Solace and Joy, 77: "Feminine Intution." Fluffbruary (Infinifluff) 10-14-24
Summary: John can't resist it when Sherlock uses his powers for good.
*
Something was weird. Off. My companion looked like Sherlock, sounded like Sherlock, was steamrolling his interlocutor in trademark Sherlock Holmes fashion. But what he was saying sounded like nothing on earth I’ve heard Sherlock say, on a topic I’ve never heard him talk about, in all these years of (we'll call it) acquaintance.
Bemused, I sat back and watched him expertly nip and herd his spooked victim like a collie dog harrying a sheep.
“Feminine intuition,” he pontificated, “passes for an obsolete notion, as quaint and faded as the ink in a Victorian lady’s diary. Or the morning visits she was obliged to pay and receive. But why should that be? If ‘feminine intuition’ has fallen out of fashion in the march toward gender equality, then that’s a shame. Women do observe more closely, and interpret better, a whole series of cues that men ignore. That men have been trained to ignore—find it socially advantageous to ignore. The body language, gestures, glances, that betray reservation, discomfort, resistance. For optimal workplace efficiency, it is fatal to ignore these, as I’m sure you know.
“Of course, I attribute women’s greater sensitivity to emotional static primarily to nurture, not to nature. There certainly are men as attuned and attentive as women to such cues. But since women are socialised to observe and attend to the unspoken emotional landscape around us, then this becomes a specialised ability—one which no employer or supervisor should fail to take advantage of. I feel certain you agree.”
The doughy middle manager of Bart’s personnel office, dressed like an administrator, had never been within a mile of medical training in his life, I was morally certain. He shifted, uneasily I thought, on his webbed polyester throne (why are office chairs so hideous nowadays?) and looked as though was about to object.
“Of course, gender equality on my team—”
Sherlock didn’t give him time to get to a verb.
“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that gender parity does not consist merely of hiring women. It also consists of recognising and supporting them.”
Had Sherlock swallowed a book of HR managerial jargon?
“Well, obviously, Mr Holmes, I would point out—”
I was not destined to hear what Mister Bureaucrat would have pointed out. Sherlock barrelled past him at 180 kilometers per hour, dragging the man in his slipstream by dint of feigned agreement and coopted consent. He’d maintained an arrogant sprawl but now straightened up and leaned forward, staring at the uncomfortable manager as if he was finally getting to the point of his pompous exposition.
“And as you are surely also aware, promoting and rewarding only those women who speak and behave most like men in the workplace—an unconscious temptation, I admit—is terribly counterproductive. Privileging only the honorary males among women, subverts the entire undertaking of gender equality. At the same time, it both penalises and loses those perceptions and insights that were once attributed to ‘feminine intuition.’”
Sherlock was talking so fast, and with such certainty and swagger, that he both embodied the worst clichés of a stereotypical male at work, and entirely dominated Molly Hooper’s hapless supervisor. It was a delight to see. Like most bullies, the man had quickly backed down in the presence of a bigger bully, and I suspected Sherlock had just clinched Molly’s promotion—through buzzwords, bombast, and a rhetorical manipulation that wasn’t even subtle.
A few more niceties and assurances, and Sherlock was sweeping out the door without even looking to see if I was following. The bloke gave me a desperate look. I smiled wryly: “Yeah, he’s always like that. You should listen to him, though. He’s never wrong about this stuff.”
Two turns along the corridor I found Sherlock being joined by Molly, looking tense and anxious.
“Here’s your book back, Molly. You were right, it’s loathsome. I will delete it instantly. But I think it served its purpose.”
She took the book he was holding out—Join the People-Leaders: Unlocking Your Full Leadership Potential—and huffed, stuffing it into her outsized bag.
“It’s infuriating, and it’s not fair. His secretary tipped me off that I was going to be passed over for promotion in favour of a newcomer, just because she—”
“Isn’t shy, talks like a man, and doesn’t care about anyone else’s opinion. I know. It’s deplorable that morons like your boss only listen to common sense when a man is saying it. Or a woman who talks like a man. Forget about it for now, Molly. Take the promotion, and keep moving up until you’re in a position to get his arse sacked for the mediocrity he is.”
