#EXTENDED fluffbruary

[fluffbruary]

Infinite Fluffbruary 2024: call for prompts!

Fluffbruarians near and far! We’re a third of the way through Fluffbruary and it's time to a new set of prompts for Extended Fluffbruary.

Officially the 14th of every month, Extended Fluffbruary lets us keep the fluff coming throughout the year.

Hopefully you're inspired to send us some prompts—words or images—to add to the mix from which the prompts will be drawn.

Send us your suggestions in the message or ask boxes of @fluffbruary.

Images need to be your own, or from a royalty-free site (some links below for words and images).

Thanks for reblogging!

LINKS TO COPYRIGHT-FREE / PUBLIC DOMAIN IMAGE SITES

is a lovely site for generating randomness. they also offer options where you can pick the type of word (adjectives, adverbs, etc), or pick images, or phrases, or numbers, and it'll throw things at you. you pick how many results you want at a time and click the button and there you go. If you're looking at images, if you then click on any of the images it takes you through to their source at pixabay.

[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

[fluffbruary]

If this is not fluff then @fluffbruary is a plated armadillo

You must not separate them

[fluffbruary]

Hi, thank you for the great prompts! I only dscovered them recently but have two little somethings written for January. My question, should entries for the Jan 14 prompts be posted on Ao3 in the Fluffbruary 2023 collection or in a Fluffbruary 2024 collection? Is there one for 2024 yet?

So glad you have been writing fluff, @astaldis! If you post your two somethings in January, by all means pop them into the Fluffbruary 2023 collection. There will be one for Fluffbruary 2024, beginning with 1 February. 🍦

[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

[fluffbruary]

@fluffbruary never ends! I'm a bit late, sorry, I've been very busy. But made a quick painting at last! (prompts : sunbeams, host, dance)

Uncropped version

[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?

[fluffbruary]

Do you plan a monthly prompt throughout 2024 again (like in 2023)? 🤗

Yes we do! More on that when Fluffbruary gets underway, I think. ❤️

[fluffbruary]

Fluffbruary with turtely

(missed days edition)

Day 25

[day 24]

prompts: breathe | offer | ignite by @fluffbruary <3

fandom: BBC Sherlock

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

A/N: *loading dots* the... slowest... updates... ever... idk what you were expecting?! i AM a turtle?!

♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡

a 221b

He breathes out.

He follows the goosebumps caused by the carbon dioxide and oxygen mix coming from his lungs with his eyes.

Then his fingers itch to touch the bumpy skin; his fingertips almost not touching.

The man underneath him stretches and a noise is formed inside. It's a sound of content.

“What are you doing, Sherlock?”

“Deepening my analysis about the impact of my breaths on your skin.”

“You mean my goosebumps?”

“Horripilation, yes.”

“Nobody says that, you know.”

“Doctors say that. And I happen to know one.”

“But you aren't!”

Sherlock falls silent. So John turns around laying on his arm now, his upper body facing Sherlock. “What have you found out?”

“A variety of deductions, really.”

“Well, tell me about them.”

“First: Me breathing on your skin causes horripilation. Second: You like it when we share the air in between signs of affection.”

“It's called kisses, babe.”

“That's what I said, yes. Third: You like it when I breathe into your ear.” Sherlock whispers this into said body part. John stifles a shiver.

“You're such a tease.” The blogger growls and pulls Sherlock on top of him. They breathe the same air, hesitating, anticipating, until John gives in and kisses him lightly.

“Conclusion?”, he asks then.

“Conclusion”, Sherlock answers. “I am breathtaking.” Then he kisses him until breathlessness.

♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡

A/N: i simply can't be objective with my own writing. i love it and hate it at the same time (usually tending to the latter). PLEASE: give me feedback!

tag list! (tell me if you wanna be added or removed💚) @justanobsessedpan @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

[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.”

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[arien-elensar]

To the Root: Jounouchi/Kaiba

Inspired by the @fluffbruary : Extended Edition/Infinifluff 2024 Prompt List for November 14 : cuddle | happy | spell. A silly little thing written in less than 30 minutes. I had the quote "To heal you have to get to the root of the wound and kiss it all the way up" by Rupi Kaur in mind.

