#but it's weird they smell faintly coffee-ish

[xcziel]

in recent discoveries that are weird to me: why do frozen green peas smell like coffee when they defrost??

[bandaged-writer]

“you are my soulmate.” || dazai

lyric prompts are still open ^.^

➤ Requested by: nonnie (I accidentally deleted the ask instead of saving it)

➤ Lyric prompt: "You are my soulmate."

➤ Pairing: Dazai x Reader

➤ Genre: fluff, romance, soulmate! AU, friends to lovers-ish(?)

➤ Warnings: none

➤ Word count: 2k

The remains of steam trickled down the foggy bathroom mirror while you were busy rubbing your wet hair dry, the smell of showering gel and shampoo lingering in your nose and relaxing your tense nerves. It had been quite the rough week at the agency; a couple of fights, tons of paperwork which your back hated you for and more than enough complaints from the neighbors about the noise and damage. Of course, you couldn't help but reward yourself with a nice, long shower.

Wiping the steam away from the mirror, you tilted your head at the monochromatic reflection staring back at you. There were no colors whatsoever, only a gloomy mix of black and white painted your world once again. Suddenly, you were reminded of the time your mother had told you about soulmates who would paint you a clear blue sky overtime, but what the hell was blue? What did it look like? You were already in your 20s, you doubted that your soulmate was close by - for all you knew, they could live across the globe or died already. Fate wasn't always kind, after all.

Shaking these memories away and wrapping a fluffy towel tightly around your torso, you finally stepped out of the comfort of your bathroom only to be greeted by a pouting mummy lazing around on your couch. "[Name]! Good that you finally finished your shower, the remote control isn't working anymore!" Dazai whined dramatically and held the defective device in his hands as if it had committed a felony. "I've been stuck having to watch a documentary about dogs! Dogs of all animals! Only your beauty can cure my eyes from what they had witnessed-"

Embarrassment heated your cheeks up while your hands were clutching your towel to your chest, your friend's words fell on deaf ears. "What the hell are you doing here?!" you yelled at the brunette and swung a trained leg at the suicidal man whose hand easily grabbed your bare ankle. "My sweet [Name], don't you know how lonely I am without a pretty lady to spend a Saturday with?," by then, you were already used to Dazai's flirty antics and only rolled your eyes at his sugar-coated words for they were nothing more but just that. "That gives you no right to break into my house while I'm showering!," you were beyond flustered, although even this wasn't exactly new. Dazai had seen you half naked numerous times over the course of your friendship and it had never gotten under your skin so deeply. "It's not breaking in when you showed me where the spare key is," a smug expression settled down on Dazai's handsome features as he showed you the glimmering key which was usually hidden in the flower pot in front of your door.

Just as you were about to give in, something weird happened.

For a moment, you could see Dazai's eye color, the shade of his hair and clothes. It was a mere flicker of faded paint filling your vision before your world went back to its monochromatic state and left you staring at your friend like a deer caught in headlights.

"Earth to [Name]," Dazai snapped his fingers in front of your eyes and whipped you back to reality where everything was very much black and white and not colorful. "Wait here, I need to get dressed," pulling your leg from Dazai's grasp, you made a run to your bedroom, slammed the door shut and let your back collide with the cool wood, small gasps leaving your lips as your breathing picked up in a horrifying realization.

The one person you were closest to made you see colors. The one person who knew you better than the back of his hand, knew every little flaw and imperfection and was the epitome of a suicidal womanizer.

No, it had to be a mistake. A simple miscalculation, a cheap trick of the eye. Yes, nothing but a mistake - you had heard of some people seeing colors from birth or they randomly gained the ability to see them without developing feelings towards anyone.

This would be a disaster.

_____________________

And oh boy, were you right.

With each passing day, the dreary monochromatic life you were used to, gradually disappeared and tainted your vision with colors you didn't want to see, because you could finally see that everything your co-workers had told you about Dazai was indeed true.

"What does Dazai look like?," doodling on a random sheet of paper and with coffee resting next to your computer, you threw the sudden question at Naomi who was one of the few people at the agency who could see colors. The ravenette raised a fine eyebrow, looking at you like you had lost your mind. "You don't suffer from long-term memory loss, do you?," a teasing cadence laced in her voice. Letting your body slightly slide down the chair, you leaned your head back against the furniture and pouted. "I know what he looks like! But like..what colors is he made up of?," it was a funny question - you considered Dazai your best friend and yet, you didn't know the color of his irises, of his coat, of the silly pendant he always carried around his neck. You wanted to see your friend.

Naomi's gaze softened at that, a tender curve finding home on her lips which made her eyes smile. It was a question so trivial that only few people worried about, and yet there you were, oblivious to the feelings that were so painfully obvious to everyone at the agency.

And so, Naomi told you about every color that was Dazai Osamu: from the black shoes, to the beige coat, to the blue pendant and his brown locks.

"I envy you for seeing so much more, Naomi."

Those words turned out to be a blessing and a curse alike.

On one hand, you could faintly make out the sparkle in Dazai's coffee-colored orbs but on the other hand, that sparkle was reserved for the pretty waitress of Uzumaki's whose hand he was currently holding, his mind smitten with the mere idea of committing a lover's suicide. You wish you wouldn't see them light up even though the color you saw was barely there, washed out.

"Would a fair maiden such as yourself allow me the honor of you accompanying me to the afterlife?," a moonstruck smile stretched Dazai's lips, his calloused thumb stroking the delicate knuckles of the waitress who remained unfazed by Dazai's attempt to woo her. It was a typical sight, yet why did it bother you? You had witnessed such scenes countless of times and even acted as the brunette's girlfriend just so he could get rid of another woman's unwanted affection. "Hmm, maybe if you have a life insurance," the waitress twinkled, clearly uninterested in Dazai's proposal.

You realized that not even a soulmate could tie Dazai down.