I swear, Sherlock will never stop surprising me. I grabbed his arm as we strode out: “That was really kind, you know. Defending Molly’s ‘feminine intuition,’ no less! The same intuition that didn't let her see your sexual identity for—how long?”
He smiled, but not unkindly. I was curious: “Did all that horrible cant you were spouting come from that book?”
“Obviously. You have to speak to these people in their own language. I speak fluent blowhard, of course, but I had to swot up on that organisational jargon. Oh well. I’d do that and much more for her. What do I not owe Molly Hooper?”
And to think that among those who don't know him, he passes for an arsehole.
*
(I tucked in a little homage to @stellacartography's Mystrade story Kinesis)
Fluffbruary prompts for today: intuition, quaint, faded. Also
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special thanks to @totallysilvergirl @lisbeth-kk and @fluffbruary for reminding me to write 😩🙈
i am sitting here in the armchair. my cold feet covered by the body heat of redbeard, our dog. his - sherlock's - head lays on my chest. arms wrung around me. i feel his deep breaths through my jumper, on my skin. even after all this years, it tingles.
the fingers of my left hand are raking through his slowly thinning, grey but oh so luscious curls. my other hand - on his belly. it had grown a bit. he isn't quite as skinny as he used to be. you can barely see it. but i love the feeling of that tum underneath my palm.
the dying embers are shining weakly into the living room. putting everything in a spellbinding light. always loved that. love it now even more it seems. i smile about that thought.
sometimes i still can't comprehend how i got so lucky. how i found this man. how he died for me and then came back for me. how he raised my daughter with me.
rosie - she will be here. only a few weeks until christmas now. we'll be having dinner. she will give both of us terrible christmas sweaters. i'm looking forward to that look on sherlock's face after i convinced him to wear it. absolutely completely miserable but then those odd, gorgeous features breaking a smile.
and i will be as besotted as i have been since the beginning.
i press my lips to his forehead, close my eyes, breathe in his scent.
being old and happy. what a beautiful thing that is.
read "that stuff called fluff" (fluffbruary ficlets) on ao3!
(if you could show some love to this i would greatly appreciate it as i am in a massive writer's block and seeing people reblogging etc. might actually motivate me to write. thank you ✨) (i sound desperate, but- well, i am. ngl)
Fluffbruary IS UNDERWAY! Time to re-post the prompt list and spark some creativity!
As always, pick any or all of the daily prompts as inspiration for your fluffy fanwork. There are a handful of alternate prompts at the bottom of the list if none of the day's prompts work for you.
Whether you do some prompts, or all, or just one--increasing the fluff quotient in the world is surely a good thing.
All fandoms, all ships welcome! Tag @fluffbruary in your posts so we can reblog your fluffy creations--and please reblog THIS post so your tumblr community sees it and comes to play in the fluff.
February 1 : downy | clinic | nuance
February 2 : engagement | scent | jam
Putting the rest under a cut because the images make for a LONG post :D
February 3 : umbrella | seashore | mist
February 4 : camera | lush | beau
February 5 : rescue | inertia | lullaby
February 6 : tie | embarrassment | dessert
February 7 : potatoes | blue | glass
February 8 : shower | blessed | layer
February 9 : urgency | kneel | rural
February 10 : flush | angel | owl
February 11 : reflection | water | apology
February 12 : graceful | volcano | blanket
February 13 : choice | snuggling | furry
February 14 : phone | bubble bath | doll
February 15 : cord | bakery | honey
February 16 : neighbour | desire | horse
February 17 : magazine | tactile | curtains
February 18 : suave | cologne | gradual
February 19 : tea cakes | flood | feature
February 20 : smooth | glitters | queen
February 21 : photography | pepper | truffles
February 22 : key | silly | quest
February 23 : rhythm | chalk | humor
February 24 : spring | fuzzy | silky
February 25 : fox | twilight | sweat
February 26 : fluff | woolly | care package
February 27 : table | blush | laundry
February 28 : reward | shelter | piano
Hive receives an invitation from a past they would rather forget and Bucky finds that there may be more than self-preservation in his need to find out what his new roommate is up to.
