for best bro Bernadette with the prompt: love me - a fluffy story about two (or more) characters

this was the first "fluffy" thing that came to mind, which isn't really fluffy, but it's fluffy for them?

A flower spawned on the windowsill. Less of a flower, truth be told, and more like a wiggling sprout with a magenta blossom on its head. It swayed about, almost taunting Brighton.

Again.

Rage boiled in his eyes as his scream pierced through the Blackwagon. He snatched the damn sprout before it skittered away, ripped the blossom off, and squashed the disgusting pest with his heel. This would be the last time this happened. Brighton was sure of that.

"Geez, loud enough?" Erisa grumbled while Brighton stormed into the main living space of the Blackwagon. "Scared the shit out of the drive-imps."

"And some of us are… were sleeping," Oralech yawned out, curled up in his bedroll with his back to the commotion.

Erisa's deadpan stare locked onto Brighton. "The hell crawled up your ass this time?"

He released his fist long enough to display the crushed petals. "I have had enough of this torture!"

Erisa blinked, squinted, and raised a brow. "It's a flower, Brighton." Before he could shout obscenities, she continued, "Did it smell funny and make you sneeze? Does Oralech need to give you an examination?"

"I'm not examining anybody," Oralech mumbled, the words barely coherent.

"Every time," Brighton hissed through clenched teeth, "we are destined to take part in the Rites with that pitiful excuse of a Triumvirate, that pompous ass sends his things to deliver this!"

Silence hung over them. Erisa held her bored face up with a loose fist. She broke the awkward pause with a snicker.

"What, you don't appreciate your boyfriend sending you tokens of affect—"

"He is not my boyfriend!" Brighton enunciated. "He is but a pesky thorn in my side every moment our paths cross!"

She rolled her eyes. "That's a funny way to say you're seeing each other, but alright. If you say so. Do what you need to do, Brighton, but take it outside, will you?" An agitated sigh filtered through Erisa. "Some of us like sleep before a Rite."

Tossing his hands up in the air, Brighton pivoted towards the door. "Fine. Perhaps I will do exactly that." Erisa began to sneak the last word into their conversation, but the slam of the door ended it.

The luxurious landscape of the Glade of Lu was lost on Brighton. The decadent scent of the exotic flora, the harmony of nocturnal chirps and hums, the vivid colors of the veil of trees… it mattered not to him. All that consumed his mind was tracking down the bane of his existence to settle this matter.

Every time. Every blasted time. All to tease Brighton and drive him to the brink of madness. Only an individual as repulsive as that pathetic sap would avoid confrontation to weaken his foes. Brighton hated every aspect about him: his arrogant voice, his curly hair, his fake grin, his holier-than-thou attitude. Those privileged enough to be born with a golden spoon in their mouth and up their ass deserved something worse than exile. Even in his days back in the Commonwealth, Brighton longed to strip power from those above him, those who deemed him lesser than an inanimate object. Without their money and material garbage, what good did they provide to the Commonwealth?

And when I return, Brighton thought, ripping through vines in search for his rival exile, I will see to it that people like you live their days out down here… forever.

The limited light from the stars revealed no trails or tracks. Brighton swore he walked past the same tree three times. The blossom trapped in his fist wilted, the softness in the petals not enough to ease the rage. Maybe it was all another trick, no different from the flowers. Maybe it was—

"My, my."

That voice. That damned voice. Brighton froze, refusing to turn and face the origin of the sound.

"Well, isn't this an unexpected surprise!" A chuckle rolled through the wind. "I'd rather be informed if someone seeks an audience with me, but I can make an exception. Besides, I'm rather fond of this surprise."

Whipping around, Brighton found none other than Manley Tinderstauf himself looming above. A massive grin adorned his features, though Brighton didn't fall for the illusion of hospitality.

"I wasn't looking for you!" he spat out, the comment meant more to spite Manley than hold an ounce of truth.

The sap raised his eyebrows. "You weren't? Oh my…." Manley tsked and shook his head. "What an unfortunate turn of events. Then what were you storming about in circles in the woods at this hour?"

Brighton blinked. "I… I was…." He narrowed his sights onto Manley. "What in the name of the Scribes are you doing out here?!"