"Are you alright, [Name]?," Atsushi pulled your attention to the matter at hand which was assigning several cases to different colleagues, but even Atsushi could tell that you weren't really with him. He saw the way your gaze would travel to the counter where Dazai was keeping himself busy with the waitress, he noticed the way you'd only ever give him an occasional "mhm" or a short "yes".

"Huh? Oh yeah, I'm good. Don't worry, Atsushi," you waved a dismissive hand in front of your face and put on the ghost of a smile which never reached your eyes.

"I was just thinking about how blue the sky is today."

_____________________

"Have you ever seen colors, Osamu?," mindlessly, you stared at the sake in the small cup held by your fingers, your body resting on Dazai's floor with the wall supporting your back. It was a lazy night of having a few drinks at the brunette's place, talking about anything that came to mind or letting silence and unspoken words fill the space.

Dazai effortlessly downed a shot and let the liquor burn his throat. At least, the drinks were less bitter with you around. "Well, have you?" Ah, that bastard once again avoided your question by asking his own and putting the spotlight on you. It was such a painfully obvious tactic to dodge personal questions, but it still worked every damn time. Or maybe you just needed to get some thoughts off your chest and run the risk of Dazai figuring out the secret you had only told Atsushi about.

"What do you think about it?," stupid how the two of you danced around the topic like it was poison which could bring death upon the both of you.

Sitting down opposite of you, Dazai scanned your face. The way your gaze was fixed on him like a magnet, the missing makeup, the slightly disheveled hair from work and the way your lips shone thanks to the lip balm you always carried with you. "You're a curious thing, aren't you?," a chuckle caressed your ears and you wished it was a bit more lighthearted, a bit less closed off. Dazai rested his elbow on his propped up knee in a lazy manner as he gathered his thoughts; it was something he had never talked about.

"I don't think I like the concept of a soulmate. After all, your soulmate can be dead or be against the beliefs you hold on to so tightly. It'd cause unnecessary conflict over and over again until both individuals grow tired of each other and eventually break up, no?," Dazai paused then sighed, his eyes drawn to the night sky outside. "Isn't it a bit mean to gift color only those who feel something like love towards someone?"

Those words were as bitter as the liquor scorching your throat, but could you really disagree? A soulmate was only a partner suggestion given by the universe and whatever created it. Many soulmates eventually got tired of one another, yet no one broke things off since having someone to come home to was comfortable. It was comfortable, but it was no longer love. "It is. I've been dying to see what colors you are," you admitted softly, hoping he couldn't tear through the lie and discover that you saw the color of the cut that he got from an earlier fight.

At that, Dazai smiled at you with tender eyes and tilted his head to the side, brown strands of hair framing his stupidly dreamy face. "Honestly? I've been wondering what your eye color is."

You swore the world just got more colorful.

_____________________

The day the colors reached their peak of vibrancy was the day your heart skipped a beat for the first time in quite a while.

In the background, you could hear Kunikida scolding Dazai and threatening to kill him with his own bony fingers jus because the brunette was trying to shove his reports to Atsushi. "I swear I'll make you see the end of your life!," the blond man yelled, clearly fed up with his colleague's antics and non-existent work ethics. "At least let me die with a beautiful woman by my side!"

You couldn't help the chuckle that left your lips. Their arguments never failed to squeeze a laugh out of your lungs even when you didn't feel like laughing at all. The agency was your safe place, it was your home.

"Oh, I spent an entire minute dealing with your crap although we should get going. Let's go, Dazai," Kunikida let go of his partner's collar, dusted off his pants like nothing happened and grabbed the keys for the car; no way in hell would he ever let the suicidal maniac drive, again. "Punctual as always, Kunikida," Dazai mock praised the blond and crossed his hands behind his head, a smile on his face.

"Ah, good luck, guys!," you called after Kunikida with quite the stack of paper in your hands and smiled up at Dazai who just..looked at you. You were about to tell him to hurry up and head out before Kunikida would scold him again, when he spoke in a hushed tone which was only meant to be heard by you.

"I like your lip balm. Red suits you."

[c-estmabiologie]

nine terrible cups of tea (and at least one equally terrible cup of coffee) | the haunting of bly manor fic

Dani tries to master the art of making a proper cup of tea. It goes just about as well as you'd expect. (1987 - 1994)

Also on AO3!

One

“Really you could just throw a tea bag into your mug, pour some water on top, and call it a tea. But we’re better than that.”

Dani isn’t convinced but she tries her best to follow the steps as Jamie patiently describes them. She talks about making tea with the casual confidence of someone who believes that Dani can will a good cup of tea to exist. As if this isn’t the first time that she has tried to hold Dani’s hand through the process. Dani’s pretty sure it won’t be the last time either, but she tries to wield some of Jamie’s confidence as her own.

“If you want to be really proper, you can even warm the pot first with some hot water from the kettle and, you know, just dump it down the sink.”

Dani swirls the hot water around inside her teapot, feels it warm under her palms. It’s nice. Wasteful, but nice.

“What does this do?”

“No idea. Somebody probably decided that it makes the tea taste better.”

“Okay,” She drops two teabags in. One for herself, and one for the pot, according to Jamie who’s not leaving tea totally up to chance and Dani’s efforts; her arm is soft and cool against Dani’s as they stand shoulder-to-shoulder at their kitchen counter, each with their own pot of steeping tea.

“Now here’s where you might make a mortal enemy of a Brit: adding milk to your cup before or after the tea.”

“Does it have to have milk?” Dani asks, thinking Aren’t there people who drink their black tea black, like coffee? That’s a thing, right?

Dani can feel Jamie twitching a smirk beside her without having to look.

“It has milk if you’re making English tea.”

She remembers the looks she got from Hannah and Owen and even the children whenever she’d made an attempt at tea. She can’t remember when she’d added the milk. Jamie, for sure, must be exaggerating the offense.

"But which one’s the right way?”

“Hmm? Oh, I don’t really care as long as it’s the right amount of milk.” Dani realizes that Jamie’s already gone ahead and poured her own cup without her, milk and all, and she’s missed it. She pours her own tea and splashes in milk until its colour matches the tea in Jamie’s cup.

