I’ve Been Thinking A Lot Lately About How Far I’ve Come And How Much Progress I’ve Made, And I

how to be a Disaster Gay™

The worse the explanation, the better.

I'm writing I promise but I got bit (hehe) with the sevika vampire bug and now I need a nap. Omegaverse may be posted after vampire bc it got a little out of hand wordcount wise, my bad.

Klancetober Day Three: Exploring Spooky Places 

*

“It’ll be fun!” Keith had said.

“It isn’t even that scary!” Keith had said.

“I bet it isn’t even haunted.” Keith had said.

And then they had watched a scary movie about people getting killed in abandoned houses, and here they were! In an abandoned house that all the other kids in their high school claimed was haunted. Kids were dared to go here to “prove their strength” during the month of October. Keith hadn’t dragged him there for that - no, his boyfriend was one of the crazies who believed in that stuff. Keith was hoping to find a ghost.

It had been two hours and all they had found was a bullfrog (Lance had leapt into Keith’s arms with a screech of terror, much to his own chagrin) and a few tattered sheets that had given Lance heart palpitations upon seeing them.

“We should go upstairs.” Keith says, breaking their silence to look up at the stairs.

“No,” Lance shoots that down quick. There was no way in hell they were falling through the stairs or giving their lives over to the axe murderer that was likely lurking in the shadows up there. “No, we should not.”

Keith looks vaguely disappointed, getting up from the floor and brushing the dust from his jeans. “Well, I’m going upstairs.”

“Keith!” The Cuban scrambles to his feet.

“You don’t have to come,” his boyfriend gives him a confident, cheeky little smirk. “I’ll be back in a little while.”

With a kiss and a wink, Keith leaves Lance in his stunned, terrified silence. The stairs creak, but he takes them two at a time, leaving Lance in the suffocating darkness. Oh. Okay. This was fine. He clutches the flashlight to his chest. The only sound in the room was the sharp intake of his breath.

In all reality, the place wasn’t so bad. It was a beautiful home, Victorian style and still furnished. The whole place was boarded up and covered in a thick layer of dust. But there was something… unsettling about the atmosphere. Maybe it was just Lance’s paranoia and anxiety, but he felt like he was being watched.

With each second that passed, his panic grew and his throat felt tighter and tighter. Keith was not back yet. It had to have been an hour. He checks his phone. No, it had only been ten minutes. Maybe his phone was just… really, really slow. Yeah. That was it.

Not a second later, Keith bursts down the stairs, dust flying up around him and the slats of wood under his feet screeching their protest. “Go!” He shrieks, grabbing Lance’s hand and dragging him behind.

Panic spikes and he takes off after Keith, adrenaline coursing through his veins. The two race through the undisturbed sitting room, down the long entryway, and through the front door. They don’t stop until they’re back on the long country road and gasping for breath.

“What… was that?” Lance wheezes, looking up at his wild eyed, dust covered boyfriend. “What did you see?”

Keith leans over, putting his hands on his knees and breathing deeply. He straightens only when he catches his breath, looking up at him. “It… It was a bat.”

“A… bat?” Lance stares him in disbelief. “You got scared by… a bat.”

“I thought it was a ghost!” Keith huffs.

They stare at each other for a long moment before a hysterical laugh bubbles up in Lance throat and he doubles over, laughing hard without really knowing why. It seems the hysteria is infectious, because Keith follows suit not long after.

“Can we go home?” The Cuban asks once he’d calmed, lightheaded and tired from the amount of emotion he’d endured for the past few minutes. “I want a shower. And my bed.”

“God, yes.” Keith sighs, reaching over and taking his hand. “Please.”

“You’re an idiot.” Lance informs him, affectionate. “And if you ever drag me back there again, I’m locking you in to deal with the dust and the bats all night.”

“That’s fair.” Keith laughs. “Well, at least we know it isn’t haunted now.”

The Cuban looks back at the house, at the tall structure boarded up and aging and rotting down to the ground. “Who knows,” he hums. “Maybe it is.”