Read this chapter on AO3 here.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 5
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Nonbinary OC
Rating: T
CW: Canon-typical violence, mind control, tampering with someone’s drink, drugging, attempted abduction, collaring, violent death, blood loss, misgendering
Prompts Filled:
@fandom-free-bingo Flight Edition : Betrayal
@fandom-free-bingo Wild Edition : A crack in the mirror
@fandom-free-bingo World Book Night Edition : Drugged
@fandom-free-bingo Maritime May Edition : Mind control
@febuwhump 2024 : Day 10 – Killing in self-defence
@fluffbruary 2024 : Day 9 – Urgency
@lgbtqbingo : Bar fight
@multifandom-flash Round 2 : The men in black
@multifandom-flash Character (Bucky Barnes) : Lost companion
@whumpuary 2024 : Day 3 – Used as bait
@fandombingo Reverse 1999 : Manipulated into a trap
@fandombingo Reverse 1999 : Tracking someone down to save them
@sweetspicybingo Hurt/Comfort Edition : Blood loss
@badthingshappenbingo : No good deed goes unpunished
@badthingshappenbingo : Tampering with food/drink
Dividers by @unfortunate-beetle-and-friends
“Each betrayal begins with trust.”
Martin Luther
Hive tidied without much direction for an hour before the stillness of the place started to worm into their brain. The walls got closer. They found themself touching their scarred surfaces as though that would stop their advance. Their nails were packed with cheesy plaster and flakes of paper; texture after texture demanded to be smoothed lest it keep grating on their soul like sandpaper. Eventually their nailbeds were smarting. Rather than pull apart the whole building scrap by scrap, they went out. Possible destinations were both far too many and hardly any at all. Anything that needed money was out. Anywhere they might be too readily noticed was a problem. They wound up in the park. There were plenty of people around and, while other people meant more witnesses, they also meant camouflage. They took a book from their small stash and passed easily enough for a student with some time to kill. From time to time, their eyes lifted from the book as if trying to tune in to distant sounds or catch some too-quiet words. No one paid them any attention.
Oh god, help… please, please help me…
Their head snapped up.
Please, I don’t want to… I can’t.
Hive’s face whipped one way then the other, their dark hair lashing their cheeks. Every face around them looked as oblivious as could be. Fuck. They knew that voice.
They dodged down crowded streets, ducking along alleys, taking the quickest route they knew in a direction they’d promised themself never to go. The voice resurged, not so faint, but irregular, as though a mind could be out of breath.
Where… am I? So hungry…
Hive winced, recalling a very similar internal monologue. Where was he? How could he possibly be in range? Even for this broken up attempt to communicate. Their mind strained. It amazed them that other people couldn’t hear it. Apparently this was a private call. Fuck. Not good. Not good at all.
They got three blocks too far north before they stopped and ducked into a doorway, breathing too hard, head spinning, arms tight across their chest. Images of the empty apartment flooded their brain, images of Bucky standing in the hall and wondering, maybe even searching. They stood shivering and hugging themself.
They wished they could ignore the voice, go back, get some sleep, rest their aching bones…
Help me… Hive, please…
They whimpered and squeezed themselves tighter, pinching their arms through their hoodie. They had to go. The whimper became an angry whine. They jabbed a foot into the wall and cried out, tears filling their eyes. Then they turned, limping, back towards the apartment.
They didn’t stay long, just long enough to pull out their notebook and scribble their apologies, and to take advantage of the quiet.
Ady?
Hive! I need help…
You’re out? How?
Complicated. Can we – I need to see someone. A – a friendly face. Meet me?
A friendly face… Hive wasn’t sure if they wanted to laugh or throw up.
Where?
They figured something out. A meeting place, crowded enough to allow them anonymity and somewhere people tended not to give a shit who was around anyway. Hive only knew it because it was about the only place they’d observed Bucky attending other than work and the grocery store. If there was anywhere a metal hand around a tumbler could go unnoticed through sheer lack of interest, it was that shithole. And if there was anywhere no one would have a hope of recalling the faces of two fugitives tomorrow morning…
It took them a while to get together some supplies, not having much stashed and lacking the cash to do things the easy, legal way. The limp added an unnecessary challenge to the game of going unnoticed. A couple of security guards had to develop sudden nosebleeds but eventually they were standing on the street above the basement bar, chewing their lip as they stared down the iron stairs. Ady… Their skin crawled. They could feel their control, their entire presence, slipping. Just like it had before. When the only way to resist was to play a sick game of musical chairs in their own body, everyone trying not to be the one in control when the music stopped...
