ethereousdelirious

[ethereousdelirious]

you wouldn't last an hour in the asylum where they raised me

#HAHA

[ethereousdelirious]

RULES!

No AI-generated content

Please tag this account if you post your challenge submissions on Tumblr and use the tag 'medwhump may' (as in the tags of this post)

For completionists, all 31 days must be completed (using either the daily prompt or an alt prompt)

Have fun!

I will update these rules if necessary! Happy whumping!

Please reblog this to get the word out :)

#alas not enough prep time for me but i cant wait to see what everyone else writes!

[ethereousdelirious]

oh my god i hit send too early. meant to type shut up (AS A PROMPT) for a Pokemon char of your choice

Publishing this one too bc it makes me laugh 😁

[ethereousdelirious]

shut up

shut up: [character] doesn’t want any reminders about being sick while they recover.

Thank you, anon! Got about 2k words of O.riginShi.pping here featuring W.allace with a cold, some workaholic tendencies, and a surprisingly bad attitude

I wrote about half of this waiting in my car at the US-Canada border and then I got freaked out because they started bringing out the drug dogs and oh no what if I blacked out and lined my car with a bunch of cocaine and forgot about it.

Anyway.

Oh.

No.

Wallace sat up in bed and sniffled, his head throbbing. His alarm kept screaming at him. He batted at it until the sound stopped, rubbing his eyes with his free hand.

So last night's sore throat hadn't been a one-off, or the product of Steven insisting on sleeping with the window open to let in the sea air.

Wallace sneezed, the explosion of it rocketing around his skull like a ricocheting Bullet Seed.

What awful timing.

Groaning behind closed lips, Wallace got up and stumbled to the kitchen. Pressure pounded in his head with every clumsy footfall.

"Morning, treasure," Steven said from the kitchen table.

Wallace squinted at him. Steven only called him that when he was feeling particularly fond... or when he was trying to soften Wallace up for something. "Fellow associate."

Steven sighed. "You're too smart for me, Wals. Come sit down."

"What did you do?" Wallace asked. The words stung his throat and buzzed in his nose, promising future sneezes. He sniffed, pushing his fingertips against his cheeks.

"Nothing bad! I just know you won't like it." Steven held up his hands. "Come on and sit, okay? Then you can decide if you're mad at me."

Maybe he was being a bit uncharitable. Wallace hated being sick. He had better things to do than sit around for a week waiting to feel better. And Steven really hadn't done anything to warrant this level of suspicion. So Wallace sat down at the table.

Immediately, he dampened his pajama sleeve with a fit of sneezes that left his face aching and his upper lip wet.

Steven slid a box of tissues across the table.

Those... hadn't been there before.

Wallace blew his nose and glared at Steven over the top of the tissue. "I'm not staying home today."

"I wasn't going to ask you to!" Steven said. After a second under Wallace's baleful gaze, he softed. "Alright, I was going to suggest it. You were snoring last night. You sounded pretty congested."

"I'm not staying home," Wallace repeated, more emphatically. He couldn't miss Prelims, not to mention it was busy season for the Gym Challenge.

Steven sighed. "I thought you'd say that." He ducked under the table and came up with a drugstore shopping back in his hand. "Since you're not going to take a sick day—"

"I don't need to," Wallace interrupted. He stood up abruptly and switched in the electric kettle.

"But you're sick," Steven said. "That's the point of a sick day."

"I'm not that sick."

"It's not called a 'that sick day'."

Another round of sneezes bent Wallace double, stopping him in the act of making his morning green tea. He gripped the counter, burying his face in his elbow. Every sneeze made his head hurt that much worse, and for the briefest of moments, Steven's suggestions were almost tempting. He could stay home, take a bath... Drink as much tea as he wanted until his throat stopped hurting.

"Sit down, Wals." Steven rested his hand on Wallace's lower back. When had he gotten up? "I'll make your tea."

"You don't have to," Wallace croaked, but he sank backwards into his chair and buried his face in another tissue.

Steven ignored this, which was fair. "You're only working a half day because of Prelims, right? Call me when you leave."

—

Wallace's break couldn't come fast enough.

The cold medicine Steven had forced into him after breakfast could only do so much. It opened his sinuses a little, made him stop coughing, but he still had to sneeze every five minutes.

His ribs had started aching after only three battles, and he'd been shivering since he'd first stepped foot in his Gym.

He was a mess by the time he left for the day, staggering and catching himself on the side of the building to weather a coughing fit. Everything was just... awful. His head hurt, his ribs hurt, all his Gym Trainers had been giving him these terrible concerned looks all day...

He swiped some lip balm over his bleeding lips and called Steven, nearly blinded by the tears in his eyes.

"How's my treasure?" Steven asked. "Still not that sick?"

"You don't have to keep asking," Wallace muttered. After a pause, he added, "Sorry." He was being rude. Steven was perfectly within his rights to be worried.

"So still not feeling good," Steven said, not sounding offended in the slightest. “I'm going to send you an address. I want you to meet me there, okay?"

"If it's a hospital, I'm breaking up with you."

Steven was silent for a moment, just long enough for Wallace to start feeling guilty about being such a brat. "I really don't know what I did to make you this suspicious of me."

Great. Wallace rubbed his forehead, trying to push back against some of the miserable pressure building behind his eyes. "I'm sorry, Steven." A shiver ran down his spine despite the harsh sunlight bearing down on him. "I know you're trying to help; I'm just... I'll meet you there, okay? I love you."

"I love you, too, Wals."

Steven was waiting for him in a beachfront house in Lilycove, an array of to-go containers arranged on the coffee table. "How’s your cold?"

Wallace arranged himself carefully on the couch, refusing to give into the cries of his aching muscles. "Fine," he said, unable to keep from sniffling.

