#me seeing tiny things that bother me in the icons and fighting the urge to fix them

[savedpeople]

makes like 10 icons out of one pic and calls it a day

[milkacchan]

Midoriya, Izuku, Deku.

A fic in which Katsuki Bakugou falls in love with Izuku but of course, nothing good ever lasts. Especially when someone is cheating. 

TW// Cheating, Nsfw, blow job, Self hate :)

•••••

Katsuki hadn’t always been kind to Deku. 

The nickname told that. A nickname long forgotten, last used in 2nd year. 

He was crude and cruel. He tore him down when they were kids for the sake of security. Feeling better. 

But as they grew older Katsuki Matured. They both did- and Midoryia stayed by his side. And Katsuki pushed his denial to the side and finally admitted that maybe Midoryia wasn’t /just/ a friend. 

And somehow, Katsuki wasn’t sure how, he’d managed to secure his hold on Izuku. Izuku was his, finally. 

And fuck. Fuck he tried so hard to be better. He tried so hard. 

Whatever he could to be better. He wanted to be Izuku's reason to smile. He wanted to make up for everything he’d done to the boy in the past. He apologized whenever he could. When Izuku laid his head on Katsukis chest and fingers threaded through green hair, he’d whisper apologizes and promises for the future he was sure he could keep. 

He was still a hot head, he still had a temper and a foul mouth, but he was learning how to manage his anger in a more efficient way. Izuku still seemed to like the kick he offered when it came to his temper. 

Izuku made him happy. Izuku made him /want/ to be better. Izuku made him feel at home. He was so utterly in love with the boy- he pushed away all his doubts and scares that he’d leave. He didn’t want him to go. And he wouldn’t. They were happy. 

At least that's what he thought. 

He missed the smiles and glances Ochako and Izuku shared. He missed (rather ignored) the secrecy Izuku displayed. He missed every red flag there. 

And it hurt when he walked into the apartment to see his boyfriend balls deep in the brunette's mouth, head back, mouth open, too lost in his own bliss to notice that his blonde boyfriend. 

Midoriya looked content. He looked happy with ochako settled between his legs, taking each tiny rut of his hips without problem

He looked content knowing that Katsuki wasn’t there.Thinking that Katsuki wasn’t there. 

Emotion bubbled up in Katsukis chest. He should’ve known this would happen. He should’ve known that Midoriya wouldn’t be happy with him. He should’ve known that he wasn't enough. 

The flowers in his hand fell in front of him, so did the small package in his hand. Midoriyas head snapped up and his eyes widened. 

“Ka-Kacchan.” 

“Don’t stop on my account.” He growled. “I didn’t mean to take away from your fuck time.” 

“It’s not- baby, it’s not what it looks like,” Midoriya pleaded, stumbling to stand and pull his pants up. 

“Save it. I really don’t care.” He mumbled, readjusting his coat and heading for the door. Midoriya didn’t have a chance to say anything else before Katsuki was gone. 

He didn’t stop. He walked down the stairs and the front lobby, past the bellman who gave him a small ave, a gesture Katsuki returned with a nod. He walked past the orange glowing lamps that adorned the side of the street. He walked past neon signs and posters. Past brick walls and closed buildings. 

He walked until he got to a familiar spot, one he didn’t want to be at. One that pulled at his heart and made him feel sick. 

He scowled, digging through his pocket until he found his phone. 

Midoriya had called of course- plenty of times. He’d ignored the buzzing in his pocket though. He opened the small thing, opening his messages. He didn’t have to scroll to find who he was looking for, after all they texted everyday. Small reminders or updates. Telling each other how they were doing, they were friends. That's what they were supposed to do. 

His thumb didn’t hesitate to click the phone icon next to the name. But as it rang he debated whether or not he should hang up. It was late, he could be asleep. Or he wouldn’t want to be bothered. He felt sick again, nauseous and lightheaded. Everything around him was hot and he could feel his legs fighting to give out. 

“Kasuki!” A voice from the other line shouted, pulling the blonde from his daze. 

“Kiri,” he breathed, wincing at the way his voice was threatening to shake. God his throat hurt. 

“You okay man? You never call if you can avoid it. You zoned out a little too,” 

Katsuki paused. 

“Katsuki, bro what's going on?’

“Kiri, he cheated on me.” He mumbled, leaning against the wall behind him. “I walked in on him balls deep inside Ockakos mouth. He didn’t ever hear me come in.” 

“Where are you?” 

“Akiterus spot.” 

“O-Okay, I’m going to come get you. We’ll go back to my place and we’ll figure it all out, okay?” 

“‘Kay.” He whispered. He dropped the phone from his ear, ending the call. He dropped his head back to rest against the wall and closed his eyes. He fought the tears that threated to bubble over, his fought the burn in his throat, he fought the urge to yell and hit something. 

He just stood there, eyes closed, listening to the world around him. To the crickets singing, to the grass dancing and brushing in the wind, the wind whispering sweet nothing in his ear. 

Then to the car engine sound in front of him. Course it wouldn’t take him long to reach Katsuki. 

He slowly lifted his head. Kiri was already out of the car, walking over, concern written all over his face. 

They didn’t speak. Kirishima opened his arms and Katsuki let himself rest against the others shoulders. He held his shirt weakly, cheek squished against his shoulder, gaze locked onto a nearby bush. 

“Lets go, yeah?” Kiri whispered after a few moments and Katsuki could only nod.

The rest of it felt like a bad dream in all reality. 

The two got home, Katsuki sat at the table as food was placed in front of him. Kiri had confiscated Katsukis phone, opting to turn it off and set it in the corner of the counter. Too many Midoriya calls. 

And Kasuki cried. He put his head in his hands and he cried as his best friend watched from the otherside of the table. 

He cried over the fact that he wasn’t good enough. He cried over Midoriya knowing that. He cried because he let Midoriya in. He cried because after putting faith and trust into the person he loved, he was ripped apart just like he’d done to the other in the past. 

He deserved it, he told Kiri. He knew he did. After everything he's done to Midoryia this was only fair. He had no right to be upset. Not really. 

Kirishima was quick to dismiss those, however, lifting his friend's face and looking him in the eye, telling him just how wrong he was to think that. 

When Katsuki woke up the next morning, he felt no better. His head pounded and he was reminded of what had transpired the previous night. He’d stayed off his phone that day, opting to use Kiris phone to call his mother and tell her what happened. 

He played it off that he was fine, but she knew better of course. She knew her son better than anyone. He was hurt. 

“You know,” Kiri started, looking up at Katsuki from his plate. “You’re welcome to move in. We had talked about it before. We split rent and utilities. Sero usually pays for the groceries.” 

“Where is he, anyway,” He mumbled. 

“Visiting his mother. He’ll be gone for another week.”

“I don’t want to get in your way. It’s enough that I stayed here last night.” Katsuki took another bite. 