They look the same to Dani.

“Alright,” Jamie says, “let’s have a taste shall we?”

They taste the same to Dani, but Jamie’s brow furrows just a little as she takes the cup away from her lips. And then she starts laughing.

“Okay, how is that possible? We did the exact same thing!” Dani takes another sip from her own cup to prove her point. It tastes fine! It’s tea!

“I really have no idea, Dani,” Jamie’s still laughing. “You’re just shite at making tea.”

Two

Jamie's been trying to relax with a book in the bedroom when she hears the beeping coming from another room. Just three little beeps, then nothing. A minute later, the three beeps chirp through her focus again.

When it happens a third time, she finally puts down the book to shout.

“What is that?”

“What’s what?” comes Dani’s reply from across the apartment. Then the beeps make themselves known once more.

Then: “Oh. It’s the microwave. I got distracted.”

Owen had bought them a microwave as a housewarming gift. It was a convection microwave, he’d told them proudly, which apparently made it special because you could microwave your food on a metal tray if you wanted. The idea was that they could warm up their takeaway faster, or cook frozen dinners (Owen’s very generous way of chiding them for both being awful cooks). Jamie hated it. It was big and ugly and had faux-wood paneling on the side. She’d rather stick to making burned stews on the stovetop.

Dani appears in the doorway with a mug in each hand. She holds out one mug to Jamie.

“I made you tea.”

“What, in the microwave?”

Dani shrugs and sips from her mug.

“No.”

“It’s fine—”

“Absolutely not.”

Three

It’s a quiet-ish day at The Leafling and, to be honest, Dani is sort of enjoying the peace of arranging flower displays and curling ribbons. The sun is warm through the windows.

Jamie is laid up in bed with some sort of cold. She’s being a surprisingly big baby about it, too, Dani is surprised to realize. Her wife doesn’t like it when she can’t be useful.

Speaking of certain wives who shouldn’t be up, Dani can hear steps coming down the stairwell that connects the shop to their apartment. The shop’s back door pushes open a moment later and Jamie appears with jacket on and her curls stuff up into a hat. She’s pale and her nose is pink and tender-looking around the nostrils.

“What are you doing down here?” Dani demands in her most teacherly voice, but Jamie clearly has plans to go out, not back upstairs.

Jamie’s voice is raspy and hoarse.

“I need to go out to the shops and get some more milk. Ours is off.”

“I had some in my cereal this morning and it was fine.”

Jamie coughs into her collar.

“The date on it’s fine. But I add it to my tea and it’s curdled.”

“Oh.” Dani’d left the tea steeping for her before she’d come downstairs.

Then: “It’s probably the lemon doing that. In your tea, I mean.”

“There’s lemon in my tea?”

Dani nods. “There’s honey in it, too. It’s supposed to help with your sore throat.’

Jamie sighs, then sniffles, then seems to deflate a little.

“I’m gonna be honest: it sounds absolutely disgusting.”

But Dani insists that she at least give it a try (without milk), that it will make her feel better (it does, a little, admittedly), and that, who knows, she might like it (she does not).

Four

Summer heat hits hard, and The Leafling doesn’t have air conditioning. The ceiling fans do nothing more than push hot air around the shop. The plants slump in their pots (which annoys Jamie), and fat houseflies keep finding their way indoors, only to bang themselves relentlessly against the windows until they fall dead on the sills (which annoys Dani). Everything is slightly damp with sweat or condensation.

“This is something my ex-almost mother-in-law used to make,” Dani says, stirring the ice around in the pitcher with a wooden spoon.

“You know there’s probably a less complicated way to say ‘ex-almost mother-in-law’.” Jamie says. Her hair is sticking to her neck, and her gardening gloves feel like they’re being peeled off of her skin as she takes them off.

“She used to make it for my, you know, Eddie and me in the summer when we were kids,” Dani hesitated. “I don’t know. It just always reminds me of the best parts of summer.”

But when she looks up Jamie has a glass and is holding it against her cheek.

“You know,” she says, “I do know what iced tea is. It’s not exactly a foreign concept.”

Jamie is thoughtful as she drinks the tea slowly.

“So,” she says finally. “This is what makes Poppins think of summer.

“It’s kind of a funny taste isn’t it? Cold tea on purpose.”

Jamie gets up and pulls Dani into a hug that’s nice, but not altogether pleasant — their skin clings together and comes apart audibly in the heat and they both smell very strongly of themselves.

“Thank you for sharing it with me,” Jamie says into her shoulder.

“I’m going to go upstairs and put the kettle on.”

Five

“What is it?”

The gift sits on their kitchen counter, out of place and mysterious with its glass-and-stainless steel modernity next to their wooden cutting boards, cluttered and kind of oily spicy jars, and that obnoxious faux-wood panelled microwave.

“Owen says it’s a French press. He was really excited about some Danish company. Said it’s apparently great for beginners.”

Jamie makes a note to herself to somehow ask Owen to stop giving them gifts for their kitchen.

“I didn’t think Owen drank coffee.”

Dani looks thoughtful, “I don’t think he does.”

Owen’s gift doesn’t come with instructions, and neither one of them wants to ring Owen up to ask for help. Dani takes charge, grinding the coffee beans (which Owen had also generously provided) in the spice grinder… and then washing out the grinder and starting again when Jamie points out that the fresh grounds reek of coriander.

They aren’t sure if they’re supposed to give it all a stir once the water’s been added. Or when to press the plunger. Or how long it’s supposed to sit. Their first attempt produces faintly coffee-flavoured water. Their second, a grainy, chewable mess.

The French press gets relegated to a high shelf above the stove, behind a fern. Eventually it will pinch-hit as a flower pot and Dani will love how the glass reveals the root systems buried in the soil.  

Six

“This tea tastes weird.”

It’s Dani who says it.