Steven nudged a box of tissues across the table. "Yeah?"

"How are you feeling?" Wallace dabbed at his nose with one of the tissues, eyeing up the to-go boxes. It was a kind gesture, so why was he so irritated?

A tickle shot through his nose and he frowned, scrubbing at his nostrils with the tissue. Aside from the obvious, of course. Even so, he had no right to be this upset.

"Right as rain," Steven said, and wisely changed the subject. "I brought you seaweed salad. And nigiri and miso soup if you want it, but I know how you lose your appetite when you're—" Wallace raised an eyebrow and Steven's eyes widened— "when you're not that sick.”

“Thank you,” Wallace said begrudgingly. He looked around, letting Steven serve him on some needlessly ornate dishware. The furnishings were aggressively beachy and far too colorful to have been Steven's doing. “Whose house is this?”

“Oh, it's just somebody's vacation rental,” Steven said, pushing over a plate piled with more seaweed salad than a Wailmer could eat in one sitting. “I snagged it for the next couple nights. They had a minimum, so.”

Wallace smiled behind his tissue, and for a moment, the miserable fog in his head cleared. “And how much did that cost you?”

“Don't you worry about that.” Steven winked and passed Wallace a pair of chopsticks. “Now eat. I don't want you fainting on stage.”

—

What little respite his lunch with Steven had granted him had long since worn off by the time Wallace found his way backstage at the Lilycove Contest Hall.

Alas, he couldn't hide in his changing room forever. He strode to the wings with his head up despite the ache in his neck, Milotic gliding beside him.

He hadn't been able to bear the thought of putting any makeup on his irritated skin, so it was all on full display, the chapped red of his nose and eyes. At the least the cold medicine had stopped the incessant dripping.

Further evidence crawled from his lips when he tried to speak; his voice came scratchy and congested, thin vowels and heavy consonants combining into a symphony of such blatant illness it made his skin crawl.

At least it was just Prelims. After a certain number of placements, they were a mere formality. Wallace's win-loss record alone should have been enough to guarantee him a spot in the Masters Bracket, but protocol was protocol.

When his time came, he announced himself in a dry rasp and wobbled through his performance with watering eyes and a perpetual hitch in his breath.

And, despite Steven's earlier concerns, did not faint on stage.

It was bad form to leave early, but no one leveled any dirty looks at him on his way toward the lobby. The weight of the gazes on him consisted mostly of pity. It crawled along his skin, raising his temper just as all of Steven's concern had. Was it really such a crime to be… sort of sick? Was he the only one who understood that the world didn't stop and start just for him? (A bit ironic, when you considered the tabloids, but he could be both a workaholic and a diva).

He really shouldn't have been surprised to find Steven waiting for him in the lobby, but there he was, flowers in his arms. White roses. Small black box resting on them. Steven did know how to calm him down.

“Oh, now you smile when you see me,” Steven said, but he opened his arms for a hug.

“I'm always happy to see you,” Wallace said hoarsely, burying his face in Steven's neck. “I'm just not always happy to take your advice.” He sighed through his mouth. He couldn't smell Steven's aftershave, not when he was this congested.

Still, after a day of battles and showmanship, letting go seemed like the hardest ask of all. He could melt right there, shift like a Castform in the sunlight of Steven's love. Exhaustion gripped him like a physical force.

Maybe…

Maybe he was that sick.

“Wals,” Steven whispered, “you have to let go of me.”

“Mmph.” Translation: No, I don't.

“Wallace.”

Ugh, that was real concern in Steven's voice. Wallace rallied all his willpower and stood up, unable to keep the bend out of his spine. Even so, his eyeline still rested a good few inches above Steven's head. “You're so little.”

Steven looked at him, bemused. His silver eyes caught the light beautifully and flashed like scales. “Listen, Wals, my Father has a standing reservation at La Mer if you want to get dinner. It's short notice, but some of the hilltop boutiques should still be open if you don't mind wearing something off the rack.” Something frantic trembled in his gaze as he searched Wallace's eyes. Like he was waiting for Wallace to give him something.

“Dinner,” Wallace repeated, the word diffusing slowly through his sticky neurons. Shopping. Dinner. Seaside fine dining, cold breeze. And La Mer was the finest of fine. He closed his eyes, searching himself for any kind of reserve. What it would take to drag himself through this. “Um, Steven?”

“Yes?”

“I'm tired.”

Steven’s expression softened, a gentle smile pairing beautifully with the fondness in his eyes. “Why do you think that is?” he teased, holding out his hand for Wallace to take.

“I don't know,” Wallace mumbled, clinging to petulance. He let Steven lead him out of the Contest Hall, toward the water.

The sharp salt spray of the air finally coaxed a few sneezes out of his tortured nose. He couldn't help but vocalize after, a quiet expression of the ache wrapping around his ribs: “Aah—”

Steven squeezed his hand, pausing onto the seaside path toward the house he'd rented. “Are you okay, Wals?”

“I…” Wallace sighed, losing a few more inches of height as he finally gave in to his urge to slouch. “I don't feel very good.”

“I thought you might say that.” Steven started walking again, tugging Wallace along with a gentle insistence.

Thankfully, the rental wasn’t too far from the Contest Hall. No doubt Steven thought he was clever.

No.

No…

Wallace dropped himself on the couch and stared at the beams crossing the high ceiling. Steven was clever.

“Off the rack?” Walllace said, forcing himself to sit up. “Off the rack?”

Steven smirked at him, holding up the bouquet with the little black box still nestled among the flowers. “Hey, it was a genuine offer. But you didn't even ask about this—” he tapped the box— “so I knew you couldn't have been feeling great to start with.”

Wallace stared at the box. He may not have had Steven's eye for gems, but he never turned down jewelry. “Yes, what is that?”

