#EXTENDED fluffbruary

[lisbeth-kk]

An unexpected meeting with Mike, followed by a bombshell of a question, makes John reconsider his feelings for Sherlock. Sherlock who’s been dead for nearly two years.

Sherlock contemplates how to best approach John now that he’s back. Not dead after all.

The extended Fluffbruary has reached July and this months prompts were: kiss-garden-whispers

@fluffbruary @totallysilvergirl @calaisreno @keirgreeneyes @topsyturvy-turtely @gaylilsherlock @raina-at @a-victorian-girl

[lisbeth-kk]

John’s on holiday in Greece. With his ex-girlfriend. Then, Sherlock makes a dramatic appearance, and John has to rescue him from harm’s way.

Fluffbruary extended version. June 14 prompts: allure-holiday-flowers.

@fluffbruary @totallysilvergirl @topsyturvy-turtely @calaisreno

[astaldis]

@fluffbruary

Chapters: 1/1           Words: 2,032 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach/Coën Characters: Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, Coën (The Witcher), Original Male Character Additional Tags: Fluffbruary, cloudy, Thunderstorms, Rain, Shelter from the Storm, Fluff, Cuddling & Snuggling, There Was Only One Bed, Established Relationship Summary: On the Path Cahir and Coën are surprised by a tempest. Will they find shelter from the storm?

[hardly-an-escape]

what's in a name? | Dream/Hob | 9300 words | rated E

this is my submission for @designtheendless's 3K commission giveaway: a Dreamling fic based on their fanart above!

tags: alternate universe - human, photographer Hob Gadling, artist Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, model Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, strangers to lovers, snowed in, only one bed, light dom/sub, oral sex, face fucking, anal fingering, anal sex, anonymous sex, Dream of the Endless is a horny little weasel, and Hob is no less of a horny little weasel, brief Princess Bride references, alcohol consumption, impulsive decision making, callous disregard for the geography of northern California, they go from 0-60 because they’re both nuts, neither of them are in a great place but they do make each other better rather than worse

Hob is on an ill-fated road trip through California. He’s making his way slowly down the coast toward Los Angeles when, trapped by a snowstorm in a small town near Mount Shasta, he meets a mysterious stranger in a diner. They share a night of anonymous passion – but when the sun rises, Hob finds that he can’t just leave the stranger behind…

this story developed partially from Picture Perfect, one of my Fluffbruary 2024 fills. I also incorporated some of designtheendless's other suggested image prompts, so do make sure you check their original post! and thank you so much for extending the deadline, it meant I had time to get my CHBB fic submitted before pivoting to finish this... and even so I'm still barely getting it done in time just because of who I am as a person :D

Hob leans forward over the steering wheel, brows furrowed as he peers through the driving snow at the street ahead. The windshield wipers are going like mad; he’s seen a plow or two out, but they seem to barely be making a dent, so traffic has slowed to a crawl. Which is, frankly, for the best, since the weather is bad enough that only a true nutter would be out in it at all.

Well… nobody’s ever accused Hob of being sane.

His GPS instructs him to take the next right and informs him that his destination will then be on his right. He can just make out the neon sign through the thick flakes: Townhouse Motel. “Vacancy,” it says below the old-timey script, blinking on and off. In the distance, the sun is just beginning to settle behind some mountains that he’s sure would be beautiful if they weren’t hidden behind such inclement weather.

He pulls in the driveway. The lot is nearly empty, so he parks right next to the office door and jams his winter cap on his head before hurrying through the flurries.

The bored teenager behind the front desk barely looks up from the reality show playing on her tablet as she runs Hob’s credit card and gives him his door key – an actual, physical key. Room 1389. He decides it’s not worth it to ask why the room number has four digits when the motel has maybe a dozen rooms total.

He does ask if there’s somewhere nearby to get a bite to eat and a drink.

“There’s a diner across the street and down a block,” the teenager says, “but they don’t serve booze.” Then, finally looking up, perhaps seeing the bags under his eyes and his generally downtrodden demeanor, she relents. “There’s a liquor store about two blocks past that. You can bring stuff back to your room, I guess. It’s not like anybody is going to ask questions around here.”

That, Hob thinks as he heads back outside and moves his rental car a little closer to his door, is obvious. There’s a general air of neglect clinging to the motel, and indeed to the whole street, from what he can see: the buildings are a little more weatherbeaten than can be plausibly explained by a cute vintage aesthetic, and at least one storefront seems to be permanently boarded up. The recession has clearly hit Northern California just as hard as it has the rest of the United States.

What a time to be playing tourist. What a time to be – well, he won’t think about that right now.

His room is clean, at least. Someone, at some point in time, has made a half-hearted attempt to decorate it with a seaside theme. The bedlinens are various shades of blue, rather than your typical beigey-white. There’s an unfortunate painting of a mermaid hanging over the outdated television, and a slightly less unfortunate painting of a lighthouse above the bed. The bathroom wallpaper has little seashells on it.

Hob leaves his camera bag on the desk and his duffel on the end of the bed, grabs his wallet, turns his collar up against the cold, and heads back out into the snowy evening.

The diner is, as promised, only a short walk down the street, but Hob is shivering by the time he gets there. The wind cuts right through him – silly British man that he is, he thought California would be warm, even in winter. He hadn’t really reckoned with unpredictable mountain weather, or with the cold front that was chasing him down through the southern end of the Cascades. The weatherman on the radio had been calling it “freakish.”

A little bell tinkles merrily when he pushes open the door. A waitress calls out a greeting, tells him to sit wherever he likes and she’ll be right with him. There’s only one other person in the diner, a slender man dressed all in black who is hunched over a cup of coffee at the counter. He glances up and immediately back down as Hob stomps the snow off his boots and takes an empty booth far enough away from the front door that he won’t feel the rush of cold air if anyone else comes in.

The waitress bustles over, bringing him a cup of coffee without even asking. Hob wraps his fingers around it gratefully. He doesn’t normally drink coffee this late, but it’s been the kind of day that calls for it: so cold, so uncomfortable and distressing, that the sturdy ceramic mug is exactly what he wants. The bitter note of slightly burnt coffee is tempered by the cheap, artificially flavored vanilla creamer he only ever uses at this kind of greasy spoon diner. He breathes deep and feels something inside him start to thaw.

When the waitress comes back with a menu, he warms up even more. She is middle-aged and comfortable, nice and no-nonsense, the sort of person with an indeterminate American accent who could have come from anywhere: Illinois, or Florida, or five minutes down the road. She recommends the olive burger with fries, and a side of fried pickles, because they’re the best in the county, and then her excitement simply bubbles over.

“I’m just so darn tickled to have two Brits here in the same night!” she enthuses. “Oh gosh, is that okay? Can I call you Brits or is that rude?”

“No, no, it’s fine!” Hob laughs. “Two of us, eh? That is a coincidence.”

“I know, right? Okay hon, lemme just get your order in and I’ll be back to warm up your coffee in a sec.”

She bustles away again, and Hob looks curiously at the man at the counter. He must have heard her comment, but he hasn’t turned around, or indeed acknowledged Hob in any way since he came in. He shrugs mentally and turns away to look out the window at the thickly swirling snow. It’s dark enough now that streetlights have come on, casting cones of light in which the flakes dance like a very slow sodium-tinted tornado.

He wishes he had a book. Or a crossword puzzle, or one of those packets of crayons they give to kids at restaurants. Something to keep his hands occupied and his mind off of everything that was threatening to consume it, off of the last few days, off of her –

Then the man from the counter slides into the booth across from him.

“Hello,” Hob says.

“Hello,” the stranger says. His voice is surprisingly deep and resonant, coming from his slim frame, and he looks to be in his late twenties, perhaps a few years younger than Hob. He is very pale. His dark hair is sticking up rather wildly and his eyes are a cold, clear blue that reminds Hob of the way the sky had looked this morning, before the clouds had descended.

“Who are you, then? Aside from a fellow Brit?” asks Hob.

“No one of consequence.” He’s lugging around a small backpack, which now rests on the bench beside him.

“I must know,” Hob says in a very bad Inigo Montoya accent.

“Get used to disappointment,” the stranger says with a smirk, and Hob laughs.

“Oh, we’re going to get along just fine,” he says, holding his hand out across the table. “My name’s Hob, yes that’s my real name, and yes, it is a long story.”

The stranger shakes his hand briefly. His palm is warm from cupping his coffee cup, but the tips of his fingers are cold. “Pleased to meet you, Hob.”

“And do you have a name, stranger?”

“I do. Several, in fact.”

“Any of them for public consumption?”

The stranger shrugs. “Will you forgive me if I maintain a certain level of mystery?”

Hob shrugs too. “That’s your lookout, mate. No skin off my nose.”

They chat. About the weather, and how odd it is, and how different to England. About books – the stranger appears to be a voracious reader, and Hob had loaded up an old iPod with audiobooks in preparation for a lot of driving, which sparks a lively debate on the merits of printed books vs reading aloud. In the midst of this, Hob’s food arrives, and he is derailed momentarily from the conversation by an overwhelming need to unhinge his jaw and stuff as many chips into his gob as humanly possible. The stranger watches in amusement.

“Hungry?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Hob says, muffled by his burger. “Been driving pretty much all day and I didn’t really want to stop, so…”

He’s suddenly self-conscious, very aware that the man sitting across from him is slender and willowy and dressed all in black, and that he himself is very much… not that. Dressed for comfort and warmth in slightly baggy jeans and a flannel shirt and his puffy jacket balled up on the bench beside him. But the stranger seems unbothered, simply smiling slightly and snagging a fried pickle off the plate between them, which Hob had invited him to share moments after it had arrived.

They are good; crispy and salty and uniquely American. Hob is certainly prepared to believe they’re the best in the county.

“So are you staying here in town, or is that shrouded in mystery as well?” he asks, once he’s slowed down a bit.

“I’ve been staying in a cabin up the mountain, a little way out of town. With my family.” He said the word family as though it is faintly dirty. “One of my siblings thought it would be good for us to get away together. But I have found it… trying.”

“Up the mountain, eh? Are you going to be able to get back in this?”

Hob tips his head toward the window. It is very dark now, and the snow is falling more thickly and wildly than ever. A crease appears between the stranger’s eyebrows.

“To be honest, I had not thought that far ahead.”

“Do you have much experience driving in the snow?”

To Hob’s surprise, the stranger actually blushes, just a gentle stain of pink across his cheekbones. “I… walked.”

“You walked?”

The waitress, stopping by the table to warm up their coffees, echos Hob’s surprise.

“Oh, honey,” she says. “In this? How are you fixing to get home?”

“I was planning to walk back,” the stranger says with some asperity. “But I admit I was not anticipating this kind of weather.”

“Let me check on the roads for you,” the waitress says kindly. “Which cabin did you say you’re at? My brother-in-law lives up that way, I’ll give him a call. I’m sure we can find you a ride.”

She goes back behind the counter and picks up the phone.

“I’m happy to give you a ride,” Hob says quietly. “If she thinks it’s safe.”

“You do not have to do that.”

“‘S okay. I want to.”

“Bill? It’s Jan. I have a question for you,” says the waitress.

Hob realizes, suddenly and with some surprise, that it is quite true, that he is not just being polite: he does want to help this mysterious stranger, who talks like a 19th-century Byronic hero and dresses like a college goth. His stomach is doing the tiniest little swoop every time they make eye contact, and he doesn’t want it to stop.

The waitress calls over to him.

“You got four wheel drive, hon?”

Hob thinks about the little Honda Civic in the motel parking lot. Thinks about mountain roads and snow. Shakes his head no.

Scraps of the waitress’s conversation float across the diner and Hob takes another bite of his burger.

“– well they’re foreign, Bill, they don’t –”

He snickers just a little; can’t help himself, really, because the waitress is just so kind and helpful and also clearly more than a little bit befuddled by their presence in her diner. These two Brits, total strangers, so unalike one another – and yet here they are, sharing a booth and a plate of fried pickles, five thousand miles and change away from home. He exchanges a look of camaraderie with the stranger and eats some more chips. They’re good too.

“– and tomorrow? What’s the overnight –”

After another minute or two the waitress thanks her brother-in-law and hangs up the phone. Her face is serious when she comes back to their table.

“Well, boys,” she says, “I don’t think anyone is going anywhere tonight. Bill says it’s pretty bad up there, and only getting worse. The plows aren’t even going out yet on account of the snow’s still coming down so hard, it doesn’t make sense to try and clear anything. You going to be able to find a place to stay?” she asks the stranger.

He looks at Hob. “Did you mention a motel?”

“Yeah, the Townhouse?” Hob says, and the waitress nods along. “I don’t know for sure if there are rooms available, but it didn’t look like the parking was full.”

“Probably not, this time of year,” interjects the waitress. “It’s a fine place, and Paulie can certainly use the business. I’ll bring your checks by in a minute, guys.”

