#writing fluff

Structure and Pacing

For multi-chapters, I like to sprinkle the fluff throughout so I'm not overloading the reader with a sugar rush. I try to have some kind of sweet, light moment every four or five scenes to stay invested and hooked on why the relationships between characters are so important.

Character is the driving force behind a lot of my writing, they inform the plot and it adapts around them. Giving the characters these spaced out fluffy scenes also gives the readers a chance to breathe and soak everything in. Like a pit stop while running a marathon to grab some water or a snack to recharge!

For a one shot, I can get away with the fluff being more concentrated; go all in on the specific feeling I want to evoke (comfort, contentment, laughter, security, unconditional love, etc.) If it feels like too much to the point that it's sickly sweet, I can always shave off some of the fluff and make it more palatable, but going big in a one shot at least gives me a goal to aim for and lets me know what I personally want out of a fic.

Author's Intent

And what you want out of a fluff fic is also an important piece to consider. Fluff is self-indulgent by nature. It's something you wish you could see if time limits, budgets, and marketability played no part in the show/game/media that you love. When the writer is genuinely invested in what they're writing, that feeling also reaches the reader and makes it matter to them, too!

Characterization and Emotional Layers

If you're concerned about your fluff feeling believable or in character, establish a baseline for character interactions in their downtime, with low stakes. In the case for Sonic and Tails, I can see this as traveling for fun or trashing an Eggman base. Figure out how comfortable and familiar they are with each other normally, then build on that.

So let's take an example of Sonic and Tails sharing a victory together after taking down a surprise boss in an Eggman base.

Baseline: Sonic and Tails fist bump each other. It comes naturally, second nature, easy and they don't think too hard on it.

1st fluff layer: Sonic musses up the fur on Tails's head or slings an arm around his shoulder. Also comes naturally, but it's highlighting how comfortable they are with each other. There's usually a secondary emotion involved with these gestures (Sonic might be feeling proud, playful, or trying to subtly de-escalate any stress or worries Tails might be feeling. Tails's reaction to this also makes a difference - does he bat him away playfully to keep the air between them light and fun? Or does he lean into the touch because he needs the reassurance or because Sonic needs the reassurance?)

2nd fluff layer: Tails flies at Sonic and is scooped up/tossed in the air/swung around for a victory pose. Excitement at its peak for them both, they can't contain it. They instinctively reach for each other because they want to share their joy with each other. Tails riding the high of his success or accomplishment and immediately seeking out Sonic, while Sonic is just as eager to support and cheer his little buddy on. He always believes in him, but seeing Tails believe in himself is such a treat.

Building on existing canon dynamics like this can keep characters still feeling like themselves even if they're behaving in a way we haven't actually seen much evidence for. Like, Sonic is frequently pictured with guitars so we can assume he knows how to play. We don't know whether or not he would play the guitar to comfort Tails in a storm or after a nightmare, but it's not necessarily a stretch to imagine that.

Now, this is just if getting characters to feel like canon depictions matters to you as a writer. I personally straddle the line: I look to canon for guidance, but ultimately I've spent 30 years with my own ideas for these characters marinating in my head, so at the end of the day I'm probably just going to do what feels right to me. Don't let canon become restrictive to the point that it chokes all the creativity out of you. Use it to fuel your inspiration!

All this being said, when it comes to fluff, the most important piece of all is "does it make you, the writer, happy?" If it makes your heart flutter and you have to stop writing mid-sentence to press your hands over your face and groan, "I just can't with these two!" then you're on the right track!

As another day closes upon the Dimwood, our not-so-heroic heroes, Booker and his dear companion Grumley, find themselves in a cozy hotel in a beautiful giant old oak tree. It was a warm summer evening and a perfect night to enjoy dinner outside as the sunset.

Booker sat with his plate and cup. "I'm glad they gave you the soldier discount when we got here; this place normally costs a fortune!" He looked up at Grumley, who was already chowing down on his soup and sandwiches.