Steady… Invisible hands held them and pushed them gently but firmly back into themself. We don’t have to do this, but if we’re going to then we should get it over with. Standing out here isn’t safe.
He needs our help. He isn’t going to hurt us.
And if he only just got out, he may have information we can use.
A deep breath of the foetid gutter-tinged air did more to upset their stomach than soothe their nerves but it did help to drive them off the street. He was sitting at a table in the corner. His cheeks were more hollow than ever. He was staring at a drink in front of him as though he’d forgotten how to transfer the liquid to his mouth. Thinking about it, it might have been years since the poor bastard was last allowed to pick up his own glass, or have a glass at all. A mutant who could do what he could certainly couldn’t be allowed any more freedom than absolutely necessary. That leash was kept tight. How he had ever slipped it was a mystery. They slid into the opposite chair.
“You came.” The fact sounded like it caused him pain.
“I, yeah, ‘course I did. You needed help.” They toed the duffel bag towards him under the table, regretting it when their toes ached dark and hot, nausea surging in their gut. They were pretty sure their foot would be vivid purple when they got home and took that sock off. “This is for you. I can find you somewhere to stay. You'll need to, you know, keep your head down for a little while…” For a moment they pictured Bucky’s expression should they show up on the doorstep with another stray in tow. No, wouldn’t work. But their old hideout was probably secure enough for a day or two while they figured out how to get him a long, long way away. They weren’t sure exactly how far the enemy’s reach extended but it was a fair bet that nowhere inside the US would be safe enough. Maybe Bucky knew more about where someone like Ady could go unnoticed with some basic precautions. Somewhere remote enough that his nightmares would trouble no one but the wildlife. “Does it work on animals?” Hive winced even as the words left their mouth. They hadn’t intended to ask. It could at the very least have waited. What a time for their vocal chords to detach from their brain.
Ady’s head dipped, hiding his face deeper in the shadows of his hood. He’d never really made his peace with the shaved head, they knew. Endless exploratory surgeries were the lot of captive mutants but when your abilities were so very brain-centred… well, his skull had been drilled into so many times, it was amazing there was enough left to hold his brain in.
“No, ‘it’ doesn’t. They can’t hear me, or if they can then they don’t understand. And I can’t make – it doesn’t affect them.” They saw him shiver inside his heavy coat.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have – you know what I’m like.”
“What you’re all like…” he curled a little tighter, peeking up at them out of the dark, more fearful than angry. “You seem like just… you. How are the rest of them do-”
“Don’t. Don’t talk about them.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to – I never wanted to hurt any of you.”
“Don’t, Ady.”
“Lex – have you – has he -”
“Fucking stop. Christ, learn when to fucking stop.”
He flinched as though they’d struck him, and their stomach clenched as though the blow had rebounded. Their skin felt icy cold but the cold was radiating from somewhere much deeper. They needed to get out from under Ady’s pale, watery gaze. It was deceptive, that look, and they knew it as well as anyone. It was so lost, so full of need for care, connection, and it crept in, touching what you wanted no one to know was there. They shoved away from the table so hard their chair rocked. Ady looked up in panic and Hive allowed him a muttered “bathroom” to quiet his alarm. But all they got to soothe their own distress was dingy tile and a cracked mirror under a flickering, stained light bulb. They needed a deep breath but that was a bad idea in here. They tried taking in a series of tiny gasps until they had a lungful to exhale slowly.
Lex… What fucking right did he have? How dare he? They leant over the chipped sink, close to retching, gripping the edge until they recognised the blood running from under their fingernails. Fuck. When had they last lost control like that? Oh, of fucking course. Ady. Poor Lex had always turned the lash inwards when he couldn’t hold out any longer. They stared at the blood – the only wholesome colour in the hopeless little room. It was lucky that, however their power worked, it left no open wounds; this place was a paradise for every kind of crap you didn’t want in your bloodstream. They stopped the bleeding and – wound or no wound – scrubbed their hands under the hottest water they could coax from the rusty tap. Then they stared at their reflection a little longer, willing the hectic blotches out of their cheeks, face divided into misaligned halves by the long scar in the glass.