“Nice to me-eet yo-u,” Jounouchi sounded out the phrase from the guidebook resting on his lap. He paused, struggling with the next sentence.

“Spell it out,” Kaiba suggested from his seat beside him on the couch. Jounouchi did as instructed.

“Near-est - where is the nearest bank?” He stumbled over the word but managed to coherently read the sentence. It was enough to earn an approving nod from Kaiba who leaned forward to point to the next sentence he wanted Jounouchi to attempt.

“What other languages do you know?” Jounouchi asked looking up at him.

“Fluently? Three. German, Spanish, and Mandarin,” he answered. “I’m working on Hindi.”

Jounouchi whistled, impressed.

“Gozaburo made sure I could communicate with all of his business partners,” he explained. “Mandarin was the most difficult to master.”

“No kidding, you were just a child,” Jounouchi mused.

“Children are capable of extraordinary things when pushed,” he said, gaze growing distant.

“Yeah, you’re exhibit A,” the blonde quipped. “Something tells me your adoptive father’s idea of pushing was not an encouraging smile.”

Kaiba chuckled drily, nodding. “That’s when I definitely knew I’d done something wrong.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Jounouchi began, scooting closer to his lover. “How about I help you with your Hindi?” Then his expression turned mischievous. “And for every attempt you get a kiss, anywhere I desire?”

“Sounds like you just want to get me in bed?” Kaiba remarked.

“Who said we can’t do both?” he asked. “I’d love to encourage you along,” he added stroking Kaiba’s chest as they cuddled.

“So long as the same applies for your English,” he prefaced, before pulling the other in for a warm kiss.

“Agreed,” the blonde replied with a happy grin as he reached for the Japanese to Hindi workbook.

“Repositioning himself in Kaiba’s arms, he opened it up to the earmarked page. “How do you ask for the nearest restaurant?”

Kaiba answered, stumbling only once.

With an eager smile, Jounouchi put the book aside and leaned forward to place a kiss on the CEO’s jawline.

“We’ll hardly make progress this way,” Kaiba protested weakly.

“There’s always tomorrow,” Jounouchi replied, retrieving the book. “You need this just as much.”

With a small smile, Kaiba conceded as Jounouchi read out the next instructions.

[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

[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

[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! 🥰

[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

[fluffbruary]

Part 3 of 3

@adrinetteapril Day 10: Stupid in Love @fluffbruary April: Lilac, Baking

Adrien didn’t realize how out of his way he’d been going to see Marinette until he went out of his way to avoid her.

Of course, the fact that he hadn’t even realized he had a crush on her until she refused his offer of checking out another restaurant – basically his attempt at asking her out before he knew he wanted to ask her out - was testament enough to his obliviousness.

Plagg had been torn between sympathy and laughter. Adrien had had to deal with feelings realization and rejection at the same time. If you think one is bad, try that.

“Kid, Pigtails was a total disaster around you back when you were in college,” his kwami had said sagaciously. “If she didn’t have a crush on you, I’ll eat that entire wheel of camembert.”

“I’m sure you’re going to do that either way,” Adrien had responded dryly.

“Fine! But that doesn’t change the facts. Pigtails has it real bad for you.”

“Then why did she say no?” Adrien wailed into his pillow. “Why? Why? Why? Why? WHY?”

“Please stop,” Plagg had said, looking disturbed. “First of all, did you tell her it was for a date?”

He open and shut his mouth, speechless. No, he hadn’t explicitly mentioned it. But surely, it would have been obvious? The ridiculously romantic atmosphere of the restaurant – and he really had to wonder why Andy had pushed him so much for that one once Bianca’s (he couldn’t even think of the name of the place without his heartbreak rearing its head again) had no longer been an option – aside, they had just affirmed that they were glad to be alone together and held hands!