Steven grinned wider and carried on, ignoring the question. “You didn't say a word when I mentioned La Mer even though you've been asking about it for months.”

“Stevennn—”

“And you didn't so much as bat an eye at the idea of turning up in an off-the-rack suit.” He plucked the box out of the bouquet and looked at it. “In fact, maybe I should hold onto this until you let me check your temperature. Let's call it collateral.”

“I don't have a fever,” Wallace said, crossing his arms. “But I might die of a broken heart if my boyfriend doesn't give me a present right now.”

“After all the effort I put in to keep you alive today?” Steven came around the coffee table and sat next to Wallace, holding up the box. “I can't have that.”

Wallace took the box and wasted no time opening it, though something caught in his throat as he did so. He'd been such a monster all day, and Steven had bought him a present…

Two white diamonds sparkled in the light, rainbows glittering in their facets. Diamond cufflinks. Big ones. Wallace stared at them, eyes burning. He didn't deserve this.

“Don't you like them?” Steven asked. “Wallace, what's wrong?”

“They're beautiful,” Wallace said, and had to turn to catch a sneeze in his elbow. “I'm just… afraid I haven't been much of a treasure today.”

“You always get grumpy when you're sick,” Steven said gently, wrapping his hands around Wallace's and closing the box. “I love you always, Wals. Treasure. Even when you're not that sick.”

Wallace sighed and let himself fall forward, burying his face in Steven's chest. “Thank you, Steven.” He nuzzled against Steven's shirt, sorely missing the smell of his aftershave. “I can't wait to wear them.”

“To La Mer,” Steven teased, knocking off Wallace's hat so he could tangle his fingers in Wallace's hair. “In a nice, tailored suit.”

“Yes, please,” Wallace said, closing his eyes.

He couldn't sleep here.

He still owed Steven a proper apology.

But maybe… just for a moment… he could relax.

#ethereous writes #vanillas can interact but dont be fucking weird

[ethereousdelirious]

Sometimes I interact with wholesome art of a character I'm about to beat the unholy absolute fuck out of and I feel a little bit bad 😅😅😅 sorry, baby

#ethereous speaks

[ethereousdelirious]

Beautiful summer day. Someone with a hayfever decides to tempt the fate and take a shortcut on foot through a meadow, full of flowers and grasses swinging in a light, warm breeze.

They start sniffling and rubbing their nose soon enough, and are getting second thoughts as their nose becomes steadily more and more irritated. But the true catastrophe hits about halfway through when they suddenly sneeze their glasses off.

They have no other option but to crouch down and start feeling around with their hands; not only are they near sighted, but their eyes are so teary too. When they finally after searching, feeling, sneezing and cussing for a good long while find their glasses again, they're simply streaming with hayfever, sneezing almost non stop, and incredibly pissed off.

It wasn't a shortcut at all.

#oh. oh my fucking god.

[ethereousdelirious]

FINALLY managed to write something for my special little sensitive crybaby princess OC. I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing.

There are a few context things I'd like to explain, so bear with meeee

(He has the flu in this. There's mentions of nausea at the end, but nothing happens with it)

Some Context (this is optional so just scroll down to the bolded text if you want to skip):

I've written about these characters before, but I've changed the world and plot of the novel they're supposed to be in, so if you remember anything about that world, just flush it.

Since this is essentially fanfiction of a story that doesn't exist yet, here are some things you're supposed to know about the characters: All of them are in their mid-20s. Hewitt and Sterling are close friends and have recently met Gilles, who had to move out of his family home after they all moved back to France without him (long story). Or fantasy France. I haven't decided if this fic takes place in the "real" word, so to speak, or a fantasy/alternate world. I'll use real world terms for now to make it easier. Gilles is Black and originally from France. Hewitt is white and British. Sterling is extremely mixed race and American.

You'll see Hewitt making vampire jokes at Gilles and referring to Sterling as "Adonis," which are both references to inside jokes woth the characters that I'm not gonna bother to explain because it doesn't matter

Sterling uses Celsius measurements when he's trying to be courteous to his European friends and Fahrenheit when he's alone or distracted.

Okay das all I think

Story starts here

Gilles’ belongings sat in a disordered pile on the cobblestones, dwarfed by the narrow three-story house looming behind them. He swallowed, throat stinging. This was it.

Sterling bumped him a little on his way to the front door, murmuring his apology. Gilles scarcely heard. Even that light touch had made him flinch, sent goosebumps all up and down his arm. His heart pounded. This was really it.

God, he didn't know these people. What if they killed him in his sleep?

“Gilles?” Hewitt bumped him with his hip. That, too, hurt more than it should have, made him shudder. “Are you waiting for an invitation?”

Gilles shook himself and forced a smile. These were his friends. New friends, yes. But friends. “It's only polite, you know.”

“Fine, but just know I have garlic hanging on all the walls.” Hewitt grinned and beckoned Gilles to follow him over the threshold. “Come inside! Oh, but grab a box or Adonis will yell at us.”

“Have I ever yelled at you?” Sterling asked, appearing in the doorway. “Gilles, don't listen to him. I'll need you to help me with the furniture anyway, since Heaven knows Hewitt won't be able to.”

Gilles nodded, following Sterling to his dresser. The glossy wood gleamed in the late summer sun, and the beveled edges dug into Gilles’ palms.

“Well,” Hewitt said, “have fun carrying that up two flights of stairs.”

“There's still plenty of work for you to do,” Sterling said, nodding at the various boxes surrounding them. “But being a distraction is not among them. Ready, Gilles?”

“Ah—” Gilles swallowed and his throat stung again. Worse, this time. “Yes.”

His muscles protested the weight of the dresser at once. Every discomfort, which had felt so insignificant not 30 minutes ago, magnified itself as he shuffled across the living room.

