With a heavy heart, I'm officially stating that Fluffy February is on hiatus for 2026. There are other Fluffy events running around, such as @fluffbruary and the perennial @flufftober :)
To be honest, I got burnt out last year around Week 3 of Fluffy February, and I didn't even complete the event I created. There's only one person back here. As you can probably guess, there was a lot of external stuff that led to that -- it wasn't just the fic event. In the interest of preserving me, I'm going to take a break this year.
Please don't be discouraged -- please feel free to follow other prompt lists or old ones from this blog! Feel free to tag for a reblog -- I will happily do so.
I can't predict what will happen for 2027, but hopefully, it'll be back and as good as ever :)
O'Hara/Cooper. Rated: T. Chapter 1. Word Count: 1.7k
28 days. 28 vignettes. One complicated history. A look at the evolution of Eleanor O'Hara and Fitch Cooper, told through the memories that haunt her and the son who looks exactly like him.
I started writing this a year ago for @fluffyfebruary but life happened and it got shoved into drafts. Here's to another start, and hopefully, an end.
They get him just after he exits the phonebooth. As he puts up the token scared fight expected of a civilian; a panicked scream, limbs flailing to get away, incoherent excuses as his mouth is covered with a grip he could get out of easily, he retraces his steps. He’d changed cabs and walked into random shops hoping to spot a tail. If he was followed, they’re good. Then again, they could have surveilled him from a distance. For miles and miles. He wonders how much they know, recriminates himself for having last week’s meetup that close to the embassy.
He ragdolls as he’s dragged into a vehicle. And what does he see, as his eyes adjust to the light, but his handler. He huffs, steps out of the limp hands still holding him as they start moving.
‘What’s with the abduction?’
The older man gives him a placating look, seemingly pleased at the stride he’s taking this in. He’s not as green as his age suggests, but he knows many agents would have panicked after getting kidnapped moments after calling their liaison to set up a debrief; put up a real fight that would only incriminate them further. Not him, though, he’s good. He turns the offered cigarette down, makes a rolling motion with his fingers to compel an explanation to this treatment.
‘We’ve received information of an agent working opposite you, we had to be careful–’
‘Opposite me? Have I been identified, do they know who I am?’
As annoyed as he’d been by the taken routine, now he’s both grateful for it and way more preoccupied with his cover. He assumes they’re on a diplomatic vehicle; an extraction from here should be straightforward enough but is bound to leave his fiance, arguably the cornerstone of his fake identity, under a cloud of suspicion he’d rather spare him. Not an allegiant thought, all things considered, but one that has overtaken the backdrop of his operations as of late.
‘Our sources don’t believe they have your name; they’re only working off intelligence that points to a double agent in the foreign office, and have introduced their own man. The good news is we’ll stop meeting like this, or at all, until we have more information.’
‘So they’re… what? Social engineering a confession? Keeping tabs on all employees? How long has this been going on!? With our meetings they could be onto me, how long has their man been there?’
Geoff gives a heavy sigh. ‘That’s something we don’t know, our people only signed the secrets act this week, and they’re not in a department where they can ask many questions about the intelligence service without raising eyebrows.’
Otto buries his face in his hands. Aside from the implicit risks he accepted when he went undercover, he’s had smooth sailings until now. He knows his position is precarious, he knows there’s been defections from both sides, he just trusted his specific channels to be secured enough.
‘Is there someone else in the office?’
His handler avoids his eyes, and he feels like screaming loud enough to make the driver crash. He’s chafed at the compartmentalisation, but understands the secrecy could save him if there is someone else, were they to get caught.
‘You said we’ll stop meeting, what does that mean? How will you let me know it’s safe?’
‘Slow down, first things first, we’ve got wind about a new supply of plutonium becoming available, is that why you wanted to meet?’
Otto sighs, counts the strands of hair on his handler’s foppish fringe and paces his breaths. Yes, the nukes take priority. Then, his access, his cover and his life; in that order. For the eleventh time that week, he thinks of how his mother had tried to make a farmer out of him.