"Me too," the pug said between bites of his sandwich, "I'm glad you corrected me when I slipped up."

"Yeah, of course, I always have your back." Booker smiled kindly. "Oh, hold on."

Booker leans in close, very close. Close enough to kiss... Grumley blushed and smiled, leaning in himself. Booker gently puts his little raccoon hands on Grumleys face and slides his fingers under two of his folds. Bread crumbs and bits of food fall as he does this.

"You got food in your folds again," Booker said with a grin and a chuckle.

Grumley frowned a little, "I thought you were gonna kiss me."

Booker chuckled even more before giving the pug a quick kiss; in turn, Grumleys little tail started wagging, and he smiled.

"Sorry, sorry, I forgot the kiss tax." Booker laughed a little, loving how Grumley just lit up every time they kissed.

"Yes, you have! Constantly! You're in kiss debt, Booker!"

"oh no! How much do I owe?"

"oh! uhm..." Grumley thinks for a moment. His face gets even more wrinkled than it was before. Booker takes a bite of his sandwich.

"About 20," Grumley smiles.

"20?" Booker asks after swallowing.

"Yes 20!"

Booker grins and sits back in his seat. "Oh, alright. I guess I can pay off my debts when we get back to our room, " he says in a playfully sarcastic tone.

Later, Booker and Grumley made their way to the hotel room. Grumley walked over to the bed, and with his armor still on, he fell over on his stomach and started to fall asleep.

"oh no, ya don't." Booker hummed and lifted him back up to his feet

"Wuh-huh?" Grumley snorts and looks at Booker

Booker snickers and starts to carefully pull apart Grumley's armor. "Let's get you out of this heavy suit of armor, Grum," he says softly with a smile.

"Oh, uh, all right." Grumley yawned and helped his partner take off his armor. Booker smiled gently as he removed his clothes.

"WOAH! Booker I-"

"Calm down, Grumley. We need to take a bath." The raccoon cuts off his partner's stammering. “I know you're not ready for anything like that." He smiles and gently pets the pug's face.

Grumley's tail starts to wag as Booker pets him. "Oh right, bath," he smiles a little.

"What am I going to do with you?" Booker chuckled as they made their way into the hotel room's bathroom.

It was a decently-sized bathroom made of stone and oak. The wash tub was porcelain and sat flush to the floor with a "waterfall" to fill the tub with two colored ropes to activate hot or cold water.

Booker gently pulled on the red rope. As he did this, a rush of hot water started to pour from the top of the "waterfall" into the washtub.

Grumley watches in amazement. "That's lovely.." he said softly.

Booker grins and lets go of the red rope; he feels the water and pulls his hand back quickly.

"When they said they have hot water, they weren't lying!"

"Did you burn yourself?" Grumley asks, grabbing bookers hand gently

"Yeah, but I'll be fine." Booker smiles as he rubs Grumleys palm with his thumb.

Grumley nods and pulls the cold water rope until it is suitable for both of them.

The two got in and washed up. Booker helped wash Grumley's folds and his back, giving him sweet little kisses whenever the pug leaned into his touch.

"Let me help," Grumley suddenly said, spinning Booker 180 degrees.

"Woah, Grumley, I don't need help," Booker said, caught off guard.

"Well, I know that," Grumley hummed and got soap in his hands, gently lathering on Booker's back as he spoke. “But you're always helping me, so I thought I'd return the favor." The pug smiled brightly, his tail wagging, making the water splash around it.

Booker blushed as his tail started to sway back and forth. " Oh well... thank you, Grumley." Loving how his partner gently scrubbed and washed his back, he felt so relaxed and calm. Booker started purring lightly.

"I haven't heard you purr in a while, Booker," Grumley said with a wide smile.

Booker chuckled awkwardly as he blushed again. "Well," He clears his throat, "it's been a while since I've been this calm and happy."