Ady… Not what their custodians had called him, of course. He’d long acquired the nickname "Leash” when Hive was brought in.
I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have… I only wanted – I wanted you to say he’d come back. That he wasn’t… and I hadn’t… I never wanted to kill anyone. I promise. Hive? Are… are you coming back?
Now wasn’t that the question. The supplies they’d collected for him were still under the table. If they walked right out, he could take them and go and they didn’t know where he’d end up or how long he’d last but they would have done something for him, more than anyone had done for them when they first got out. They could walk out guilt-free. And who would have little enough heart to blame them for steering clear of someone who’d done the things Ady had?
We would.
Things he was forced to do…
The voices didn’t come from Ady, or anywhere else outside their own head. It made them that much harder to shut out and their owners knew it.
It isn’t truer for Bucky than it is for Ady just because Ady hurt us.
They never took that fucking collar off him. What could he have done that he didn’t try?
“That he said he tried…” Hive muttered, unable to meet their own eyes in the mirror. They needn’t speak aloud to be heard but it felt better to hear their own words on the outside.
Like we did?
“We’re different.”
How do you figure that out?
“We are killers.”
You are, you mean.
“Fine, I am.”
And if you don’t take us back out there, I will. He’s no guiltier than we are. He needs help.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Hive glowered down at their shoes then rammed the bolt back. The glare melted away as soon as they saw the helpless fear on Ady’s face, even shrouded deep in that coat. Just looking at it made the sweat run faster inside Hive’s hoodie, already too many layers for comfort in the bar’s close atmosphere.
They slid back into their seat. A drink had appeared in front of them.
“Got you a drink. To say sorry. And thank you, for coming when I called. I’d have understood if you’d ignored me.”
They eyed the glass. “You have money?”
“A little.” His eyes shifted away, gluing his gaze to the corner of the table. Hive heard what he didn’t say.
They lowered their voice. “Didn’t pay for it, huh?”
He gave his head a tiny shake. They could see his hands were twisting in his lap. Part of them was glad he felt guilt or anxiety or both. An uncharitable part they tried to silence, but not one they could blame on anyone else.
“You need to be careful. You know it leaves traces sometimes, and this place has a lot of potential witnesses. It’d be really easy to wind up back home if the wrong person sees.”
His hands tugged at his sleeves. He thought they were telling him off. And in their world that meant pain was sure to follow. They swallowed a mouthful of sharp memories and lifted their glass.
“It’s okay. You aren’t in trouble. I just need you to be careful, okay? I don’t want either of us going back there.”
He made a strange jerky movement towards them as they sipped; they guessed he’d wanted to reach for their hand. Seemed like he’d decided against it as he flinched back again, though Hive hadn’t even reacted. Did he – they thought they might have heard him whimper. God, he was going to be hard work. They took a breath, and a longer drink. The faint burn in their throat wasn’t especially pleasant but the room was so hot. It was starting to spin. Too many voices. Too many sounds and textures and moving bodies. When had the lights become so bright? Their stomach churned. They tried to grip the glass again only to find their fingers numb and clumsy. Ady was rocking, the movement nauseating to focus on.
I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m
“Ady…” Their mouth felt like it was full of cloth. “What did you do?”
It wasn’t Bucky who left the building and began to scour the streets for a trace of Hive's direction. The agency steering his body might have owed him a great deal but they were not the same. This individual stalked his target from block to block with predatory focus as much as he covered the ground with a soldier’s discipline, quartering his territory systematically. As his hunt drew out longer and longer frustration began to infect him. Sickening him. Turning his determination into anger. His pace quickened into a wolfish lope, but he was becoming inescapably aware that his search was directionless. Hive could be anywhere. Any building. Any subway. They could be on a Greyhound headed right across the country. What possible hope did he have of finding them? His pace ground to a halt. Strength flooded out of him. The impulse to find them kept up its powerful beat in his chest but it was futile. He breathed hard. Air felt thick. Heavy and poisonous. Foul in his mouth. Nowhere to go. No forward path. Where were they?