That wasn't right.

He and Sterling had carried this out of his house— out of the house with no problems. It wasn't even that heavy. So why were his legs shaking? Why couldn't he breathe? They were still on flat ground.

“Coming up on the stairs,” Gilles said breathlessly, steering Sterling toward them.

Sterling gave him a quizzical look, his dark eyes narrowing. “Are you alright?” he asked. “Need a break?”

“I— N-no, I…” Gilles shook his head and had to stop talking to focus on ascending the stairs. His knees bumped the edges of the dresser and the sharp pain rippled outward along his skin. “I'm fine.” The words burned in his throat.

“Al‐right.” Sterling furrowed his brow and hefted the dresser.

He seemed to be doing a lot better than Gilles was, despite the obvious effort. His breathing, though heavy, remained steady as they bypassed the landing and continued up the stairs, and he was remarkably steady on his feet. He seemed to have the layout of the house memorized, oftentimes turning before Gilles could even give him an instruction.

Not that Gilles was good for much at the moment. Pain pooled in his palms. The dresser might as well have sliced them open, though the only liquid on him was sweat. It ran down his temples, down his back.

“It's here on the left,” Sterling said, though there was no need. The doorway to the right clearly led outside, and the only other option was to go left.

Dutifully, Gilles shuffled into the vacant bedroom, and then the dresser slipped from his hands and thudded onto the carpet. His whole body shook, his thighs tensing and releasing in minute spasms. He clung to the side of the dresser, staring at the silver dots glittering across the beige carpeting.

“Gilles?” Sterling sounded like he was back at the bottom of the stairs. But that couldn't be right. Maybe it was just… his breathing…. He was breathing so hard his chest hurt, and it was loud. “Gilles?”

He went down slowly, eyes open, and the room tilted in a sickening whirl of white and beige, and the ceiling light seared his eyes.

Somebody had a hard grip on his ankles, shoving the leather of his low-cut boots hard into the tendons.

Gilles’ throat hurt.

He stared at the ceiling light and his breath came back to him.

“Gilles? Are you with me?” Sterling asked.

Gilles lifted his head. Sterling… Sterling was holding his feet up by the heels, staring at him with clinical concern.

Heat flooded Gilles’ face. “What are you doing?”

Sterling let go of him and sat back on his heels. “Facilitating blood flow to your brain.” He cocked his head as Gilles sat up, staring at him. “Do you faint often?”

“N-no.” Gilles squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. It hurt to talk. “I've never fainted before.” A wave of chills rolled over his skin and he shivered, wrapping his arms around himself. How embarrassing. He must have looked like such a fool, overexerting himself like that.

Not that it should have been so difficult. What was wrong with him?

“Er, Gilles. You're shaking.”

“I'm sorry,” Gilles croaked, the words burning like acid in his throat.

“What— No, It's 28 degrees and you're shaking.” Sterling leaned forward and hesitated. “May I?”

Gilles blinked at him, tears pricking his eyes. “28 degrees?”

“Oh—” Sterling huffed and planted his hand on Gilles’ forehead. “You're sweating. That's good. How's your head?”

Gilles' breath caught in his throat. He flinched away from Sterling and coughed into his shoulder, all his muscles complaining at the motion.

“Never mind.” Sterling sat back again.

Oh. Gilles shivered and tried to sit up, but couldn't tear his arms away from his chest. “I'm so sorry,” he croaked, clawing at his collar. “I didn't know— I can—” What? There was nothing he could do. He was sick, and all his worldly belongings were sitting in the street. “I, I can— I can still—” He moved to stand up, forcing his arms down despite the painful chills running through him. Another coughing fit nearly knocked him down again, and he clung to his dresser, legs wobbling.

“Gilles, relax.” Sterling stood and, not asking permission this time, caught him under the arm. “Can you manage the stairs?”

“Y-yes…” He would manage the stairs. He'd have to be half-dead before he'd let anyone carry him.

Hewitt's puzzled expression melted into one of alarm. “What happened?” he asked, rushing forward, then darting out of the way like he'd changed his mind.

Gilles couldn't help but wince in anticipation of his humiliating episode repeated.

But Sterling remained silent as he guided Gilles to the couch, only speaking once Gilles was seated. “Gilles’ come down with something,” he said, calm as ever. “The flu, I think.”

“Really?” Hewitt peered at him like a child, blue eyes gleaming like marbles. “But you helped us move all that furniture onto the wagon.”

Gilles shrugged. If he’d been sore then, he hadn't thought much of it. It was a lot of heavy lifting, and he’d already been for a run that morning. But the reminder sent a spike of nausea through him, and a chill that had nothing to do with his fever. “I'm terribly sorry,” he said, squeezing himself in a vain attempt to ward off the cold. “Really, I just need a moment, and then I can—”

“You're crazy,” Hewitt said bluntly.

Sterling nodded like that settled something and leaned over to open the blinds, revealing the street and all Gilles’ boxes. “Hewitt, make sure nobody gets any funny ideas, will you? I've got some phone calls to make.”

“This is a very safe area,” Hewitt said once Sterling had gone. “No one will get any ‘funny ideas.’”

“Oh,” Gilles said faintly. Words and meanings were rapidly becoming two distinct entities. His body ached with the cold and all he could really do was shiver and think about how badly this all hurt.

“I do wish he'd been a bit more bossy, though.” Hewitt sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I never get sick, and Sterling really never gets sick, so I'm not sure what to do. Do you want to lie down?”

Gilles freed a hand and pressed it to his forehead. This was too much. He needed a blanket and he couldn't just borrow one, nor could he bear the idea of asking Hewitt to search through his boxes until he found one. So he'd have to get up. And find one of his pillowcases while he was at it, because he couldn't bring himself to subject his locs to the tweed throw pillows surrounding him on the couch.