Grumley lights up and rinses Booker off, using warm water to remove all the soap from his fur. The two soon get out of the bath; Grumley shakes off the water from his coat, soaking the bathroom in the process. Booker chuckles and shields himself from the water assault with a plush towel. He handed one to his partner when he was done.

"I should probably clean my armor." Grumley sighed softly.

"Eh, it's gettin' late. We can worry about it in the morning; let's get some sleep, big guy." Booker smiled as they walked back into the room.

Booker handed Grumley a pair of sleep pants and a plain white shirt. Grumley grumbled as he put the clothes on.

"Oh, hush," Booker chuckled as he wore his pajamas. Grumley huffed before flopping onto the bed with his back. Booker snickered and crawled into bed with him. Cuddled up to the pug, he gently started to rub Grumley's tummy.

Grumley gasps and looks at him with a grin

"You're such a good boy~" Booker purred softly

"I am?" Grumley asked with a big ol smile.

"Yes, you're the best boy." The raccoon grinned and leaned up to his face.

Booker leaned in and gave Grumley a little kiss. "one."

"What are you doing?" Grumley asked

"Paying the kiss debt," Booker replied before kissing him again. "Two."

Another kiss, "three."

"Four"

As he was getting kissed, Grumley reached up and put his hands on Booker's ears, gently petting them with a smile. This continued until Booker reached twenty. The raccoon pulled away from Grumley and snuggled back into his arms with a quiet yawn. Grumley gently wrapped his arms around Booker and yawned in response.

"Goodnight, Booker."

"Goodnight Grumley"

"I love you."

The sun shining through the heavy curtains made the dust particles visible. They danced in the air like tiny snowflakes.

This made everything feel more real. Authentic. Imperfect.

Heavy, dark wood furniture whose value was evident from afar. The red upholstery of two comfortable sofas spilled outward, inviting her to sink into them. More than once, she had sunk between the cushions with a book, another tale for Powder. They sat by the light of a single lamp, watching shadows and inventing stories for them.

But now it was daytime. The sun poured in boldly, as if to remind her that nothing could hide in its light. When she stretched out her hand, the light spilled through her fingers, leaving a pleasant warmth on her skin. The slightly stuffy air in the room settled in her throat—too dry, too familiar.

She opened the window for the first time. Usually, she let the atmosphere remain as he had imposed it. He was in every nook and cranny, every dark corner. Wherever she looked, she felt his presence. His style, his colors.

Sometimes she wondered whether it was the heavy decor or him that made her feel so comfortable.

That's why she let the air in.

Dust rose, dancing restlessly as she disturbed its natural rhythm. The curtains rustled on the floor, creating soft, silent waves.

For a moment, she enjoyed the coolness sweeping over her ankles as she stood barefoot on the floor.

God, what was she doing?

Six months in this house, and she felt more at ease than in her own. She knew these rooms as if they were hers. Every day when she returned to Powder, she felt more cornered, overwhelmed by the desire to stay forever.

The silence did not ring in her ears. It did not torment her. It did not force her to think.

And yet, she wanted to break it.

When her gaze fell on the piano on the raised platform, her legs moved toward it of their own accord. The coldness of the bare floor beneath her feet was real. Truth inscribed in the wood. The boards did not creak; they did not betray her presence. Or perhaps she had learned to walk on it like a ghost.

Her eyes fixed on the instrument as she traced its features, the delicate finish of its elements. Its weight conveyed solemnity. It stood alone, undeniable. It was the first thing she noticed the first time she crossed the threshold.

It reminded her of him. Silco never played—not in front of her, not for anyone. She knew because he had told her on the same day he let her play. The first notes sounded awkward, unpolished, tormented by strings that had not yet been tuned.

The next day, it sounded perfect.

And she knew he hadn't done it alone.

But she didn’t want to think about who he was doing it for.