Though it didn’t take much convincing for him to agree to moving in. He didn’t want to go back. He didn’t want to look at the walls or the bed he shared with Deku. He didn’t want to see the counter they’d kissed on, or the table he’d bent Deku over on. 

The couch they’d crash on when they got too drunk to make it to bed. The couch he was cheated on. 

When he turned his phone on the next day, it froze from all the texts that came through. The missed calls and voicemails that littered. 

He sent Deku one text. 

‘I’ll be over to get my stuff today at 4. Make sure you’re gone.’ 

He set his phone down and sighed. 

He wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t fucking good enough. All that work, all that management and flowers- all the time made, the fucking ring- none of it mattered because he’d never be good enough. 

He’d always be the second choice, the inferior one, the loud mouth with anger issues and Deku made sure Katsuki knew that. 

From Deku: “Please Kacchan, just hear me out. Don’t leave.” 

Read 10:01 am

[dvp95]

quiet on widow’s peak (9)

pairing: dan howell/phil lester, pj liguori/sophie newton/chris kendall rating: teen & up tags: paranormal investigator, mystery, online friendship, slow burn, strangers to lovers, nonbinary character, trans character, background poly, phil does some buzzfeed unsolved shit and dan is a fan word count: 3.1k (this chapter), 29.6k (total) summary: Phil’s got a list of paranormal experiences a mile long that he likes to share with the world. Abandoned buildings, cemeteries, and ghost stories have always called his name, and a particular fan of his has a really, really good ghost story.

read this chapter on ao3 or here!

The sleep Phil has is restless and patchy. He wakes up so many times, spikes of panic cutting through the calm as he tries to remember where he is and who's breathing next to him. Dan is either a very heavy sleeper or very good at pretending to sleep, because Phil jerking awake never makes them stir.

It's a comfort, to look at Dan and see their blurry face slack with a peacefulness that wasn't there all night, but Phil doesn't do it for too long. Watching someone sleep is the pinnacle of creepiness. He just looks for a couple of seconds until his heart rate slows back down and he can roll onto his side. He faces away from Dan so he isn't tempted to keep looking at them, staring at the boring wall instead and waiting for sleep to momentarily take him again.

He's still tired when he wakes up properly to Dan tossing and turning, but he decides that's his cue to be awake.

"Hey," he murmurs, reaching for Dan's hand. He squints, but he can't tell if Dan is having a nightmare or if they're awake without getting even closer to their face. "It's okay. You're okay."

Dan takes a deep, shuddering sort of breath and cradles Phil's hand in both of their own. It's like they're afraid he's going to let go. "Sorry, fuck."

"You've got nothing to be sorry for," says Phil. His stomach is doing a weird twisty thing at the sound of Dan's voice all husky with sleep. As long as he acts normal, it's fine, right? It's hard to convince himself of that when Dan's hands are pressed to his own and making him feel impossibly small. "How did you sleep?"

"I mostly slept fine," Dan says, and Phil nods like he didn't already know that.

"Good. You needed it."

For a moment, Dan is quiet. Then, they shuffle onto their side so they can properly face Phil, who has to fight the urge to hide away from their gaze. It's a good thing that he can't see the depth and warmth and sparkle of Dan's eyes without his glasses on.

"You didn't sleep very well," they say like it's a fact. Phil doesn't bother trying to deny it, he just shrugs. "You could have woken me up."

"Why would I do that?" Phil asks, puzzled by the offer.

Dan smiles, and Phil reaches for his glasses. He feels so vulnerable without them, and the sensation of not being able to see the way Dan is smiling while Dan can probably read every tiny emotion on his face is anxiety-inducing.

He leaves his other hand in Dan's. Maybe it would be easier if he just let go, but he finds that he doesn't want to.

The world comes into focus, and Phil blinks over at Dan like it's his first time seeing them. They look so different with their lashes clumped together and lines creased into their soft cheeks by the pillow. Curls are in complete disarray, and Phil presses his fingers into his palm so he doesn't try to brush the frizzy, unruly mess off Dan's forehead. Their smile doesn't fade when Phil just kind of stares - if anything, it gets even wider.

"You stayed with me all night," says Dan. Their tone is dry, but Phil imagines there's not a small amount of sincerity behind it. "You didn't have to, like, be alone."

Alone isn't something Phil had felt at all. Dan's steady breathing and the warmth of them emanating from their core even when they weren't touching were the only things keeping Phil grounded every time he woke with a start. He doesn't know how to say that to this person he barely knows, though, wouldn't know how to say something so open to most of the people in his life, so he just chuckles.

"No use in neither of us getting any sleep," he points out.

Dan is very warm, and Phil can feel his palm starting to get sweaty where it's trapped between both of theirs. He makes an apologetic face and pulls his hand back, patting it on his flannel pyjamas. Dan doesn't seem bothered by the lack of contact, but they also don't seem relieved - Phil can't tell what they're thinking at all, if he's honest.

"So," says Dan. "Where do we go from here?"

Before Phil can even think about it, he echoes the question in falsetto. It's louder and more obnoxious than he intends it to be. He swings his legs out of bed and reaches for his phone on the nightstand to try and hide a blush. "Uh, we go eat breakfast. Lunch, I guess."

"You lied," Dan says to his back. "You are always thinking about Buffy."

"Not always," Phil says weakly.

"Often enough."

"Once More With Feeling bypasses my brain entirely. It's just a primal call and response to anyone as obsessed with the show as teenage me was."

"I've never seen the show the whole way through," says Dan. "But Buffy is a style icon of mine."

Phil's tired brain offers him a half dozen mental images of Dan in various Buffy outfits before he shakes his head to try and clear it. He's never been particularly interested in boys wearing girls' clothes, but the concepts of gender identity and presentation are so blurry when it comes to Dan that he's going to have to rethink that position. They're not 'girls' clothes' on Dan. Maybe there's no such thing as 'girls' clothes' at all.

It's too early in the day for a deep dive on his own perceptions of gender, though. He thinks that sort of existentialism can wait until after his second or third coffee.

--

Phil's parents eat lunch with them and do their best to make small talk, but only Chris is On enough to properly converse with them. At Phil's umpteenth 'huh' of the early afternoon, they give up entirely and migrate to the lounge to watch tv.

For a long few seconds, the kitchen table is quiet. Then, Dan stands and starts to clear everyone's plates.

"You don't have to do that," Phil says, feeling a bit embarrassed.

"I need to do something with my hands or I'll lose the plot," says Dan. They dump the dishes carefully in the sink and start running water. Having their back to the group seems to give them the courage to add, "I don't have all my meds with me. I didn't exactly expect to be out all night."

"What d'you take?" Chris asks.

"Little fucking nosy of you," says PJ.

"Well, one of us might have what he needs, love. I'm not just asking for the hell of it."

Phil feels a bit like his mum has possessed him when he clicks his tongue disapprovingly. "You really shouldn't share medication," he says when Chris gives him a look.