“She held my hand!” Adrien gasped. He remembered seeing Marinette smile up at him, and just suddenly deciding he wanted to hold her hand. The way her fingers had curled into his. “Her hand in mine! And I didn’t even appreciate it!”

“And he’s gone crazy,” Plagg was commentating to the cheese he was eating. “It was only a matter of time, but still, the timing. Love and madness: always together!”

“I’m not crazy,” he rolled his eyes. “I’m just in love! I’m only seventeen! I’m allowed to be dramatic.”

“In love?” Plagg had asked sarcastically. “Wasn’t it a crush ten seconds ago?”

Adrien had gasped and lay down facing the ceiling and started to panic again.

The next day of her internship at Gabriel, the panic had started to bubble up again, especially with the aforementioned realization. Timing his entry with hers. Showing her the way. Seeking her out in the cafeteria. Helping Juliet score entry with the photographer to the shoot. Wanting to go with her to the place he and Ladybug had last fought together. Offering to model.

How exactly had he not realized his feelings before? They were obvious.

And yet at the same time. . . He’d been in love with Ladybug for years. And it wasn’t like those feelings were gone. His heart still jumped in his chest every time he saw her.

So was it fair to Marinette that he asked her out while still in love with someone else and had only felt the impulse to do so because she had so fiercely defended his alter ego?

Maybe it was good that she refused him after all.

He sighed, trailing after Nathalie as she signed onto meetings and told him to take notes and that they would be discussing what was most important in the meeting afterwards.

Nathalie was scarily efficient. She was the closest thing to family he had other than Father and Aunt Amelie and Felix and the Gorilla, but still. She could be scary.

“—the interns,” somebody was saying, and Adrien’s mind immediately jumped back to the conversation going on. Marinette was like – an itch to scratch.

Okay, that was a terrible metaphor for someone he had romantic interest in. But it was the best he could come up with. He knew it was a horrible idea to fall in love with and moon over someone you’re not sure returns your feelings, especially when you’ve been in love with someone else for years and are definitely not over them. But still. Hearing about Marinette, looking for her, offering to model for her – they were pleasurable for the moment, even if bad for the long term.

Every time he even thought of her since their work date the previous day, it felt like there was conflagration in his veins.

Work date. Yeah, right.

If Vincent, Juliet, Andy and the others had come, it would have been that, sure. But he’d been alone with Marinette.

Right. Time to stop thinking about that.

“Mme. Oppenord didn’t have the best things to say at first, but the reports have improved,” Someone was saying.

Adrien frowned. What exactly did that mean?

“It’s only been a week,” Nathalie said coolly. “Mlle. Dupain-Cheng will have more opportunities to prove herself.” She sent him a quelling look.

Was it that obvious that he would have interrupted? Adrien thought moodily to himself. And he quite frankly failed to see what Mme. Oppenord would have had to complain about. Even his father had been grudgingly impressed with her designs – he’d given his approval for Adrien to model with only a single criticism about hemlines. Coming from Father, that was basically effusive praise.

“You need to be more professional, Adrien,” Nathalie said sharply as they exited the room. “You cannot impulsively interrupt a conversation, even if it’s about your friend. Especially without knowledge of what it’s about, and while contradicting someone.”

Adrien took a deep breath, trying to will the heartbreak he hadn’t felt since Ladybug had told him she was dating someone down. Nathalie was right. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking.

“I understand that your … feelings might be difficult,” she said, softer now.

He couldn’t believe even Nathalie had managed to see his emotional turmoil. Was she trying to give him love advice??

“I’ll be fine,” he said hurriedly, not wanting to hear it. “Thank you, Nathalie. I’ll keep that in mind. What are we going to do next? Please tell me it’s not another board meeting because the last time--”

Was word-vomit contagious? Because—

Ugh! Why did every single thought lead to Marinette?

Adrien imagined himself writing a tortured ballad about his love and despair and then flailing about on the piano like people imagined rockstars did, all brash rock, no melody. Then he imagined Luka’s reaction if he were to ever hear these thoughts.

Right. He needed to get himself together.