‘Yes. A mining company overseas is in the works to sign off on a joint enterprise with a conglomerate that’s a shell of a shell for the ministry of defense. They’ve been given carte blanche to maximise the usable traces through any means necessary, and they seem to have come onto something. They’re keeping it under wraps, so it follows they understand the kind of international upheaval that could bring.’
‘And you have proof?’
The shorter man smiles bitterly, removes the pendant from his neck and opens it to reveal a diminutive camera roll. With all the scrutiny his division has got handling this deal, analog is the way to go.
‘That’s the contract. Bring it up with the UN, the WANO or whoever will listen.’
‘Good work.’ Geoff seems impressed. ‘You got these as secretary of your division, but how do you know they’re close to getting results?’
Otto gives a despondent look that reads I’m fucking the data coordinator for nuclear projects, but changes topics. ‘Where are you gonna drop me off? Because you are, right? I’m not done here.’
‘We’ll let you walk to that bar on sixth avenue. Listen, you’re gonna be invited to a summit in Montenegro in two weeks. That’s where you’ll get further instructions. If there’s any resistance to you going, you’re as good as made.’
Two weeks. He expects to get the formal invitation in the following days. The sooner the better, he’d rather not be in this limbo. He tries not to think about it as he refreshes the protocols for the next fourteen days. The number he’s to call if there’s imminent nuclear action, the numbers he’s to press to convey the message without giving himself away. The contacts he can rely on for a quick retreat, the codes to identify himself.
‘About Montenegro,’ his heart beats faster asking this than it had when they’d picked him up. ‘I imagine you’re preparing for an easier extraction, based on what you manage to dig out in the meantime.’
‘So?’
‘I’ll take my fiance with. It’ll make it look less suspicious, and you can take us both if there’s no way I can come back.’
The blonde spymaster levels a look at him, calculating. He’s, as every interrogator worth his salt, aces at saying nothing to hear something. Inevitably, Otto cracks. ‘I think I can make him defect, and with his research…’
‘You know better than to get attached to these people.’
‘I’m not attached, I’m thinking of securing a way to catch us up in this arms race.’
‘Alright! I’ll talk to Lethe. Take him, but you must be ready to ditch him if we’re only ready to take you. Or to see him go as a POW.’
Otto sighs at the codename. He’s never seen the actual spymaster behind the man who’s happy to wear the title and relay the instructions. He doesn’t think Geoff has seen them either, but he’s already pressed his luck enough today to ask. He nods shortly before exiting the car, and walks over to the bar to resume his regular life.
His fiance is already there, toasts him as he watches him walk in with his expected root beer. He’s said he’s not attached, but there’s no way he couldn’t be, sharing a bed with this teetotaling, bluegreen haired, totally apolitic researcher. It’s one of the reasons he’s hoping he can convince him to switch sides; for all he works in solving the gaps in the reaction, he could be doing it for a powerplant or the weapons of armageddon with the same interest.
It’s a very good week after that for Otto. There’s some considerable WANO blowback, but it’s blamed on international hackers rather than an insider leak. He gets the clearance for Montenegro after a couple days of keeping his act together. The more nervous he looks, the more reasons they have to deny him. So he goes into the office late getting coffee for everyone, he volunteers for a lunch run or two, and before he knows it he’s got the tickets on his desk.
He gets off work early to tell Awsten, wanting to spend more time with him. He is in earnest attached, but also prepared for what he must do and, more importantly, missing his hometown. Maybe going to ground won’t be as bad, now that he’s only waiting on Lethe’s word on whether he’ll be able to go with Awsten. They go out for a movie, maybe the last he’ll see in the country, and totally annoy the cabbie kissing in the backseat on the way home.
//
There’s a problem with their luggage. He doesn’t know what gives it away, but he knows it’s on as the employees start picking through the piles of suitcases in a coordinated effort. He pulls Awsten away from the crowd without getting their bags, with a hurried promise of a later explanation. With the unilateral advances in the process of plutonium the international climate has shifted enough that Montenegro isn’t even neutral anymore, but Otto was under orders to go all the same. And he did, and now he’s stranded in a country where he wasn’t thought to require contacts with his clueless fiance who’s insisting they go back for some designer tracksuit he had the bad idea of travelling with.