It makes Dan laugh, anyway, so Phil feels like he's done something right. They still don't turn around, just washing everybody's dishes and looking so weirdly at home in Phil's clothes, Phil's old kitchen. Phil doesn't realise he's staring at their back until someone kicks him under the table.

"Earth to Phil," Chris murmurs. He's resting his chin on a hand and smirking, but his eyes are too sharp for how little sleep he must have gotten. Phil feels heat rise to his cheeks and pulls his coffee closer to use the steam as an excuse.

"I don't need anything, really," Dan hums. "Thanks for asking. My brain just struggles a bit."

"A big mood, as the kids say," Chris says sagely.

Dan laughs again. It isn't as loud as Phil knows it can get, but it still fills the room and makes everything seem a bit brighter. "Do the kids say that?" they ask. "Is that what they say?"

"I believe it is," says Chris.

There is another stretch of silence. Phil watches his friends' faces as the elephant in the room weighs on them all. He's making a bet in his own mind about who will be the first to break when Dan turns around and bluntly says, "I still don't think that was a ghost, but I really fucking hated it."

"Sorry," says PJ, "but what else could it have possibly been?"

"I dunno," says Dan. They cross their arms over their waist, holding onto their own elbows. Phil is beginning to recognise the position as a protective one for them. "But I'm sure there's an explanation. Sleep paralysis is normal."

"The way it happened was not normal."

"What do you think it was, Dan?" Sophie asks. Her tone is much kinder than PJ's, but she seems just as skeptical.

Dan's dimple is pulling downwards in unhappiness or discomfort, so Phil waves a hand to get everyone's attention on himself instead.

"Why don't you guys tell us what exactly happened to you," he suggests, meeting Dan's eyes almost apologetically. He knows that none of them want to relive it, but it's easier if they're all on the same page here. "And we can toss around theories later."

--

PJ says, "It was a demon. I could see it. It was tall and humanoid-ish and had a Cheshire Cat smile and it kept going closer to Chris and Soph just to watch me panic. Then it would laugh and sharpen its claws on the wall. It felt like hatred and fear in a physical being. I really don't think our protection sigils did fuck all, but it didn't actually touch any of us, so maybe they helped a bit?"

Dan says, "It was nothing of the sort. I saw the same shit you did, Peej, but that doesn't mean anything. Haven't you ever heard of mass hysteria? Folie à deux - not the album - isn't unheard of. Maybe there's a high level of carbon monoxide. Maybe the asbestos got to us. I don't fucking know, but there's a hundred explanations before you hit demon. But, yeah. It looked like what PJ says. It felt like I was frozen for a fucking week, not just a few hours, it was awful. Zero out of ten, would not do again."

Sophie says, "It smiled at me and I felt cold."

--

They pile into the basement to recuperate so they aren't bothering Phil's parents. Or, more accurately, so Phil's parents aren't bothering them. Most of the games are packed up, but Phil finds the Wii and its small collection of disks in a box under the stairs. He sets it up, hands his friends the controllers, and sits back to zone out while they tear each other apart at Mario Kart.

Phil doesn't consider himself a skeptic. He knows that his threshold of belief is a lot lower than he makes it appear to be in his videos, but he'd never call himself a Scully. He always thinks about the supernatural aspects of any case he's looking into, even if he doesn't commit a hundred percent to the mentality that it must be something weird. He usually just prefers the weird option to the more common and boring reality of things.

So this thing with the Wilkins place is downright terrifying. Not only is it in Phil's proverbial backyard, too close for comfort in a lot of ways, but he hasn't had an experience quite so chilling since he was sixteen and dipping his toe into this hobby at Martyn's side.

He and Martyn still aren't sure what exactly left those finger-shaped bruises on Phil's ankles, but it's become a funny story in the years since.

Maybe this will be something to laugh at in a few years, too. Phil hopes so.

"You sure you don't want to play?" Dan asks, breaking into Phil's reverie. They're in first place and not even looking at the screen, their concerned brown eyes focused on Phil. Phil gives them a small smile and shakes his head.

"No, I'm alright."

"Phil, please take the controller from him," says Chris. He seems annoyed, but Phil can never tell how much of that is a show. It's possible that Chris isn't actually competitive at all and just likes to work Phil and PJ up by acting like he, too, would rather eat a whole head of lettuce than lose. It's also possible that Chris genuinely feels that way. "He's not even fucking trying and he's kicking our asses."

"Maybe you deserve to have your ass kicked a bit," Phil says, watching the screen to see how easily Dan ducks around various obstacles.

It still jolts a bit, hearing the people around him make an assumption - however logical it is - about how Dan wants to be addressed. Phil knows it isn't his place to correct them, especially since it seems like they're not using any less correct terms than he is, but it still rankles a bit.

"Fuck's sake!" PJ exclaims, looking like he's a hair away from throwing the Wiimote at something. He's never actually hit that level of gamer rage, but getting lapped by someone who keeps checking their phone during a race seems to be getting on his nerves. Phil reaches out and pats at PJ's mess of curls.

"You'll be okay," he says, dry. "They're just better than you, you'll live."

Maybe the pronoun use is a little more pointed than it needs to be, but Dan gives him such an exasperatedly fond grin that Phil can't bring himself to regret it. There is a brief beat of quiet, and then PJ groans again.

"It's not fair," says PJ, gesturing dramatically with the Wiimote. Sophie leans out of the line of fire. "This is unacceptable. We have to play a game they're bad at, now."

"I don't care what you call me," says Dan. They sound more amused than anything else. "As long as you know I'm winning anything we play."

"That's why they call him Winnie," Chris says in that very mild voice he uses for absolute nonsense. He puts his own controller aside and flops onto his back on the basement floor, stretching. "I can't do it, I can't play another round of this farce. I'm going upstairs to let my future mum-in-law dote on me."

Phil sighs. He can feel Dan's eyes on him again, and he shrugs helplessly in their general direction. He does not control the Chris. "Please stop saying things like that. Dan is going to think I'm mixed up in… this."

He gestures vaguely at the three of them, and Chris' eyes sharpen like he's spotted prey.

"Oh, so you want Dan to know you're horrendously single, then?" Chris gives Dan a wide, conspiratorial sort of grin. "He's useless at this, you know."

"Me rejecting you doesn't make me useless," Phil huffs. He can feel a flush creeping up his neck, because Chris is more right than he wants to admit, and Dan is smiling back at Chris like they're in on the joke.

"I think it demonstrates a lack of taste," Chris sniffs.

"You know what I think?" Sophie asks, stretching her arms above her head. "I think I need a shower."

"Me too," Dan says with an unnecessary little sigh. Phil pinches his own thigh to circumvent the mental images before they start. It's annoying to have such a good imagination, sometimes. "And I need to take my meds. Is there a bus that runs around here or something?"