Before he turns away, Lance could swear he saw a person wave to them from the balcony of the house.

Writing about a child rapist did not make Vladimir Nabokov a child rapist.

Writing about an authoritarian theocracy did not make Margaret Atwood an authoritarian theocrat.

Writing about adultery did not make Leo Tolstoy an adulterer.

Writing about a ghost did not make Toni Morrison a ghost.

Writing about a murderer did not make Fyodor Dostoevsky a murderer.

Writing about a teenage addict did not make Isabel Allende a teenage addict.

Writing about dragons and ice zombies did not make George R.R. Martin either of those things.

Writing about rich heiresses, socially awkward bachelors, and cougar widows did not make Jane Austen any of those things.

Writing about people who can control earthquakes did not make N.K. Jemisin able to control earthquakes.

Writing about your favorite characters and/or ships in situations that you choose does not make you a bad person.

It’s a shame that in this day and age these things need to be said.

Okay I lied, I wrote something and hella projected. 

*

The day was cold and drizzly, much like most of England’s autumn weather always was. The sky was grey, the streets were grey, the general mood about the usually bright and lively depths of Soho was grey, grey, grey. Monochrome and bland.

At least it looked that way to Aziraphale. 

He hadn’t opened the bookshop today. That wasn’t generally unusual, especially on the days that he particularly wanted to discourage people coming in and rifling through his books like untame, wild animals. (Honestly, the audacity of some of these people — picking through his beloved books as though they were things to be thrown away instead of appreciated like the treasures they are.) But today it wasn’t for those specific sorts of reasons. Today things were different. 

Today, Aziraphale had woken up with a sort of heaviness that came around once every so often, when he let his guard down and let things get a little too… good. His shoulders ached where his wings would’ve been if he let them. It took him more than two hours to drag himself from his bed to put the kettle on (Crowley had convinced him to sleep every once in awhile, in that sneaky tone he used when he talked Aziraphale into a late night snack or some adventure they were definitely Not Supposed to Do; “Come on, angel, it’ll be fun. Good on the back.”). 

He had protested adamantly at first, but then given in when Crowley had gotten that puppyish, determined look on his face.  (Aziraphale was weak to the wiles of his snake).

When he had settled in with a cup of tea, in his old armchair that had long since deserved to be put out of its misery, the angel noticed things felt… off. 

Simply put, he felt… disconnected from reality. That’s a silly thing to say, Aziraphale had thought to himself, after his tea had grown cold in his hand and the rain had picked up outside. But he couldn’t help but think it was true. After all, it had been hours since he’d made his tea, and it felt like only a matter of moments. Funny how time flew by.

Aziraphale had a list of things to do today — all of which had been forgotten up until the concept of time had been remembered — that absolutely were not going to get done. He had a distant, disjointed feeling of panic about this, but it didn’t pierce through the grey, grey fog that seemed to cling to the angel with a dull sort of determination.

In fact, nothing seemed to get through that fog until a familiar voice filtered up from the bottom of the stairs leading to his flat. 

“Angel?” Crowley calls, poking his head into the apartment and looking around. He seemed to be panicked, Aziraphale noticed with a slight twinge. Had they made plans? Had he forgotten? He couldn’t seem to muster the strength to remember.

“In here, love.” He calls, his voice soft and a little rough from the silence he’d sat in. 

Crowley’s gaze snaps to the armchair, and some of the tension melts from his angular shoulders. “There you are. I waited downstairs for a half hour, I’ll have you know. And you’re always fussing at me about being on time.” 

Logically, Aziraphale knew he was only teasing. Crowley always teased, and he had a reasonable excuse to be miffed at the angel. But somehow, that seemed to cut through the shroud of melancholy that had clung to him from the beginning of the day. A sick, sharp sort of feeling stabbed into him, flashing through his entire body and making him feel sick to his stomach. Tears spring to his eyes and he pushes himself to his feet, suddenly overcome with the need to make this better, make this right again. 