Nothing for it.

Gilles got up.

It was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

His knees didn't want to work and his muscles ached.

But he was standing.

“Oh!” Hewitt stepped back to give him some space. “Look, you really don't have to worry—”

“I just need a few things,” Gilles muttered, and made for the door.

Hewitt followed him. “I could get them for you! Unless they're… secrets? I suppose? Do you have a lot of things you don't want me to see?”

The summer sun engulfed Gilles, soothing some of the pain from the chills. Cobblestones burned under his knees as he fumbled with a random box, his hands shaking.

“Why don't you just let me help you?” Hewitt asked. “I promise, I only judge people I don't like.” He stepped forward and opened the box for Gilles, revealing stacks of folded shirts.

“I just…” Gilles fell back on his heels, head hanging. This was a mess. He was embarrassing himself. “You and Sterling have done so m-much for me…” He stifled a few coughs into his elbow, tears burning in his eyes. He'd taken and taken, accepted their kindness with nothing but a few paltry words of gratitude, and now here he was, taking again. It was terribly rude.

“Well, look,” Hewitt said, “you can repay us by not worrying us sick, alright? Just sit back and tell me what you're looking for. And let me know if there's anything you don't want me to touch.”

This, at last, was too much. Gilles nodded, but the tears pooling in his eyes finally spilled over and he couldn't speak except to choke out an apology in French that Hewitt wouldn't have been able to understand anyway.

“Don't cry!” Hewitt's fingertips touched down on Gilles’ back. “I'm sorry! What did I say?”

“I'm sorry,” Gilles said breathlessly, coughing. “I'm not usually so—” He broke off, falling into another fit of coughing.

“Sick,” Hewitt finished for him, moving his hand to rest on the back of Gilles’ neck. “You're burning up.”

Gilles shook his head. “I'm c-cold.”

“Well, have you got anything in here?”

“Um…” Gilles blinked away tears. Did he? “Maybe?”

“Let’s have a look.” Hewitt wasted no time, pawing through Gilles’ shirt with total disregard for how carefully he'd folded them. “There's a lot of green in here.”

Gilles wiped his face. “It's my favorite color.”

“Yes, I can tell.” Hewitt continued digging through the box, until he finally produced the gray sweatshirt Gilles wore running on cold mornings. “How about this?”

Gilles nodded and took it, only remembering to thank Hewitt after it was halfway over his chest. The sunlight was nice on his skin but really couldn't help with the bone-deep chills running through him.

“Anything else?” Hewitt asked, his gaze darting down Gilles’ body in short, jagged lines.

Gilles pulled his locs free of the sweatshirt’s collar and nodded. He was still freezing, but… the cobblestones were warm and the street was quiet and…

Hewitt snapped his fingers. “Don't fall asleep!”

“Sorry…” Gilles ran his hands down his face and tried to rally. “Ah… Something. Silk or satin. A shirt, or one of my pillowcases.” He blinked slowly, his vision blurring a little. “Please.”

“Well, you've got a silk shirt in here, but—”

“S'fine.” Slowly, Gilles reached out for it. Even that small motion took twice as much effort as it should have. How was he going to get back inside? He curled his fingers around the fabric and stared at it.

“I think you need to lie down,” Hewitt said hesitantly. “You don't seem… Can you stand?”

Gilles shook his head.

The world softened to a dreamy blur as Hewitt manhandled Gilles inside. The effort of moving was almost enough to make him feel warm, but… Well, he wouldn't notice either way soon.

The couch was the only thing in the living room, the satin was the only thing on his skin. He lowered himself, aiming the shirt toward one of the throw pillows.

Sound came in little gentle washes of awareness and a bitter chill in his chest.

“Sterling!”

“Yes, good to see you, but please keep it down.”

Thudding and murmurs and footfalls.

“He's still out?”

“I don't think he's feeling well at all. Earlier, I mean—”

“He's shivering.”

Unfamiliar voices. The rush of the sink.

“Last one, I think.”

“Oh, good.”

Gilles awoke in sunset colors, curled on his side under a thick blanket. His dry throat burned and his chest spasmed with sharp, deep coughs.

Water.

He sat up, already breathing heavily, his vision narrow and vivid. The kitchen wasn't all that far, but… It might as well have been miles.

“Don't get up,” said a voice.

Gilles flinched and turned and found Sterling seated in an armchair with a book in his lap.

“Unless you need the bathroom,” Sterling continued.

“N…” Gilles started, but his voice cracked and he started to cough again, eyes streaming. His ribs already ached with the strain and now his head pounded with each forceful exhale.

Sterling got up without a word and sat beside him, holding a glass of water up for Gilles to take.

He seized it and drained it as soon as his body would let him, and fell against the back of the couch with his chest heaving. “I'm sorry,” he panted, staring at the ceiling as his face burned. “Th-thank you, Sterling. Forgive me.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Sterling said. “You're our friend and we're happy to help you. Now.” He stood up and set the empty glass on the coffee table, where it must have been resting before. “I'd like to take your temperature, and it would be good if you would eat something.”

Gilles occupied himself getting back under the blanket. It was one of his own, thank god, and he'd managed to work it into a tangle.

“You're still cold?” Sterling asked. He moved as though to press a hand to Gilles’ forehead and stopped abruptly. “Here.” He held out his hands. Gilles passed him the blanket and Sterling shook it out, then tucked Gilles in like a child.

“Thank you,” Gilles mumbled, looking down. His own weakness was terribly embarrassing, but the way Sterling looked after him was so matter-of-fact, so natural. How could he resent it? “Why are you doing this?”

“Just as I said.” Sterling looked at him, his brown eyes nearly black in the low light. “You're my friend.”