Jamie looks up from the arrangement she’s been working on. It’s wedding season and The Leafling has been swamped with orders for bouquets and table arrangements. Jamie’s been going back and forth on this particular order all week with a bride who seems unhappy no matter how precisely she tries to follow the bride’s vision. Frankly, it’s been pissing her off (the last time she’d come in and rejected Jamie’s work, Dani had sensibly stepped in to take over the conversation before Jamie could get their shop shut down for punching a customer).

“Are you sure you didn’t accidentally drink vase water?”

She picks up her own cup and takes a sip. The milk must have been added too soon and seized up the brewing. The tea tastes like nothing. Dani is watching her.

“Yeah, this is pretty bad.”

Dani says nothing.

“Oh shut up. I’m allowed to have off days, too, you know.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Dani says, but she’s smiling.

Seven

Jamie somehow manages to drink vase water.

Neither of them can explain how it got into her tea cup or where her actual tea had gone.

Eight

“Hey.”

The word is spoken into Jamie’s hairline and followed with a kiss. She smiles, half-awake, and reaches to pull Dani to her so she can kiss her properly. Her hand jostles a tray and something makes a precarious, jangling sound.

“What’s this?” she rubs at her eyes. It’s still mostly dark in the room.

“You’re up early.”

Dani’s at the side of their bed with a serving tray. She’s barefoot, still in her pyjamas and, from what Jamie can tell, still pretty sleepy herself.

"What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion.” Dani places the tray on the bed and climbs in next to Jamie slowly, careful not to tip anything on the tray.

"I just thought it would be nice to have the morning together. I bought scones.” Dani warps her voice around the word in a way that is definitely not the American pronunciation, but just as definitely not a passable approximation of Jamie’s accent. As Dani hopes it would, it makes Jamie smile.

“I see that. Scones.”

“Mm-hmm. And biscuits,” Dani never could manage that one without the secret sort of laugh that says that the Rich Tea biscuit that she’s picking up off a plate will only ever be a cookie to her.

It’s all lovely. The biscuits, the morning, Dani: lovely.

And then, of course, there is the matter of the tea.

A few problems that meet Jamie immediately as she takes a tentative sip. First, it’s cold. Second, even with what looks like an alright amount of milk (Jamie notes that Dani’s been getting better on this front)...it’s bracingly bitter.

She bravely takes another sip to avoid spoiling the otherwise perfectly cozy moment. Something solid dislodges itself from the bottom of her cup and hits her wetly on the nose. Jamie can’t help but splutter a little, and the thing plops back into the cup. It’s the tea bag.

“Uh, Dani?” Jamie realizes that she’s poking a bruise a little here, and Dani looks so happy next to her, breaking off pieces of scone with her fingers.

“How long was the tea left sitting?”

Dani’s brow furrows.

“I’m not sure how early you wake up these days,” she says. “I may have made it… a while ago. Is it okay?”

Jamie gently places the cup back onto the tray.

“It’s just a little on the cool side, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Dani tests the side of her cup with the back of my hand, as if to memorize what a little on the cool side means to Jamie.  

“I can just warm it up in the microw—”

“ No. Let’s just enjoy our morning.”

Nine

“Does anyone who drinks this stuff actually enjoy it?”

They’re in bed, limb flung loosely over limb. On the TV screen, a woman sits tensely under a tree while another sticks her bare arm right into a beehive. Bees swarm up her sleeves and into her undone braid.

“I think it’s pretty nice,” Dani says, “It’s peppermint. It’s supposed to be relaxing.”

Jamie curls up against Dani’s chest. She cradles her cup between them, more for its warmth than for any interest in drinking it.

“It tastes like hot toothpaste.”

On the screen, the bee charmer has returned with a mason jar full of honey. She invites the other woman to have a taste.

“Do you think they’re gonna get together?” Dani says. Jamie considers the scene for a few seconds.

“Yeah. But it’s a little weird to go after your dead brother’s fiancée like that isn’t it?”

Her own mug empty on the bedside table, Dani picks up Jamie’s abandoned tea. It’s still warm and it’s left a warm spot on the blankets between them.

“I guess it’s a little weird. I still want them to get together.”

Jamie makes a sound that might be agreement, but her eyes are drifting closed.

She’ll fall asleep before the movie’s over. Dani will fill her in on the details she’s missed over breakfast, before they have to return the tape to the video store.

Ten

“It’s so nice to have someone cook for me for a change,” Owen says, pleasantly. It’s not often that he’s been able to come around to their place over the years (and lately it’s become even less often).

“You’ve always done so much for us,” Dani calls from the kitchen. Something clatters loudly into the sink. “We just want to return the favour.”

Owen glances at Jamie, who confirms with a nod that it was, of course, Dani who had had such a thoughtful idea.

“I’m just nervous to serve dinner to the accomplished chef and restaurateur Owen Sharma,” Jamie says. “I’ll have you know that if it were my idea, I’d have just gotten takeaway and arranged it artfully onto plates. Real plates, of course. Nothing but the best for our Owen.”

Dani comes in then with a tray and busies herself with setting up the table. Jamie clears away the half-melted candles and clutter to make room.

“I thought we could have some tea before dinner.”

The hesitation that hangs in the air is palpable mist off a pond.

Owen clears his throat and politely reaches for a cup.

“Did you make it, Dani?”

“She’s been practicing,” Jamie says, drawing one knee up to her chest and reaching over to get a cup for herself.

“She says I’m not allowed to be a judge anymore. Says I’m biased against her, but really my tastebuds are probably shot. So, you are her lucky new victim.”

They toast to friendships and loves that are never truly lost and gamely drink Dani’s latest attempt at a proper cup of tea.

“You know what,” Owen says after a moment. “It’s not that bad.”

“Really?”

“You hear that, Poppins?” Jamie says, with another half toast of her cup. “You did it.”

“Really?” Dani says again. She takes her own sip, searching the taste for what might have made this brew remarkable. It just tastes like tea to her.

“It’s good?”

Owen and Jamie both make non-committal sounds, but neither do they abandon their drinks.

“It’s not the most amazing tea I’ve ever had,” Jamie admits. “But it’s absolutely, absolutely a decent cup of tea.”

