dark Shadow has no such reservations. Its on sight with increasingly ridiculous names.

This went on longer than I expected, good night lol

[the-ace-of-fools]

“I thought there might be some measure of hope still left for you.”

“Hope?” The word was uttered with disdain. “I thought you were smarter than that, elf,” Miraak said, turning his ethereal form to the surrounding peaks. “I don’t want it. I don’t need it. I would sooner spend a second eternity in Apocrypha than allow it to poison my mind.”

He turned to Solinar again.

“There is no hope, only action.”

[freckleslikestars]

Favourite X-FILES Episode Countdown {14/24} 5.10 | Chinga

[gumi-writes]

commissioned from sdfjmeng

Crimson splatters groundwards from gloved fist, a lurid display of tantalising gore—the garish exhibition of a defense visibly breached allowed its moment to last in the limelight.  

A defense breached, and yet, somehow still a boast—even though their nature meant it was a quiet one. Silent, and yet, utterly undeniable, particularly when it had not been his doing and instead was entirely their own.

In outstretched, wounded hand, a blood weapon pours, coalescing into form with an immediacy to arch even the most unimpressed of eyebrows. Liquid crystalised into solid, unyielding steel, it settles most satisfyingly within their grip.

By now, the bleeding’s stopped.

‘This one’s new.’ Ais grins, a gaze bright with something eager.   

‘You’re welcome to ask for a weapon.’ Their voice is far steadier, but it is not for lack of enthusiasm—more so a commitment to propriety. At least for now.

‘Don’t need one,’ is his response. One they’ve long come to expect but the reassurance in checking regardless had them going through with such a ritual anyway—necessary for them to achieve complete certainty.

After all, he had to be entirely willing. That was the only way.

They shrug, readying themselves. ‘It’s your body. And your loss.’

His amusement in implacable place, he continues, matching their readied stance with one of his own.

‘Isn’t it always?’