“Yes, but…” Gilles shut his mouth. This was all extremely rushed, this… this intimacy. This kindness. “You don't know me.”

“I will,” Sterling said. “Is it bothering you? I can go.”

“No.” Gilles pulled the blanket up, unable to meet Sterling's eyes.

“Good. Maybe I take your temperature now?”

Gilles kept his gaze fixed on Sterling's hands, their pale brown looking ghostly in the light that filtered in through the blinds. This connection, however sudden, was perfectly real. If Sterling meant him harm, he'd had a dozen opportunities to deal it.

“I supposed I haven't been entirely honest,” Sterling said, lifting a glass thermometer to Gilles’ lips. Gilles opened his mouth. “There is a reason I like you so much.” Sterling angled the thermometer in, slid it carefully over Gilles’ teeth. “It's because Hewitt likes you. I don't think you know how rare that is.”

With the thermometer in his mouth, Gilles could only look at Sterling curiously. Hewitt had only ever been friendly to him. Albeit his bit about vampires had been an unusual way to break the ice, but Gilles could take a joke.

Sterling settled back into his armchair, bracing his elbows on his knees. “He was making fun of you that day. He didn't expect you to get the joke, much less continue it.”

Silence stretched out between them for a long moment. Gilles muffled a few coughs behind his closed lips, tensing to keep the thermometer in place without shattering it.

For some reason, Sterling laughed and sat up. “No, of course that wouldn't offend you,” he said warmly. “Hewitt is a wonderful judge of character, but his criteria are a bit unorthodox. I'm glad you aren't offended.”

This was more words than Sterling had ever strung together before. It had to be some kind of record.

Gilles sighed through his nose and slumped against the couch cushions. His body heat had finally caught up to him again, but even the thought of letting the blanket slip was enough to make him tense up. His eyes wandered around the living room, though not much had changed since his arrival that morning. The same floral prints hung on the walls, the same furniture filled out the expanse of flooring that transitioned into the kitchen. Only the minutiae had changed, little things Sterling had brought. A glass of water and a pitcher stood on the coffee table beside a small stack of handkerchiefs. And on the couch, Gilles’ silk shirt had been replaced with a proper pillow in a black satin pillowcase. He smiled a little, tracing the lines of his initials on the corner. GB, in wobbly yellow embroidery floss. Adéle had been so uncharacteristically shy when she’d shown him.

“I hope you don't mind,” Sterling said. “Hewitt mentioned you'd been looking for your pillowcases.”

Gilles shook his head, checked himself, then nodded. That was no good; that didn't mean anything. He smiled instead, wearily.

Sterling got up. “Let's take a look at your temperature.”

“Mm.” Gilles took the thermometer out of his mouth and squinted at it. He'd never gotten the hang of translating numbers to English and his head was far too fuzzy to really apply himself to it. He passed the thermometer over to Sterling rather than speak.

“39.4,” Sterling said. He pressed his tongue beneath his lower lip, brow furrowing. “I suppose that's alright as long as you stay hydrated. And lucid.” He raised an eyebrow. “Are you lucid?”

“Yes,” Gilles said, and couldn't keep himself from adding, “unfortunately.” Speaking hurt his throat, but the pitcher on the table seemed… inert. Unsatisfactory.

For some reason, this made Sterling relax. “I was afraid you might be too stoic for your own good,” he said, and poured Gilles another glass of water. “What do you want to eat? Anything you want, I'll get it.”

Gilles looked at the water on the table. He'd have to get out of the blanket to pick it up, and it would be cold. And it would sit in his stomach, just sit there. Anything would. “I’m… not particularly hungry.” A few coughs forced their way up his throat.

“I know you're not,” Sterling said patiently, pushing the glass closer to Gilles. “You have a fever of 103. But I also know you haven't eaten since this morning. Just tell me what you think you can stomach.”

If Sterling knew what a particular torture this was, he didn't seem to care. Gilles only just resisted the urge to hide his face in his blanket. “I don't know… Coffee.”

“What else?”

“Nothing,” Gilles moaned, giving into his childish desire to not be seen. He tucked his head under the blanket and buried his face in his hands. Every instinct screamed at him to raise his head and apologize like an adult. Sterling was only trying to help, and he did need to eat.

“Can you be convinced?” Sterling asked after a beat.

“What?” Gilles raised his head. Sterling was looking at him with the same patient concern as always, no trace of annoyance in his face or posture.

“Can you be convinced?” Sterling asked. “Or would you like me to leave you alone?”

Gilles just stared at him. Thoughts came fast and shallow. Sterling… leaving? Not hungry. Shaking.

“You did tell me you were lucid,” Sterling reminded him, but with a small smile. Teasing.

“I know… I just— I can't really think.”

“That's the opposite of lucid.”

“I'm sorry.” Gilles closed his eyes. “I'm not trying to be difficult.”

“It's alright.” Sterling was quiet for a moment, shifting in his armchair. “What about hot chocolate?”

Well, it was better than anything Gilles could come up with. He opened his eyes, staring at Sterling's hands where they rested in his lap. “That would be fine.” God, he was like a prince sitting here, forcing Sterling to dote on him.

Of course, Sterling didn't see it that way. He only nodded and got up. “Good.”

—

Hewitt came in around the time that the taste of chocolate started to go sour on Gilles’ tongue. At least the warm liquid had warded off the worst of his chills, but, as he'd feared earlier, his stomach didn't appreciate the intrusion.

He kept hold of the mug, letting it warm his hands, and looked up at the sound of the door opening.

“Did you miss me?” Hewitt asked, flopping down in the armchair beside Sterling.

“Terribly,” Sterling said, but he kept his eyes on Gilles.