“You know what?” Dani says, “I’ll take it.”

[salamanderskin]

Sunshine (a M0llym4uk sickfic)

This is something of a gift for @just-a-nervous-bean for their wonderful artwork of Mollymauk, which can be found here and here Spellings stolen from the ever-talented @dodecahedral ‘s fic here because I couldn’t get them out of my head.

Modern AU where Molly is in the circus and Caleb is researching at the University, they are in a new-ish relationship together. No need to know the chars really. They’re soft boyfriends and Molly is miserable when he’s sick. That’s all. 

Mollymauk is, predictably, late. 

Caleb Widogast expects this. That’s why he planned a date for the cafe in the museum where he is working anyway, a place he is always happy to sit and read. The cafe is a pleasant break after the dusty hush of the archives; huge windows let in what is left of the wintery daylight from outside, illuminating the white walls and low, modern furniture. There is space for Caleb’s laptop and a stack of books beside his coffee cup. If he had his boyfriend and his cat here, the scene would be perfect-

That’s when Mollymauk arrives. The museum attracts members of enough different species that his being a tiefling with curled horns is not unusual. What draws attention is his artistic attire; He is wearing that ridiculous coat which doesn’t fasten high enough, a shirt cut in a deep v-neck to show tattooed flesh and a roguish grin. Flurries of snow have settled in his hair and he shakes his head like a dog before coming to sit beside Caleb.

“Hallo, looks like you got caught in the snow.” Caleb rises to hug his boyfriend and kiss him on his cheek.The tiefling’s lavender skin is ice-cold under his lips.

“Little bit.” Mollymauk sniffs and shivers as he sheds his coat, prompting Caleb to pass him a handful of napkins which he uses to first dry his face and then blow his nose. As he does so, Caleb gathers up his papers into his backpack and readies himself for a jaunt around the museum before closing time. 

It is lovely just to spend time together, to talk and question and wonder about the exhibits. This thing between them is still so new; he is still learning Molly’s tastes and interests and delightfully surprised by the tiefling’s breadth of knowledge. Caleb enjoys hearing Molly name plants and animals or the types of dye used in textiles, notices Molly light up for a particular colour or design. He also notices Molly sounds sniffly. 

If any other person in the world was sniffling like that around Caleb, he would be shooting them a look fierce enough to kill a man while wishing to die himself. When it’s Molly, he doesn’t like it, but it doesn’t make him want to crawl out of his skin. This must be love.

He watches Molly from the other end of the gallery. The tiefling is more colourful and appealing than the oil paintings he stands in front of. Not just his flamboyantly colourful trousers or the glitter of jewellery on his horns and the tattoos on his skin, but the lithe grace of his movements. Mollymauk tilts his head like a peacock to examine a detail, his slender fingers clenching with desire for the rough surface he has been firmly told not to touch. Framed by dun-coloured still-lifes, Molly is vibrantly animated, enchantingly alive; never more so than when he sneezes so suddenly that it causes him to stumble. 

“--aah'YZSSHH-iew!!”

The sound is sharp enough to spark aggressive echoes from the high ceiling and make several patrons, including Caleb himself, jump and turn their heads. 

“Sorry!” Molly stage-whispers and swipes a thumb under his nose with another wet sniffle. 

Caleb feels a burst of amusement at how each sneeze makes Molly’s tail lash wildly, putting a few fragile exhibits in danger. It happens a few times while they are hidden in the low light of the illuminated manuscripts that hold particular interest for Caleb, and again between the cases of iridescent butterflies whose colours make Molly clutch his heart and plan a dozen more tattoos. Caleb is resting against Molly’s arm for that last one, so he feels the tiefling yank himself away and stagger double. His hands don’t quite make it to his face and so clench helplessly in the air. He looks quite undone by the force of it and it takes him a minute to sniffle himself back to composure. 

“Gesundheit!” Caleb tucks a hand round Molly’s waist for an affectionate squeeze. “You sound like you’re catching a cold?”  

“Pffff.” Molly spreads his hands in a shrug,seeming to take in his lavender skin, his extravagant clothing and the sheer assuredness of his stance, as if he is too fabulous to possibly get sick. 

So Caleb puts it out of his mind. 

……………………..

Caleb’s phone buzzes him awake on Saturday morning. 

It’s the weekend, no archive for him today and no shifts at the University Library either. A rare free day. Caleb stretches his legs and hears a questioning -mrrp- from the cat at the end of his bed. He needs coffee and he needs to pee, but he could pretend he doesn’t and stay under the covers for at least another half an hour. That sounds really good.  

His phone buzzes again.

M.T -- You free today? Come over?

Caleb -- Thought you had rehearsal?

In fact Caleb was certain. He has an infallible memory for details like this, even more so when they concern his access to a delightfully attractive partner like Mollymauk.

M.T-- Cancelled. Yasha is away all wknd im lonely :(:(

Cancelling is unusual but stranger things have happened. This is a lovely surprise. He takes a moment to recalibrate his idea of the day and then rises from bed. Frumpkin follows, winding dangerously between his ankles. A glance out of the window reveals more flurrying snow but it will be no match for his old overcoat, his heaviest boots and thick scarf. His own roommate, Nott, is out at work, but he leaves the heating on for Frumpkin and heads out into the wilds. 

“Hello darling!” Molly gives him a big smile when he opens the door, but doesn’t swoop in and kiss him, which is unusual. 

The heating is cranked up high, which is unusual too.

He follows Molly up the stairs to their first floor apartment. This is still relatively new territory to Caleb, but welcoming. His boyfriend’s housemate Yasha, often absent, has filled all available window sills with houseplants to which Molly has added candles, crystals and new-age nicknacks of all stripes. It smells faintly of weed, sage and cooking. Molly ushers him into the living room where there is one unusual addition- what he knows to be Molly’s duvet is draped over the sofa in front of an open laptop showing a paused TV show. 

“Can I get you a glass of water, tea, gin, milk, prosecco or anything else?” Molly suggests. His voice sounds wrecked and thick. 