She leaves them again. Her sensible sneakers squeak against the floor tiles as she walks.

“Thank you again for your offer of a ride,” the stranger says quietly. “That was very kind of you.”

“Course. I’m just sorry you won’t be able to get home tonight,” Hob says.

“It is my own fault. I should not have behaved so impulsively. But my siblings…” The man frowns. “As I said, they can be difficult. I would have done something regrettable, had I remained in the house.”

Hob waves a hand. “Ah, it happens to the best of us. Especially around family. You should hear some of the fights I’ve had with my sister, we can scream the paint off the walls when we get going.”

“Indeed,” the man says darkly.

“I’m glad you did come to town, though. It’s been kind of nice,” Hob says tentatively. “Having someone to talk to tonight.”

“Indeed,” his stranger repeats. But this time one corner of his mouth lifts in a tiny smile. “It seems to have worked out in my favor.”

Hob smiles back. “So, are you really not going to tell me your name?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Fun, eh?” Hob glances down at his own hands, folded on the table, back at the stranger. “Is that what this is?”

The stranger smirks. He leans forward and plucks another fried pickle from the plate. He opens his mouth, sticking out his tongue just a little bit farther than necessary to pop the slice into his mouth. He chews, and smirks some more, and gives Hob an unmistakable up-and-down appraising glance, and underneath the table he presses one ankle against Hob’s instep.

Oh. Hob feels a surprising but not unfamiliar spike of arousal in his gut. So that’s where this is heading – has been heading, since he pushed open the door and the stranger had glanced up at him. Had he blushed, when his eyes met Hob’s? Or is he applying more detail to that brief interaction after the fact, now that he thinks he knows what his stranger is thinking?

And when had the man become his stranger?

“I see,” he says, and presses back against the bony ankle under the table.

Ten minutes later, they’ve settled their bills – his stranger had apparently eaten a club sandwich before Hob had arrived, and he’s weirdly relieved that the man has consumed something more substantial than coffee this evening – and are gearing up to head back into the cold. Hob is zipping up his coat when he realizes the other man appears to have only a thick black hoodie and a knit beanie (also black, of course). He glances out the window, where it’s still snowing pretty hard, and raises an eyebrow.

“You going to be okay in just that?”

“You said it is only a couple of blocks? I will be fine. I tend not to feel the cold. And,” he adds defensively, “when I originally walked down the weather was not quite so… inclement.”

“If you say so,” Hob says as he opens the door. The waitress calls out a good night and he waves to her over his stranger’s shoulder. Wonders, just for a moment, what she thinks of the fact that they’re leaving together, or if she will ever think of them again at all. They step out into the snowy evening. “The girl at the motel said there’s a liquor store down the street. Mind detouring there? I was thinking of picking up some whiskey, or something. Something to keep a man warm.”

The man chuckles and they head down the street. It’s not until they’re away from the diner windows that he takes Hob by the elbow and gently draws him just outside the circle of a street lamp.

“Surely,” he says, voice low, stepping into Hob’s space, “there are many ways for a man to… keep warm.”

And he kisses him.

His lips are warm and dry, a little chapped. It’s a simple kiss, a chaste one, just their lips touching and the barest pressure of the stranger’s belly and chest pressed against Hob’s, swathed in layers of winter gear. It lasts for a heartbeat, two, and then the man steps back with a hum of satisfaction.

“Oh?” says Hob, giddily. “It’s like that, is it?”

“Obviously,” responds his stranger.

“Well, I don’t know, mate,” says Hob as they make their way down the street. He resists the urge to link their arms together. “Maybe you play footsie with every guy you meet in random diners in Northern California.”

“Perhaps.”

The liquor store is a brief respite from the wind and the snow. Hob selects a mid-range bottle of whiskey and they trudge back to his motel room. The snowflakes and the streetlights and the swirling wind make everything feel more than a little bit surreal, like something out of a dream or a fairy tale. The two of them could be adventurers, explorers, wading through an arctic wasteland in search of shelter. The mountain looms behind them, dark and mysterious, like a great castle or some monstrous beast.

“Do you mind if I take a shower?” asks his stranger, kicking off his boots dropping his backpack by the desk. “I’m afraid I did get rather sweaty, hiking down earlier. I wouldn’t mind cleaning up.” His gaze, beneath his long eyelashes, feels heavy and significant.

“Go right ahead.” Hob gestures toward the bathroom. “I’m just going to nip down to the lobby and get a bit of ice.” He retrieves the ice bucket from the desk, brushing close to his stranger as he does. The brief contact jolts him back to the real world. They’re not in the arctic waste; this handsome, ethereal man is here, in his motel room. He is pulling off his somewhat sodden hoodie and draping it over the back of the chair, and sniffing dubiously at the sweater he wears underneath it. He is real.

Hob waits until he hears the shower turn on to slip out the door.

Although he has his moments of cluelessness, Hob is not a stupid man. He knows where this is going. He recognizes the signs, the coy little dance they’ve been doing around each other for the past two hours, and no, he’s not a stupid man, but if he were a better one he might be able to resist the temptation of falling into bed with a beautiful stranger who won’t even share his name.

But there’s something about this man. Hob wants him. Already can’t resist him. Wants to wrap him up and keep him warm and kiss his collarbones and, yes, wants to fuck him, wants to feel him shudder and moan and wants to watch his cheeks flush and his head fall back in ecstasy. He hasn’t felt like this for a long, long time, and now it’s come out of nowhere to slam into him and hook into his gut, this wanting.

He throws a few scoops of ice from the machine in the motel lobby into the bucket and goes back to the room.

He’s kicked off his boots, unwrapped one of the shitty plastic cups, and poured himself a couple fingers of whiskey by the time he hears the shower shut off. There’s the usual shuffling noise of towels, a brief blast of the cheap hair dryer mounted to the wall. Then the door opens and the stranger emerges, and Hob is slammed from the real world right back into a surreal dream.

The man is even more beautiful without his clothes on: Hob would compare him to an elf or a fairy prince, but he’s too busy choking slightly on the spit that’s suddenly flooding his mouth at the sight of long, slim limbs, a narrow waist, and a temptingly well-defined Adonis belt that disappears under the cheap motel towel wound around his hips.

There’s a long moment of silent eye contact. Hob’s leaning up against the desk, cup cradled in one hand. His face heats as he watches his stranger’s eyes travel slowly down the length of his body and back up, pursing his lips slightly. His mouth is very pink, with the kind of full bottom lip that’s made for nibbling on, and the rest of his skin is as pale and smooth as… well, as snow, with just a touch of redness from the heat of the shower spreading across his chest.

Hob downs half of his whiskey without even thinking about it. He can’t look away. He can’t think, can’t even blink. He’s afraid that if he does, this vision will disappear and it’ll just be him, alone, a saddish man alone in a motel room with a bottle of booze and a bag of expensive camera equipment, and then who knows what will happen?

His stranger gives him one of those tiny half-smiles, suggestive, not quite a leer, and stalks across the room toward him.

He widens his legs and his stranger steps in to stand between his feet. He takes Hob’s drink out of his hand and tosses back the last swallow of whiskey before setting the plastic cup aside. Then he hooks one finger into the collar of Hob’s flannel shirt and pulls him into a kiss. His mouth is a study in contrasts: warm from the whiskey and cool from the ice, soft tongue and sharp teeth. They sink briefly, gently, into Hob’s bottom lip, and Hob pulls the man close against his chest and returns the favor.

The kiss is turning wet and messy when the man pulls back far enough to start fumbling with Hob’s shirt buttons. He’s pulled the tails of the shirt out of Hob’s jeans and has it about halfway unbuttoned when a phone starts ringing.

It’s not the room phone – it’s coming from a pocket of the man’s backpack.

“Ignore it,” he mumbles into Hob’s neck. “We are busy.”

The phone rings three times; four times. The stranger has finished with Hob’s shirt and is pulling the tee beneath it out of the waistband of his jeans by the time it finally stops.

His fingers are toying with Hob’s belt buckle and ghosting over the seam of his fly when it rings again.

The stranger groans audibly.

“Do you think,” Hob says with the carefully deliberate cadence of the very turned on, “that your family might be worried about you?”

“I do not care,” his stranger grumbles, and sinks gracefully to his knees.

Eventually the phone stops ringing again.

He’s worked Hob’s belt and fly open and is nuzzling into the opening of his jeans, nosing at the base of Hob’s cock through his underwear and Hob is panting, his stranger’s hot breath so close to where Hob wants him most – when the phone rings a third time.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” snarls the stranger, and stands.

He fishes a slightly battered-looking BlackBerry out of an outside pocket of his backpack and stabs at the call answer button.

“What.”

He turns away, so all Hob can see is the furious, stiff line of his stranger’s back. He can’t hear the other half of the conversation, and he doesn’t think he wants to; every fibre of the man’s body radiates anger and discomfort and perhaps a little bit of shame. Hob adjusts himself discreetly, rezips his jeans, and tiptoes over to sit down on the edge of the bed.

“Obviously I am alive. I am fine.” A pause. “I took a walk.” Another pause. “Yes. Yes, I know what time it is. No, I am assured that the roads were too bad to make it back to the cabin. I am in a motel room in…” He looks over to Hob. “What is the name of this place?”

Hob supplies the name of the motel, and that of the town as well, just for good measure. The man relays the information into the phone. There is another long pause.

“That is none of your business. Shut up. You have no idea what you’re talking about. And if you speak to me like that again I will hang up the phone.”

There is another, longer pause, during which the stranger’s face grows progressively redder. He is very deliberately not looking at Hob.

“No. I said no. I will arrange for my own transportation in the morning. I –”

The person on the other end of the phone must say something truly outrageous, because his strangers eyes bug out in a way that looks almost uncomfortable.

“Do the entirety of the known universe a favor and crawl back into whatever slime hole you emerged from and leave me alone,” he hisses. “Goodbye.”

Hob can’t quite muffle a snort at this crowning line. Siblings.

His stranger hangs up the phone with a vicious jab of a button and slams it down on the desk; then seems to reconsider, retrieves it, and shuts it off entirely before throwing it into his backpack. He sighs, a surprisingly tired sound.

“I will have another drink, if you don’t mind,” he says. “And then I would like it very much if you would fuck me. Please.”

Hob’s cock, which had been feeling distinctly neglected, gives a twitch.

“I think that can be arranged,” he says. “Are you –”

The stranger waves a dismissive hand. “I am quite sober enough to have sex with you. And I could easily afford my own room, if that’s a concern. I am here because I want to be.”

“Glad to hear it, but that actually isn’t what I was going to ask,” Hob says mildly.

“Oh,” the man says. A faint blush rises on his cheekbones. He scoops up the whiskey bottle and uncorks it, taking an unceremonious swig. The towel hangs dangerously low around his hips. “What were you going to ask?”

His stranger pauses with the whiskey bottle against his lips. Hob watches the long line of his neck work once, twice, as he swallows, and figures he may as well put his cards on the table.

“I was going to ask if latex condoms are okay. For when I fuck you into the mattress in a minute here.”

The man clears his throat. “Oh,” he says again. “Yes. Latex is fine.”

“Good. Anything you don’t like? Hard boundaries?”

He pauses. “I do not enjoy being choked. Or having my hands restrained in any way. But I like… I like it a little bit rough. It feels good. To be used.”

Hob leans back on one elbow. “Is that what you want me to do? Use you?”

“Yes.”

The word drops into the quiet room like a handful of snow might drop off a tree branch – soft and muffled and sending the same delicious shiver down Hob’s spine.

“I can do that.” Oh, yes. Hob can use this beautiful man, if he is offering himself up to be used. “C’mere, then.”

His stranger walks slowly across the room to where Hob is half-reclining on the bed, feet still planted on the floor. He kneels between Hob’s legs and runs his hands slowly up and down his thighs from knee to hip. “And you?” he asks. “Your boundaries?”

Hob considers. “I’m with you on choking, not a fan,” he says. “I’m not big on pain, generally, but I can give it to other people, if they need it.”

“Alright.” His hands are still rubbing up and down Hob’s thighs, a slow, hypnotizing rhythm. When he speaks again his voice is thick. “Would you consider the preliminary negotiations to be concluded now?”

“Don’t you have anything better to do with your mouth than spout off like a horny nineteenth century robber baron?” Hob counters.

His stranger smiles, a proper smile that crinkles the corners of his blue eyes, and unzips the fly of Hob’s jeans.

In short order he’s pulled them open and pushed Hob’s boxers down just enough that he can get his cock out. He’s not quite hard, not yet, but he gets there quickly between his stranger’s gentle, surprisingly soft hands and the way he immediately buries his nose in Hob’s pubic hair and breathes deeply as he looks up through his eyelashes.

Then he opens his mouth, and wraps his tongue around the head of Hob’s cock, and Hob’s brain makes a noise like radio static.