He never used it, but she knew he cared for it. Perhaps for himself, perhaps out of respect for music. Still, she had never found a speck of dust on it. Was this where he sought solitude? There was something about this piano that allowed him to leave it untouched.

Until she appeared.

For a moment, she allowed herself to smile, closing her eyes. The coolness of the wood beneath her fingers, the freshness of the air drifting in through the open window—it didn’t just evoke memories, it urged them forward.

Oh, how she loved those moments.

This was their moment.

And she wanted to believe it was theirs alone.

When she sat down on the leather-covered bench, her heart settled heavily between her ribs, begging her to draw out new notes. To linger in her dreams, if only for a while.

The first sounds, fragile and tentative, echoed softly against the walls.

It was as if she had touched the strings of her own soul when she caught his profile for a fleeting second.

Her fingers slipped from the keys, too shaken to play.

That smile he thought she couldn’t see. His half-closed eyes that no longer followed the words on the page. He was lost in thought, his head tilted ever so slightly toward her music.

As if he didn’t mean to, but couldn’t resist.

She didn’t play like a professional.

Sometimes stiff, sometimes too fast.

But always with her heart. And though she often had to glance at her hands to make sure her fingers landed on the right notes, looking at his calm face allowed her to play with ease. As if that quiet smile was hers alone, urging her to give more of herself.

This was their moment.

A few minutes of music in which no words were spoken, and yet the notes spoke of everything. What she felt. Her joy. Her sorrow. It was the only way she could speak, knowing the words she longed to say would have to remain unspoken.

Because even though she had been his for a long time...

He would never be hers.

That thought hurt the way every unwelcome truth does.

She drew light tones from the instrument again, feeling them reverberate through her bones and strike straight at her heart.

That was all that filled the air. The well-soundproofed room softened sharp notes into gentle waves, letting the melody flow around her, settling in the corners and lingering just a little longer.

He always came when she played. Sometimes she played for Powder, sometimes she lingered after hours, stealing a few more minutes at the keys. But he always came.

He, who locked himself in his study for hours, would emerge and sit near her. He never explained why. He didn’t have to—it was his house. He could work wherever he pleased, but she had never once seen him in that room without her. She wanted to believe he came for her.

Will he come now, too, she wondered.

No, he wasn’t home during the day.

Their moments belonged to the evenings, when the darkness pressed deep shadows onto the floor. Only then did she feel the distance between them shrink.

He was often absorbed in documents, always with a glass of whiskey in hand. Maybe he intended to work, maybe to rest. She only knew that when she began to play, his head would bow slightly, his body stilled, and he listened intently. Letting everything she said through the notes sink into him.

Did he know?

She couldn’t tell.

But she knew it was better for everyone if he closed himself off to her words.

He wasn’t for her.

No matter how fierce her longing was, it simply didn’t matter. Because even if she would have thrown everything away for a single smile, her very existence was something she didn’t want to burden him with.

Not like that.

Wrong time, but was he the right man?

Gods, of course he was. She couldn’t have imagined anyone better. And she feared she would never again feel what speaking to him gave her. Those fleeting scraps, shards of her life that she clutched like holy relics.

There was far more keeping them apart than holding them together. She knew it. She was only his daughter’s nanny, no one of consequence. She had no name, no money. No power. Just a shadow he trusted to guard Powder.

She grimaced, the air slashed by a broken chord.

What the hell was she thinking?

That they stood a chance? That it was only a matter of time? Naïve to believe love alone could claw through all the walls in their way.

Not even in dreams could she expect him to risk his name for her. How would it look? She was much younger, once just an employee. She never wanted to hear the whispers, to see the rumors feeding off his reputation, twisting their bond into filth.

God, how pathetic it sounded.

She was nothing. At least to him. It should have been enough to remain a shadow in his house. A ghost whose music he wanted to hear. She wanted to keep stealing those moments, those nights when his tired face eased, lines softening for a heartbeat, as if she could give him peace.