 Nathalie may have had a point. Not that he would ever tell her that.

Adrien might be just a little bit irrationally emotional.

“As it happens, I have a meeting with Mme. Oppenord,” Nathalie said, glancing at her tablet. “But—”

“Can I do something else?” He asked instantly, openly showing he would rather not discuss Marinette at the moment. Because who else could be the subject of that meeting? Especially after his father had given approval for his modelling of her designs.

Nathalie seemed vaguely sympathetic for a moment before reverting to her apathetic façade. “Of course. You have an hour before you are due to start your homework, so I suggest you visit the models on the runway for the upcoming line. As the CEO’s son and a model yourself, your advice will be helpful. An employer must always—”

“I’m planning on double majoring in business, Nathalie,” Adrien rolled his eyes. “Plus the Intro to Business course I already take. I really don’t need it twice.”

“Very well,” she raised an eyebrow at him and he knew he’d be hearing little nuggets of business wisdom till the end of his life. He headed for the wardrobe, where he knew at least some of the models would be hanging around. The runway wasn’t until next week, but he knew final alterations and practices would be going on now.

“—turn around please,” he heard a very familiar voice.

Damn.

Marinette was kneeling in front of a girl in a long lilac ballgown, pencil behind her ear, and holding a tape measure against the dress with furrowed eyebrows and tongue sticking out with concentration.

She looked adorable.

“Get that lovesick look of yours off your face, kid,” muttered Plagg from inside his jacket.

“You can’t even see me right now,” he hissed back.

“Don’t need to. Say, you think boss lady did this on purpose?”

Adrien’s eyes widened. Had Nathalie done this on purpose? Even the thought seemed ridiculous. Nathalie didn’t do pranks or romance. No chance. “No way,” he replied.

“M. Agreste!” Mme. Rosalie called, looking pleased. Marinette gave an eep and dropped the tape measure in a sudden onset of clumsiness.

Adrien’s stomach sank. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who thought avoiding the other was a good idea.

“Mme. Sancœur told us you’d be here! Would you like to talk to the models?” The woman asked expectantly.

Adrien cleared his throat. “Right. I would. I’ll just … wander around?”

She inclined her head. “As you see fit.”

Adrien went in the opposite direction to where Marinette was. He talked to a couple of the models, most of whom were experienced, some even as much as he was, and stayed a bit longer with the two newbies. His father wouldn’t like it if they messed the upcoming line up. Adrien knew one of the designs being modelled would be one his mother had been the muse for, only days before she disappeared.

Father had been better about telling him about his mother, ever since the whole movie-girlfriend-Akumatized-Gorilla-nearly-dying thing. Though that wasn’t saying much.

Andy waved at him from where she was adjusting a sombrero on one of the models’ head. In the process, the hat wobbled and Kivan – the model – yelped. He grinned and waved back as Andy sheepishly went back to focusing on her work.

There was no getting around it anymore – he walked over to Marinette and the girl who were now chatting as Marinette folded up the clothes they’d been doing the final adjustments for. When his friend saw him, she blushed and started talking very rapidly to the model, who just looked confused until she spotted him.

“Adrien Agreste!” She squeaked, before she composed herself. “Sorry. It’s a pleasure to meet you, M. Agreste.”

Feeling glad that there was no more fangirling, Adrien shook her hand. “You as well, Mademoiselle.”

“I’ve been following your modelling career for a long time,” she started enthusiastically. “And can I just say what an inspiration it is to me? Especially the spring line you did in ’19.”

Adrien froze up, blinking in astonishment. Nobody had ever said that to him. To him, modelling was only a way to get some extra money for his savings and a way his father still had control on his diet and activities. The fact that he could have inspired a budding model was. . .

“Th-Thank you,” he swallowed. “Yeah, that shot was. . . definitely something.” She was right in finding that particular one inspiring, because there were very few shots in his career that had been as taxing as that one.

“That was the one that took over ten separate shoots, right?” Marinette asked quietly.

“Ten?!” The girl’s eyes widened, but neither Adrien nor Marinette was paying any attention.