Oh, he is good at this. Unfairly good. Supernaturally good. He teases Hob for long, long minutes, working up and down his shaft with light touches of just his lips and tongue, ducking down now and then to mouth gently at his balls, until Hob is twitching and swearing and straining, perched on the edge of the bed. When he finally has mercy and takes Hob’s cock fully into his mouth, it is barely a relief. He is so wet, so hot, and he sinks down on Hob with no resistance, no trace of a gag reflex. Before he can stop himself, Hob’s hips jerk forward that final fraction, and suddenly his stranger’s nose is brushing his pubic bone and his throat is contracting around the head of Hob’s cock.

He’s expecting the man to pull back, to splutter in indignation, but instead he makes an encouraging noise and squeezes Hob’s thigh before folding his hands almost primly in his lap.

“Fuck,” Hob mutters. He makes an experimental shallow thrust into the tight, wet heat of his stranger’s mouth. “Really?”

His stranger can’t nod, not with Hob’s prick in his mouth, but he moans. Hob feels it vibrate all along the length of his shaft and has to stifle a whimper of his own. He sinks one hand into the soft riot of the man’s hair, still a little damp from the shower, and cradles the back of his skull. The bone feels sweet and finely formed in his hand.

“You want me to fuck your pretty face?” he asks, soft and just a tiny bit mean. “Yeah? That’s what your mouth is good for, isn’t it?”

He thrusts again, in and out, and the stranger’s eyes roll back a little in his head, so he does it again, and again. Soon he really is fucking his face, not too hard but deep, fingers tightening in his stranger’s hair as his eyes fall nearly shut, narrowing to crystalline blue crescents.

Hob pulls back briefly to let his stranger breathe. Runs his thumb along his bottom lip, dripping with spit, before he pushes back in. He doesn’t stop until he can feel the first tendrils of orgasm beckoning to him; but as tempting as it is to keep going, to empty himself into this perfect mouth, he’s made a promise. And Hob is a man of his word, so he pulls the man off his cock by the scruff of his neck. He makes an obscene noise as he goes, and another thing string of saliva dribbles from his puffy mouth. His eyes are slightly glassy as he looks up at Hob.

“Get up on the bed, baby,” Hob orders gently.

When the man stands up the towel is just barely clinging to his narrow hips, and his erection is stiff and straining against the terrycloth. He’s so hard, Hob thinks wonderingly, just from having Hob’s cock in his mouth for a few minutes, and his own prick throbs in sympathy.

“Hands and knees,” Hob says, and the man crawls up on the bed. The towel falls away as he goes, languid but obedient, so that he’s entirely naked when Hob positions himself behind him. The contrast between Hob’s clothes and the other man’s nudity is delicious – Hob’s rough denim against the man’s soft thighs, Hob’s hairy wrists poking out from worn flannel as he runs his fingernails along sharply elegant shoulder blades.

He allows himself one long, gentle caress, from the nape of his stranger’s neck down to the shallow dimples in the small of his back, before he grabs at the man’s buttocks and unceremoniously spreads him open.

His hole looks surprisingly loose and relaxed already. Hob runs the pad of one thumb over it.

“Were you prepping yourself in the shower?” he asks, delighted. He presses gently and the furl of muscle gives, just a little, pink and fluttering.

“Hng,” says his stranger, shuddering. “Yes. I thought – I thought about your hands. Oh. I liked the thought that you were just outside the door. While I had my fingers inside myself.”

“Impatient little minx,” Hob says fondly. He kisses one of the lovely knobs of his stranger’s spine and pinches his backside for good measure before pulling away. “Stay here.”

He has to dig down to the bottom of his duffel bag in order to find the box of condoms and the little travel sized bottle of lube. He’d felt a little self-conscious when he’d packed them back in his flat in London – like he was presuming something – but then again he had been preparing for a supposedly romantic road trip with his girlfriend.

He’s glad, now, that he has them.

His stranger has remained on his knees, pitched forward to rest on his elbows, face pressed into a pillow and cock hanging heavy between his legs.

“Good boy,” Hob praises, and runs his hand along the man’s flank. “Beautiful. Oh, darling, I’m going to make you feel so good. And then you’re going to make me feel so good, aren’t you? You already have,” Hob coos, drizzling lube directly onto his arsehole. “And I know you’re going to keep being a good boy for me, aren’t you?”

Before the man can answer, Hob slips a finger inside him, right up to the first knuckle. He’s rewarded with a whimper and the feeling of his stranger pushing back against him, silently begging for more.

And then not so silently. “More,” moans the stranger. “Fuck. More, please.”

Hob strokes his finger in and out, petting the velvet inside his stranger.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “You’ll get more.”

He tries to spend as much time torturing his stranger with his fingers as his stranger had spent torturing him with his mouth, but by the second finger he finds his resolve dissolving like so many snowflakes on warm skin. The man is making such wanton sounds, and his knees skid wider and wider on the slippery motel bedspread, opening him inexorably to Hob’s hungry eyes and questing hands.

“Oh. Oh,” he says. “Oh, yes, fuck,” he moans. No more well-crafted phrases or erudite words; the only thing dropping from that perfect mouth are noises, guttural and breathy by turns, only half-muffled by the pillow his face is smashed into.

“Please,” he begs, “please, in me, I – please, I need –”

Hob obliges.

He’s pretty sure he’s never been harder in his life as he shoves his jeans down around his thighs and rolls the condom on. He has to do it one-handed, clumsily, because some frantic corner of his brain is convinced that if he lets go of the stranger’s hip then the man will disappear, between one blink and the next, and this whole night will turn out to have been some snowblind fever dream.

But his stranger stays where Hob has put him, desperate and writhing, begging for Hob’s cock, and when he finally pins the man down to the mattress and pushes into him, that first hard thrust is enough to silence both of them.

The room is utterly still for a heartbeat, and then another, and then one more, until Hob pulls out in order to thrust in again and his stranger wails and then Hob is fucking into him in earnest, fucking him hard, until the sound of their skin slapping together almost drowns out the sounds his stranger is making beneath him.

Almost.

His stranger moans and pants, and Hob answers him, thrust for thrust and moan for moan, Yes and Ah and Christ and Fuck, fuck me, use me, yes. He grips his stranger by the hips, so hard that his fingers leave little white divots behind when he shifts his grip, so hard that he worries he might leave bruises, and still the man pushes back against him and begs for more.

He comes, when he finally comes, untouched, rutting gracelessly against the mattress. Hob stills, grits his teeth, not wanting to overwhelm the other man as he seizes in pleasure, but his stranger continues to move against him, if anything even more desperate, even in the throes of orgasm.

“Don’t stop,” he gasps, “don’t, oh God, fuck me through it, don’t stop –”

So Hob hauls him up and pushes him down, one hand on his waist and one shoving his chest down into the mattress as the man’s hands scrabble at the sheets and he sobs and Hob pistons into him until he empties himself, until his prick is oversensitive and his stranger is twitching around and beneath him, and the room is finally quiet.

Then Hob takes the condom off, knots it and tosses it towards the wastebasket. He rolls them both away from the wet spot with only middling success, but he’s too tired to care. He shucks the rest of his clothes off. He is boneless and spent, and his stranger is inserting himself relentlessly into Hob’s personal space. They lie there for a long, long moment, sweaty and panting, until their breathing starts to even out and the desperate closeness has receded into normal cuddling. Hob presses a kiss to his stranger’s sweaty temple and marvels at his luck.

“I realize I neglected to ask you why you find yourself in Northern California,” his stranger says, tucked against Hob’s side, voice drowsy and hoarse. “Do you care to share?”

“It’s a long story,” Hob says. “I was – well, I am – on a road trip. With my, ah. With my girlfriend. Well. Ex-girlfriend, now. Actually.”

His stranger tenses slightly, and Hob doesn’t blame him; he knows how it must sound. “It sounds like there is a story there?” the man says, almost tentative.

“Yeah, we… we came over together, about two weeks ago. We flew into Seattle, were planning this whole big trip, right down the coast and all the way to Los Angeles. See the redwoods, do some wine tastings, the whole bit. I’m a photographer, I was thinking I could turn the whole trip into a photo essay, maybe even a book.” He sighs. “Then she heard about this yoga retreat, ashram sort of place. Bit culty, I don’t really go in for all that, but she absolutely had to check it out, so we did. Two days later, out of the blue, she tells me our chakras are misaligned and gives me the boot. Turns out Guru Todd Thingummy, who ran the retreat center, was very aligned with her chakras. As well as other, less… metaphysical things.”

There’s a sound from the vicinity of Hob’s armpit that he realizes with delight is a snort. The snort blossoms into a chuckle, and then his stranger is laughing, a frankly horrible honking sort of laugh, shaking in Hob’s arms with it, and Hob laughs along.

“I’m sorry,” his stranger gasps. “I shouldn’t – I shouldn’t laugh at you. It’s just… Guru Todd.”

“I know!” Hob snickers. “You can picture him, right? White boy dreadlocks and a fucking… shell necklace. Utter tosser.”

“I feel like I’ve probably met someone almost exactly like him, truly.” Eventually his stranger’s horrible laugh subsides. He shifts against Hob, playing idly with his chest hair, curling it around one finger. “In a way, I am also escaping a recent ex. She was the first person I dated after some… difficult experiences I had about a year ago. But in the end I was far more invested in the relationship than she, and she became. Uncomfortable. With my ardor.”

“She’s a bloody idiot then,” Hob says automatically, and his stranger looks up, startled.

“Do you think so?”

Hob briefly considers backpedaling. Don’t come off like a madman, he thinks to himself. Not when he’s finally talking to you. But there’s no hope for him. “Well, yeah. I mean, I’d say your ardor is my favorite thing about you so far.” He lets one hand drift down and gives his stranger’s arse a cheeky squeeze, and is rewarded with a squeak and another snort.

“You are kind to say so,” the man says, and interrupts himself with a yawn.

“It’s true. I… I’m really glad I met you,” Hob says honestly. Too honestly. He can’t help himself; the man is just so beautiful, mouth kissed red and limbs loose, fucked out and soft everywhere he’d been hard and prickly before.

Hob still doesn’t know his name.

“I’m glad I met you, too,” the man says softly.

Hob snuggles them both down into the lumpy motel pillows and pulls the blanket up firmly around their shoulders. The wind blows outside, he reaches up to switch off the lamp, and they fall asleep.

He wakes in the night and stumbles to the bathroom to take a piss. When he comes back, his stranger has starfished out and is taking up a full two-thirds of the bed, sleeping like a stone. Hob manages to reinsert himself into the remaining third and then simply lies there for a long few minutes, looking at the other man.

The skies must have cleared, at least a little, because there’s a few strips of moonlight filtering through the blinds. The pale light turns his stranger into marble, a work of art; he practically glows against the blue sheets. Hob’s fingers itch for his camera.

“You’re going to fuck me up,” he whispers. “I’m going to wake up next to you and never want to leave, and it’s going to fuck me up so bad.”

The sleeping man does not respond, of course; doesn’t even stir. Hob lies there, and gazes at him, until he slips back into sleep himself.

When he wakes again it’s fully morning. The sun is that peculiar thin shade of blue that you get on very cold mornings, but when Hob peeks out the window, the sky is clear and the snowplows have clearly been out making the rounds. He tries to tamp down a sudden feeling of disappointment.

He gets a drink of water, and when he returns to bed his stranger is stirring. First one blue eye opens, then the other.

“Morning,” Hob says.

The man hums and stretches luxuriously, rolling from his belly to his back. The sheets fall down around his hips, revealing one elegant hipbone and a tempting glimpse of dark curls. His pale skin practically glows against the blue sheets in the morning light.

“Enjoying the view?” his stranger asks, and his voice is rough with sleep and slightly hoarse.

“You could say that,” Hob says. He puts one knee on the bed, reaches out to run a hand lightly down the long, lean line of the man’s thigh. “God, you’re… you are so beautiful.”

“Come here to me,” the man says, beckoning to Hob.

Hob ducks his head and kisses up the ladder of the man’s ribs, takes one pert nipple gently between his teeth.

“Can I take your picture?” he says suddenly. “Not in a creepy way. I can even keep your face out of it if you like, I just… there’s something about you, in this light.”

“I don’t mind,” the man says.

Hob’s heart leaps.

A few minutes later, he’s gotten his camera out and adjusted. The room is so quiet, so still, that each click of the shutter sounds almost sacrilegious. He shoots in black and white. He thinks the sheets will show dark, almost black, and the man’s skin will show light and luminous against them. His stranger poses like a dream, languid and biddable, moving here and there on the bed, wherever Hob arranges him.

“You’ve done this before,” Hob accuses. He’s kneeling above the other man, shooting straight down, and his stranger has one arm thrown over his face so only one eye is visible. “Posed, I mean. You know how to move for a camera.”