"What a temper!" Manley laughed and waved a dismissive hand. "I thought Readers were more keen with the words they possessed."

"Answer the damn question!"

"Forgive me, but I don't recall you—"

"What," Brighton boomed, "are you doing out here?! Why do you continue to insist on tormenting me before each Rite?!"

Manley feigned pain, as if those words physically struck him. "Brighton, my dear! Do you think so ill of me that I would subject you to such horrors?"

"Then explain this!"

Brighton chucked the blossom—or what remained of it—in the sap's face. The loose petals fluttered in the air before descending around Manley like a pitiful display of confetti. Manley's lips formed a straight line, not once quivering.

"Do you have no humility in accepting a gift?" Manley asked.

"A… what?"

With an exasperated sigh, Manley opened a palm and twitched his fingers. "Every time the stars align, it is the will of the Scribes, yes?" An emerald glow filled his palm, roots extending from the center. "Our paths cross more often than not and I've come to grow fond of our Rites together."

"So that you can douse our Pyre yet again?"

Laughter burst forth from Manley. "Are you truly blind, my dear?! I happen to find more pleasure in spending my free moments before the Rites in your presence. Perhaps too much, dare I say."

The light faded. A sentient sprout wiggled in Manley's palm as the bud on top its head expanded and bloomed into a massive white and magenta flower. He extended it out to Brighton.

"A token for you, my dear, as a reminder of the moments I cherish beside you, despite the Scribes pitting us against one another."

Every moment the Nightwings faced the Chastity flashed through Brighton's mind. Manley was an insufferable fool, forever teasing and taunting Brighton. It was all manipulation, to make his opponents fumble and admit defeat. That smile never left his lips; Manley cherished plucking the strings attached to those he deemed to be his puppet.

"I'm not another pawn for you to toy with," Brighton grumbled.

Manley's eyes widened. "A pawn? Oh my, but of course not. Brighton, my dear… you are far from a mindless pawn."

He slipped the sprout into Brighton's hands, leaving his hand free to trail up to Brighton's chin to cup. Brighton inhaled deep and held that breath upon Manley leaning in closer. That scent… was it always there? Did Manley always smell this incredible? So fresh, yet unlike anything that existed in the Commonwealth. It tingled through Brighton, from his chest down to his groin.

"You," Manley spoke with a smirk, "are but a king in my eyes and thus deserve nothing less."

This was a dream. He tripped, fell, and smacked his head against a rock to induce such a fever dream. But Brighton fluttered his eyes and Manley's image remained inches from him.

"Don't tell me you're ignoring me, now." Manley chuckled, running his stiff thumb across that plump, lower lip. "Do say something, my dear. It's rude to stay silent when an admirer confesses his sentiments to his loved one."

Stuck between wanting to choke him and kiss him, Brighton averted his gaze down to the sprout still squirming in his hands. "Do you always give flowers to the ones you wish to manipulate?"

Manley jerked back, a flash of shock tightening his expression before it melted into hot anger. "Have you no sense of respect?! That is not a mere flower; it is a lilium orientalis! Quite a common species from my home gardens and not a gift to be taken lightly! I perfected the art of growing them myself down here. I've yet to see one, even in this area of the Downside! Such a rarity should be no different than jewels!"

Brighton sighed and examined the sprout again. "Must you keep sneaking them into the Blackwagon?"

"Must I smack you until it crawls into your head that I don't hand these out to merely anyone?"

His heart skipped a beat. He wished it hadn't.

"That won't be necessary," Brighton said, turning away from Manley.

"And where are you going?!"

"To finally turn myself in for the night and attempt to sleep. You should do the same yourself."

The vines which made up his lower torso slithered over the terrain with rapid ease until Manley stood before Brighton once more. "I am not through with you."

"Of course you're not," Brighton grumbled, "so why don't you shut up, kiss me goodnight or whatever it is you're trying to do, be done with it, and we can start fresh come—"

That scent filtered through Brighton's lungs again. It consumed him, setting every muscle of his on fire. He feared—he knew—the only thing that could douse that burning sensation was the man closing in before him.

"Oh." Manley cupped his face with both hands and purred, "I thought you'd never ask."