Some nasty voice in his head whispered to him, ugly words that had always lived in him, but had been pressed down and held at bay for many years. 

See what you’ve done? they whispered, adding anxiety to the spike of sickness. He’s angry, now. You’ve made him angry, and he’s going to leave, and you’re never going to see him again. He’ll find a better person to be around, someone more agreeable, someone who doesn’t needle and prod and criticize. 

And just this once, Aziraphale believed them.

He began to rush about, realizing he was still in his sleep clothes and realizing all he wanted to do was curl up and sob and sob and sob until this feeling went away. “I’m sorry, the time got away from me- I’ll clean up, give me five minutes and I-I’ll…”

“Woah,” Crowley steps forward, catching him by the arm. “Angel, hey. I’m not upset, I was only teasing. Calm down, we can reschedule.”

“I’m sorry,” the angel hiccups, ducking his head, suddenly afraid to look Crowley in the eyes and see his own disgust reflected back at him. He wrings his hands, full of anxious energy as all his emotions began to catch up with him again. “I don’t know what happened, I…”

“Hey,” the demon tilts his chin up, and instead of disgust, Aziraphale finds soft concern. 

It breaks him, and a sob manages to choke him before he realizes it was even coming.

“Oh, angel…” Crowley croons, pulling him against his chest and cupping the back of his head, cradling his face against his neck. 

Aziraphale cries, holding onto his jacket as all the tension and emotion and grey bled out of him along with his tears. The demons holds his angel through it all, making shushing noises and nuzzling his hair, swaying from side to side in a soothing motion that slowly begins to calm him down. 

“We can go to dinner another time,” Crowley murmurs against his hair, rubbing his back. “We have all the time in the world, Aziraphale. Just you and I.”

Warmth blooms in the angels chest. He squeezes his eyes shut, taking a shaky breath and allowing himself to relax. “Okay,” He whispers. 

“Why don’t we go put on the kettle and start a fire in that old fireplace, mm? Come on. Cozy night in, just you and I.”

As Aziraphale is led away, his hand in the demon’s, he starts to feel the fog slip away from his mind, replaced with warm company and distraction. Crowley had him smiling again, and the knots in his chest easing. Things were getting better already.

Outside, the sun shines through the clouds.

Drinking Buddies

Hey all! I've re-joined a fandom that is near and dear to my heart and I wanted to write something for all of these lovely people. Welcome to Good Omens!!

I'll be taking a break from Voltron for the time being, I need a change in scenery. Sorry to all those who are here specifically for that!

Without further ado; please join me and some drunk demons.

*

It was the one time a year where Heaven grouped together as a congregation to have their annual Great Plan meeting, where everyone was briefed on the vague idea of what could be happening in the coming year. Nobody was quite sure what to do now that the Apocalypse…. Hadn’t happened. Thus the vague meetings.

It was also the one time a year that Gabriel and Aziraphale dropped their respective demon partners at a bar and left them to their own devices for a few hours.

Despite popular belief, Crowley and Beelzebub got along quite well when there was alcohol involved. On this one day, they were reluctant friends instead of boss and subordinate. It was nice to have a change. Besides, it was also one of the only days that the Prince herself actually banished her flies and ran a comb through her messy hair, all for the sake of a few hours.

“Your Angel left you, too?” Crowley asks after they’d both gotten their drinks and sat in respective awkward silence for a few minutes.

Beelzebub scowls at her drink, a little more intensely than usual. “Yezzz. He’zzz running the damn thing.”

“You should’ve convinced him to cancel.” The snake scoffs, sipping his wine and glancing at the door. Twenty minutes in. This was going to last an eternity.

“I tried! He told me to buzzz off. Bloody angels and their bloody meetings.”

“Amen to that,” Crowley mumbles into his drink, ignoring the dirty look that earned him. Maybe he was picking up a few too many of Aziraphale’s linguistic habits. “So how is Hell doing, after you-know-what?”