When the hand fell on their shoulder, it felt like a hundred kilo weight. They slumped underneath it. A whisper of protest was the most they could utter as their hood was dragged down and light flooded their face. Someone was speaking, low and even, over their head. Their ears were ringing. They were pulled from their seat and steered by their elbows back towards the toilet, past the rotting bathroom door and down a gloomy passageway. Whatever Ady had given them turned every sense up to one hundred. No useful input, nothing they could trust to get their bearings, only an assault of sound and light and smell.
Uneven, mouldering carpet caught their toes and they went sprawling, the pain in their foot amplified unbearably. More pain exploded from their knees. The impact travelled the length of their spine in an instant. The strong, single sensation broke part way through the lethal fog in their brain, and at last they could fight. They launched themself up from the floor and fresh agony burst in their skull when it collided with a chin. Both Hive and their escort toppled, crying out and clutching their heads. Commands were yelled. Ady whimpered. Movement. Behind them. Chairs scraping.
There was a moment, just one, in which the swimming weight resettling on their brain lightened a little, and Hive lashed out with all their strength. Blood poured down their face and chest from their suddenly gushing nose. Someone else was yelling in horror and a heavy body crashed into them, slamming them into the wall. Something wrenched in their shoulder and they fell sobbing back to the floor, the falling weight still on top of them. They lay with their streaming nose in the disgusting carpet and an immovable weight crushing their lungs. At first the weight thrashed wildly, grinding Hive’s torso into the floor. Their lungs caught fire. Their chest was burned. The struggles became weaker, and finally there was only the suffocating mass on top of them. Someone dragged it off and hauled Hive to their knees. How many were there? Bloody hands held them in place. There was a commotion, a yell, behind them.
“Hold her. I’ve had about enough of this shit. Just get the fucking collar on her, will you? Or do you want to die too? And you, get him out of here.”
Ady whimpered again and Hive felt a new familiar pressure on their mind. They mentally squirmed to escape the snare but they were out of practice. They couldn’t break free.
I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry I’m sorry…
They stilled, waiting motionless while a heavy ring of metal was fastened shut round their throat. They couldn’t fight. Couldn’t move. It was too sudden. Their mind moved like it was setting in cement. The metal contacts were as ice cold as they remembered against the sides of their neck.
Can… anyone…? We need to…
No reply. They ran out of strength to plead. Air felt like acid as it half-filled their aching lungs.
Someone help me… please…
“For to be free is not merely to cast off one's chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.” - Nelson Mandela
Thank you, everyone who has stuck with Hive and Bucky this far. Sorry the updates are painfully slow. If it's any consolation, I'm pretty sure that it hurts me more than it hurts most of you. @voiceoffenrisulfr might be the exception to that. There are another 2 chapters ready to post. One of them is already up on AO3, if you're impatient.
Fluffbruary Extended Edition. Prompts: cuddle - happy -spell. Sherlock fandom.
A Magical World
Summary: Rosie has been given a school assignment where the premise is to present her family and the dynamic between her and them. In the end, some adjustments are needed. For reasons...
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He is out of options. He is no longer a religious man, but he has prayed. His fate is inescapable.
Hob is trapped.
Dr. Atkins will not leave.
He's tried everything to get his new colleague out of his office. He's tried hints. He's tried exclaiming about how much work he has. He's tried ignoring the man and actually doing his work, but he could not focus, and his students deserve better than that. He's stood at the door expectantly, and Atkins stood just outside the door and kept talking. Hob has gone to the toilet, which was extremely awkward, as Atkins followed him in, kept talking, and then followed him back to his office.
Hob could simply leave, but it's his office! His lunch is here! He has 32 exams to mark and 3 lesson plans to finalize, and he is extremely thirsty but he does not want to make tea because he does not want Atkins to consider it an invitation to sit down again. Also, he's afraid that if he just leaves, Atkins will follow him out and all the way home, still talking.
Atkins is currently bemoaning his tragic love life and failed marriages, and Hob bites back a snarl as Atkins once again laments how all of his lovers have taken advantage of him because he is an empath. Clearly, the man is not, or he would already have been knocked flat by the hostility boiling under Hob's properly polite British demeanor. Get out get out GET OUT! he seethes.
