fluffbruary

[fluffbruary]

*shhhhhh* fluff spotted and carefully collected in the wild

@important-cat-pics

[fluffbruary]

Creative Camouflage (hath updated!)

Fluffbruary Extended Edition Infinifluff. June 14 - prompts: translucent – performance – shadow

Sherlock fandom.

Chapter 4 - Ebony and Ivory

Summary: Sherlock's text puzzles John to no end. He can't make up his mind whether this universe he finds himself in is good for him or not. But when he considers how excited his inner organs are by the prospect of seeing Sherlock again, he decides to just let himself be pulled into the other man's orbit once more.

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[fluffbruary]

Roe deer/rådjur. Värmland, Sweden (June 10, 2020).

[fluffbruary]

@fluffbruary

May 14 prompt : charcoal | mural | perspective

Yukiya did not expect what the day would bring when he, Sumio and the young master made their trip to the castle town. It was the day of Tango no Sekku (Dragon Boat Festival). It was also his birthday. The young master wanted to indulge his personal attendant with a boat trip on the river and a little excursion in the town. Everything went well until their boat driver mistook Wakamiya for a traveling stage actor, who encouraged the poor driver to believe that he was. Yukiya had enough of his nonsense that it became natural for him to restrain his master. He covered his mouth at once in order not to further divulge their disguises. His assertiveness took him by surprise but, really, the crown prince had to see his perspective after leaving him a month in the Valley without giving him a hint that Wakamiya would come back for him. It felt like he had the license to do so and the prince would not stop him. Besides, it was his birthday and his master was being good to him.

It drizzled after their boat trip that became stronger. The three of them found an inn where they could leave their horses and decided to wait there until the downpour would stop.

Meanwhile, Yukiya took out the red bean-filled mochis from the basket he was carrying the whole time and distributed them among themselves. Their knees huddled together, seeking warmth and comfort.

“Ah, that’s genius, Yukiya!” Swarmed Sumio as he took his share.

“Your Highness…”

“I was not certain if I would get mine,” Wakamiya said accepting the mochi from Yukiya’s hand messing with him in hopes that he could rile up his attendant when he noticed that Yukiya started to grimace. He only had one bite of his mochi when he gripped his stomach almost losing his footing. Wakamiya grabbed him by his arm.

“Is there something wrong, Yukiya? You do not look well.” Wakamiya got worried. There was only one instance when his attendant felt nauseous. That was when they encountered the ruffians on their way home from the pleasure district Hanamachi.

“I do not know, Your Highness. There is a pain in my abdomen…” Yukiya touched the aforementioned body part and massaged it.

The two older men looked at each other when Sumio suggested to return to the Sunrise Palace, “Well, it seems the rain is not going to slow down anytime soon. I would not mind heading back.”

Finishing his mochi, he wiped his hands at the back of his feather robe as he stood up. Wakamiya, on the other hand, stuffed the whole mochi inside his mouth that he resembled a squirrel munching on a spring day. It was so amusing that Yukiya broke into laughter.

“Hah, if that made you laugh…” he said. “Then you are feeling much better.” Wakamiya’s smile was one of those rarest treasures that one could never witness every day.

The three went to the establishment’s stables to take their horses. The young master took his place in front controlling the horse’s bridle. Yukiya followed springing to his designated seat behind him. Wakamiya tapped the bird’s right hip with his foot to ascend. Sumio flew after them.

Read the rest on AO3 (for registered users)

Note: Inspired by a Reddit post during the first cour of the anime airing. Rated M is for one particular scene.

[fluffbruary]

Solace and Joy, Ch. 94: "Tabula rasa"

Summary: John's man is still mysterious, with his cheekbones and all.

*

Not sure when I clocked that Sherlock remembered almost nothing about his childhood.

Looking back, there’d been clues all along. We’d be looking at a photo album at his parents’ and I’d ask “where was this one taken?” or “how old were you in this one?” and he’d almost always hmmmm vaguely and say he didn’t know, or he’d deleted it, or I should ask “Mummy.” (Unconscious sexism? Because it was actually his dad who remembered everything about the family’s early years.)