“I have,” the stranger admits. “Mostly for life drawing classes, though I imagine the principle is more or less the same.”

“Incredible. Are you an artist, then?”

“I suppose.”

Hob tugs the sheet a little lower, so that it’s just barely covering the stranger’s prick, which has plumped up a little – whether from the attention of Hob himself or of the camera, he’s not sure, but it’s one of the sexiest things Hob’s ever seen. The neat patch of dark hair blending into the dark sheet. The gentle swell beneath it. His mouth waters.

“You suppose?”

“I find it difficult to call myself an artist. To claim that title. But I make art. If that is the same thing.”

“Hmm. I reckon so.”

Hob pulls the sheet another fraction of an inch lower. He can feel himself getting distracted. The itch he’d felt to photograph the beautiful stranger, now mostly satisfied, has transformed into an altogether different kind of impulse. He takes one more shot, barely paying attention to the framing. Catches himself licking his lips.

“Hob.”

“Yeah?”

“Put the camera down.”

He hastens to obey.

He’d pulled his boxers back on at some point last night, but they do little to hide his arousal as he slides under the sheets and slots himself in behind his stranger, rubbing his nose in the riotous bedhead and kissing his neck as the man tilts his head to one side to give him better access.

“I like how you say my name,” Hob murmurs. He grinds against his stranger’s narrow arse and reaches around to make a loose fist around his hardening cock. “You’re really not going to tell me yours, are you?”

“Mine?”

“Your name.”

“I –” The man’s breath hitches as Hob tightens his grip, stroking slowly up and down. “I haven’t – decided yet.”

“Well,” Hob says against the smooth skin between his ear and his shoulder. “Let me know what you decide.”

They writhe together under the sheets for a few minutes, until they’re both fully hard, until Hob’s chest is slightly tacky with sweat where it’s rubbing against the stranger’s sharp shoulder blades. He’s grunting, underwear pulled down, making quick little thrusts in the crease of the other man’s thigh, sticky and warm and so good.

“Fuck me again,” his stranger says. “Please.”

“Don’t be a madman,” Hob chides. “You’ll be so sore.”

But he doesn’t say no. And he slides a finger between the man’s arse cheeks and pets over his hole, still a little loose from the night before.

The stranger twists his neck around to look Hob in the eye. “I don’t care. I want you,” he says. “I want to feel it.”

And Hob tries his best to be a good person, he really does, but when confronted with this bald-faced desire he is only, after all, a man. So he mumbles Fuck, okay, yeah, okay against his stranger’s shoulder, and tears himself away to retrieve the lube and a condom. He fingers him open, as slowly and as carefully as he can bring himself to do it, and rolls the condom on, and he fucks him again. Face to face, this time; one knee hooked over his elbow, and long arms clinging to him like a drowning man, and panting, open-mouthed kisses that are as much simply breathing the other’s breath as they are real kisses.

The stranger comes first, his beautiful face screwed up in ecstasy, and Hob follows him over the edge mere seconds later.

The other man falls back into a doze almost immediately, drifting off as soon as Hob has disposed of the condom and wiped them down with a handful of tissues, but Hob is buzzing with too much energy to lie back down. He cleans himself up, splashing water on his face and brushing his teeth quickly, before dressing quietly and creeping down to the motel lobby to look for breakfast.

There’s a coffee machine, a few muffins – prepackaged, not fresh – and a rather sad fruit bowl with some mealy-looking apples. He assembles what he can and shoves some creamers and sugar packets in his jacket pocket. He asks the bored teenager at the front desk (a different one than the night before, although bearing a distinct family resemblance) about the weather report, and learns that although it’s supposed to stay cold, no more precipitation is in the forecast. Then he goes back to the room.

His stranger stirs again at the rush of cold air when Hob lets himself back into the room.

“I come bearing provisions,” he says, setting the coffees on the bedside table and dropping the rest of his meager bounty in the man’s lap.

“Foraging for our survival?” he asks dryly.

“Something like that. It’s slim pickings out there, I’m afraid. But hey –” he picks up a muffin and wiggles it “– chocolate chip!”

His stranger snorts and mutters something about being spoiled.

Hob is very careful not to say anything about how he’d like to spoil this man very much, actually, for the foreseeable future and possibly beyond that, because Hob has so longed for someone to care for, and because this man so obviously needs it. Hob eats his muffin, and very carefully does not say anything reckless or emotional.

They finish their motel snacks, and drink their coffees (Hob’s with a little creamer and one sugar; the stranger’s with no cream and an absurd amount of sugar). And eventually Hob broaches the subject that’s obviously hovering between them.

“So,” he says. “What do you want to do now? I’m still up to give you a ride to your cabin, if that’s what you want. The roads are supposed to be cleared by now.”

“I suppose I should,” the stranger says, fiddling with his styrofoam cup, not meeting Hob’s eyes. “I did tell my sibling that I would return in the morning.”

“Okay.” Hob clears his throat. “Alright then. Whenever you’re ready.”

It takes them another hour to leave the room. Hob showers, and then his stranger decides he needs to rinse off as well, and then there’s a frustrating search for car keys that turn out to have been kicked or dropped halfway under a bedside table at some point the night before.

Then the stranger stops Hob in the doorway with a hand on his elbow and kisses him, long and slow and wordless, before they step out into the brilliant snowy sparkle of the late morning.

The drive is very quiet. The stranger directs Hob out of town and along a rather steep road that winds up the thickly forested mountainside. It’s certainly not a road that Hob would have wanted to drive in last night’s weather, and even with clear skies and plowed roads he takes it slow, acutely aware of the grip of the rental car’s tires on the snowy highway.

Only one time does the stranger wince and shift uncomfortably when Hob cannot avoid a bump in the road. Hob smiles, and swallows his smile, and deliberately wrenches his mind away from the vivid memories of just why his stranger might be wincing and shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

His stranger is silent, except for when he briefly tells Hob when and where to turn. The farther they drive up the mountain, the stiffer he becomes, until he’s gripping the seat with white knuckles and his mouth is one firm line.

Hob doesn’t think it’s the wintry roads that are making him so tense.

They pull over, eventually, at the base of a long driveway. Through the trees Hob can see a large house – not really a cabin by any stretch of the imagination, but built of logs, and with a wisp of woodsmoke floating up from a picturesque brick chimney. They both gaze up at it through the trees. Hob puts the car in park but doesn’t turn it off.

“Well, here we are,” he says.

“Indeed,” his stranger says, and his voice sounds tense and slightly strangled. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

Hob waits for him to open the door and walk away.

The man does not move.

A minute stretches by, and another, and another, and still his stranger has not opened the car door.

Hob dares to hope.

“Come with me,” he says suddenly.

His stranger looks up, startled.

“I mean it. Come with me. Go get your stuff and we’ll just. Drive away. Go down the coast, find somewhere it’s actually warm. Or don’t even get your stuff,” he adds hurriedly, aware that his voice is sounding increasingly unhinged. “Say the word and I’ll just turn the car around. We’ll go. Anywhere you want, just… come with me.”

The man looks at Hob with an unreadable expression for a long moment. “You know nothing about me,” he says finally.

“I know I like you. A lot,” Hob says. “I know last night was one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time, maybe one of the best nights of my whole life. I know I’d regret it if I didn’t at least ask. So, I’m asking. Come with me.”

“I haven’t even told you my name,” says his stranger. “I could be a serial killer.”

“You could be, yeah. But I don’t think you are. I think… I think you just want someone to want you.” Hob reaches across the gear shift and briefly touches his stranger on the cheek. The man’s eyes flutter closed and Hob doesn’t think he’s imagining the way he leans ever-so-slightly into the gentle touch before he looks down. “I want you.”

There’s another long silence, punctuated only by an occasional call from the chickadees flitting through the trees.

“My name is Morpheus,” he says to his hands, clenched in his lap. “But some people call me Dream. People – people close to me. Call me Dream.”

Hob smiles. “Can I call you Dream, then?”

Dream nods. “Let’s go,” he says. Hob’s smile widens.

“Want to get anything from inside?” he asks.

“No. I think not,” Dream says. All of a sudden it’s like the tight strings of his body are loosened: he leans back in his seat, crosses his ankles, looking relaxed for the first time since they’d gotten out of bed. He lolls his head to one side and peeks at Hob and his face looks fey and happy in the afternoon light. “I believe I have everything I need for now.”

Happiness wells up in Hob’s chest, a rushing feeling like a mountain spring swollen by melting snow. He puts the car in gear and reaches over to take Dream’s hand.

“Right then,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Read on AO3 >>>

[quarantineddreamer]

Yours to Hold

For Fluffbruary Day 13 (Choice)

To be perfectly honest: my brain is still not quite with it these days. But, I'm holding out hope that the fog will clear at some point soon (plz) and in the meantime here's a little one-shot I managed! Hope it's enjoyable 💜 (Click above to read on AO3 or see below the cut)

It had been months since Scarif. Most of it he had spent recovering from his injuries. All of it, he had spent wondering why he could face death more easily than he could face life, face her and all she represented. Hope. Happiness. Home.   He had come outside to think, hoping the bracing cold might clear his head and deliver an answer. He knew how he felt about her, knew what he wanted. What he was searching for was the courage to try–to choose a future that extended beyond the next mission; something permanent and lasting and full of possibilities. Something not for the Rebellion, but for himself. Something to be shared…

Of all the planets Cassian had been sent to during his time with the Rebellion, Hoth was by far his least favorite.

Maybe it was because it was frigid as hell.

Or maybe it was because the loose snow sliding beneath his foot had a tendency to remind him of sand…

Or because sometimes, when a storm blew in, the horizon disappeared, a blinding white, returning him to the awful edge of oblivion; a planet devoured before his very eyes…

Already, dark clouds were beginning to encroach upon the brief glimpse of blue sky he had managed to snatch. By his estimate he had maybe fifteen minutes left in the fresh air before he would need to retreat back into the gloom of Echo Base. He dreaded the thought, his head aching in memory of the harsh halogen lighting, chest tightening as he pictured the maze of tight, winding tunnels leading to crowded and too-small ‘rooms’.

Sure, on Yavin 4 he had been forced to check his bed every night in case a poisonous Yavinian centipede had wandered in, but it had also offered places to turn to when he sought solitude–jungle trees that he could lean against instead of the frozen rock wall at his back now.

At best, Hoth could offer him a barely habitable tundra to wander onto that–conditions permitting–would host him for maybe thirty minutes before the threat of frostbite drove him back into the Rebellion’s cramped quarters. 

“Cassian?”

Even through the harsh whispers of the rising wind he recognized her voice–three, barely audible syllables and suddenly the icy air didn’t seem quite so cutting. 

Jyn marched towards him, head ducked low against the wind, arms crossed over her chest, hands clutching her elbows in a tight self-embrace. A gray hat covered her head and a scarf to match was wrapped around her neck, the end of it tucked into the parka she wore–standard-issue blue, and seemingly at least a size too large–the sleeves hanging well-past her hands. 

She stopped when she reached him and peered up at him, cheeks turned scarlet from the burning cold, loose strands of hair blowing across her face and over her brilliant green eyes. 

He’d come out here to be alone. To think. And yet, suddenly all the thoughts in his head seemed out of reach, as did any semblance of speech. 

“What are you doing out here?” she asked incredulously. 

Cassian cleared his throat and gestured upwards. “You just missed it.”

“Missed what? I didn’t know there were any new arrivals scheduled today…”

He shook his head. “No, not a ship. Sky.”

Jyn tilted her head back, eyeing the infinity above them skeptically. “Pretty sure it’s still there, Cass,” she commented. 

“Clear sky,” Cassian elaborated. “Blue sky. Remember that?”

“I’ve heard of it,” she laughed, and the sound was meant for his ears (as all sounds are), but somehow it wasn’t something he heard so much as felt–winding its way through him, leaving warmth and energy in its wake, before settling somewhere against his heart. 

“Cass? Hello?”

“Sorry.” Cassian blinked, snow from his eyelashes melting against his cheeks and blurring his vision. “What did you say?”

Jyn rolled her eyes. “I asked if it was worth it, but I think I have my answer. The cold’s clearly gone to your brain.” She turned her back to the wall and leaned against it beside him, looking at him expectantly. 

It wasn’t the cold making him so addle-minded, Cassian knew it wasn’t that. No, it was something far more daunting, far more potent, and definitely not as easily shaken.

Jyn looked away from him, out onto the increasingly hazy landscape. “Were you really just out here to look at the sky?” she asked quietly.

She knew the truth, or at least part of it. She always did. He didn’t know how, but she did, the same way he knew he didn’t have to answer her–that she didn’t expect him to. His silence would say enough.

“It’s suffocating in there,” she murmured. “Not enough light, not enough air.”

“Too many people,” he added quietly.

She nodded. “Too many,” she agreed. “But out here it’s…”

“Quiet. Gives you a chance to think.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Sometimes.”