Hob longs for assistance, longs for rescue, but the department is deserted, his colleagues' office doors closed, their window blinds down. He knows they're in there, the cowards, but it's obvious that all of them have already been exposed to their new resident bore, and no one warned Hob.
He yearns for a student to stop in, for a fire alarm, for a bloody earthquake, the building's boiler to explode. He glares at his phone, lying silent and dark on his desk. Why won't it ring?
"Music is my first love, though," Atkins says. For at least the fifth time. "And I want someone I can share that with. Concerts are not the same on one's own."
"Mm, yeah," Hob says listlessly.
There are footsteps in the hall. They stop before his door, and Hob's heart leaps like a startled hare.
"Hello, beloved, I am here for our lunch date. You were to call me after your class, were you not?"
God's wounds, thank you, love!
Hob lurches to pull open the half-open door, grabbing Dream's hand with both of his and clinging.
"Hello, darling, so sorry!" He presses a quick kiss to Dream's lips. "Time got away! Come in, come in!"
Pulling Dream into his office, he threads his arm in Dream's and keeps chattering at lightning speed. "Got so busy talking, you know how it is. Love, this is my new colleague, Dr. Atkins. Drew, this is my husband."
"Oh! Ah, pleasure to meet you," Atkins says, eyes wide as he stares at Dream. Every inch the dream king, Dream nods regally. Seeing Atkins take a breath to speak again, Hob jumps in once more.
"So sorry to rush you out, didn't realize what time it was, we've only got time for a short break, you understand. It was lovely chatting with you!"
If he lets Atkins get a word in, the man will never stop, and then Dream will say something unspeakably rude, and the only reason Hob hasn't already been unspeakably rude is that he still has to work with the man.
"Oh sure, no worries, " Atkins says as Hob herds him inelegantly out the door. "Chat later?" he asks over his shoulder.
"Absolutely," Hob says with a cheery grin as he shuts the door in Atkins' face and then locks it.
He slumps against it momentarily and then springs up to tug Dream into a searing kiss.
Dream rumbles in pleasure like a big cat, hands curving around Hob's waist to pull him close.
They only break apart when Hob gasps for breath. "Hello, love," he pants, tucking his face into Dream's neck. "You're my hero, did you know that?"
"Your daydreams of rescue were very loud, but they did not seem to call for a combative response. Is all well, beloved?" He glares at the closed door. "Is Andrew Atkins a threat?"
Hob snorts and reluctantly steps away to walk toward his desk. He has so much to do. "God, no. Only to my peace of mind and my schedule for the day, duck. New colleague, frightful bore, couldn't get rid of him. I tried everything. Nice bloke, but he would not stop talking. If I had to hear one more time about how he saw Queen at Wembley in '85, I would not have been responsible for my actions."
He daydreams a little vignette of sliding his sword out of a desk drawer far too small for it, grinning at Dream's small huff of laughter.
"I am glad to have come, if it averted unnecessary bloodshed," Dream says as he crosses the office. He leans against the corner of Hob's desk, ankles crossed, and smiles down at him. Hob swivels so that his knee knocks Dream's, and smiles back.
There is a brief moment of blessed silence, and Hob savors it.
"As your rescuer, I believe I deserve a reward, do I not?" Dream's voice is a purr, low and sultry, and it sends a shiver down Hob's spine.
"Oh, I will happily reward you tonight, love. Repeatedly, if you like."
"I am here now. For our lunch date. And I find myself ravenous."
"Dream, we're in my office!"
Dream says nothing, simply staring down at him hungrily, and Hob swallows.
"I am so behind, dove. Atkins was here forever, and I have - " It ends on a gasp as Dream straddles him. Hob's desk chair creaks alarmingly.
"So fickle in your gratitude, beloved," Dream murmurs in his ear, his hands in Hob's hair.
Hob glances at his pile of marking. He glances at the blinds, closed, and the door, locked. Ten minutes. He can take ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.
END
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Thanks to @fluffbruary for the prompt and @ladytian for the cheerleading!
Tony taking his boyfriend Peter out on a suave and sophisticated date to help peter get acclimatised to dating a billionaire while showing off that this wonderful man chose to date him
@fluffbruary 2024 day 18 : suave | cologne | gradual