"Don't worry about taking the bus," says PJ. "I'll drive you."

"I don't mind," says Dan.

"I mind," says PJ, more firmly. He stands like he's planning on dragging Dan to the car himself if Dan tries to say no again.

Dan's shoulders relax forward. Phil knows the anxiety of riding unfamiliar public transit all too well, and he definitely wouldn't make Dan do something so harrowing after they got roped into ghosthunting. He's glad that PJ is on the same page again, keeping Dan in that sense of protection that being a team gives them.

It's only been a weekend, but Phil is already reluctant to let Dan go home and leave the team bubble. He wants to insist on coming along, but he knows PJ probably wants solitude on the drive back.

Still. Phil chews his lip and looks down at his phone so he doesn't have to see the looks on his friends' faces when he says, "You can keep the pyjamas. If you want them."

"Okay," Dan says softly. "I will, thanks."

He knows that he should look up, should smile at Dan or stand and hug them before they leave his life, but that all feels so big at this moment. Phil's anxiety lets him wave and murmur a goodbye before he's left alone in the basement. At least, he thinks he's alone, until he sighs heavily and Chris responds from the floor. "Oh, you're fucking mooning over him, aren't you? This is awful. I preferred the ghost."

--

Phil takes a shower after his friends have, to be polite, and it feels incredible to wash off the dirt and dust from the attic. It feels less incredible when the door opens.

He hadn't bothered locking it, because his parents' shower is loud and it should be obvious that he's in there. At least the curtain isn't see-through. He takes a moment to just stand under the spray, bewildered, before it occurs to him that he can ask what's going on. It probably isn't a serial killer. "Er, hello?"

"Hi," Chris' voice comes, tense. "We've got a problem."

"I'm a little busy," Phil says pointedly.

"Well, get your hand off your knob and get out here," says Chris. "We need to figure this out before Peej gets back."

Phil rolls his eyes, but doesn't bother arguing about why exactly he's busy. He rinses the last of his mum's conditioner out of his hair and squints at the unfocused, opaque shower curtain like he'll be able to see Chris if he just tries hard enough. "Figure what out, mate?"

"All of the footage is fucked," Chris says, blunt. "It's corrupted to high hell. Every single second. There's no evidence we were even there at all."

[worddevdealswithml]

No Ring, No Problem

Chapter 9

Summary: Adrien Agreste's greatest secret is that he's the alter-ego of one of Paris' heroes, Chat Noir. His second biggest secret is that he doesn't actually have a miraculous. Not that that's going to stop him from fighting alongside Ladybug.  After all, Paris needs all the heroes it can get.

--

“Oh really,” said Lady Wifi, giving him a few more to dodge, “and how exactly are you going to do that?”

He slipped to the side, “Oh I couldn’t tell you.  You’d be better off asking Ladybug.”

“Is that so,” she said, and seemed to suddenly notice, “and speaking of which, where is she?”

He shrugged, feeling a breeze as a lock went over his shoulder. “Exactly where you least expect her.”

“So what you mean to say is, you have no idea.”

“Haven’t the foggiest idea.” He dove to the side, managing to roll to his feet, dodging four consecutive icons, “but, the upside is,” another dodge, “I’m definitely going to start a personal highlight reel of myself after this.”

“There won’t be an after this,” she cut back, and he had to dive behind a table in response to a flurry of icons.

“Agree to disagree?” he said, as a record got an angle on him.

“No,” she said from the other side of the table.

He tried to dodge as she flipped the table, but he took a knock from one of the legs, and felt the telltale sensation of his leg being locked down.

He was on his stomach now, and he thought he might have managed to pull a foot away from one more lock before she managed to pin it down.

His hands were next, locked in place.

“Now,” she said, “time to get that mask…” she paused.  “What happened to your suit?”

Ah, yes, the troubles of stealing a suit tailored for someone smaller than him.  “It’s a rental,” he said, trying to hit the genuine tone while still sounding like he was joking, “I wanted to try out the crop top look; I hear it’ll be all the rage next summer.”

She looked down, “and the bare feet?”

“It’sss… The hippy look,” he said, not wanting to say that he didn’t have time to put on shoes. “trust me, it’ll be back in fashion by spring.”

She stared at him, and then shook her head.  “Well, I’m sure you’ll have time to explain once we get that mask off.”

“What, you’re really going to reveal my identity at this angle?” he said, his cheek pressed into the ground.

“If I trusted you to not try something if I turned you over, maybe not,” she said, “but I don’t.”

He felt more than heard the shadow cross her face, a thrum of something malicious.

He saw her grin out of his peripheral vision.

“I just heard the most remarkable thing,” she said.  “Apparently, if I pull off your ring,” she said, a finger just brushing his wrist as she reached over, “you’ll be powerless, and better yet, your mask will vanish.  Does that sound about right?”

He was panicking now. Ladybug had been right; she was after a ring.  Because she thought it was a Miraculous.  No, wait, wait, (he could feel her reaching out to unlock his hand) he knew what he had to do.  Ladybug had mentioned it back when the Bubbler had attacked, something like-

“Catastrophe!” he shouted, and felt her freeze.

“What?” she said.

“Oh,” he said, channeling every ounce of smirking confidence he could, “that’s just the ability I get from my Miraculous.  You won’t want to touch my hand for the next… Call it five minutes.”

“And if I do?”

Destruction, she’d said.  “There won’t be much of you left.”

He felt the sensation from before, Hawkmoth conversing with her again, more time for Ladybug to do… Whatever she was going to do.

Lady Wifi stood up, and began walking around him as he struggled vainly against the locks.  “Not very flashy, is it,” she said, “usually you can see these abilities.”

He looked up at her. “It doesn’t need to be flashy.  Trust me, I don’t want you disintegrated any more than you do.”

“Well,” she said, “then I suppose, we’re back to our first plan.  Tell me, Chat Noir,” she said, reaching down for his mask, “which side is your good one?”

There was a crackle, and he felt his hands slide along the floor.

He chuckled, unable to help himself.  “It’s not my good side you have to worry about,” he said, as she recoiled, surprised by her vanished restraints, “it’s my dark side,” and he lunged at her.

He was entirely outclassed, and he knew it.  Sure, she recoiled from his ring-hand, but as soon as she caught his wrist, he couldn’t even scare her.

But wow, what a line.

“You see,” he said, trying to knee her unsuccessfully, “villain fighting is a two-person job.  I knew from the start that I couldn’t take you on alone.  Hawkmoth, whatever else I’ll say about him, is pretty good at making strong minions.” She had both of his wrists, now, one hand around both the phone and his wrist.

“So I can’t fight you alone,” he said, and grinned, “but me and Ladybug?”  As if on cue, the yo-yo slammed into the back of her head, and she lost her grip enough to get a foot to her guts.

“We could take on the world.”  He tried to resist the urge to punch the air.  After all, however good the line was, they still hadn’t won yet.