“It’s more Hellish than usual, no thanks to you.” She scoffs. “Incredibly hot. Chaotic.”

“You should come and visit Earth more often, you might like it.”

Beelzebub rolls her eyes, knocking back the last of her drink and flagging over the bartender. “You sound like Gabriel.”

He makes a face, shaking his head. “Eugh, I make it a habit not to sound anything like him. Please don’t insult me like that.”

The Prince gives him a smug smile. “You dezzerve to be knocked down a few pegzz.”

Crowley ignores that. “Seriously, Beelzebub, your terrible Highness — coming up here may do you some good. You can… air out, as it were.”

“I quite like my office.” She says dryly, glancing up as the bartender pours her another drink. “It’zz familiar.”

“You’re festering.” He grins.

“I will not hezzitate to throw my drink on you, Crawley.”

“My name is Crowley,” the demon hisses, his yellow eyes flashing.

Beelzebub grins, tilting her head. “That’zz what I said.”

He considers her a moment, his eyes narrowing. Then he sighs heavily, shaking his head and turning back to his drink. “You’re still insufferable, I see.”

“The best of us never change.” She waves a hand. “How izz that Angel of yourzz?”

Crowley pauses, a dopey smile spreading over his lips at the thought of his Angel. Ah, Aziraphale… “He’s… He’s wonderful.”

“Dizzgusting.” She says flippantly.

The smile vanishes, replaced with an irritated scowl. That seemed to be a constant when he was in the Lord of the Flies’s presence. “And what about yours?”

“What, are you expecting me to get all mushy?”

“No, of course not.” He scoffs. “The Prince herself showing emotions? Preposterous. You don’t have a mushy bone in your body, Bee.”

“If I even have bones.” She says absently.

“If you even have bones,” he agrees. “But no, really, how is the Archangel Fucking Gabriel?”

The Prince cackles, throwing back her head. “He’s an azzhole! Juzzt like normal.”

“I never expected anything less.” Crowley rolls his eyes. How Aziraphale had put up with him for so long was a mystery to him — and it was an even bigger mystery how Beelzebub didn’t smite Gabriel where he stood every time he opened his mouth. Perhaps she was just attracted to rude dumbasses.

“He’s quite good in the bedroom, too.” She says, eyeing a couple in the corner who were making out like they would die if they didn’t spend their time swapping spit in a bar.

Crowley short circuits, the breath leaving his corporeal form. Then he smacks his hand on the counter with a triumphant, “I knew it!”

She gives him a flat look, but there was a hint of color creeping up on her sallow cheeks. “What? Did you place betzz?”

“Yes.” He nods. “I believe I won. My dear Angel owes me.”

“Azz if you two aren't fucking.” Beelzebub grumbles into her glass, glowering at him.

“In my defence,” Crowley holds up a finger. “It most definitely is not as frequent as you and Gabriel.”

“So that’zz your problem!” She grins, jabbing him with a bony finger. “You need to get laid.”

“He’s quite soft, he doesn’t do well with frequent, er… activity.” He quips, shaking his head.

“Your job is temptation, right?”

“Well, sure.”

“Then tempt him, you idiot!”

“But…” Crowley entertains this thought a moment, then makes a face. “But he’s so soft…”

“A little too zzoft, if you ask me.” Beelzebub rolls her eyes.

“He’s an Angel!” He scowls. “They’re soft by disposition!”

“No, I think yourzz is juzzt a zzpecial case.” She rolls her eyes, her finger tracing over the rim of her glass. “I must’ve mizzed that model.”

“Gabriel was just designed to be an ass.” Crowley huffs.

The Prince’s eyes go a bit hazy, and quite possibly… dreamy? “He does have a nice azz.”

“Oooh… was that an emotion?” The demon gasps in mock surprise. “Does the great Lord Beelzebub have feelings?”

She scowls into her drink. “Zzilence, imbecile.”

“I’m impressed,” he coos, leaning forward and looking over his glasses at her, eyes dancing with mischief. “Are you going soft, Bee?”