She peered at him from beneath frost-covered lashes. Lips quirked in a pensive, knowing smile. “What about today?”

Today? Today his eyes had been drawn to Jyn the moment she entered the mess hall; had followed her every step with a sort of dizzying wonder that was at once exhilarating and terrifying. Today Chirrut, sitting beside him, had nudged him pointedly and asked, ‘What are you waiting for, Captain?’

But there wasn’t a single answer, there was an entire swarm of doubts that continued to plague him. 

It had been months since Scarif. Most of it he had spent recovering from his injuries. All of it, he had spent wondering why he could face death more easily than he could face life, face her and all she represented. Hope. Happiness. Home.  

He had come outside to think, hoping the bracing cold might clear his head and deliver an answer. He knew how he felt about her, knew what he wanted. What he was searching for was the courage to try–to choose a future that extended beyond the next mission; something permanent and lasting and full of possibilities. Something not for the Rebellion, but for himself. Something to be shared…

“Today, it was a good thing,” he said at last. It was a good thing because having Jyn in his thoughts, even if they were anxious ones, was still having Jyn there, with him–a sudden, strange, and unexpected source of strength and light. 

She pushed herself off the rock wall and stepped in front of him, so close he could see the individual hairs that were caught up in her eyelashes, fixed in place by her hat and the wind. “Tell me about them,” she said. “The good thoughts.”

Waking up in the infirmary to find her there, resting at his bedside, arms folded beneath her head… 

Hearing her laugh for the first time, a proper laugh as he and K2 bickered over something inane; he’d forgotten the fight the moment he heard the sound, caught himself automatically smiling in response… 

Her surprising patience during his recovery, tempering his own frustrations; the way she’d always been there to sit with him in silence after a particularly trying day… 

A quiet corner of the galaxy, somewhere verdant and warm and free of war; Jyn standing beside him,  always beside him…

Instead of answering, he found himself pinning the fingertips of one of his gloves between his back and the rock and tugging his hand free. His breath caught in his chest as he slowly reached towards her face, gently sweeping a finger over the surface of her forehead, sliding the hair away from her eyes. 

He should have dropped his hand after that, should have pulled away, but instead, his palm moved instinctively to cup her cheek, the softness of her skin serving in stark contrast to the bite of the air around it. 

Jyn stared at him, something unreadable in her eyes as she searched his face. “Your fingers are cold,” she said softly, even as she slowly removed her own gloves and reached for his hands, tugged his remaining glove away. “Let me warm them up…”

Time seemed to slow down as she folded her hands over his own, squeezing lightly, before bringing his fingers to her open mouth and breathing onto them, the warmth of her seeping into the chilled surface of his skin, setting fire to his stuttering heart. 

“Jyn…” he murmured, but anything he might have thought to say to her stuck in his throat, forgotten and useless. 

He leaned closer, till the breath that had been warming his hands was ghosting across his lips instead. And for a moment, that was all there was, just the sound and feel of their breathing: a whispered question so powerful, it blocked even the howl and bite of the rising storm. 

Their eyes locked and held, the beginning notes of a song hanging in the air between them…

Cassian answered the call, tilting forward to press an eager kiss to Jyn’s lips. 

A pleased hum buzzed against his mouth, matching the pull of her forming smile. She released his hands and leaned her weight against him as she rose to her toes, reaching to wind her fingers around his neck and into his hair.

He wrapped his arms around her, tightened the embrace, a wild melody tearing through him like thunder through spring air, full of promise. 

When they parted, they did so slowly, scattering short kisses across cheeks and noses, and unable to resist one last deep, lingering kiss, before finally leaning away, just enough to clearly see each other’s faces. 

The smug grin Jyn was giving him forced a soft laugh from Cassian. “What’s this look about?” he asked. 

“Took you long enough,” she said softly as she stepped backwards, dragging the start of a trail in the deepening snow. “Now come on, you’ve been out here long enough–and I’ve got some ideas on how we can get warm.”

The plummeting temperatures didn’t seem capable of reaching him–not with the shadow of their kiss persisting on his lips–but Cassian didn’t bother to resist. 

Jyn tugged gently on his arm, and he gladly followed

[with-a-ghost-mr-holmes]

Fluffbruary: Day 14

Prompt: bubble bath.

John cursed his job the entire day for keeping him away from Sherlock for over 10 hours on Valentine’s Day.

John realizes Sherlock’s just as eager to make up for that time when he arrives home and finds a bubble bath ready, the bathroom dimly lit by a few scattered candles.

Then Sherlock appears at the door, already naked and holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He places them by the tub before enfolding John in his arms and kissing him deeply.

“Well, well,” John croons. “Aren’t you a romantic.”

“Consider it extended foreplay,” Sherlock murmurs, mischief personified.

Tags:

@fluffbruary @totallysilvergirl @calaisreno @a-victorian-girl @helloliriels @peanitbear @pressurepoint221 @dubiouslynamed @yellowpamonha @ehuether @lgcgjd @gomielka @kittenmadnessandtea @chriscalledmesweetie @justnerdystuffs @missdeliadili @topsyturvy-turtely @fullyouthwerewolf @chinike @iamjustreading @effulgentcorruptedpov @strawberrywinter4 @seagoing-nerd @annaofthenorthernlights @keirgreeneyes @brightbquirky @mazaherstuff @naefelldaurk @kettykika78 @whatnext2020 @dinner--starving @under-loch-n-key @inevitably-johnlocked  @safedistancefrombeingsmart @meetinginsamarra @gaylilsherlock @snonkerdoodlefizzy221b @7-percent @discordantwords @221beloved @sabsi221b @khorazir @johnlockismyreligion

Let me know if you want to be added/removed!

And an immense THANK YOU for reblogging/leaving comments/liking my stuff. It means the world to me, and interacting with the fandom is one of my biggest joys! 🥰

[fang-and-feather]

Ikemen Vampire - Jean x Vincent x Reader

Written for July's Polyam Shipping Day Prompt: Ceremony from @polyamships and August's Extended Fluffbruary Prompt: Radiant from @fluffbruary

Words: 454

Summary: Jean wasn’t given to crying, but he wasn't sure he would make it through this unforgetable moment without crying, with how radiant you looked to his eyes.

Tags: Fluff, Wedding, Jean's POV

I will probably add another chapter to this from another POV later...

It's been little over three hours since I posted last fic, but I already wrote another. Just as short, but I am learning to write shorter fics these days. I think of that as a milestone for me.

IkeVamp Masterlist / General Masterlist / AO3 Link

Jean wasn’t given to crying, but he felt like he had cried a lot more since you came into his life. Mostly tears of happiness.

And once again he found these tears threatening to fall, as he watched you walk down the aisle towards him.

A wedding ceremony was something Jean thought he had to give up for loving both you and Vincent.

A small sacrifice for everything he gained from and with you.

But you had sought a way. Someone willing to help you. And you had found it. Even if Jean didn’t like or trust him very much, and he wasn’t the only one. But he was in no position to be picky, and you and Vincent were so happy.

And there you were now, in this dream that had become true.

Your eyes met his, and you gave him a smile, also struggling with your own tears. You were always his radiant light, but your smile shone brighter than ever before at this moment.

Jean averted his gaze from you, stunned by such radiance, and his gaze fell on the other groom by his side.

Vincent looked equally stunned as he stared at you, almost as if he was frozen by it.

Everyone’s eyes were on you too, some who also looked about to cry - again in some cases.

Jean looked back at you, his eyes meeting yours again, and he had to close his eyes to still keep the tears back. You were beautiful in any form, but there was something dreamy about you today. A scene Jean wished he could immortalize somehow.

Not that he would ever forget this moment.

When you were at the foot of the stairs, both of them extended their hands to you, and you held them, taking a deep breath.

Pulling you right between them, both kissed the back of the hand they were holding, and when they looked up, the three if you shared a smile.

Vincent’s smile was as radiant as yours and, for the first time, Jean had no doubt he looked just as radiant to you.

You made him glow. And Jean was no longer afraid of being, not only under your light, but also of being a bright star himself.

You made him, not only long for the light, but turned him into light. Light he would always use to bring you happiness.

And you made him feel like he was forgiven. Like the monster that he was afraid of becoming no longer existed.

And maybe, this unusual relationship would indeed be blessed.

And the ceremony started. Jean unsure if he would make it to the end of it without crying, with how your radiant love filled his heart.

Tag List:

@tele86, @nightghoul381, @natimiles

@bicayaya, @eventinelysplayground, @queengiuliettafirstlady

If you want to be tagged/untagged on future writings, you can reply to this post or send me a message

IkeVamp Masterlist / General Masterlist

[seekers-who-are-lovers]

The light of his heart

Written for @fluffbruary Extended for the month of July: library | glimpse | trip .

Thank you for the prompt. This is the continuation of the fiction: The Favourite: Fragments from the last setting. Both Wakamiya/Nazukihiko and Yukiya’s characterisation might be OOC, but reading the third novel and mainly watching the anime, Nazukihiko’s resolve crumbles when it comes to Yukiya. This is my interpretation between the lines. Hence, fan fiction.

Here I am still focusing on Yukiya/Wakamiya ship whereas the Japanese audience, who have read all Chisato Abe’s novels and collection of stories, are already hard on Yukiya/Shigemaru train.

—

Fandom: Yatagarasu: The Raven Does Not Choose Its Master

Characters: Wakamiya/Nazukihiko, Yukiya, a very brief appearance of Sumio

Rating: T to slight M

—

Oh, I beg you, / always, always stay / the light of my heart, just as you have / illuminated my way / for an entire year!

— Daigobô Toshiô ( from “Japanische Jahreszeiten: Tanka und Haiku aus dreizehn Jahrhunderten”)

As soon as Yukiya rose to his feet, Wakamiya watched his every move and marveled at how his former attendant had grown up. Gone were the baby fats on the cheeks. The prominent jawline took over a once perfect oval face, and his eyes were bluer than before. He tied his hair on top of his head that flowed down his shoulders reaching the chest. Reddish brown, the same colour like his deceased mother’s, the second princess of the North. He kept his fringe. It suited the younger man, who turned 18.

He also gained more muscles due to countless rigorous trainings at the academy—hand-to-hand combat or otherwise— shapely powerful legs that brought into the fore. He was also a proud owner of a golden sword that dangled on his left side. The dainty stubborn boy was gone replaced by a cunning young military man ready to challenge the enemies of Yamauchi.

“Are you only going to stare at me the whole time? Or are you going to ask me what happened during my absence? If I have friends… Or how am I?” Yukiya licked his lips while he gazed at the Crown Prince, who, in turn, could not take his eyes off his personal guard.

Nazukihiko thought: Which you have. I know them well. You are enjoying your remarkable intimacy with Shigemaru, a fellow Northerner. It bothers me a bit, quite to be honest. And there’s Haruma, who looks up to you as if you were his god. He invited Yukiya personally after the young man successfully took the topmost award among the graduates at Keisoin.

This is strange. Words failed Wakamiya. As a true Golden Raven, he should not feel anything, like desire, at all. Hiding the blush on his cheeks, he shook his head and laughed softly to himself then turned his back to his distinguished guest. He focused his attention instead to the scrolls and books that he was reading at the moment laid out on the mahogany table next to the wall.

No more words exchanged, but heavy footsteps that made the nightingale floors chirp.

Read the rest on AO3.

(Images courtesy of Matsuzaki Natsumi and Studio Pierrot)

*Here I go again @ynxnyx

[topsyturvy-turtely]

Fluffbruary with turtely

(missed days edition)

Day 26

[day 25] [day 27]

prompts: ice | beautiful | night by @fluffbruary <3

fandom: BBC Sherlock

will be uploaded to "That Stuff Called Fluff" on Ao3!

A/N: mainly inspired by the absolute amazing, lovely, kind, sweet, beautiful, lovely, heartwarming [insert all other positive adjectives to describe a person here] @justanobsessedpan - AN ABSOLUTE MUST FOLLOW BLOG!!! Arie drew this amazing art about a year ago and i was IMMEDIATELY inspired to write something based on it. i did NOT forget it... i'm just slow. thank you, bestie, for letting me use your art this way! here is the perfect perfect drawing (tap for better quality):

♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡

"Ah, fudge!", John said, facepalming. They had just walked back into the changing room after their ice-hockey training.

"What's up?", Mike asked.

"Forgot my helmet at the rink. I'll be right back!"

John rushed out, grabbed his helmet from the bench right next to the ice, straightened up and-

dropped the helmet. It bounced a few times on the ice. It made loud thuds.

"Watson! You alright?", a voice from somewhere on John's left hand side yelled.

"Yeah, Greg, just forgot my...", John's eyes were fixed on the boy on the ice rink. It was a figure skater. A really beautiful figure skater. "Um..." His skating was... beautiful. His face was beautiful. In fact everything about him was beautiful. "My uh..."