“Yes,” he said quickly, too glad that she had spoken to him. It certainly was a turn from never wanting to speak to her again to being desperate for even a single word from her lips. But her looking him in the eye made his insides jump and twist themselves into knots.

Maybe she had refused the offer of a second date-disguised-as-work. Maybe he was still in love with Ladybug. But he couldn’t believe he had ever thought his feelings for her weren’t genuine or that no contact with her would have been better than friendship.

Friendship was more than enough: he had survived Ladybug, and he would survive Marinette too. To the lonely boy locked in his house after the loss of his mother, the friends he had, like Nino, Alya, Marinette and his classmates in college and lycée, were a dream come true.

“Wow, something that could make me reconsider the modelling,” the girl – Adrien couldn’t believe he still didn’t know her name – huffed a laugh. “Didn’t know that existed.”

Marinette laughed out loud. If Adrien were more of a sap, he would say it was like the chiming of bells, the sound of the calm sea waves, the press of a piano key and the chirping of a bird.

Damn it. He was that much of a sap.

“The industry of whatever you’re in has a way of doing that,” she agreed warmly. “Being a fashion designer is pretty much all I’ve wanted since I was a kid – though I did get distracted by wood-carving and architecture and furniture and mechanics and jewellery for a while,” she admitted ruefully, and Adrien made a note of the information. He’d known about the wood-carving – Nino, Kim and Max had a couple she’d made for them during that particular phase, and she’d had the jewellery phase in college, but not architecture or furniture or mechanics. “But when I found out about the politicking and the terrible prospects of some designers –” she made a face.

“I get what you mean,” Adrien said. “Lots of people have this idealized view of modelling in their head. But it isn’t all good. Like you said,” he nodded at her. “It can be really frustrating and tiring and restricting. Even still … it can be worth it.” He gave her some more advice, mulling over his new perspective over the job his father had forced onto him over the years. Marinette stacked the clothes neatly and passed them onto the person collecting them, listening quietly.

The model – to his shame, he still didn’t know her name – gave the pleasantries and then skipped away. Marinette and Adrien were left in an awkward silence.

He fidgeted with his miraculous, debating speaking up. She beat him to it. “You’re – you’re coming to Rose’s party tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.” Adrien had almost forgotten it was the next day. “Why?”

“Have you gotten a gift for her?”

“Yes, I bought something a couple days ago.” He shrugged, trying to indicate how dissatisfied he was with it. He knew she would like it, but he still wanted to get his friends presents that would make them as happy as his father had made him with that one-time gift of a scarf.

Marinette nodded rapidly. “I have one for her too! I made something. But. Um. I’m baking a batch of lavender and honey macarons – they’re her favourite.”

“That’s a really nice gift,” Adrien commented, torn between admiration for his love’s gift-giving and envy for it.

“Y-Yes! I mean, thank you!” She stammered, and it was like a flashback to their college days. “I was wondering, maybe you wanted to come help me make them? Today?”

Adrien gaped for a moment, before Nathalie’s Public Comportment lessons took a hold. “Yes! That would be lovely!” The olive branch she’d clearly extended was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Well, except being Chat Noir. If he said otherwise, Plagg would kill him. Or maybe only maim him, to keep his cheese supply going.

Marinette’s eyes brightened and she looked him in the face for the first time since the model had left. She opened her mouth to say something.

—— And right then there was a loud scream from the other side of the building. Alarms began flashing and a cool voice called over the sound system: “There is an Akuma in the southern part of the premises. We request everyone to evacuate calmly. . .”

Adrien didn’t bother listening to the spiel. “I have to go,” he blurted out to Marinette, cringing at the thought of what she would think of him and this, before shoving his way to a closet and transforming.

“MARINETTE DUPAIN-CHENG!” The Akuma - whom due to a distinctively female style he would refer to as ‘she’ – bellowed.

Chat Noir’s heart fell to his stomach. The Akuma was clearly aware of where his friend was, because she was headed straight for the wardrobe. He saved a couple civilians from the carnage she was wreaking on the way, and hurried forward, for once not worried about when Ladybug would arrive.