But really, what could she do?  She was surrounded, and the instant she turned to look at Ladybug, he had an arm around her neck, and while she was ripping him off, Ladybug was closing the gap, and Lady Wifi’s legs were out from under her as a toolbox slid straight into her ankles at a breakneck pace.

As she went down, the phone flew out of her hands, and even as she crawled forward, she staggered under Chat Noir’s influence, and- crack. The butterfly fluttered out, and almost immediately, Ladybug was winding up to purify it.

Chat Noir hit the ground as Alya collapsed under his weight, and he rolled away.

He came up to his feet.

“I don’t know what you did, but I’ve got to say, I’m impressed,” he said.

She shrugged.  “Just had to break the cell tower on the roof. Speaking of which, and she threw the toolbox skyward, “Miraculous Ladybug!”

And then, things were back. Everything but him.

“Denial of service, huh,” he said, smiling at her.  This was his partner.  Lucky.  “You’re amazing, you know that?”

She rolled her eyes, “just did what I had to do.”

“Hey,” he said, “I don’t suppose… It might be nice to get to know each other outside of hero work?”

She sighed, smiling sadly, “I guess you didn’t have a kwami to tell you.  I can’t share my identity.  It’s too dangerous.  And… I shouldn’t know yours either.”

“Well,” he said, “I’ll be keeping an eye out for you, yeah?”

“Sure,” she said, “but I’m pretty different, usually.  You’ve probably… Well,” she said, laughing, “I guess you don’t have a Miraculous, so you’d still be…” her expression froze, and died on her face.  She seemed… not quite mortified, more like terrified.

She sucked in a breath.

“What?” he said, and then she dismissed him, and he was suddenly… Back in Chloe’s bedroom.

He looked down, and made a tiny noise of terror.

“Adrien,” called Chloe from the other room, and he could tell by the sound that it wasn’t the first time she’d called his name.

He poked his head around the edge of the doorframe.

“Yes,” he said.

“Adrien!” she said, turning to face him.  She looked at his upper body, visible around the edge of the door, then at his pants and shoes, still sitting in the middle of the room.  His backpack, he noted, was sitting next to them.

“Oh thank goodness you’re okay,” she said, “I would never have gotten over it is you had died.” She gasped, “I could never have lived in this room again!”

“Sorry to scare you,” he said, “now, if you could slide me my pants?”

She looked down, and with an expression of nervous distaste, picked them up between two fingers.

He laughed.  “They’re not a biohazard, Chloe.”

“They’re so tacky, though,” she said.

He shook his head, smiling, “They’re jeans, Chloe, if you think they’re bad you should see the superhero boxers.”

She couldn’t seem to decide whether he was joking or not.  She handed them over.

“Speaking of which,” he said, “I should probably see if anybody’s making them with Ladybug patterns, yet.  I’ve got a real superhero to support, and I haven’t taken the chance.”

“Please,” said Chloe. “I get loving Ladybug, but that would be completely gauche, and it’s not like she’s ever even going to see them.”

Adrien was glad that he was pulling on his pants behind the shelter of the doorway, because his head had just tossed up a few situations that could lead to Ladybug seeing said hypothetical undergarments, and his face was… Well, suffice to say, he was glad Hawkmoth probably didn’t have plans to send a bull themed villain at the moment.

--

Marinette had gone catatonic on her bed.  ‘you’re still…’ still what?  Blonde? Strong?  Athletic?  A kid with a taste for bad jokes?  A penchant for helping people out?  One who was on the scene a bit too quick, considering how many floors he should have had to climb?  Had a restrictive home life, but a bit of financial leeway?

He hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself when he’d come by to get his measurements taken.  Of course he hadn’t; he already knew her.  

Of course, it wasn’t like he was identical.  Chat Noir… Chat Noir smirked, where Adrien smiled. Adrien would say something kind and earnest if he caught you when you were falling, while Chat Noir would probably make a cheesy pun about how you were falling for him.  And yet… She knew what Adrien had been reminding her of.

She stared at the ceiling. She’d… Fallen in love with Chat Noir? And, Adrien had fallen in love with… Her.  Except, not her.  Not confident, not-

There was a knock at the roof.

Well.  Five guesses who that was, and the first five didn’t count.

This was… This was good, she decided.  She’d wanted to see a bit more of him, if only to figure out what to do about the whole… Everything.

She reached up, and, hesitated, before sitting up (it would seem odd to answer while on her back).

“Hello,” he said, and looked around, “I… I suppose I was assuming that this would be when you were working on the suit.  You said,” he paused, “that it might nice if I could come by and talk about refining the design, but, I never really did, so I figured… Better late than never.”

She managed to muster up a genuine smile.  “Come on in.”

She slipped off of the bed, and pulled out a notebook.

…

It took only a few minutes before she realized that his heart wasn’t in it.

She sighed, and quietly closed the notebook.  “C’mon, Chat, why are you really here?”

He looked up as if to protest, and then gave up.

He shook his head.  “I don’t know,” he said, “I’m just, kind of confused, I guess, and I thought if anyone could help me, it would be you.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I think,” he said, carefully placing the words, “that Ladybug might know who I am.”

She pursed her lips. She hadn’t exactly been subtle. “Alright.”

“And,” he said, “I figured… She knows you, right?  She sent me here, so she must.  But… She’d only been a hero for a week or two at that point, so I didn’t think it would make sense for her to have met you… As Ladybug.”

“Hm.”

“So, I guess, I was wondering.  You know who she is, don’t you?”

“Chat.  You know I can’t tell you.”

“I know,” he said, quickly, “I’m not asking for the answer, but… You know her, as… whoever she is, under the mask, right?”

How was she supposed to deny it?  She nodded.

“So, you, probably, knew her from before?  Probably for a while, right?”

She nodded again.

“So… I guess, I was wondering, if you knew…” he shook his head, “how do I put this… If you knew why she reacted like that.  She seemed, bothered by who I was.”

Did Marinette know who Chat Noir was?  Would Ladybug have told her?  Did Marinette know how Ladybug felt about it?  Did Ladybug even know?

“I…” she hesitated. “I don’t think I could tell you.”

He took a deep breath, and nodded.  “Okay. Okay!  That’s… That’s fair.”

For a second, they both sat there.

“So, said Chat Noir, “you still had some more designs, right?”

She smiled.  “Yeah.”

[rosyredlipstick]

lovesick (1\1)

AKA the conchell sick fic i’ve been dying to write 

The sun is shining, the breeze is nice, and Mitchell has not murdered his younger brother yet. 

These were all pleasant facts, especially for said brother in question.

Sebastian had insisted on after-school burgers after their hellish pre-finals week. Despite the fact Sebastian hadn’t attended a full school day in weeks, he seemed very insistent on the fact of his mental exhaustion due to the upcoming exams, and Mitchell hadn’t had nearly enough fight in him to disagree with the statement. Like a student who actually had been attending his classes regularly, he was dead in every way but literally. 