“Oh, yes, of course.” Gilles forced a wobbly smile to his lips and shifted, bending forward a little to try to control the nausea building in his belly. “Where were you?”

“Seeing Adonis’ friends home,” Hewitt said airily. “You slept right through their visit, you know.”

Gilles frowned. He had heard voices, hadn't he? The memories came murky and cold, disturbed by the pressure in his stomach.

“They helped move your things upstairs,” Hewitt continued.

Gilles ran his teeth over his bottom lip. “Please thank them for me…” He shifted again. The nausea was building, but slowly. He just couldn't… Couldn't get comfortable; it pushed on him. Hunching over had only helped for so long, but straightening up didn't really help either.

“We made your bed, if you'd like to go to sleep,” Sterling said after a pause.

They'd both been eyeing Gilles with varying degrees of concern and suspicion; their eyes burned on his skin.

Bed… That would be good. If only he could manage the trip up the stairs. His stomach wouldn't like it. Even just sitting up was nearly unbearable.

“Maybe… maybe in a moment.” Gilles shifted yet again and laced his hands over his stomach.

“You're terribly shy, you know,” Hewitt said. “If you tell us what's wrong, we can help. And you needn't be embarrassed. I told you, we never get sick. Looking after you is a bit of a novelty, to be honest.”

“Hewitt,” Sterling hissed.

They kept saying that, that there was no need to be embarrassed. Something in Gilles just couldn't believe it. All his ailments seemed so childlike, something he should have outgrown.

“Or you can keep your secrets,” Hewitt said. “But we didn't find anything particularly scandalous while we were looking for your bedding—”

“Hewitt.”

Gilles would have smiled if his stomach wasn't bothering him so much. The pressure seemed to have reached a peak, but he wasn't getting used to it at all, just stuck with the sensation of a hearthstone lodged firmly in his abdomen. Instinct took him and he doubled over, both arms wrapped around himself. “Sorry; I'm alright,” he said to ward off any words of concern. “I just… need a m-moment.”

“Now what's wrong with you?” Hewitt asked. “Are you dizzy?”

“It's really nothing. I get like this somet—” Gilles cut himself off with a hard swallow— “s-sometimes when I have a fever. My…” He bit his lip and released it. Why couldn't he just be normal? Why was this happening? “My stomach's a bit upset.”

“That can happen,” Sterling said. “Do you need to be sick?”

“I'd rather not.”

“But do you n—”

“No, Sterling.” Gilles grit his teeth and swallowed again, squeezing his eyes shut. “I'm sorry.”

“Sh, it's alright.”

“Do you ever get angry?”

“Oh, he does,” Hewitt chimed in. “Probably won't ever get angry at you, though.”

“Mm…” Who were these people? Gilles’ head spun, thoughts aimless and shallow. He might as well have been falling, picking up speed with every passing second. “I think I need to stay here,” he said. “I… I'll lie down properly in a moment, if— if you could just…” Words failed him then, and a terrible coughing fit jarred his ribs and his stomach, rattled his head.

“Yes,” Sterling said. His clothing raised against the fabric of the armchair as he stood. “We won't go far. Call us when you need us.”

Gilles didn't say a word.

#as usual my italics didnt copy over and im too lazy to fix it so just use your imagination #ethereous writes #ethereous ocs #gilles is my BABY

[ethereousdelirious]

I just spent like 2 hours working on a Carrd with some request guidelines only for the website to randomly lose all of it when I went to save it 🤨

Suffer, i guess

#ethereous speaks

[ethereousdelirious]

ANON HAHAHA

I swear I'm laughing with you hahaha for 3 seconds I was like "Oh my god what did I do"

Thank you for the prompt!

#ethereous speaks

[ethereousdelirious]

Partially re-opening requests!

If you send me some characters and a prompt from this list, I will do my best to write a request fill in a timely manner! I'm feeling optimistic about having regaining my Writing Groove, but I'm getting bored with all my own ideas

If you don't know what fandoms I write for, you can check my pinned. I will say I'm feeling Po.kémon (games) and Cri.tRole (Campaigns 1 & 2) the most at the moment, but I'm also trying to regain some self-discipline, so you can really go nuts

As always, anon is on and I will not write in.cest ships, anything with a big focus on m.inors, or anything that involves *most* unrelated k.inks/f.etishes 🍅

#honestly pls send me a request even if you dont care if i fill it 😭 i just need some ideas that arent my own #also the penatly for accidentally fucking up or sending me something i dont like is literally nothing #worst case scenario i just delete the ask #ethereous speaks #as far as the unrelated k.inks thing i know that's vague to the point of meaninglessness but like #im not gonna write snz b.dsm or like ag.e regression or o.morashi or whatever #not for puritanical reasons i just dont want to become the 'anything goes' guy. my pleasure is also a factor here haha

[ethereousdelirious]

sickness prompts send a prompt, get a drabble.

right as rain: [character] says they’re fine right before collapsing.

in plain sight: [character] does everything to hide their cold.

snoozeville: [character] falls asleep somewhere that isn’t their bed.

bed bargain: [character A] won’t stay in bed. [character B] convinces them.

please be okay: [character] isn’t feeling well, causing them to act differently.

conversationalist: [character] rambles in their sick state.   

shut up: [character] doesn’t want any reminders about being sick while they recover. 

so dramatic: [character] complains about their cold.

careful care: it’s hard for [character A] to accept help. [character B] knows which care methods are “acceptable”. 

speechless: [character] can’t talk because of a sore throat.

dreamer: [character] talks in their sleep.

vacancy: [character] forgets where they are.

oh no: [character] gets sick at the worst possible moment. 

by your side: [character] is sick and wants company.

whatever: [character] reluctantly accepts help. 

health bar: [character] doesn’t get sick? think again!

moo: [character] isn’t very sick and milks it anyway.

double trouble: [character] is sick and injured. 

manner minded: [character] remembers their good manners while sick. 

all about me: [character] loves the attention they receive while sick. 

error 404: [character] refuses to admit they’re sick.

got germs: [character A] and [character B] are sick.

play the part: [character] pretends to be sick.

but it’s true: [character] has been known to fake being sick, but this time they’re actually sick.