“I’ll zzmite you.” She says flatly, eyeing him.

“I’m already damned.” He snorts, leaning back and picking up his drink again.

“You’re a damned fool, that’zz what you are.”

“Perhaps,” he muses, looking up at the TV in the corner, following the sport with hazy eyes.

“I don’t see how Aziraphale puts up with you.”

He glares at her. “He — He loves me, thank you very much. He’s a very good individual.”

“How quaint.” Beelzebub drawls, rolling her eyes.

Crowley eyes her shrewdly, pursing his lips. Then he huffs. “Tell me about your Gabriel.”

The Prince, who had been taking a sip of her drink, chokes and splutters with a fantastic lack of grace. She wipes her mouth on her sleeve, giving him a deer-in-the-headlights look. “What aboutmy — my Gabriel.”

The demon grins lazily, lifting a shoulder in a half shrug. “I don’t know, anything.”

“Are you asking about my zz— my sex life?” She buzzes, concentrating on her words, metaphorical hackles raised.

“Heavens, no!” Crowley cackles. “I couldn’t care less what you get up to in the bedroom. What I mean is,” he wiggles his eyebrows. “Does he make you feel warm and fuzzy, your highness?”

“What?!” She squawks, flushing darkly, her gaze darting around. “No! Of course not!”

“I’m only kidding, relax.” He laughs. There was no need to suffer the wrath of one of Hell’s finest. “But really, what’s it like? Do you get along?”

“We get along well enough.” The Prince offers reluctantly. “He’s quite affectionate.”

“Is he?” That was hard to believe.

“Oh, yezz.” She nods, chewing on her lower lip. “Alwayzz wanting to touch me. He likes teazzing, too. The brat.”

That was shocking. Beelzebub was a prickly little thing. Many a demon had lost fingers for even brushing against her accidentally. “Is that so?” He muses, then gives her a wicked grin. “I’ll bet you love it.”

“You can’t prove that.” She says hotly into her drink.

He snorts. “No, suppose I can’t. Does he come into Hell to see you or do you go Upstairs?”

“What, you think I’d go up to that blasted place?” She scowls. “He comes to me. As he should.”

“How odd,” Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Gabriel doesn’t seem to be the type to come to Hell willingly.”

“He’zz quite willing when I’m through with him.” Beelzebub chuckles. “Angels are rather good bottomzz, aren’t they? Or does your Aziraphale step up?”

“What?” The demon laughs. “No, he doesn’t have an ounce of dominance in him! Although he is quite loud.”

“Yours is loud? Unfair.” She whines.

“It took some coaxing,” Crowley says smugly, unable to help feeling a tad superior. “But it was worth the effort.”

“I’ll take that into conzzideration.” She muses. “Although Gabriel isn’t as zzoft as your Angel.”

“Yes, Aziraphale is quite a soft boy.” He says fondly.

“Gabriel is a little piece of shit boy.” Beelzebub groans. “Speaking of — they should’ve been done by now. What’zz taking zzo long?”

“I don’t know.” He wrinkles his nose. “Maybe they’ll be here soon.”

“They better be.” The Prince mutters, squinting at the clock.

*

Aziraphale and Gabriel walked into the bar they had left their Demons in to find them drunk and getting along… alarmingly well.

“An’ then I said… I said…” Crowley was slurring. He looks up just in time to lose his train of thought and brightens, looking more like an excited puppy than a fearsome demon. “Aziraphale!”

“Heeeeey — it’zz the piece of shit boy!” Beelzebub crows, in a loud and loose fashion that was definitely nothing like her usual disposition.

“Oh, dear,” says Aziraphale, “they’re quite drunk.”

“Wonderful,” Gabriel says, his expression pinched.

“What did you get into, love?” Aziraphale asks fondly, walking over and steadying Crowley when he reaches for his Angel.

“Nothin’.” He gives him a dopey grin, his eyes shining from behind his glasses, which were knocked askew.