The skater finished a flawless pirouette, in a half sitting position, his leg stretched out. How is that even- Wait- why did he stop- oh my god. Is he coming- what- wait that's-

"Your helmet?", the figure skater asked with a kind smirk on his lips. A kind smirk?! What the hell is a kind smirk?!

"Sorry- what?", John asked, after his brain finally registered that the figure skater had said something.

"You forgot your helmet?"

"I- uh... Yeah- I-", John let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. He half recognized Greg smirking at him, bemused.

"Do you wanna go-", a side glance at his friend proved his suspicion. He didn't care. "On a..." Damn, this guy has gorgeous eyes. John gulped. "Date? With me?" Where did that question come from?

The boy raised his eyebrows. "Is that it?"

"Is that what?", John countered.

"We only just met. And we're gonna go on a date."

Oh, shit. He hadn't been thinking. He had just spoken. Come on, Watson. Get a grip! Confidence! Confidence is everything! "Problem?", John asked, feeling himself grin (hopefully convincingly).

The skater bandied looks with Greg, bemused as well as amused. He shifted his weight on one hip, then looked John up and down. "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."

Oh, right. Awkwardly John fumbled with his helmet, stuck it under his left arm, so he could extend his right, "John Watson. Speedy's. Tomorrow night at six P.M.?"

The boy shook his hand, with a suspicious eye. "Sherlock. And fine. But only because you're cute when you're flustered."

"Why- I am not-"

"See? Cute. See you tomorrow.", and Sherlock glided off the ice. There was a certain swing in his hips that made John drop his eyes...

"What. on earth. was that?", Greg asked with a disbelieving chuckle.

"That, Greg", John sucked in a breath. "Was me realizing, there's no way in hell I am straight." John said, still staring at the door through which the beautiful figure skater had left.

♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡

A/N: this was so fun to write! i love reusing/ scrambling up quotes from the show :P hope you liked this too! again please follow justanobsessedpan, promise you won't regret it! (feedback as always very welcome!)

tag list! (tell me if you wanna be added or removed💚) @helloliriels @fluffbyday-smutbynight @inevitably-johnlocked @hisfavouritejumper @rhasima @forfucksakejohn @ohlooktheresabee @turbulenttrouble @so-youre-unattached-like-me @totallysilvergirl @peanitbear @train-mossman @loki-lock @smulderscobie @timberva @grace-in-the-wilderness @chinike @pansherlock @the-smol-bean-libby-blog @jawnn-watson @whatnext2020 @escapingthereality @missdeliadili @kettykika78 @musingsofmyown @7-percent @speedymoviesbyscience @astudyin221b @francj15 @almosttinycowboy @ladylindaaa @we-r-loonies @mxster-jocale @sherlockcorner @noahspector @our-stars-graveside @jobooksncoffee @baker-street-blog @psychosociogentleman @quickslvxr @macgyvershe @myladylyssa @johnlock2708 @battledress @a-victorian-girl @dreamerofthemeadow @oetkb12 @ohnoesnotagain @mutedsilence

[witchermonstermayhem]

The new Prompts for August are here!

"Wake up!" / Something moving in the shadows / Blood

And the Picture Prompt:

Source: pixabay.com

You can create something new or share an old work/post! Fics, gifs, vids, art, everything is welcome if you think it fits the prompts.

Post here on tumblr using the tags #witchermonstermayhem and #augustmonster

You can also tag @witchermonstermayhem so I can easily find and reblog your work.

If you want to post your work on Ao3 (or have already posted it there), you can add it to the Witcher Monster MAYhem collection 2024 (directly in the collection dashboard or by using WitcherMonsterMAYhem2024 as the collection name)

For more rules, keep reading. Have fun with Witchers and Monsters!

Rules:

Any kind of Witcher fanwork is welcome: art, edits, fanfics, poetry etc. (including crossovers, modern AUs, NSFW, etc.)

Create something new or re-post an older work that fits the prompt.

It can be about the Witcher novels, the games, the show, the comics ...

Combine freely with any other fan event that allows it! (For example with extended @fluffbruary for something sweet or with A Gust of Whump for something angsty/bloody, great August whump prompts there!)

Most importantly: Have fun!

FAQs

Can I submit prompts?

Yes, please feed my ask-box with prompts that you'd like to see in the months to come!

Does there have to be a monster in the story/the artwork that is important for the plot/the piece of art? - Yes, definitely! The monster can be purely imaginary though, like in a dream, or maybe people only think there is a monster, but it turns out there is not. It must be a driving force of the plot/central element of the artwork, though.

What is a monster? - "A monster is a type of fictional creature found in horror, fantasy, science fiction, folklore, mythology and religion. Monsters are very often depicted as dangerous and aggressive with a strange, grotesque appearance that causes terror and fear. Monsters usually resemble bizarre, deformed, otherworldly and/or mutated animals or entirely unique creatures of varying sizes, but may also take a human form, such as mutants, ghosts and spirits, zombies or cannibals, among other things. They may or may not have supernatural powers, but are usually capable of killing or causing some form of destruction, threatening the social or moral order of the human world in the process." "Wikipedia - Monster"

Must the monster be evil and scary? - No, not necessarily. There are "good" monsters in the original Witcher books, like Dopplers or even a Higher Vampire. The monster could also just be a mischievous goblin that hides socks. Humour and fluff very welcome!

Must the monster die? - That is totally up to you. There are quite a few examples in the books where Geralt does not kill the monster, even cases where he befriends it.

Is sex with a monster allowed? - Sure, why not? Just tag it accordingly if it is nsfw or any warnings/triggers apply (like non-con etc.).

[a-forbidden-detective]

Colluding

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial with the prompt #FFF252 Spill the tea and @fluffbruary April 14 prompt : coffee | florist | vision

Fandom: Kamonohashi Ron no Kindan suiri/ Ron Kamonohashi: Deranged Detective

Pairing: RonToto, Ron & Kei Moore Kikuma

Words: 1148

Sprinkled with spoilers from Chapters 122 to 129, please tread carefully.

—

RON didn’t think of seeing Kei ever again. He wished it could have happened when the younger man was not in danger. Would it be nice to have a conversation about the past and the present times without someone being killed or gravely hurt? So many things to catch up, so many things to talk about.

So when Ron’s phone rang and registered an unknown number, it made him raise his left eyebrow. It also made him a tad bit excited, truth to tell.

“Ron-senpai.” It was Kei, his voice a bit croaky, Ron surmised, from not speaking much. The forbidden detective made a sigh of relief. A gesture that seemed to encourage the other party to extend an invitation, to continue the acquaintance.

The Detective Alliance’s Japanese branch director was released from the hospital after the attack from Alice Moriarty’s men. Ron and Toto found out that Tiger Daniel Moriarty was still alive, who masterminded the attempted murder. Kei’s recuperation took place somewhere away from Tokyo, a place that no one knew except for the Detective Alliance insiders.

“I would be delighted if I could see you again …Ron… Senpai. Alone.” Out of the blue, Ron clutched his chest. His heart beat so fast. He turned his gaze to the door, any minute from now, Toto would return from the police briefing.

“Fine, tell me when and where can we meet up.”

~~

When Ron turned 13, he and his mother did a road trip together heading to Akita. The town was teeming with onsen but they went to a particular place. A man was waiting for them at the gate. There was a boy next to him, clinging to his side, a boy much younger than him.

“Kiku!!!!” Ron ran up to the man whose familiarity urged him to come to him. He was a frequent visitor to his grandparents’ house and a confidante of his mother for years.

“Ron-kun you haven’t met my son, Kei.” Like him, the boy seemed to have a foreigner mother, judging from his features. What made him stand out was the copious amount of acne that began to build up on his forehead. Otherwise, Ron found him attractive. His black eyebrows reminded him of a samurai character he once read as a small child. He wanted to be acquainted with that boy someday.

~~

And so here they were in the cafe inside the Detective Alliance’s secret headquarters in Japan. A car picked him up and brought him to Kei, who had already taken his seat waiting for him while drinking his English breakfast tea and was about to spread cream and strawberry jam on his scones.

“Care to join me for an afternoon tea?” There were lemon and carrot cakes and egg, cucumber and salmon sandwiches laid out on the two-tier silver tray apart from the newly baked scones the younger man was consuming at the moment.

“Only coffee for me, Kei. I had lunch with Toto.”

“Ah… of course.” Kei said. “How is he dealing with all of this? How is your … partner?” He tried hard not to show the disappointment tending to break onto the surface.

“You mean Toto?” The question bewildered Ron. The police officer would take it as a responsibility as it was a personal matter, a task that must be solved. Like always.

Who else?

Kei sensed his Senpai’s confusion and attempted to change the topic. After all, he didn’t know anything about the Japanese police investigator other than it was his father who was the couple’s matchmaker.

“He matters to you a lot, ne Ron-senpai?”

The question might seem daunting. Toto never advertised their relationship at all but everyone knew that they were partners in every sense of the word. There were of course some misunderstandings at first but somehow it was already resolved after the situation with Kawasemi-san and then later the fire at the Plateau Auberge that cemented their relationship. If Ron were honest to himself, he was not so sure of the former. It was true that the incident at the burning hotel confirmed that they were ready to die together, but when it came to Kawasemi-san he was not at all convinced Toto wanted to give up the Aichi police investigator and his affections. Toto was consciously avoiding the possibility of crossing paths with him and it made Ron uncomfortably suspicious. In his mind he gave Toto a carte blanche of his trust. No way Toto would betray him, would he?

“Yes, he is very important to me.”

~~

As soon as Kei cut the telephone conversation, Toto began to speak. His eyes fiery and questioning.

“Spill the tea. What happened between the two of you? There must be something that you’ve done in the past that made him hate you.”

Ron looked at Toto then brought his attention to his lap, which seemed to be much more important than his partner’s concern.

“Like what he said, youthful indiscretion,” Ron said.

Toto surmised that he was avoiding the topic. So, he tried again.

“Excuse me? What did you mean by that? There are so many types of youthful indiscretions.”

“Before l headed to England to study at the BLUE Academy, Kei asked me that once we were finished, we should team up like my legendary ancestor and his companion had done.”

“And?” Toto knew that there might be more to it.

“It did not happen, of course. I told him that it would not do. I wanted to work alone.”

Ron took a bag of black sugar from the table and started to drink it then he stood up and opened the blinds. He usually never did, but something bothered him when he did not know the answer. Toto sensed his partner’s uneasiness. Kei was now a case he had to solve. A big one at that.

“That was the only reason?”

“What else should I tell you? What else is there to reveal? His immaturity will cause him his life! And the Detective Alliance is not much of a great help!” Ron hit the wall next to where he was standing that nearly gave Toto a heart attack. This show of emotion was out of character.

Toto shook his head out of frustration. Forcing Ron to be truthful was a perplexing task that Toto avoided if he could.

“After this, you must discuss whatever misunderstanding you two have. This cannot go on forever. One way or another we must continue cooperating with him, not only because of your detective license, but also knowing that he is Kiku-san’s son and a higher-up from the Detective Alliance, he could also be helpful to us.”

Ron smirked. “Somehow you begin to think like me, Toto. I like that.”

Toto went up to him and embraced him from behind, hoping that he could calm Ron down, even for a short while.

(tbc)

[tj-dragonblade]

FLUFFBRUARY 2023: Feb 23, 24, 25, 26

Feb 23 prompts: scrap snack ballet Feb 24 prompts: art needle slip Feb 25 prompts: breathe offer ignite Feb 26 prompts: ice beautiful night

This is fluff in the same way that a microwaved peep is technically still fluff, just. Heated up.

Thanks and shout-outs to @the-cloudy-dreamer for Dream's fashion and makeup inspiration, @lenreli for posting gifs of the exact ensemble I'd decided on for Hob, @quillingwords for a quick spot of Brit-picking re: underwear, @avelera for putting the Tom-Sturridge-kissing-men compilation in front of me again, and the entire Dreamling Nation server for inspirational thirsting over The Rug™️

On AO3 - 1800 words

===== Hob doesn't quite notice, right away, when he gets home.

He registers Dream's presence on the sofa, certainly, offers a cheery "Hello, love!" as he steps inside and shuts the door, slips off his shoes, sets down his messenger bag, but. He has failed to truly look, at first.

"I have been waiting for you, Hob," Dream says, and the languid sultry tone has Hob spinning back in a heartbeat, attention seized.

And then he forgets his own name, just for a second.