She would have destroyed herself for it. Handed him her heart, let him grind it underfoot, just to feel his weight on it. She could have begged for the pain, welcomed it, because then it would have been his. Even suffering would have been a gift, as long as it came from him.

But Powder…

The child adored her. She had grown too close. Loved her more than she should have dared. She knew how to soothe her storms, how to bring her down when the world pressed too hard. More than once, a smile tugged at the girl’s lips and he, too, softened for a second. Pride swelled in her chest knowing she had brought even a flicker of joy into their house.

And even if she sounded like a begging dog, desperate for scraps, she was starving enough to take them.

And surprisingly, she didn’t feel grief.

The feelings she carried inside her were undeniable. Heavy, like the weight of the instrument beneath her hands. And just like that instrument, she could no longer bear them. They pressed against her chest, made her heart stumble each time he was near. She always knew when he was close—his presence settled on her skin, like the ghost of a touch on her cheek, like his hand guiding her gaze.

It was agony. A hollow, tearing emptiness that only his voice could fill.

But the room remained silent.

Broken only by the fragile music spilling from her fingers, because she could no longer cage the words inside.

The notes wandered, flowing from her hands while her eyes strayed. They lingered on the sofa he usually claimed. On the table where he spread out work he never touched whenever she was in the room. Always like an excuse to return.

Another gust swept through, brushing her hair from her neck. The melody faltered as a muffled sob tore from her lips—because for an instant she felt his breath on her skin. Something she had never dared to dream of, not even in her wildest nights.

Yet she felt him behind her, constant, as she played the song he loved by heart, praying he would appear just once more.

Like a cry—because she had no courage to seek him out, no strength to confess. She only wanted to be near him for a little longer. She found him every day in music. His smile. His gaze. Never a touch, but that was enough. The simple truth that what she did could make him happy, even for a fleeting second.

For the first time, the melody shifted. She played alone, chasing solace through notes when her restless heart no longer knew how to scream loud enough for her to hear it.

She had to silence it. Bury it. Because when Powder no longer needed her, she would vanish from their lives too. She would remain only as a faint trace, a ghost that once wandered their halls. Because that was all she was, and all she was ever meant to be.

But in music… in music, she was herself. Who she longed to be for him, because she could never mask what she felt. She swallowed her words. She closed her eyes so he couldn’t read them. She hid her hands behind her back so they wouldn’t reach for his warmth. Only through song did she scream, weep, beg him to stay with her just a little longer.

Because she would trade eternity for a single minute with him.

Then she opened her mouth.

For the first time, those walls heard her voice. For the first time, her voice wove itself into the music like a devoted lover.

Once she began singing, she couldn't stop. The melody drew words from her, tormenting her with the slow unraveling of her feelings. She choked on them, playing obsessively as if her time were slipping away. Because when the music ceased, so would she. The final moment to speak directly what her heart desired.

She cloaked her soul in words that resembled a prayer no one was meant to hear.

It was a hymn no one had taught her, a litany she chanted only for him, soft and trembling, a secret devotion.

Her hands, steady and deliberate, compelled the strings to sound according to her command. She didn’t need to watch; the notes found her intuitively.

“Take my hand.”

She sang calmly, a little muffled in the empty room. The song she had carried inside her since the day he first looked at her as though he glimpsed something beyond.

“Take my whole life too.”

Her voice fractured slightly at the end, splitting the melody in two. The music faltered, startled by its own intensity.

She would give him her life if he asked.

“For I can't help…”

Her hands paused on the keys, heavy, prolonging a single note just a moment too long. Yet she had to finish. To lock her emotions within the music. Still, she drew out each word, unwilling to release them:

“Falling… in… love…”

Her voice faded with each syllable, leaving only a faint echo in the room after the intensity she had pressed between the notes.

“With you.”

His voice cut behind her.