“Gabriel!” The Prince snaps. “Get your bitch azz over here!”

“There’s no need to be rude, Beelzebub.” The Archangel sighs, walking over to his own mess of a demon.

Crowley was looking up at Aziraphale like he’d hung the bloody moon, a dopey, drunken smile on his lips. The Angel chuckles softly, cupping his face and brushing his thumbs over his cheeks lovingly. “I think you’re quite drunk, my love.”

“Psshhh,” Crowley wobbles in his seat, waving a hand and accidentally swatting Aziraphale. “Naw… Jus’ a lil — hic — a lil…” He trails off, getting distracted by the smattering of freckles across the Angel’s nose. “Hmm…”

Meanwhile, Gabriel was in a similar position, trying to persuade Beelzebub it was time to go home as well.

“You alwayzzzzz… alwayzzz ruin my fun,” she pouts up at her Angel, her dark eyes bleary and her cheeks flushed from drink.

“I believe you have plenty of fun on your own, Bee.” He sighs, prying her off the barstool and slinging her over his shoulder. “Come on. Bedtime.”

“See you next year, Gabriel,” Aziraphale calls after them. “And, er… Good luck.”

“Thanks.” He sighs over the Prince’s drunken giggling. “You as well.”

The Angel turns his attention back to Crowley, who’s eyelids were slipping shut as he sagged against the counter. Aziraphale pays the tab, adding a hefty tip for the troubles the demons likely caused.

“Come on, my love,” he says as he helps his demon off the barstool. “Until next year.”

“Next year…” Crowley agrees, stumbling along as his Angel takes him home to tuck him into bed and nurse his impending hangover away.

how to trick writers into giving you more fanfic to read

Are you ever reading a completed fanfic, and then you notice how a chapter in particular ends on a gigantic fucking cliffhanger, like the mother of all cliffhangers, and you need to take a moment to remember all those people that read this when it was still a work in progress. RIP friends

ITS ME

hashtag animashun

Perhaps…a sick fic?

Hello darling!! Just for you <3

Sevika was… horrible when she was sick. 

Meaning when the woman got sick, she simply - pretended she was not sick. She didn’t have a fever, she didn’t see two of whoever was in front of her, she wasn’t puking, she wasn’t coughing. None of it. Because, as she continues to try and convince herself over her many years of life, if you ignored it then it wasn’t there. 

“I think you’re sick, Sev,” Vi says worriedly, on the morning Sevika wakes up feeling like hell frozen over. 

Stuffy nose. Sore throat. Bleary eyes, the throbbing promise of a migraine - and her skin hurt. Clearly there was only one answer to this. 

“It’s just allergies,” Sevika says. Nevermind the fact it comes out aller-geese because of her stuffy nose. Due to the allergies. Obviously. 

Vi’s eyebrows shoot up. She reaches out to press her hand to Sevika’s forehead, and Sevika ducks away. 

“Sevika,” Vi starts, her voice chastising, falling into the familiar I’m-An-Older-Sister tone that had worked on her little sister many years ago. 

“Vi,” Sevika says, in her I’m-Silco’s-Right-Hand voice she used to this day, except more nasally. Because of the allergies. 

Vi crosses her arms over her chest, and Sevika can feel her irritated gaze as she shuffles around the room at a snails pace, getting ready for her day. She pointedly does not look at Vi. 

“You should stay home,” Vi was following her around the house as she ignores the pressure building in her temples and tries to pull things together for her day. 

“No.” Sevika grunts, then coughs a little. “S’just allergies.”

“Baby,” Vi pulls out that sweet voice that always got Sevika, and she squints, looking back at… two Violets. 

“Stop it.” She says to the one flickering in her vision, then ambles away to pull her shoes on. For some reason (the allergies), it knocks the wind right out of her. She braces a hand on the wall, panting softly, then straightens up immediately when Vi rounds the corner with an accusing glare. 

“Sevika,” Vi says, sharply, and Sevika grabs her things and walks right out the door. 