So, there they were - some nameless side of the road drive through that advertised the cheapest burgers on this side of Cali. 

“What are you doing tonight?” Sebastian took a messy bite of his burger, smearing mustard all along the side of his cheek and Mitchell physically had to resist the urge to reach out and wipe it off, tucking his hands underneath his legs instead.

“Bi-weekly Skype date with Connor.” Mitchell grinned, excited. He passed over a napkin, hoping Seb would actually get the hint. He didn’t, of course, and instead threw the crumpled napkin in the backseat.

Mitchell didn’t bother to conceal his sigh, instead only going back to his own burger.

“You guys are an old married couple, it’s disgusting.” Sebastian licked a trail of grease off his wrist.

Mitchell rolled his eyes. “Just because we’ve been dating longer than you’ve ever kept a hairstyle doesn’t mean we’re boring.” Mitchell blew a huff of air into his bangs, “Nothing is ever boring with that boy.”

Sebastian hummed, flicking through his latest dating app, apparently done with the conversation.

Mitchell finished his food, singing along softly to the age-old song playing on the radio, grateful that Mitchell was the one actually doing the driving this afternoon. Their odds of reckless driving went up significantly every time Sebastian got behind the wheel, and Mitchell never enjoyed it.

He drove them home, Sebastian poking at him every few minutes to just hurry up Mitchell jeez as Mitchell safety, legally kept the speed limit.

He got them back alive - always counted as a win when Sebastian was annoying him into oblivion - and the other boy rushed to grab his things and get upstairs.

His phone was already dinging with notifications - probably Connor’s warning text that his skype invitation was about to go through - and Mitchell booted up his laptop quickly. Their skype dates - every Wednesday and Friday, occasionally Saturday - were Mitchell’s favorite hours of the week.

He finally managed to log onto his laptop, getting comfortable and settled at his desk chair, and grinned at the immediate notification that popped up. Connor icon - grinning and flipping off the camera, Travis’s cropped out grin barely visible in the small photo - greeted him. Mitchell ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up a bit like he knew Connor went crazy over, and accepted the call.

“Hey!” Mitchell grinned, shifting closer to the camera. It took a moment for the blocky connection to settle,

“Hey babe.” Connor’s voice filtered out through the speakers, the sound weak and tiny. The video was dim - too dim - and Mitchell leaned into the camera, peering at the screen with careful eyes.

Connor was in bed, that was obvious, his curls even more of a mess than usual. Usually, Connor walked and jumped around during their Skype dates, incapable of keeping still, usually hanging off the back of the couch or jumping around the living room. It was an amusing habit, one Mitchell usually laughed and teased about, and that only made it more stranger as Connor buried his face in his blanket.

Connor’s skin was pale, that was obvious even through the screen and dark lighting, and his eyes drooped weakly even as he spoke.

“How was school, Mitch?” Connor’s voice was rough as he spoke around a yawn, wiping at his eyes.

Mitchell narrowed his eyes, “...Are you in your pajamas? Did, did you not go to school?” Mitchell made a face of horror, “Are you sick?”

“The doctor said to rest.” Connor told him, his tone edging on dismissive. “It’s just pneumonia.”

“Just?” Mitchell’s voice was high and shrill.

“I’m fine.” Connor mumbled into the screen. “Just…tired.”

Mitchell bit his lip, staring at the other boy with hardly concealed concern. “You should get some sleep, sweetheart. I’ll talk to you later, okay? We can make up our Skype date later.”

The lack of protest was startling – usually Mitchell’s attempts to end their late night calls ended with several minutes of drawn out goodbyes and whines. But the other boy hardly blinked back at him before yawning goodnight and hanging up, leaving Mitchell alone and staring at his computer screen.

Mitchell stared at the empty homescreen for a long moment, just blinking at his reflection.

“Aright.” He said out loud, waiting another moment before shoving himself up. He pulled his duffel from under the bed, the essentials already packed. He knew to be prepared at this point.

“Sebastian! Come here!” He called over his shoulder, throwing his bag onto his bed. He waited a few moments, grabbing his phone and charger in the time, and shoved them both into the empty side pocket of the duffel.

“Sup broseph?” Sebastian asked, leaning on the doorway, barely looking up from the frantic tapping away at his phone.

Mitchell already had his duffel bag unzipped, looking through what he had already stuffed in his bag, and considering what else he needed. “Connor’s sick and I’m gonna go take care of him – I’ll be back Sunday night. Can you cover for me with Maria and Jacques?”

Sebastian looked up from his phone at that, blinking a few times. “Wait, what? You’re what?”

“I’m visiting Connor.” Mitchell repeated, a bit impatiently.

“In…New York?” Sebastian clarified.

Mitchell huffed out a breath. “Yes. In New York. Because he’s sick. Can you cover for me with your parents or not?”

“I mean, yeah.” He shrugged, “I’ll tell them you’re spending the weekend at Naomi’s. But are you sure going to New York is like, the best idea?”

“You’re not going to talk me out of it.” Mitchell told him, looking for his jeans. Under his bed – great, they were probably dirty. He packed them anyways.

Sebastian held up his hands. “Hey, as a child of Aphrodite it’s basically a sin for me to try and talk you out of making this insanely adorable declaration of your love, but it’s a 40 hour drive. So. Consider that.”

“Who said I was going to drive?” Mitchell asked, throwing other his duffel bag. He began digging through his drawer, clothes flying everywhere in the process.

Sebastian huffed, “Still! That’s an expensive plane ticket.”

“Not a plane either.” He finally found what he was looking for, holding up a thin purple vial to the light, “I helped Lou with Micah’s birthday present in exchange for this baby. I was going to save it for our six month, but this is important.”

Sebastian gave him a judgmental look and Mitchell sighed, taking a moment to turn and explain.

“Listen Seb, Travis is a good brother but I am fully convinced he simply threw a bottle of cough medicine in Connor’s general direction and skipped town or something. Anyways, it’s Friday. I’ll come back Sunday night.” Mitchell shook the bottle, “There should be enough for two trips. If not, I’ll book a plane ticket.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes, but began digging through his closet, hopefully to help him pack. “Fine, I’ll cover for you with the parents. But be careful not to sex him up so much when he’s sick, dear brother. I’ve been there, it’s not cute.”

“We’re not going to have sex!” Mitchell rolled his eyes, and paused. “Tonight. Probably.” Mitchell shrugged, “Not while he’s sick, at least.”

Sebastian gave him an incredibly dry look, reaching over and dumping a few condoms into his open duffel without breaking his gaze.

Seb zipped up the bag and shoved it in his chest. “Go before Maria gets home. Do you have his address?”

Mitchell nodded, peeling a post-it note off his wall and holding it up. “Right here. I’ll see you later, okay? I’ll Iris-message you tomorrow.”