Looking at a recent x-ray I was startled, and said, “when did you get this break? You never mentioned it. Was it while you were away?”

“Hmmm—no. I was quite young. Climbing trees despite stern prohibitions, no doubt.”

“‘No doubt?’ You don’t remember?” That sounded … off.

He shook his head, impatient, and I was distracted a moment by the way his hair ruffled and shone in the late afternoon light. His answer brought my focus right back to the issue: “No. Why would I remember that?”

That was a perspective so strange that I didn’t challenge him on it. But would a child really forget an accident that resulted in a fracture? The drama, the hospital, the cast, the recovery? If nothing else, the pain? I certainly remembered my own childhood illnesses and injuries. But Sherlock seemed to think it something utterly banal. Forgettable.

I texted his dad, who said it was a fall from a pony when he was six.

— Weird that Sherlock doesn’t remember.

A little pause, as if he was thinking.

— Maybe he does, but doesn’t want to say. He became a very fine horseman, after that first tumble. He insisted on mastering anything he tried, but especially if he thought he failed the first time. The embarrassment motivated him.

— In that case, weird that he wouldn’t say so. He admits that Mycroft is far and away the better rider.

— Tell him it was over at the Nicholsons’. He always liked them, might jolt his memory.

But that prompt didn’t result in anything more concrete than an indifferent “Was it?” which just felt weirder than ever.

Time to consult the British Government.

continued on AO3

*

Huffing and puffing to catch up with Infinifluff! May's word prompts were perspective, charcoal, and mural.

Ch 93 on AO3 (Ch 92) (Ch 91) (Ch 90) (Ch 89)

Thanks for reblogging! (Let me know if I should tag or untag you)

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[fluffbruary]

Patterns of Return- Complete!

Last chapters uploaded!

August-September 2032

In which Sherlock observes a foreign species, proposes a schedule, and traces the patterns of return

Read on AO3

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[fluffbruary]

Infinifluff in June.

In just 10 days, June 14 is upon us, and we hope for more fluff in monitor. The prompts are: translucent - performance - show + the image above. Get creative and tag us so we can share your fluff! Any fandom is welcome.

[fluffbruary]

Sound on

(via)

[fluffbruary]

Solace and Joy, Ch. 92: "Musical" (a 221b)

and Ch 93: "Contrast" (a 221b)

Summary: The morning after the opera, the boys debrief. (con'd from ch. 91)

*

What did you think of Poe?

It was … heartbreaking. Exhilarating. Transcendent. You?

Involving, certainly. But I kept hearing it—evaluating it, even—at a distance. Through your eyes.

Then you must have loved it. I sure did. I never expected the opera to make such excellent use of his poetry.

It was compelling. Also, the composer’s very accomplished. Do you still want to see it again?

God, yes. And maybe you can hear it without the filter of my… initial reluctance.

You weren’t reluctant last night, you were fascinating. You made no secret of your reactions, and you were so caught up in it. Why were you?

Poe—he’s, well, the ultimate outsider, isn’t he. “And all I loved, I loved alone.” Addiction wasn’t his trouble, it was his response to his trouble. He gave so much to the world, and died too young to ever reach a quieter harbour. —But I have a question.

Tell me.

What’s the difference between an opera and a musical? You always avoid musical theatre, and make your dislike of it known loudly and often. How is it different from opera, really?

We’ll talk about it after we’ve seen it again.

You’re putting me off. There isn’t any difference, is there.

Isn’t any—John! I’ll get the tickets.

And then get some for Beetlejuice.

*

Ch 93: Contrast

Summary: John’s opened up to opera, and now it’s Sherlock’s turn to broaden his horizons.

Tickets? What?

Yeah, well, you do realize this isn’t a one-way street.

What isn’t?

This broadening the horizons thing. You have to do it, too. Step outside your comfort zone. It’s only fair.

True. Where do you want to take me?

Not 100% sure. I’m saving up my IOU for a really good one.