All that was on his thoughts was Marinette.

Ladybug swung onto the scene, eyes calculating. “Chat! What’s the scene? Do you know where the Akuma is?”

“Er – no. She’s after a civilian. Marinette Dupain-Cheng.” When Ladybug shot him an odd look, he wondered if he was doing a bad job at hiding his terrified concern.

“Well, we’ll have to stop her before she gets to her then. Come on, kitty, let’s go!”

He had to smile. His Lady always had a way of showing determination and fierceness even through the worst times. “Right behind you, m’lady.”

The fight wasn’t particularly hard: Hawkmoth must seriously be running out of good Akumas. At least it hadn’t been a repeat of Mr. Pigeon.

As Ladybug tossed her Lucky Charm into the air and fixed everything, the Akuma swirled and the black smoke left her, revealing the person underneath.

“Mme. Oppenord?” Ladybug sounded as taken aback as he was. Why was Marinette’s mentor so angry at her?

“Oh, my God.” The woman whispered. “I – I can’t believe—I have to find my daughter! And Marinette! I need to apologize to her!”

Ladybug’s earring beeped. “Chat, can you take her?” He nodded, but frowned as his partner pressed the charm into Mme. Oppenord’s hand. She had some time left. He wondered why she was in such a hurry.

He escorted her to the wardrobe and hid to reappear as Adrien. He came out to the woman tearfully explaining something to Marinette.

“I’m so sorry!” She was saying. “My daughter is – she’s an intern here. And this was after so much effort on her part, after she had to spend so many years working odd jobs to get into university. When you just – swanned in here with your connections, I – I thought it was favouritism. And I got so angry. . . .”

“You’ve been giving unfavourable reports about Marinette,” Adrien realized in disbelief.

Mme. Oppenord looked down, eyes closed, aloof façade entirely gone. “Yes. I’m so, so, sorry. It was just the one. Right after. . .”

“I complained about you,” Juliet stepped out of the shadow. “I’m sorry, Marinette.”

“Juliet? You’re – You’re Mme. Oppenord’s daughter?” Marinette sounded astounded. “And you complained about me?”

She winced. “It was about—” her eyes flicked to him, and he frowned, confused. “Your … wasting our effort. You know.”

Marinette clenched her fists. “I can’t believe you dragged personal problems into a professional setting,” she said coolly. Mother and daughter flinched back. “I will be requesting a different supervisor, Mme. Oppenord.”

Mme. Oppenord looked sad, but only inclined her head. “Of course.”

“And Juliet—”

“She only complained once,” Andy pleaded suddenly. “I swear. It was only a casual comment. You’re our friend. We resented you in concept, you know, only lycée, connections with the CEO, but as soon as we met you it was all disproved. Instantly. We would never harm you, personally or professionally, Marinette. I promise.”

Marinette hesitated. She had a long record of forgiving friends instantly, Adrien knew. Especially after the Lila fiasco. “You’re my friends too. Alright. We’ll see.”

Juliet and Andy practically collapsed in relief. “Thank you, Marinette.” Juliet said weakly.

“Thank Andy.” She replied dryly.

“You’re the best best friend ever,” Juliet told Andy earnestly. “Thanks so—” She couldn’t finish. Andy went to her, threw her arms around her and kissed her.

“You’re welcome,” she gasped, as they separated from their rather passionate embrace. She noticed Adrien and Marinette’s lack of surprise. “You – guessed?”

“I knew,” Marinette corrected, laughing. “You guys act just like our friends who’re dating. Juleka and—” A look of horror crossed her face. “Oh. Oh no.”

“What happened?” Adrien asked immediately, concerned, looking her over for injury, readying himself to kill whoever had distressed her.

“Rose! Rose’s birthday party! I should’ve been home fifteen minutes back to start on her macarons!” She exclaimed.

Adrien looked at his watch. “If we get in my car right now, the Gorilla can have us there in ten minutes.”