“Whatever you’re having. Molly are--” Caleb tries to get a closer look at him but he darts to the kitchen and putters almost aggressively with the kettle.

“Schatz,you sound-” He tries again.

“Tea, then. Lemon-ginger, redbush, green, green with passionfruit, chai or normal?”

“No preference.” Caleb actually has to put a hand on the tiefling’s back to calm his businesslike cheerfulness. “Come here-” He manages to get a grip on Molly’s shoulder and through leverage more than strength is able to turn the tiefling to face him. Molly is a good two inches taller, not counting his horns, but he slouches obligingly against the counter to put them face to face. Locks of his silken hair fall over his down-turned brow and Caleb pushes them behind his ear with a practiced, tender touch. 

“What’s the matter, hm? You’re being a little… erratic.”

“And I’m usually so predictable. Boring, even.” His boyfriend laughs, showing sharp white eyeteeth.

There it is again, though, that rasp on his voice. It sounds like it hurts him to talk. And something else, too. Thick violet lashes flutter and his ruby eyes squint closed as Molly shifts to soft, panting breaths through his mouth. Caleb is caught as off-guard when the tiefling shoves him gently to one side and sneezes hard. 

"Heh-IZSSCHH--iew!

It knocks him double, hands cringing weakly towards his face but not reaching in time to make any kind of cover. Before Caleb can comment, Molly takes a shaky step back and sneezes again and then a third time, retreating away towards the back wall and punctuating each with a heartfelt, “Fuck.” “Gesundheit.” Caleb offers. Molly straightens and gives him a cringing, apologetic look. His eyes are watering something fierce and Caleb thinks he can see how ticklish his nose is, even from five feet away. The poor thing is blushed to a deep violet and he can see his nostrils flaring uncertainty. Molly hovers his hands tentatively in front of his face for a moment… lowers them… raises them quickly and draws a ragged “aaah-”  before - “YZSSHH-iew!! Fuck.”

Caleb doesn’t quite know how to react and defaults to standing still, hands clenched uselessly at his side and desperately wishing he had his cat to keep them busy. “Hold on... “ Molly groans and scrambles out of the room with his hands still cupped guiltily over his face. Caleb tracks the sound of feet along the corridor of the bathroom. A door slam, toilet paper yanked from the roll and a thick nose blow followed by running water. Little husking coughs and soft thumps like Molly tapping is on his chest with a fist to ease it. So that explains the weirdness. Mollymauk sounds miserably sick. That’s all. That’s good, on the scale of things. That Caleb can deal with. 

He finishes preparing the tea as he waits for his boyfriend to return, carries both cups to the sofa and makes himself comfortable. 

When Mollymauk returns he has added a hoodie over his outfit and is carrying a half-empty toilet roll in one hand. 

“You did catch a cold.” Caleb manages to make it a comfort and a question and an accusation all in one. 

Under the force of his voice, Molly raises his hands in defeat and retreats to sit on the sofa beside Caleb, then collapses into a full-body slump with his head tilted against the cushions and his eyes closed, as though if he can’t see his boyfriend then he can’t be seen either. 

“I’m sorry, darling.” He mumbles. 

“Whatever for?”

The tiefling rolls his face away and buries his face into the sofa cushions with a pitiful little cough. “Not warning you I was sick before you came over. And I kissed you yesterday even though my throat was getting sore. I just- really wanted to see you today, so I thought I could just not tell you. You can go now.”

Caleb actually laughs. Molly can be so melodramatic when he wants to be. He scoots closer to the miserable hunch of tiefling and places an affectionate hand on his shoulder, rubbing soothing circles through the thick sweater. Molly begins to uncurl, uncertainly, an exotic flower inching towards the warmth of the human’s gaze.

“What makes you think I wouldn’t want to come over?” Caleb queries.

Molly shrugs. “I’m disgusting. And you’re-” A handwave at Caleb’s physical form,

“I am a fragile waif of a wizard who could be knocked over by a stiff breeze. What is your point?”

“If I get you sick you’ll get behind on your research paper. I know you can’t afford not to work right now and I-” he swallows in exaggerated dread as he reaches the crux of argument.  “-aaaand Nott will kill me.” 

They both share a moment to imagine Caleb’s roommate and best friend coming after Molly like a feral whirlwind. 

“Okay, so that is a fair point.” Caleb concedes. “Nott doesn’t have to know. The rest, however, is nonsense. Now look at me, schatz, and let me see how you’re doing.”

He dips a hand to Molly’s chin and tilts his head to get a better view. Molly does look pale, which given his exotic lavender colouring means that his cheeks are more of a washed-out lilac, in contrast to a darker blush where he has been scrubbing at his poor nose. There is a general, unwell cast to his features and a thick, congested sound to his breathing. Caleb doesn’t find it disgusting at all, if anything it makes him feel soft and fond. He plants a kiss to the tiefling’s forehead and reaches to the side of his neck to feel for his glands.

“Owww…” Mollymauk whines, predictably, and tries to duck away.

“Sore, then?” Caleb notes. “How’s your throat?”

“Sore as well.” Molly snuffles thickly then turns and blows his nose into some more toilet tissue. 

“Poor sweetheart, you got it bad, didn’t you?” 

“Maybe.” He says meekly. 

A soft, pathetic snuffle and Mollymauk finally gives up on keeping any space between them. He snuggles up into Caleb’s arms and lays his head shamelessly against his boyfriend’s shoulder, nestling in for warmth. His tail slips between their nested calves, anchoring them. 

“Have you had any medicine?” Caleb asks. 

Molly nods. “I had some, but it didn’t seem to be working so I had some more…” He shrugs in the direction of a bottle and a sticky teaspoon on the sideboard. 

“Okay, that’s good. No wonder you were a little loopy when I came in. Why don’t you drink your tea while it’s hot?”

They both sip tea in silence for a few minutes. Molly draws his duvet up over them both and tugs it up to his chin. The moment is interrupted by a few quick panting breaths and a chaotic- “ --aah'YZSSHH-iew!” of a sneeze that thrusts him forward, whole body shuddering.