But it’ll be some popular culture thing you like. A Bond retrospective? Queen tribute? Not that I’d mind that.

You— you like Queen?

Everyone has to like Queen, or confess to being dead inside.

Requiem for David Bowie?

I could stand that.

Okay, I’m getting confused. Queen, Bowie, what don’t you like?

If I tell you, you’ll seek that out. You just want to put me out of countenance.

I don’t! I want to give you a new source of pleasure, as I assume you do me. What makes you think I mean to take you to a performance at all, anyway?

John. Do not make me play rugby. I’m begging you.

Ha! I’ll spare you rugby, ya skinny git.

And no drinking contests.

“Requiem for a Lightweight.”

John! Obviously you mean a performance. What fresh hell do you mean to inflict on me?

Well, like I said, I thought Beetlejuice. It’ll be a contrast to Poe.  

How are tickets going to help get us to Betelgeuse?

*

The April issue of Fluffbruary 2025 blew right by me, and so did the May one. Huffing and puffing to catch up! April's word prompts were contrast, architecture, and shade.

Ch 92 on AO3 (Ch 91) (Ch 90) (Ch 89)

Thanks for reblogging! (Let me know if I should tag or untag you)

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[fluffbruary]

Patterns of Return- Update

April -May 2032

In which Sherlock consolidates territory, curates an excursion, migrates his morning routine, and posts a particular job offer.

Read on AO3

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[fluffbruary]

@fluffbruary Day 14 Voice | Swim | Quaint

There's a content warning for this chapter so here's a quick summary: Mycroft fell asleep on Greg's sofa in the last chapter and he's dreaming in this one. In his dream there is a spider who turns into his brother. If dream!spider!Sherlock is upsetting for you, feel free to skip this part.

It was obvious, in hindsight, that he was dreaming, but in his mind's eye he'd had an entire conversation with the spider who'd appeared in the upper left corner of Greg's television screen before it occurred to Mycroft that the experience was anything less than real.

"Isn't that sweet," the spider sneered.

"Hardly." Mycroft wouldn't stand for an arachnid passing judgement on his current position wrapped up in Greg's warm embrace. After all, what did spiders know of the pleasures of cuddling? They only came into contact with another living being when they were about to eat or be eaten.

"Do you think he means it? Or are you just convenient?"

"I really ought to get out the hoover and take care of you."

"Ooh, big threats from the British Government. Won't change the fact that you're a warm body to him."

"Why don't spiders learn to build their webs inside the walls? It would significantly extend their lifespans?" Mycroft mused aloud.

"Why don't stuffy, nosy big brothers learn to keep themselves out of the personal lives of others?"

Mycroft frowned as the spider took on his brother's attitude. He rolled his eyes and stood up to inspect it more closely. It was a pale brown house spider. Nothing unusual at first glance. Although now that he had a closer look, the spider's head had a rather dramatic looking collection of dark curls that made Mycroft sneer in its direction.

"Why are you here, brother mine?"

"Someone has to hold you accountable for your meddling," it replied petulantly.

"In what am I meddling, Sherlock? Greg invited me here!"

"Who?"

Mycroft looked back at the couch to where Greg had been, but no one occupied the couch any longer. He searched the room frantically, wondering if Greg had turned into a mouse or a moth when he wasn't looking. It did seem to be that sort of dream. When Mycroft turned back to accuse the spider with his brother's face of meddling in his affairs, he noticed the trickle of water falling down Greg's sitting room wall. It looked like a tiny waterfall trickling over the plaster, but he looked about to find himself nearly ankle-deep in the pool of water.

He fled to the sofa and momentarily regretted not removing his shoes earlier in the evening. He called out for Greg once, twice, much to the amusement of his tiny arachnid brother who was climbing up to stand on top of the television.

"Don't drown, big bro! You'll never see Greg again if you do. It won't bother him at all, of course. But you'll be unbearable for the rest of your life."

"I didn't lay a finger on you!" Mycroft protested.

"No, but you thought about it, didn't you?"

Mycroft huffed and rolled his eyes.