Dream is lounging on the sofa like a swooning maiden on her fainting couch, head tipped back along the arm, his own arm thrown artfully over his eyes. He's wearing a very sheer robe, black of course, shot through with glittering diamond-y bits that wink like stars in the overhead light; it's trimmed with iridescent black feathers all along the edges of the sleeves and skirt—and there is a lot of skirt to it, spilling over the sofa, trailing onto the floor, a cascade of see-through night-sky chiffon going everywhere. It hides absolutely nothing of Dream, except where it does, deliberately gathered layers and a belted silk tie draped over his groin as if by happenstance and the rest of his skin gleaming pale and alluring through the gauzy star-strewn fabric. The bony curves of his legs peek in and out among the winding feathery trim and his bare feet are just visible beneath it.

He looks tantalizing, tempting, debauchable and delectable, a veritable vision of carnal promise and Hob can't tear his eyes away.

Dream lowers his arm and raises his head when Hob continues to just stare, and then Hob's transfixed all over again by dramatic eyeliner and smoky eyeshadow, the beautiful silvery blending of the makeup against Dream's pale skin.

He is mouthwatering, and Hob wants.

"I wish to have sex," Dream says then, as if the extended silence means Hob may not have cottoned on to that fact just yet.

"Clearly," Hob croaks, finding his voice at last.

Dream regards him with a bird-like tilt of his head, then smiles, a slow and curling thing that goes straight to Hob's dick. "You are. Pleased, by my attire?" He preens, arching into his reclining posture in a way that makes the light catch every little rainbow thrown off by his robe, moving one knee up so that it just pokes out from the frothy feathery trim, bare and pale and inviting.

Vain creature. Hob loves him so much; he takes a breath, getting a handle on himself as his brain catches up. "Frankly darling, you look a veritable snack."

Okay, maybe the brain isn't quite caught up yet but. Just. Language is a marvelous and ever-evolving thing and he teaches kids, alright, he's gotta stay abreast of modern slang. And sometimes it just. Slips out.

There's a moment where Dream's fine pale brow creases slightly, and he makes the face that Hob has come to associate with sifting through the entirety of the collective subconscious before his expression smooths into understanding, and then slides into something both pleased and sultry. He flows upright and then off the sofa, approaching Hob with a voluptuous sway in his hips, the sheer robe trailing around and after him like smoke and water, like a bridal train. The silk tie still manages to just obscure his groin and the fluffy feathery edging swirls gracefully around his legs, and Hob's mouth has gone very dry as Dream steps right up into his personal space.

Dream lifts one hand, feathery sleeve pooling in the crook of his elbow, and draws a long black nail that's just the safe side of too sharp along Hob's collarbone, over his polo. "Very well," Dream purrs, pushing close, his entire body a hairsbreadth from touching Hob's, and Hob is standing stock still, vehemently turned on. "If I am a 'snack'"—his fingertip slides down, tracing under the edge of Hob's blazer, drawing it open, aside—"then you, Professor Gadling, are an entire. Meal."

His face is tipped up, mouth close enough to Hob's that he can taste the words as Dream finishes speaking; Dream's softly-wandering nail finds a nipple, pebbled up beneath his shirt, and drags over it, catching sweetly.

Pleasure sparks and Hob whines, a high bitten-off sound, listing forward until his mouth touches Dream's. Dream takes it in a wet, open kiss, pushing into him, hot and languid and insistent with his tongue. He's manifested himself a bit shorter than usual, shorter than Hob, and the resulting angle is absolutely exquisite.

Hob's hands settle on Dream's waist, squeeze gently, and the feel of that robe under his fingers is unlike anything he can readily describe. It's solid yet not, clingy yet slippery, sliding easily beneath his clumsy questing touch like water, if water was dry and solid—and he's making no sense, definitely not when most of his brain is occupied by the utterly filthy kissing that Dream is giving him. All the same, he has a brief but vivid flash of sense-imagery, of reclining in bed with Dream sinking down onto his cock and that robe whispering everywhere over his skin, of reaching underneath it to grasp Dream's hips and lift him just enough to thrust—

Dream hums approval of the inadvertently-projected daydream, a sultry drawn-out sound that barely breaks the kiss; his hands move to Hob's belt. He undoes it with sensual ease, and the soft jingle as it falls open ratchets Hob's arousal up another notch. Dream pulls back just a little, nipping at Hob's lower lip as he takes the belt buckle and pulls. The belt slips free with a soft whisper of leather against fabric and Dream tosses it lazily aside.

"Brilliant," Hob mutters, fully onboard with the notion of fewer clothes, shedding his blazer and flinging it aside as well. Dream stops him when he goes next for his polo shirt, lifts the hem himself and skims his long black nails up Hob's stomach, rucking the fabric higher. Hob grabs the back of his collar, pulls it off over his head, and Dream keeps skimming up along both arms until Hob pulls them free and throws the shirt aside.

"You too," Hob gasps, pawing at the front of Dream's robe, caught again by the otherwordly texture of the fabric over Dream's flawless skin before he gets it parted terribly much, and then Dream's nails are raking softly through the hair on his chest, his stomach, distracting him further.

Dream glides back a step, two, vaguely toward the bedroom, drawing Hob after him by hooking a finger in his empty belt loops on either side and tugging. Hob goes willingly, only to fetch up against Dream when he stops again suddenly. "Kiss me," Dream breathes, "as if you would. Consume me." Hob, pent up and aching, slides both hands into Dream's hair, around the back of his neck, and complies.

Dream's hands are at his fly now, slipping free the button and drawing down the zip. It's slow and deliberate, pressing just enough against the hard length within to make Hob's breath catch. Then Dream's pulling his trousers open and reaching in, not to free him any further but to touch, to gently squeeze, to draw one long nail along the length of him still confined in his pants.

Hob tears out of the kiss with a choked-off moan. "Oh—god's bloody wounds, Dream—!" His hands clench in Dream's hair involuntarily, trembling.

Dream's smile curls all around his voice, low and smoky. "You must be. Hungry, Hob, with such a 'snack' before you."

The way he teases is maddening, his hands and his words and his voice; Hob can barely breathe. "Famished. Absolutely ravenous," he gasps out, hips rocking helplessly as Dream strokes up the length of him again.

Dream makes a pleased humming sound and then removes his hand from Hob's trousers, much to Hob's dismay.

Which vanishes quickly, because now Dream is crowded up against him, arms around his neck and hoisting himself lightly up, climbing, bare legs wrapping around Hob and locking behind him, prick hard and distinct against Hob's belly above his open fly. The gauzy robe is falling open everywhere, barely held together by the silk belt anymore, feathers fluttering enticingly against Hob's bare skin as Dream gets a hand on his face; his long nails are careful as they thread into Hob's hair and turn his face up.

"I would not keep you from. Sating, your hunger—" Dream's lips are dancing along Hob's jaw as he speaks, punctuated here with a sharp pull of teeth on Hob's earlobe, and the intimate way he says 'hunger' makes something swoop low in Hob's belly. "Perhaps we should. Adjourn, to the 'dining' room."

"Agreed," Hob gasps, and then Dream is kissing him again. Hob's hands are solidly around Dream's thighs, supporting him while Dream's devouring his mouth, and carrying him to the bedroom even with that distraction will not be a problem except for the miles and miles of starry feathery fabric trailing over the floor ready to trip him up. He shifts his hold, one arm wrapped under Dream's hips and the other working to gather the copious skirts to drape in the crook of his elbow to avoid mishap. And then, just for fun, just to tease, he slips his hand underneath it all—strokes the bare skin of Dream's arse, delves inward, brushes a fingertip over the puckered bud in the center. Dream squirms appreciatively, makes a little wanton sound into Hob's mouth, but Hob—

Hob is losing his mind. Dream usually makes himself ready when he's in the mood he is tonight, manifests his body open and wet and ripe for the taking. Hob was fully expecting to sink a finger into the warm slickness of him, tease him briefly to try to gain back some semblance of an upper hand, but instead he's found him dry, closed, tight.

Waiting to be prepped.

Hob groans, tearing his mouth from Dream's, arousal skyrocketing; preparing Dream, opening him up with his fingers, with his tongue, is one of Hob's absolute favorite things to do to him and it's rare that he will indulge that particular pleasure when Dream is already this worked up. But this—this is an invitation.

"Oh love," he gets out, breathless, so hard it's making him dizzy, "I get to?"

"You named me edible," Dream says, kissing across his chin, abortively rutting the naked length of his prick against the hair on Hob's stomach and clenching his cheeks around Hob's finger still pressed between them. He brings his mouth back to Hob's, breathes into it, "I would have you. Feast."

And so Hob does.

===== Fashion references: Hob Dream

EDIT: Now with amazing art by the fabulous @abyssalcryptid! Please check it out here!

[imhereforscm]

"Yet another dream"

Genre: fluff

Pairing: Ichthys × reader

Warnings: none

For the Fluffbruary event (@fluffbruary )

A/N: IT'S STARTIIIIING!!!😭😭💕💕💕OKAY OKAY IT'S STARTING!!! HELLOOO!! I LOVE YOU!!! I hope you enjoy!!

Prompts: downy | clinic | nuance (Day 1/2024)

--------------------------------------------

The cat purred, as it raised its head, allowing Ichthys to scratch her white chin and he laughed softly, watching as it rolled on its back.

Ichthys' fingers slipped through the cat's downy body, between the soft brown fur across its back with the uneven beige spots. "You like this, dontcha?" He spoke, smiling at the cat shifting around on the floor of the balcony.

The door opened and closed and you walked in, your soles patting the floor lightly. The familiarity of your home brought tranquility to your mind and your husband's voice traveling faintly through the halls made you smile.

You made your way to the living room and simply stood by the door at first, admiring the beauty before you.

Beams of sunlight fell from the Heavens and washed over the world, the sky bright blue and with no cloud in sight. Ichthys was crouching on the ground, using both fingers to massage the cats fuzzy body.

The cat mewed and extended a paw out to Ichthys, which he took in his own hand, moving it up and down like a handshake.

"Well, what a polite little thing you are!" He chuckled and placed a hand on the cat's belly, scratching it there. And then he lifted his head and your breath almost stopped, the world hushing all around you. His grey eyes looked like silver rings left outside, beneath the sunlight and his grin created dimples in his cheeks and all you craved was to place kisses on each one. "Hey, babe!" He spoke and his voice brought you back to reality.

You went out to the balcony and the cat got up, its tail swaying behind it as it walked away. She'd come back tomorrow. She always did, wanting a portion of Ichthys' affection on a daily basis.

"It puts my mind at peace, knowing you're not alone when I'm gone in the morning." You said, smiling at your husband as he rose to his full height.

He chuckled. "She's soft and always craves affection." His crystalline eyes turned to yours and captivated your heart. "Just like you."

You laughed and he cupped your cheeks, bringing his lips to your forehead, breathing into your scent as he kissed you. His kiss was warm and comforting, the shape of his lips familiar to your skin.

"Your smile is so cute!" He tilted your head a bit, peering into your face. "So?" He and frowned a little. "What did the doctor say?" He asked, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones gently.

You placed your hand on top of his and turned your head to the side, pressing a kiss to his palm. "Come inside and I'll tell you."

His hands slipped away from you, his warmth lingering on your skin still, even after he followed you inside.

You sat down on the sofa and he took his rightful place beside you, his fingers gripping his knees somewhat nervously.

"Well..." You paused, trying to suppress the wide grin threatening to reveal itself across your features. "About all the times when I woke up looking odd..."

"Yeah, the nuance in your color. I'm still worried about that. So what did the doctor say?" He looked at you expectantly, anticipating an answer for all the days when you'd leap out of bed and rush to the bathroom.

You couldn't keep the smile under control any longer. Your lips curled, offering your face a pleasant expression, filled with emotionalism.

"What's the matter?" He asked, his eyes brimming with childlike curiosity.

"Ichthys, remember what we talked about on our first anniversary?" Your hands enveloped his, bringing them on your lap and caressing the back of them softly.

"On our first anniversary..." He muttered to himself, appearing skeptical as he was reminiscing that day which was carved into your memories. "We said-..." He hushed abruptly, pursing his lips together. He breathed in deeply. "What did the doctor tell you...?"

Your vision blurred and you blinked, the tears spilling and streaming down your cheeks, cool and salty. "I'm pregnant."

Ichthys shut his eyes tightly, but a single tear still managed to slip out. "(Name)..." He opened his eyes again, staring at you with a smile that kept broadening. "Man, I'm so so happy right now!" He threw his arms around you, enveloping you in a tight hug and making you fall backwards on the cushions. "I'm so happy! We're going to be parents!" He said, sobbing into your chest.

You hugged him back and played with his hair, his silky locks wrapping beautifully around your fingers.

He placed his forearms on either side of you and raised the upper half of his body. His face was wet and the falling tears caught the rays of sunlight slipping into the room through the balcony.

"Yet another dream became true." You said, leaving a kiss to the tip of his nose.

"I love you so much." He leaned in, his lips connecting with yours and some droplets of his happiness fell on your cheeks. He pulled away, wiping them off of you and rested his hand on your hair, keeping them away from your face.

"We don't know the gender yet." You shared the rest with him. "We'll know in a month."