He straightens groggily, as though it took a lot of him. “So no romantic outing today?”

“Absolutely not. Only romantic couch cuddles and possibly you having a nap. Do you think you could sleep for a bit?”

“Not if I keep- keep  --'YZZSSChieww! Fuck.”

“Gesundheit!” 

Molly keeps his head down and groans.

“So. Sleep, yes?” Caleb tries to be businesslike, which is difficult with a ridiculously purple and obviously miserable tiefling moping beside him. “Do you feel like going back to bed or staying here on the couch?”

Molly considers, head tilted. “I can’t just go to bed in the middle of the day?” 

“Of course you can, you do it all the time. You are the queen of naps.” 

Molly wavers, sniff-sniffing damply and shivering where he sits.

Caleb stands and offers both hands to haul him to his feet, as if his slight frame could be any actual assistance to his more athletic partner.

“Come, schatz, let me take you to bed. You can have a nap or watch TV and I will sit beside you and read, then make you something nice and hot for lunch. Yes?”

Molly accepts the symbolic gesture and follows him meekly up the stairs. He pauses on the threshold with a look of sudden dread-

“My room is-” 

Too late, Caleb has opened the door. Molly’s room looks as though the wardrobe department of his entire circus troupe has exploded out of the closet, where it is mixed with empty cans, bags, shoes and new-age nonsense. Caleb, who has never had enough possessions to cover the floor of a room, just rolls his eyes, more impressed than offended. The overall effect is not unwelcoming; the air is scented with musky nagchampa and the light through the fabric and fairy-lights pinned over the window is diffuse and gentle. Endearingly, there is a distinct, Mollymauk sized dip in the centre of the mattress. Extra blankets and pillows are arranged to make a nest. 

“I don’t mind. It smells nice.” 

“Thagks. I feel so accepted.” Molly jokes but his partner just nods.

“You should. I told you I do not mind if you are a little messy around the edges. Everyone is, if you look close enough. Now, lie down.” 

In a few moments they have retrieved the duvet from downstairs and settled beside each other on the bed with Molly’s horned head cradled carefully in his human’s lap. They have enough practice at this that Caleb can pet his back with one hand while reading his book with the other. It’s not as easy as it could be, however, because Molly keeps shifting and sniffling and scrubbing his nose itchily against Caleb’s upper thigh. 

“That is a little distracting, love, is that the effect you intended?” Caleb can’t keep the warmth out of his voice. 

Disappointingly, Molly shakes his head. “Not really, sorry. Ugh, I feel s- -s-ohh- fuck- ” his voice cracks and wavers up the octave. He clearly needs to sneeze again, badly. His expression is congested and miserable, too overwhelmed by the sensation to talk. 

“Sneezy?” Caleb suggests.

Molly nods, shakes his head like a dog with water in it’s ears, gives an unhappy little groan. The irritation is obvious in the hazy cast of his eyes, the uncertain waver to the corner of his lip. 

“So sneezy.” Caleb teases, fondly. “Look like you caught this cold right in your nose.” 

He reaches to give the offending organ a gentle pet, fingertips tweaking the fine purple tip. Molly responds with an almost comically deep inhale and a wounded look before executing a declarative sneeze over the side of the bed. 

"... --aah'YZSSHH-iew!

“Gesundh-”

“ah-YIIZSSHHww!” 

Caleb’s book is long abandoned by this point. His attention is fully commanded by his beloved tiefling who is trapped in a seemingly unbreakable cycle of chest-swelling gasp-- head tilt back-- hard punctuating sneeze into his steepled hands-- swear- -gasp again. 

It does wind down eventually, following a few particularly vicious, three-syllable- 

“ahh- IIZSSCHH-iEW!” 

“Fuck… tired…” He finishes.

“Impressive. Poor liebling.” Caleb sighs and hands him a pack of tissues from his own pocket. “I’ve never seen you like this..”

Mollymauk shugs. “I don’t often get sick, it’s the-” a gesture that takes in all his inhuman glory. “Thank fuck. Guess I’m making up for it. I feel like balls.”

“I am not surprised.” Caleb waits until Molly has blown his nose to the best of his ability, then scoots closer again. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“Nothing… I’m just going to have a crappy weekend…” Molly sighs dramatically, running his hands through his hair. “When I said practice was cancelled, I cancelled on them cause I felt too rough. I’m going to get so behind on learning my new act…”

“Stop whining, it doesn’t suit you.” Caleb shakes his head, reaching to settle the teifling’s curls back into place where he has mussed them up. “Shan’t.” Oh yes, he’d forgotten that Molly is a brat. 

“Then maybe I should go and leave you to your misery?” Caleb makes as though to rise, but predictably as clockwork his partner gives a whimper of loss and reaches for him.

“No- stay with me-?” His ruby eyes are big and pleading, tears actually beginning to rise. Gods, Molly feels completely pathetic right now. Luckily, Caleb cannot resist him even like this and gives in at once, his point made.

“Ah, very well, but I will have no more whimpering. I know you feel very poorly, schatz, but just let me help you.” “Okay.” Molly snuffles into his sleeve and nods.

“First I think you could have some more tea, and we could even put a shot of whiskey in it. Then I really want you to try and sleep. What if I don’t even read? You could have my full attention, yes?” He sweetens the command with a tender hand rubbing over his boyfriend’s temples and down the sides of his nose. Molly softens at once, practically purring.

In no time at all they are rearranged on the bed with a steaming cup of tea. Caleb leans up against the headboard and spreads his legs, tapping his chest to indicate that Molly should settle between them. It takes a little shuffling to settle the tiefing’s horned head against his chest, but he feels Molly relax into the embrace at once. 

His partner is a soothing weight, anchoring him in the present as Molly always does. 

He finds he does not mind the snuffly breaths and little coughs smothered against his chest; the intimacy of the moment is more than worth it. 

“This is nice.” 

“See, if your head is elevated, you won’t have so much congestion when you sleep.” He explains.