“You’ll take me?” His friend asked, surprised.

“Of course! We are baking together, aren’t we?” He winked, and saw her blush. She recovered quickly, though, sticking her tongue out at Juliet and Andy, who were smirking at her for some reason. “Let’s go?” He held out his arm for her, only later realizing the parallel to their disastrous sort-of date.

This time, she took it without hesitation, smiling up at him. “Let’s.”

This car drive was different.

The last time he’d been bubbling over with anticipation and nerves for something he didn’t even know he wanted, filled with an adoration he’d called platonic. This time was … more awkward.

They reached Marinette’s home soon enough, conversing only for slight small talk and discussing the Akuma. Apparently Marinette had locked herself into a cupboard when she’d heard it was after her, which was smart, as Adrien told her.

“Not cowardly?” She’d asked with a laugh.

Adrien had been ferocious in his defense of that decision, which had obviously shocked her, but then she smiled at him, eyes and the lines around them softening. They’d smiled pretty dopily at each other until the Gorilla coughed and held the car door open. Also, why was everyone smirking at them like they knew something the two of them didn’t?

“Er. . . Can you remind me what colour lavender and honey macarons are?” Adrien asked nervously, shuffling from foot to foot as they entered the family kitchen. M. Dupain and Mme. Cheng had been very happy to see him, exclaiming over how tall he’d gotten and asking about his school and commenting that he needed to eat more. They were very nice people. He liked them a lot. (They’d smirked at him and Marinette when told they were baking together too. It was beginning to get irritating.) (Adrien was absolutely not imaging them as his in-laws. Definitely not.)

“They’re lilac. You know, the colour of the dress Addison was trying on?”

“Who?” Adrien asked blankly.

She cast him a deeply amused look. “The model. To whom you were preaching the wonders and terrors of modelling?” Adrien blushed and stammered ala college Marinette. She laughed and teased him as she got things out and he stared. “So, why do you want to know the colour?”

“Honestly, to know which of the ones you used to give out it is,” he admitted, making her laugh again. He smiled himself. Marinette was so nice to talk to. Even past the awkwardness, she was so sweet. He bet even macarons weren’t as sweet as her.

Wow. That came out wrong.

“Have you never baked before?” She asked as she started whisking the egg whites. “Also, can you raise it to medium high heat and hold the pan over it?” She nudged her head toward the pan in which she’d poured syrup and some sort of sugar? Into.

“Not really,” he admitted, unsurely executing her commands with frequent reassurances. “Only with you and your parents those couple of times. We have a chef.”

“That’s fair,” she laughed. “I probably wouldn’t get up to cook or bake if I had a personal chef.”

“No, you would,” Adrien said earnestly. “You’re too kind and hard-working and curious to not want to know what they’d do and try to help them.”

There was a pause in conversation. He looked up to see Marinette having stopped whisking, her cheeks bright red and eyes shining as she stared at him. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, heart fluttering. “What next?”

She snapped out of it. “It’s reached soft ball stage. Hand that over to me. Since you’ve never baked before, you can start on the ganache. I’ll work on this.” She gave him clear instructions, and he followed them with a thrill after begging for supervision: Marinette was very like Ladybug when she ordered him around.

“Will they be alright for tomorrow’s party?” He asked after nearly an hour of grueling work, as she kicked him aside to perform the final steps herself. She looked very cute with her mouth pinched in concentration and covered in butter and almond flour and lilac colour.

“Yes,” she nodded. “Macarons actually are better a couple days later – because they’ve had time to set.” She looked very satisfied with her work, which made her even more beautiful, in his opinion. And that had seemed impossible only a couple seconds ago. “Adrien? Are you okay? You’re staring.”

He started. “I’m fine. Just, er. . .” He was not saying what he had actually been thinking. “Just wondering if we’ll sign these as a joint present!”

That had not been what he’d meant to say.

Marinette stiffened. She clearly understood the implication – only couples typically gave joint gifts. “I’m going to put these in the refrigerator,” she said hurriedly.