“Silco’s gonna send you right home!” Vi yells after her from the doorway. 

Sevika waves a hand. “It’s just allergies!”

***

The allergies get so much worse. 

So much so, it has Silco casting worried looks at his right hand every so often. 

“Stop it,” she tells him, with as much irritation as she had given Vi. “It’s just allergies.”

“Allergies do not usually constitute a fever, Sevika.” Silco frowns. 

“I do not have a fever.” Sevika grunts, then hacks a little into her fist. 

Silco pulls a face. “Sevika.”

Sevika ignores Silco and instead goes to find something else to do that didn’t include being lectured over allergies, of all things. She wasn’t sick. 

Unfortunately for her, Silco comes to find her a little while later, expression pinched. 

“Go home,” he tells her. 

Sevika glowers at the task she was completing, pretending not to hear him. It wasn’t really that hard, considering one of her ears was plugged. 

“Sevika, go home.”

“You sound like Vi,” she grumbles at him, petulant, feeling suddenly very whiny. “I don’t want to go home.”

Silco’s eyebrows shoot up. “Okay. Well. I don’t want everyone getting sick. So you have the next two days off. Don’t come back until you’re better.”

Sevika lifts her head to glare in his… approximate direction. “I’m not sick.”

“Sure. Fine. Go home, Sevika. Take care of your… allergies. Then you can come back.”

Sevika goes back to what she was doing, pretending not to hear him. 

Silco taps his foot. “Do not make me call Violet.”

Sevika drops what she’s doing with a loud, petulant sigh, and breaks into a coughing fit. 

…Maybe she should go home.

***

When Sevika trudges in the door, she’s greeted with the smell of soup and the sound of soft music. She blinks tiredly, then bends to tug her shoes off, smacking her elbow on the wall with a whiny grunt.

“Sev? Is that you?” Vi pokes her head around the corner, then softens. “Hey, baby… you okay?”

“Silco sent me home,” Sevika was pouting.

Vi softens, amusement dancing in her eyes. She steps over, crouching to tug off her boots, one at a time. She sets them aside and stands, reaching up to check Sevika’s temp. “Hm. That bastard. Come sit, babe.”

“Bastard…” Sevika mutters in agreement, sniffing thickly and letting Vi take her hand. 

She’s led to the living room, where Vi had made up the couch into something Sevika was convinced was maybe a slice of heaven. Warm blankets, a million pillows, a box of tissues, a spot for Vi to sit and play with her hair. 

“Wow,” she breathes, eyes wide. “All this for allergies?”

Vi was fighting a laugh. “I - yes. Yes. Sit, Sev, let me get you some soup. And some medicine.”

“Okay,” Sevika sighs, nearly falling into the little nest that had been made for her, snuggling in with a soft groan. Her skin sings a little at the comfort of it all. She’s dozing by the time Vi returns with a cup of hearty soup. 

Vi doesn’t even bat an eye, though; she sits and props Sevika up against her, pillows supporting her back and neck. “Here, medicine first. Tastes bad, sorry babe.”

Sevika wrinkles her nose, but dutifully swallows what she’d been given. Her throat was even more sore now. The soup feels amazing on it, though, and she eats everything Vi offers her. Vi makes sure she’s comfy before she tugs the blankets up around her, fingers slipping through her hair gently. 

Sevika melts into it, closing her eyes and sniffing thickly. “Hey, Vi?” She mumbles when she’s on the verge of a doze.

“Mm?” Vi’s fingers brush over sore temples, soothing. 

“I think I’m sick.” Sevika mumbles, already slipping into sleep. 

“Oh wow,” Vi’s laughter echoes in her voice as she tries to stifle it to not wake her. “Really?”

“Yeah…” Sevika’s sigh is punctuated with a soft whine. 

“I’ll take care of you, baby. You rest.” 

“Mm’okay. Thanks…” Sevika mumbles as she finally gives in to what was, most definitely, not allergies.