"It doesn't matter. I'm gonna love them unconditionally no matter what." He sucked in a shaky breath and stared lovingly down at you, admiring the woman he adored so much. He chuckled, wiping away the tears. "My mother's gonna go insane."

You giggled in return, touching his jaw softly and caressing his dimple with your thumb. "Can gods faint from shock?"

"She'll make it possible." He laughed, his eyes squinting kindly. "I love you so much."

"I love you too."

[lisbeth-kk]

My entry to this month's Extended Edition of Fluffbruary. Prompts: library - glimpse - trip

Kings, Queens, and Everything in Between

Summary: Sherlock and John play the Rizla game decades after John's stag night. This time Sherlock is determined to end the evening differently, just like he's dreamt of.

@fluffbruary @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @helloliriels

@raina-at @meetinginsamarra @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @topsyturvy-turtely

@jolieblack @peanitbear @phoenix27884 @bs2sjh @brandiwein1982

@meandhisjohn @a-victorian-girl @221beloved @ninasnakie @shy-bi-inlovewithregandmoony

@lhrinchelsea

(Tell me if you want to be tagged or untagged)

[ginnyw-potter-archive]

For the team

@fluffbruary Day 10 Prompts: moment   |   strong   |   neck (mostly strong but they're all in there somewhere, I promise)

Also on AO3

She had not seen the Bludger coming, she had been so focused on the Quaffle she did not see it at all until it hit her square in the shoulder. The piercing pain in her shoulder prevented her from clutching onto her broom as she was pushed sideways by the force of the Bludger.

“Shit, sorry!” she heard Peakes say but she dropped off her broom all the same.

With the arm that hadn’t been hit, she clutched onto the broom as her legs swung under her. She moved her hurt arm and immediately winced. Even if she could manage to keep her hold, she had no way of getting back on her broom. She could not move her other arm at all without the pain cutting through her.

Harry appeared in front of her so fast, he must have sped towards her even before she toppled off her broom. She met his eyes.

“I can’t reach up,” she clarified.

Harry nodded and flew closer to her, coming to soar beside her. His arm wrapped around her and with surprising ease, he pulled her on his broom. She looked back at him in surprise.

“What?”

“When did you get this strong?” she asked as she settled on the broom a little more comfortably, resisting leaning into him more as his arm kept her steady.

“Oh,” he said. “Well, Captain’s duty to save players.”

“Haven’t seen you hurry to Coote’s aid before,” she teased.

He cleared his throat and turned to the rest of the team. “Practise is over for today! I’ll take Ginny to the Hospital Wing.”

Peakes flew to them. “I am so sorry.”

Ginny shook her head. “Don’t worry about it, it happens. If you could do that to Malfoy during a match.”

She offered him a smile and he shot an apologetic smile back. The whole team reached the ground. Ginny stepped off Harry’s broom.

“I can take Ginny if you want,” Ron offered.

“Ginny can take herself,” she suggested. “Ginny’s feet still work.”

Harry looked at her. “Okay and then ‘Episkey’ yourself around the corner? No.” He turned back to Ron. “Take our brooms and get changed. I will debrief later.”

The team trod off to the changing room. Harry walked with Ginny, heading for the Hospital Wing.

After a minute of silence, she spoke. “Sometimes I think you understand me better than my brothers.”

“Why?” he asked.

“I was absolutely planning on trying to fix this with an Episkey,” she admitted with a grin.

“I don’t blame you,” he replied. He opened the door for her to walk through. “I would have done the same.”

“Ah, so why won’t you let me?” she said, wincing again as she moved her arm a little.

“Look, using poor judgement on myself is one thing, shouldn’t extend that to others. Plus, I am terrified of your mum.” He grinned so brightly at her, it made her heart skip a beat.

She stepped forward and he backed up against the wall. She cocked her head. “Who are you more terrified of, me or my mum?”

He took in a sharp breath. “That’s a difficult call for sure but ...” His eyes focused on her, to her lips and back up.

“What?” she asked.

“Well, you’re... you’re...”

He leaned forward and she took her chance. She closed the space between them, bracing her own arm and kissed him. She felt him gasp against her lips but then he sunk into it. She kissed him slowly, savouring the feeling of his lips on hers, so soft, gentle. Then she tilted her head ever so slightly and he kissed her deeper, more eagerly. His arms came around her shoulder and—

“Fuck, Harry!” she let out as his hand touched her shoulder.

“Sorry.” His hands moved to her waist instead.

“Sucks I can’t hold you right now,” she muttered before leaning back in.

He kissed her again but then he paused. “Don’t think this is getting you out of your Hospital Wing visit.”

“Damnit.” She sighed. “Just as well.” She kissed him again, just another moment. Then she stepped away. “Let’s go then.”

They started walking again. It was silent for a bit.

“Aren’t you glad your brother didn’t bring you?”

She snorted. “At least with him, a bribe would have worked.”

“I am just concerned with your well-being,” he told her cheekily.

She nodded dramatically. “No no, I can definitely see that.”

They arrived at the Hospital Wing. Mrs Pomfrey pointed her to a bed and told her she would be right there. Ginny started undoing her vest, undoing the buttons. However, she couldn’t manage to shrug it off her shoulders by herself. She looked at him, red in the face.

“Can you help me?” she asked. She hated asking for help but at least his blush was worth it.

Gently he pulled her good arm out of the sleeve first and then moved to the other side. He started pulling and she gritted her teeth. It hurt, a lot. But Harry was so carefully pulling it off, as gently as he could. His hand brushed over hers as he pulled the sleeve over but they both avoided eye contact. Carefully the last sleeve came off. He put the vest aside.

“Thanks,” she said.

He looked at her carefully, fidgeting with his own sleeve. “So that kiss was that just a bribery attempt or...” He swallowed and glanced away.

“Ah, Harry.” She tilted her head. “I know you are not susceptible to bribery.”

“So—?”

“Miss Weasley, what brings you here today?”

Harry spoke quickly. “She got a bludger to the shoulder. I think it’s dislocated.”

“Oh, do you now, Potter?” Ginny responded with a smile. It quickly faltered as Mrs Pomfrey touched her shoulder.

“Yes, I think so too. It will just be a quick mend. It will hurt,” she warned.

“That’s fine, I can take—” An unsavoury crack halted her words. “MERLIN’S UNDERPANTS THAT HURTS,” Ginny screamed.

“Sorry, it’s better if you don’t expect it,” Mrs Pomfrey said. “I need you to stay for another ten minutes to make sure it is set well and then you can go.” She turned to Harry. “Nice to see you in here injury free.”

Harry only smiled as Mrs Pomfrey took off again. Ginny touched her hand to her mended shoulder.

“Better?” Harry asked.

She nodded. “Yes, but that was very unpleasant.” She moved her arm a little, it was just a little sore now.

“I thought you’d be more torn up about your most recent breakup with Dean,” Harry tried again. “But here you are kissing other guys.”

“This time was the final time, trust me,” she said with a scoff. Then she looked at him. “I don’t go around, just kissing guys, Harry. Just you.” She raised her eyebrows, their eyes locked.

He blushed. “Why?”

She was done being shy around Harry. Not any more now they had become friends, not when he had kissed her like that. “You are aware I’ve fancied you, right?”

A grin broke through on his face. He scratched behind his ear awkwardly. “Perhaps, yes.”

“I saw you looking at me like that, I just figured I’d take my chance.”

She looked up as Mrs Pomfrey came in their direction again and Ginny wanted to argue it definitely hadn’t been ten minutes yet. She handed Ginny a potion.

“Take that before you go to bed tonight. Three more days of rest,” she said. “That includes Quidditch evidently.”

She clenched her jaw. “Of course,” she replied without any enthusiasm.

“Well, off you go, Weasley,” she said.

Ginny slipped off the bed and took up her vest again. She pulled it back on. She turned to Mrs Pomfrey. “Thank you.”

They walked out in silence.

“Well, I suppose we should go back to the Pitch and get changed,” Harry suggested after a moment.

“Right,” she replied. The rest of the walk was spent in silence, both of them only making small comments before it fell silent again.

As they came up to the changing rooms, they paused.

“Well, I’d ask if you need help but—” He turned red.

Ginny laughed. “I’ll shout if I need help, don’t worry.” She was still laughing when she entered the girls’ changing room and she was sure he could hear it one room over.

When she exited the changing room, Harry was waiting for her.

“Do guys just have a secret on how you get changed so fast?” she asked as she paused in the doorway.

He met her eyes and smiled. “Well, we have the changing secret and you have Victoria’s Secret.”

She frowned and crossed her arms. “What’s Victoria’s secret? Because I am not in on it.”

“Nothing.” He turned redder. “It’s a muggle thing.”

She decided to drop it. She stepped a little closer to him. “So...”

His eyes locked with hers as she came to stand in front of him. He raised his eyebrows a little.

“I’ll blame it on you not having access to the Weasley nerve, but you can ask me to be your girlfriend, you know.” She looked for his reaction.

He swallowed hard as his eyes lit up. “When did you get this skilled at Legilimency?”

She worked to keep her face straight. “Too bad you are so poor at it, or you would have known my answer.” She turned on her heels and walked away from him, a smile breaking out.

As she expected he chased after her. What she hadn't expected, was him pushing her against the wall. She gasped in surprise. His face came closer to hers.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” he asked.

This time she had full use of both her arms and used them to pull him closer. “Yes.”

Their lips met again, heated this time. Harry’s hand came to her side, the other disappeared into her hair as he pulled her away from the wall and to him. She deepened the kiss, her tongue teasing at his lips and he let her in. Time stood still, it was just her and Harry. He kissed her like it was coming up for air, one hand tangling in her locks while the other moved up her side softly. She kissed him like it would be the last time. Both breathless, longing and eager. Harry felt like the only real thing in the world.

After several long moments, they broke apart. Harry looked at her like he had just won the lottery and she beamed at him. Slightly out of breath, she chose to hug him instead. She wrapped her arms tighter around him and tucked her head against his neck. Harry didn’t say anything and wrapped his arms tightly around her.

They stood there like that for a moment and Ginny took a few steadying breaths, wondering if her breath was tickling his skin. Suddenly he moved his hands and hoisted her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist and put her arms around his neck. Their lips met again, softly this time.

“You are strong,” she reiterated as he held her up without huffing once.

He met her eyes with a cheeky grin. “The things I do for my team.”

[witchermonstermayhem]

Hi to whoever likes Witchers & Monsters!

The Witcher Monster of the Month event will run from June 2024 till Apr 2025 as an extension of the Witcher Monster MAYhem and feature a picture prompt and three word prompts every month.

June Prompts:

"Yikes!" / Full Moon / Tomb

Rules:

Any kind of Witcher fanwork is welcome: art, edits, fanfics, poetry etc. (including crossovers, modern AUs, NSFW, etc.)

Create something new or re-post an older work that fits the prompt.

It can be about the Witcher novels, the games, the show, the comics ...

Combine freely with any other fan event that allows it! (For example with extended @fluffbruary for something sweet or with @juneofdoom, great whump prompts there!)

Post here on tumblr using the tags #witchermonstermayhem and #junemonster

Please tag @witchermonstermayhem so I can easily find and reblog your work.

If you want to post your work on Ao3, you can add it to the Witcher Monster MAYhem collection 2024 (directly in the collection dashboard or by using WitcherMonsterMAYhem2024 as the collection name)

Most importantly: Have fun!

FAQs

Can I submit prompts?

Yes, please feed my ask-box with prompts that you'd like to see in the months to come!

Does there have to be a monster in the story/the artwork that is important for the plot/the piece of art? - Yes, definitely! The monster can be purely imaginary though, like in a dream, or maybe people only think there is a monster, but it turns out there is not. It must be a driving force of the plot/central element of the artwork, though.

What is a monster? - "A monster is a type of fictional creature found in horror, fantasy, science fiction, folklore, mythology and religion. Monsters are very often depicted as dangerous and aggressive with a strange, grotesque appearance that causes terror and fear. Monsters usually resemble bizarre, deformed, otherworldly and/or mutated animals or entirely unique creatures of varying sizes, but may also take a human form, such as mutants, ghosts and spirits, zombies or cannibals, among other things. They may or may not have supernatural powers, but are usually capable of killing or causing some form of destruction, threatening the social or moral order of the human world in the process." "Wikipedia - Monster"

Must the monster be evil and scary? - No, not necessarily. There are "good" monsters in the original Witcher books, like Dopplers or even a Higher Vampire. The monster could also just be a mischievous goblin that hides socks. Humour and fluff very welcome!

Must the monster die? - That is totally up to you. There are quite a few examples in the books where Geralt does not kill the monster, even cases where he befriends it.

Is sex with a monster allowed? - Sure, why not? Just tag it accordingly if it is nsfw or any warnings/triggers apply (like non-con etc.).