"You know what they say about killing spiders."

"You're not dead!"

"Killing a spider makes it rain."

"This isn't rain, it's a flood. And you're perfectly healthy. Look at you." How Sherlock maintained his perfect coiffure with all this moisture in the air, Mycroft would never understand.  It was a magic all Sherlock's own, he supposed. His own hair curled hideously in the damp and he began to feel cold again.

He looked at the floor. The water was getting quite deep now and the couch had been lifted off its feet to bob along the surface. Mycroft felt his stomach roll with the motion. Glancing at Sherlock again he saw that the spider had built an extravagant web between the television frame and the wall that was still streaming with water. In the centre he had a hornet and a moth.

"Mycroft," the moth called.

Mycroft looked for a way to leave the couch but the water had lifted it halfway up the wall and there was nothing to use as a stepping stone to the television.

"Mycroft?" The moth sounded calm even though it was in the centre of a spider's web. The hornet stirred and squirmed in its sticky bindings.

"Greg, I'll find a way. Don't worry. Don't move."

The spider was advancing on the centre of the web, almost dancing with glee as it closed in on the moth and the hornet. The hornet panicked and scrabbled for purchase on the sticky strands, only succeeding in pulling the moth closer to its prominent stinger. The water was almost up to the ceiling now. There was nothing for it. Mycroft plunged into the cold pool that had filled Greg's living space and swam with all his might towards the web.

"Mycroft." The moth's voice carried even though Mycroft's head was completely submerged and he followed the sound, frantically reaching out to brush away strands of webbing that had filled the water. He surfaced for air, gasping at the last bit of space by the ceiling before diving in again to reach for the unfortunate insects caught in Sherlock's impenetrable web.

Just as he thought he would run out of air, Mycroft opened his eyes. He was on the couch. Greg was next to him and looking on with concern.  

"Thank god I don't have to swim," Mycroft said.

"Don't think it's raining that hard, mate. You alright?"

"Strange dream," was all Mycroft could think to say. "I apologise. I didn't mean to drift off."

"Me neither," Greg said softly with a grin.  "Think I spilled my glass on you a bit." He gestured at the wet stain on Mycroft's trousers.

Mycroft frowned. That was why he was so cold. He sighed.

"Look it's miserable out there and you've already slept half the night," Greg began. "Would you want to stay? I can sleep here. You take the bed."

"I couldn't put you out."

"You're not. We could have breakfast."

The idea was tempting. Stay the night and have a meal together in the morning. Mycroft seldom ate breakfast but he could perhaps stretch to brunch if Greg were involved.

"Only if you allow me to sleep on the sofa. Take your bed. Please." He would have to find some clean clothing in the morning. Perhaps Greg could lend him some. A vision of himself in trousers that were just an inch too short popped into his head. He really should refuse. It would be no trouble to call a car at this hour, but the prospect of a morning with Greg loomed large and tempting in his drowsy, dreamstricken mind.

"Or..." Greg's voice was rough and blurry and he looked so gentle in the light of the television and that of the table lamp. Mycroft was sure Greg could convince him to betray the country and his family in an instant looking and sounding as he did. The only reason Mycroft was here was because he knew Greg would never attempt it. "Well. Might be a bit much."

"Go on." Mycroft was only mildly shocked to find his hand had taken Greg's without his express permission.

"Could share. The bed, I mean. It's more than big enough."

Mycroft glanced down at their joined hands. He thought about brunch and waking up in Greg's bed. He nodded. "If you wouldn't mind."

"Only thing I'd mind is staying where we are. This sofa is not meant for sleeping on." Greg offered his hand to help Mycroft up.

Mycroft laced his fingers with Greg's and rose to his feet, a movement that awoke all the pain receptors in his back at once. He tried to stifle the sharp intake of breath, but Greg caught it.

"Are you hurt?" He scanned Mycroft's torso.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "As you say, the sofa is not an ideal place to sleep."

"Is it your back? Can you walk?"

"Yes." Mycroft took a deep breath and a cautious step forward. "And yes. It is not incapacitating."