#this one

[ethereousdelirious]

Thank you to @imsorryithurts for getting me started on this path! I have compiled a list of goals for people who want to write in the way I described in the initial post.*

*(Again. I know we're on the "piss on the poor" website, so I want to make this very clear. This is first and foremost for ME. I want to write like this *sometimes.* I am not saying everyone should write like this. I am posting this for people who DO want to write like this.)

Okay, onward to the goals. This isn't a science and some of these overlap but yk. I still find them helpful.

1)Make a Good Impression/Impress Them/Don't Embarrass Myself

For meeting important figures (bosses, royality), going on dates (first or otherwise), anxious people who embarrass easily, spending time with colleagues, etc

2) Get the Job Done

For work situations, whatever they may be. Paperwork, standing in court, pulling off a heist, winning a sports game, construction. But also for voluntary tasks with outside pressure such as setting up a birthday party, selling raffle tickets, etc

3) Help Them/Take Care of Them

For scenarios where a friend (or stranger) needs help. Take the dog to the vet, help the friend through a breakup, babysit the kid, jumpstart the car, help the old lady with her groceries

4) Finish the Project

Like Get the Job Done, but regarding personal projects that are less likely to have outside consequences or ramifications. Perfect for stubborn sickies/whumpees. Read the book, bake the cake, sew the shirt

5) Give the Speech

Specifically describing scenarios where a character has to do something very public. Giving a speech, acting in a play, performing in a band, etc.

6) Watch the Show

When the character has bought tickets for something and is stuck watching it. A movie in a theater, a play, a circus performance, a music festival, etc

7) Win the Fight

Like an actual physical fight. Survive.

8) Reach the Destination

Walk to the phone while bleeding out, drive the car with a high fever, etc

9) Just Get Through This

Getting through friendly gatherings, low stakes hangouts, minor inconveniences (the bank, the DMV), errands, etc

Chronic overthinking moment but at the moment I'm turning over the idea of like. Idk if anyone calls it this, but story theory and sickfic. Storycraft?

I am always chasing my Ideal Sickfic and someday I would like to be good at just banging them out like it's nothing, and that requires the sort of deep thinking I'm doing now...

When I was writing for Sicktember, I made sure that my sick character always had A Goal. Which I think was a good start. But usually that goal was illness-related: "Hide my symptoms," "Don't pass out," etc. I think the next step is to give the character a goal that is impeded by or secondary to their illness.

And THAT'S the tricky part. I made that list of scenarios a while back, but a scenario is not the same as a goal. I was thinking about making a list of goals, and I still might, but I think what really makes a sickfic delicious is a tailored goal that really, REALLY suits the character.

I could write about my beloved boy W.illiam T S.pears rescuing a lost kitten while suffering from a head cold. I could do whatever I needed to do to sell that narrative to the audience. But it wouldn't HIT. He has nothing to do with kittens. The goal isn't custom-tailored, it just doesn't NOT fit.

So phase 2 of writing Things For Me That Appeal To Me (And Also To Other People Sometimes) is really training my imagination and ability to write when I don't feel like it, using the power of self-discipline and self-bribery with little candies.

Disclaimer: You can reblog this, but it's my own personal musings. I'm not trying to make any rules or guidelines for other people to follow.

#lmao you can watch me run out of steam as it goes on #anyway like i said a lot of these are very similar and only differentiated based on vibes #ethereous speaks

[ethereousdelirious]

It's that time again, friends! The mods have assembled a new list of fun prompts for the upcoming Sicktember season. As always, there will be 30 prompts and 5 Alternative Prompts.

We will use polls again this year to allow you some say in two of the prompts. The first one will be posted over the next few days The second will be posted mid-May.

The official September 2024 Prompt list will be posted on Saturday, June 15th and we can't wait to share it with you!

#LET'S GOOOOO #cant wait to see what my birthday prompt is this year

[ethereousdelirious]

Cute lil magic setting snezario: a character is cursed to sneeze whenever they try to talk to someone they have a crush on or confess their feelings and so on.

Could be something cast by a romantic rival, but it only ends up making them more endearing once they try to work past it. And maybe their crush even has the kink...

#SNEEZE HANAHAKI

[ethereousdelirious]

been thinking about this recently and trying to put it into words but

I just love stories (media or fics or otherwise) where sneezing is a pivotal part of the story, like is integral to the plot. Not to say that any story with its own plot and just incidental sneezes isn't good! For purely horny purposes tho, I just love the indulgence of "yes, characters sneezing is literally what drives the story forward", like the unabashed focus on the sneezes in such a meta way really does something for me idk 🥴

bonus points if it actually makes for a good story because threading that needle is tough lol, so many times things that are horny and indulgent are not technicallyremarkable (which to be fair can arill be enjoyable) but when sneeze IS the plot and it's GOOD?? It's like a magic trick.

#op do you have examples. do you have examples op. *very normal* do you ha

[ethereousdelirious]

i love when people talk about wanting to go back in time to give a medieval peasant takis or sprite, and watch them cough and writhe,, as if medieval cough syrup wouldn't cause a 2024 peasant to see ghosts

#okay but bleeding your partner could be the next big thing for the Cannibalism As Intimacy people

[ethereousdelirious]

Everything eventually comes back around, thank fuck

#gave one of my ocs the flu #hopefully this streak continues #and i can reopen requests #ethereous speaks