Seb waved him off, pulling out his phone to probably call his thing of the week.

Mitchell held up the small vial to the light, studying the thick purple syrup. He trusted Lou, yeah, but…

Mitchell bit his lip, remembering the miserable flush on Connor’s cheeks, barely visible through the video chat. With this image in mind, he cracked the top and swallowed down a mouthful.

Mitchell spat the bitter taste out of his mouth, completely unprepared for how vile the potion tasted. Wasn’t magic supposed to be sweet?  

He adjusted the back hanging over his shoulder, staring up at the building in front of him. The potion had dropped him in a nearby alley, close enough that the surroundings were familiar enough for Mitchell to find his way. He quickly stopped by a nearby bodega , filling up a few bags full of supplies, and set out towards his building.

Mitchell had been to the shared Stoll apartment only once before, and has been much less interested in the space as they had been…preoccupied.

Mitchell shook the idea out of his head, shifting the crackling plastic bags over to one hand. The door was locked, most definitely. It was the middle of the day, Travis most likely out. He sighed. There was really only one choice.

The door clicked open easily, Mitchell glancing around before slipping the pins back in his pocket. He liked to be prepared, okay? It was nice to always have what you needed.

The apartment was cleaner than he expected nice open windows that set the sun gloss over the dark hardwood floor. He couldn’t even image the rent on a place this nice in New York City.

Just like he predicted, the apartment was nearly empty, Travis nowhere in sight. He headed towards the room he was pretty sure was Connor’s and shifted the bags over to one hand as he swung the door open.

Connor was there, in bed, sprawled across his mattress. He was shirtless, a shiny sheen to his skin. He barely lifted his head as Mitchell walked in, instead pushing his face into a pile of pillows. Mitchell crouched down next to him, a worried frown crossing his face.

“How did you get in?” Connor asked, his flushed face still buried into his pillow.

“Picked the lock.” Mitchell used one hand to smooth the other boy’s curls back from his forehead, frowning.

“That’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me.” He declared, turning over on his back. He stared at Mitchell for a second, his eyes squinted and his voice drowsy. “What’s up?”

Mitchell held up the bags, smiling a bit. “I got you flu medicine, soup, and Gatorade.”

“Grape?” He asked hopefully, his eyes still closed and his face still buried in his pillow.

“Of course.” Mitchell answered easily, throwing down his duffel and grocery bags. “Here, drink some water before you fall back asleep. You’ll feel better, I promise.”

Connor did as told, draining the entire water bottle in one go before falling back into his pillows. “Night babe.”

Mitchell took the bottle from his loose fingers, “Night, darling.”

He took to cleaning up Connor’s room a bit, mostly just gathering up the loose crumbled tissues and taking out the trash. He threw in a load of laundry, knowing how much both boys detested the chore, and folded the pile on top of the dryer.

Cleaning always calmed him, soothed him in a way only complete order could. He wasn’t a neat freak or anything – he lived in a cabin with ten other teenagers – and his room back room was far from order – but it was always nice to work with his hands, and have something nice come out of it.

He moved onto the rest of the house next, wiping down the slightly sticky counters in the kitchen and throwing out some probably-sentient take-out.

Mitchell had just begun cleaning up the minimal mess in the living room – more tissues, a few plates left out – when he heard a few rough coughs from the direction of Connor’s room, and the bed creaking from obvious shifting.

He threw the dirty plates in the kitchen – a mental note in place to wash them later – and grabbed the grocery bags he came in with to check on the other boy.

“Hey, how ya feeling?” Mitchell asked, shifting through the bag to pull out the still-chilled Gatorade. He cracked the cap and held it out. But Connor, red-cheeked probably from his fever, only stared at him in bewilderment.

Connor blinked, sitting up and staring at him with wide eyes. He looked more surprised than Mitchell would have expected after speaking to him barely an hour ago.

“I…You’re here?”

Mitchell pressed the bottle into Connor’s hands, “Drink.” He ordered, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You’re not getting dehydrated on my watch.”

Connor was still blinking at him. “I…thought I was hallucinating. You’re, uh, you’re here. Wow, um. Hi.”

Mitchell smiled fondly at him, poking his arm. “Hey hun.”

Connor pushed himself up, his comforter falling to pool at his waist. “You’re actually here. We should – we should go do something. You’re here, we should have fun.”

Mitchell reached out, gently pushing the other boy back. Even from the soft touch of Mitchell’s fingertips, he could feel how hot and clammy the other boy’s skin was.

“Lay down.” Mitchell ordered softly. “I’ll be here all weekend. But first, you’re gonna have to focus on feeling better.”

“I feel fine.” Connor told him, despite his fluttering eyes and flushed skin. “Seriously, we shouldn’t waste this visit –“

“It’s not a waste if it’s for you.” Mitchell only told him, tipping back the water bottle a bit so Connor would actually drink it.

Connor took a long drink and passed it back. Mitchell smoothed back his curls, enjoying the way Connor leaned in heavily to his touch.

“Let’s take your temperature.” He pulled out the red bag he found in their bathroom, the white cross distinctly familiar as the first aid kits kept at camp. He found the thermometer easily, still in the plastic. He ripped it off, playing with the buttons for a moment. “Open your mouth, c’mon.”

Connor groaned, “You know, I usually love to hear those words from you. Now, not so much.”

Mitchell smiled at that, “It’ll only take a moment. Now, tongue up.”

He complied, making a scrunched up face that warmed Mitchell’s chest a bit. The thermometer beeped after a moment, the display glowing a soft blue.

Mitchell hummed. “102.1”

Connor fell back onto his pillows. “That’s…not good?”

“You’ll feel better when it goes down.” Mitchell told him instead.

“I have to pee.” Connor said after a moment, pushing himself up. He moved slowly, shoving off his blankets with weak hands, and settled his feet on the carpet, looking unsure.

Connor stood, wobbling worryingly for a moment. Mitchell was at his side in a second, his hands hovering over the other boy’s skin. “Do you need help?”

Connor frowned, “No, I don’t need –“ He paused, the flush in his cheeks paling. He fell forward, Mitchell’s hands catching him, and stumbled towards the bathroom.

“I’m going to be sick.” He gasped, before doing just that, barely making it to the toilet in time.

Mitchell pulled Connor’s curls back, using a rubber band to tie his curls back while rubbing circles into the other boys back.

Connor finished, coughing a few more times into the toilet as Mitchell stood, grabbing a dishtowel from under the sink and running it under the cold water. He had a water bottle within reach, thankfully, probably forgotten there as he was cleaning.

Connor wiped at his mouth, exhaustion in every line of his body as he fell back against the wall. “You’re the best Mitchell, and I’m so happy to see you, but you should go. This can’t be very fun for you.”