Greg's arm snaked under his own and pulled him close. "Let's get you to bed and I'll fetch you some tablets."

They made their way slowly down the hall to Greg's bedroom. Greg eased him to the mattress and strode out of the room.

Mycroft hesitated. He was still wearing his shoes and couldn't bend to untie the laces. He thought about the damage to the leather if he tried to toe them off and winced. He imagined the conversation he'd have to engage in with Anthony, his cobbler, should he decide it was worth avoiding the embarrassment of asking for help with his shoe laces. Of all the evenings not to wear loafers!

Greg returned before Mycroft could make up his sluggish mind, glass of water and a ramekin with tablets in his hands. "Brown is ibuprofen, white is paracetamol. Do they turn your stomach?"

"I don't believe so."

"One of each, then. Should let you sleep, at least. Do you need the toilet?"

"No. But if you wouldn't mind... My shoelaces."

"Oh, yeah. 'Course." Greg knelt down and lifted Mycroft's foot to his knee. He loosened the laces with care and eased the shoe off before repeating with the other foot. His eyes still betrayed his tiredness, but Mycroft's need for assistance appeared to have energised him. He stood and helped Mycroft lie back against the pillows.

"Thank you." Mycroft predicted he would regret sleeping in his trousers but couldn't trouble himself to do more than remove his belt. Greg took the belt from him and laid it over the armchair next to Mycroft's side of the bed. Then he stopped and looked Mycroft up and down, eyes landing somewhere in the vicinity of his neck.

Greg turned abruptly and muttered, "Teeth." He strode off to the ensuite.

Mycroft ran his tongue over his teeth. Weighed against the pain in his back, furry teeth were not worth getting up for. He'd just have to avoid breathing on Greg tonight and measure his regrets in the morning.

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Mycroft's dream was inspired by Jim Creegan's Spider in my Room, in case that seemed familiar.

Thanks to everyone who passes this on

@totallysilvergirl @lisbeth-kk @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @etrebko @hot-on-my-watch

[fluffbruary]

Day 4: a made up superhero[s]

Don't you just love bending the rules! LOL

Have some parentlock because you deserve it <3<3<3

Much love!

@totallysilvergirl @helloliriels @dontfuckmylifewtf @sussexinchelsea @loki-lock @topsyturvy-turtely @matixsstuff @ohlooktheresabee @boredsushi

(If I somehow missed you or you want to be tagged, just tell me!)

[fluffbruary]

It is too stinkin' cute and fluffy

[fluffbruary]

Patterns of Return - Update!

January- April 2031

In which Sherlock critiques methodology, endures noisy tenants, and makes another appeal.

Read on AO3

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[fluffbruary]

-Chapters: 1/1 -Fandom: The Butterfly Club Series - M.A Bennett -Rating: General Audiences -Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply -Relationships: Luna Goodheart/Aidan O'Connell (The Butterfly Club) -Characters: Luna Goodheart, Aidan O'Connell (The Butterfly Club), Konstantin Kass, + brief appearances from Houdini and Vincenzo but not enough to tag -Additional Tags: The Butterfly Club: The Mona Lisa Mystery, if you haven’t read book 3 this probably won’t make much sense at all, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, fluffbruary’s Infinifluff Prompt Challenge 2025, it’s literally just fluff what can I say, Domestic, oughh domestic Time Thieves save meeeee, Canon Compliant, Nicknames, (can’t have a Butterfly Club fic without them), Caring, 20th Century, set in 1914 Italy :P

Luna had just finished laying and straightening the last fork on the table, proudly, when Konstantin, pausing before serving their meal for the evening - a nice Italian meaty stew - into its awaiting bowls, said over his shoulder, “Fraülein, could you go and fetch everybody, please?”

-

Written for the May edition of Infinifluff run by @fluffbruary, for the prompt ‘Charcoal’! … Though it in no way relates to charcoal. At all. I don’t know why my brain works this way but it does so

[fluffbruary]

Johnlock 🫂✨️🎀

[fluffbruary]

<I know who you are.>