“That’s really smart,” the tiefling murmurs sleepily. “I always said you were a genius.”

A moment of calm. The winter sun comes out from behind the clouds and a ray of light slips through a gap in the hangings to drape over the bed. The crystals on the windowsill dance with minute rainbows. He feels Molly smile. “Sunshine.” He says sleepily.

“That’s me.” Caleb agrees. “Just rest, Mollymauk. I’ve got you.” 

And he does, he does. Even with Molly like this, it’s better than books and museum dates and circus shows. It is better than anything Caleb can think of. 

[shy-violet-soul]

The End & the Beginning

Pairings: Mobster! Bucky Barnes x female character Characters: Bucky Barnes, mentions of Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanoff, Scott Lang, Clint Barton Rating: T for teen for angst Summary: she’s running in terror from an unexpected threat. She’s finds the end of her fear in the most unexpected person. Warnings: mentions of violence: gunshot wounds, implied murder Word count: 900-ish A/N: I’ve been in a bit of a writing slump this week, and I’m trying to seize inspiration when it hits me. This one shot is based off this mobster AU headcanon from the fabulous @bucky-plums-barnes Spinoff Saturday.

She remembered the 2:07am shining at her from her phone.

The cold air pinking her cheeks, the squeak of the door at Mr. Petrakis’ corner store, the smell of the kettle corn she couldn’t Netflix without. Mr. Petrakis’ strangled shout explaining he didn’t know where ‘Denny’ was, the weird red octopus glaring at her from the back of the one of the three men’s leather jackets. Her eyes ringing with the shock of gunfire, smoke biting at her nose while her teeth bit at her hand to hold the shriek back.

She remembered running.

The ache of her muscles as she crept towards the back door, the blaring bass of her heart in her ears, the cold black of the shooter’s eyes when he saw her. Shouted profanities. Lungs burning, eyes burning, legs burning. Cold metal biting at her fingers as she climbed fences, concrete and cotton pants scraping her knees raw. The gagging, slimy stench of spoiled vegetables and cat pee as she slid down into the dumpster and closed the lid soundlessly.

She remembered the shakes.

Terror, cold, and pain-fueled tremors as the minutes ticked by. The sharp twinge in her right knee with every step home. Something warm and wet and cold and sticky on her shoulder and arm. Sharp silhouette strangers moving in the lit apartment she’d left dark.

She remembered the cold.

Shedding her jacket as she tried to hide their memory of her. Numb feet throbbing, fingers pinching as the blocks climbed and the temperature dropped. Each noise from the street skyrocketing her pulse until her chest ached and her eyes scratchy with fatigue. Body suddenly heavy, arm and shoulder burning, she welcomed the relative clean and order of the alley. Didn’t feel the splinters as she shimmied herself through the unlatched window. Couldn’t find one ounce of strength left to crawl out of the heap she fell into against the cinderblock wall.

Then she couldn’t remember anything.

******************************************************************************

He remembered Scott was late.

The apologetic stammer explaining his reason as Bucky climbed in the car. The whisper of paper as Steve opened the business’s planner to go over the day’s agenda. The smell of the coffee Sam handed him from the front seat. Natasha’s voice ringing through the phone, and the skirl of annoyance at hearing his newest warehouse looked broken into.

He remembered the smell.

The familiar weight of his Glock as they cleared each room, the comfortable confidence of Steve behind, Clint above, Sam and Nat beside him. His nose twitching at the faint scent of garbage and gardenias as they hit the far exterior wall. Dull dark wetness seeping from the pile of rags below the window hinting at old blood.

He remembered his body stilling.

Face so pale her veins showed through like tiny traces, lips blue, breathing a faint rattle. Her pulse a faint thrum beneath his fingers, stale copper in his nose from the bloody gunshot wound in her shoulder. Fever heat firing her face and chattering her teeth. The glare of the bloody octopus her fingerprints smeared onto the concrete floor beneath her with the letters, “i saw”.

He remembered the rage.

The gravel of his voice barking orders for Banner, her limp weight hanging from his arms as Scott raced expertly towards back to his townhome. Steve and Sam’s chorusing tenors as they hit the phones, giving instructions to their various soldiers to get eyes on Hydra. The pressure and jostle as Clint worked on her wound. Her name in his ears as Natasha hacked the forgotten phone in her pocket. Welcome safety loosening his shoulders as his fortress came into view. Steel strengthening his spine as Steve curtly bullet-pointed the events at the Petrakis store.

He’d make sure Hydra always remembered today.

*******************************************************************************

She remembered the warmth.

Yellow light falling on her face instead of icy night. Downy warmth enveloping her body instead of shackling cold. Soft vanilla in her nose instead of trash, silk on her skin instead of concrete and blood-stained cotton.

She remembered her weakness.

How heavy and trembly her arms felt. The scratchiness of her throat as she tried to swallow the dryness away. The throb and fire in her shoulder when she dragged her eyes open and tried to move to her side. Icy fear sharding into her belly as a incredibly beautiful, gorgeously gilded, completely foreign ceiling came into view.

“Hello.”

She remembered his eyes.

Grey blue staring into her soul like he could read her memories. Dark hair pulled into a stark ponytail, casting a foreboding filter upon his face. Sandpapered stubble softening the sharp lines of his jaw, a dimple winking at her when he smiled clearing the doubting fog away.

He remembered her eyes.

Adorably confused, still faintly pained. Blinking owlishly up at him like she wasn’t sure this was still the pre-dawn’s nightmare or this morning’s salvation. Lips pulled in between teeth shouted her unease. Hair messy in fever-tossed tangles softening the sharp edges of her fear, a crinkle between her eyebrows widening the smile on his face.

“You’re safe here. I promise.”

A heartbeat, heavy for both of them with evaluation, contemplation.

“I believe you.”

Years later, they both remembered that first touch of their hands. Questioning, reassuring. Warm. Steady. She remembered the end of a night of terror. He remembered the end of another night of loneliness.

They both remembered the beginning of ‘together’.