Mitchell passed over a wet cloth and water bottle, “I deal with sick kids all the time. If I couldn’t handle a little puke, there’s no way I could survive as a camp counselor.” Mitchell settled down next to him, the bathroom tile cold and hard under his damp palms. He smoothed back Connor’s messy curls, holding them out of his face as Connor wiped his face off. Connor reached for the mouthwash on the counter and Mitchell helped him lean over carefully and spit it into the shower drain.

“I haven’t eaten in like, two days. How is throwing up even possible.” Connor groaned, his head dropping down onto Mitchell’s shoulder. “This is horrible. I feel horrible.”

Mitchell hummed sympathetically, his arm coming up to curl around Connor’s shoulders. Connor’s cheek was hot against his skin, his breath huffing against Mitchell’s neck.

Mitchell ran his fingers through Connor’s curls, and pressed his dry lips to Connor’s heated forehead.

Mitchell took a deep breath, giving the other boy one more moment. “Brush your teeth and use the washroom. I’ll go put on a movie, come on.”

Connor looked up hopefully. “Monster Inc.?”

“Your favorite. Already set up and ready to go.” Mitchell grinned, pulling him up. He gave Connor a few minutes alone in the bathroom, listening to the faucet click on and off and the toilet flush as he leaned against Connor’s bedroom wall. It was only a few more minutes until the door swung open, revealing the other boy with much, much fresher breath.

Mitchell held out his arm, letting Connor come to him. The other boy leaned heavily on him, his arm coming up to hang off Mitchell’s waist.

Mitchell helped him to the couch, dropping him off easily while the other boy groaned and curled on the cushion. Mitchell gave him a fond look before speaking.

“You should try and drink some broth and crackers, see if you can keep it down.” Mitchell grabbed the fleece blanket off the arm chair and draped it over his legs, tucking in the sides like he always did for the younger kids.

“Food is probably the worst idea you’ve ever had.” He declared from his place on the couch, but he sat up slightly and stared at Mitchell with tired eyes. “Like, actually the worst.”

“Well, you’re gonna try and keep it down.” Mitchell told him sweetly, ripping open one of the instant soup packets he picked up from the store. It only took hot water and a minute in the microwave to make – and it was probably horrible high in sodium – but it was the same, familiar brand the camp store held, which he knew the other boy would appreciate.

Mitchell caught Connor peeking over the couch arm with interest, the heavy scent probably making its way over to the other boy already.

He smiled softly, adding a bit of spice to the soup. Hopefully, the spice would help clear out Connor’s congestion – it was always a popular trick with the sick Aphrodite kids. He quickly bowled it and made it back to the living room where the selection screen for the movie was already on loop. He had put in the DVD earlier when he was cleaning, already planning to persuade Connor into dragging his feet to the couch so Mitchell could clean up his room.

“Eat.” Mitchell instructed, smoothing out the blanket before passing over the warm bowl. He settled next to Connor, their bodies brushing, and reached for the remote.

Connor caught his wrist before he could press play, focusing intensely on the soup in his lap.

“What’s wrong?” Mitchell frowned, his hand coming up to brush Connor’s cheeks and forehead. “Is your fever bothering you? I can go grab an ice pack if you want.”

Connor glanced up at Mitchell, catching his hand before he could pull away. “Thank you for this.” Connor told him softly. “You know, Mom’s always busy with work and Travis is great but he’s horrible with sick people and…I don’t know. I haven’t had someone take care of me in…years.” Connor gave him a half-shrug, his eyes glassy. “It…means a lot to me, Mitchell. You being here.”

Mitchell blinked a few times. “Of course Connor. I…” Mitchell’s eyes flickered away and back in a nervous movement. “I love you. Of course.”

Connor smiled, the movement a bit weak and hazy. “I love you too, Mitchell.” He burrowed his face into Mitchell’s neck, “Tell me again when I’m not super gross and I promise at least like, three blowjobs are in order.”

“Will do.” Mitchell laughed, pressing the other boy a bit closer. He grabbed for the remote, flipping on the movie, and Connor was asleep – his bowl drained – before Boo made it into Sully and Mike’s apartment.

Mitchell finished watching the movie, keeping his laughter low at the familiar jokes. It was nice, having this. A familiar movie playing, a warm, sleepy, albeit sickly boy at his side, his arms curled around Mitchell’s waist.

Connor was already drooling onto Mitchell’s sleeve. At least he was mostly cute.

Before the movie was over - right before the scene that always had Mitchell sniffing into his sleeve - the lock in the door clicked and turned, and Mitchell glanced over in time to see Travis dunking through the doorway.

“Hey Mitchell.” Travis greeted, his voice casual. He held up the grocery bag dangling from his hand, “Got you some of that strawberry milk you love.”

Mitchell sighed, carefully pushing the sleeping boy off of him and standing.

“Of course you did. Because you knew I was here. Of course.” Mitchell answered in a breezy voice, collecting Connor’s empty soup bowl, fixing the blanket to settle across the other boy before walking over. “And keep your voice down, Connor’s sleeping.”

Travis nodded, wrinkling his nose. “Good. He was vomiting all night, it was disgusting.”

Mitchell rolled his eyes, almost hip-checking him as he dunked past to throw the dishes on the sink. He turned on the tap, warming up the water, and dumped a glob of soap on the sponge.

“How’s Katie?” He asked, because he really did enjoy the other girl’s presence, usually in the midst of some poorly thought through Stoll ‘adventure’.

Travis jumped on the counter, letting his feet hit the cabinets as they swung. “She’s bored. Living in Kansas can do that to you. I’m thinking about visiting her this weekend. She wants to pull a prank on one of her teachers and could use the backup, I think.”

Mitchell nodded slowly. “That’s…nice of you. When was the last time you two met up?”

“Two weeks ago. I missed her, thought why not.” Mitchell shot him a surprised look that had him laughing.

Travis winked at him, “Mom’s an airline stewardess. We fly free.”

Mitchell blinked, “Oh, yeah. I forgot. Well, that’s nice. Tell her I said hello and that she’s my favorite.”

“Will do.” Travis told him with a grin, turning his head so he could spy on his younger brother passed out on the couch. ”Monsters Inc.? How’d you know?”

Mitchell shrugged, scrubbing at a plate stain particularly hard. “He mentioned it once. It’s his favorite sick day movie.”

Travis raised his eyebrows in amusement. “Yeah, I know. I’ve been forced to watch it twice a year or so since we were kids. What’s yours?”

Mitchell snorted. “Spaceballs.” He shrugged at Travis’s laughter, rinsing off the bubbly dishes. “It’s a classic.”

“Can’t fight that. I always been more of a Good Burger kind of guy.”

Mitchell nodded in approval. That was one of Asher’s favorites, and he’d been forced to listen to the dialogue play in the background of their cabin for years. He finished up the dishes, feeling completely at home in the apartment, and tried not to bicker with Travis too loudly.

Later, his boyfriend would wake up lovingly tucked in in his own bed, Mitchell curled into his side, and he’d smile a bit too softly to be anything but lovesick.