“You do that,” he replied, disheartened. Then he went up and took a tray because he was a gentlecat and he couldn’t let his Princess do all the work.

“Why did you want to go to Bianca’s with me?” Marinette lasted only two minutes before giving in and asking.

“Because—” Adrien’s heart felt like it was thumping out of his chest. “Because I wanted to.”

Her face fell, and she turned to hide it. “Another work dinner?”

“What?” He asked, bewildered. “Marinette – I asked because I wanted to be with you. Work was an excuse. As long as it was with you, I don’t really care what we define that as.”

She nodded as though vindicated. “So. . . You want to go out as friends.” It wasn’t a question.

“No! I mean yes! I mean, maybe!” She stared at him in befuddlement. “If you want to go as friends, we’ll go as friends, obviously.”

“Obviously,” she repeated dully.

Adrien was oblivious, he knew that, but certain things fell in place as he watched her turn to take another tray in. How she always had cautious hope right before asking and it crumbled when he hedged his bets to keep the friendship of the love of his life.

Yes, she’d been upgraded.

Adrien took a deep breath, reminded himself he was a hero and saviour of Paris, and threw caution to the wind. He stormed over, took the tray from her hands, very much to her astonishment, and kissed her straight on the lips – no mistaking.

She gasped. He wrapped his hands around her waist slowly when she didn’t pull back, and dragging her in where her arms circled his neck. It was sweet, it was clumsy, it was beautiful, it was messy.

It was Marinette. It was perfect.

They parted, breathing heavily.

For all of Adrien’s angsting and moaning and bitching these past days, this was a rather quick resolution.

Then the doubts entered.

“So, you – you do like me romantically then?” He whispered before he thought better of it.

She laughed, sounding bewildered. “Adrien – I’m in love with you!”

He gasped. Her eyes widened, as though she had just realized what she’d said. “I love you too,” he said hurriedly before she could take it back. It settled into his heart as the truth. “I mean. There were others. Kagami. Luka. Definitely Ladybug. But it’s you. It was always you.”

She laughed dazedly, tracing his cheekbone with her thumb. He wanted to mewl and nuzzle into it. “Same for me. Luka. Kagami. Chat Noir. But – ever since college, ever since the umbrella, it’s been you.”

His heart skipped a beat at the mention of his alter ego. But there were more important things. “That long?” He asked in sheer shock, head spinning. That someone loved him that long – boring, polished Adrien Agreste. It was unthinkable.

“That long,” she replied quietly, and he couldn’t help it: he leaned in and kissed her again.

“Out of the kitchen!” Came a bellow, and both of them jumped apart, frenzied. M. Dupain was half glowering, half smiling, which was weird, and frankly, intimidating. “I’m glad you’re finally together, but honestly! Not in my kitchen.”

“Dear, what is going—” Marinette’s mother poked her head in and gasped in shocked pleasure. “I believe I win our bet.”

M. Dupain sighed theatrically and muttered something under his breath. “Shoo! Shoo! Out you go! No losing me my bet and defiling my kitchen!”

“I cannot believe my parents bet on us!” Marinette was saying furiously. “I’m going to kill them—”

“Don’t,” he said quickly, not wanting to get arrested and ruin the best day of his life (sorry Plagg, this one wins. Hands down.) “It’s fine. Really. It’s sweet, honestly.”

Marinette stopped pacing and threw him an exasperated look. “No, it’s not. Only you would think that.” But her tone and face were endeared.

“I am one of a kind,” he said in an attempt at Chat Noir flippancy.

“Of course you are,” she said softly, and the defenses fell away as she kissed him.

“So,” he said when they came up for breath. “We’re together now, right? Officially? We’re going to give the macarons to Rose jointly? And go for dinner at Bianca’s?” A thousand terribly cheesy ideas for romantic dates swirled in his head, and he waited for her response, heart in throat even after all this.

She smiled, and it was her beaming smile, brighter than the sun, sweeter than the sweetest taste on earth, lovelier than the moon, kindness and childhood and love all at once. “Of course.”