He regains control of himself, this is not what was planned, and probably the reason Lethe wanted him to travel by himself, but he’s going to make this right. He gives Awsten a look severe enough that he shuts up about his clothes and drags him to an alley.
‘We don’t have time for this, I’m a double agent, you need to let me get in touch with my handler to coordinate an extraction.’
The younger man looks more shocked than hurt. ‘What? What are you saying?’
‘I’ve been passing information about the geopolitical situation along, and anything you’ve let slide about your research. There were plans for extraction here, after I blew the whistle on the plutonium deal, but Montenegro has expelled enough dignitaries since for that to be an option anymore.’
‘So you just agreed to come with a delegation to a country where you’d be way easier to capture?’
Now it’s his turn to be confused. ‘What?’
‘If they’d pulled this back home there’s sure to have been a scandal, here? They could accuse you of anything, and it’d be more of an international issue than say, high treason.’
Aswten looks honestly offended at the situation, so he decides to keep his acknowledgement of the risks he’d weighed against the possibility of a life for them away from all that on mute. He holds his hands firmly. ‘You’re coming with me. As a defector or prisoner is your choice.’
Awsten sighs, gives him a pitying look. ‘How did you get away with it for this long? Who ever approved you for undercover operations?’
Before he can even ask what that’s supposed to mean, the taller man is pulling his hand back, tearing the clasp off his carry-on and pressing the needle underneath into Otto’s wrist. Fuck, this is how they get him. ‘I’m sure you thought I was your decoy.’ Awsten’s voice is more amused than anything, distant. ‘But you don’t know why I’m here…’
He wakes up in a backseat, and his heart aches remembering their last days before his intelligence activities caught up to him. He realises he’s not tied up, and is sitting up more bewildered by the moment. Awsten is driving away from the city, if the sparse homes they speed past are any signal. He’s got the radio on and looks honestly happier than he’s been in a while.
‘Where are we going?’
‘The Adriatic. International waters, where I’ll call Wigington and give him a proper rinse for sending an agent that’d so readily reveal his latest hits.’ He sighs. ’After arranging safe passage, of course.’
‘What?'
’I’m Lethe. And you were my best bet for passing information along, before our latest batch of defectors put the heat on you. Or so I thought.’
Otto pales. ‘Sir, I only said all that…’
‘Because you deduced we were on the same side, Sherlock?’
The smile he gets through the rearview mirror is the definition of ironic. He shakes his head. ‘Because I wanted us to be. I blew my own cover and revealed sensitive information, and I got attached.’
Awsten turns around, slows the car looking for all hell like he didn’t consider that through all the time they spent pretending to be a couple. He returns his eyes to the road, frowns in concentration before he’s nodding to himself.
‘Well, it’s been proven you’re not field approved, so I suppose I’ll see about finding you some other occupation back home. I’m sure we’ll be working closely.’
The world is a confusing place for Blake, as is his mind. What’s more, he’s been increasingly worried that those aren’t necessarily overlapping much as of late. He’s a neglected child running away from school, he’s a grown man fighting a pickaxe wielding woman, he’s the trusted adult that’s got the chance to save Jessica. Jessica…
He’s laying down. On a bed? The ground? His own grave? He can’t tell anymore than he can know how long he’s been there. He’s not really alive, but he suspects he’s yet to die. Is this what the instants between the sun scorching the planet and the heat death of his own systems are supposed to feel like? He feels thirsty, which probably tracks.
He’s become immune to the images dancing behind what he knows now to be his eyelids as he’s come to understand the world hasn’t ended. Or, at least, not everyone else’s world. As for himself; he’s had to accept his failure, his memories and impending death. Jessica, Lynn and the ghost of his baby all blur into one, to reemerge from the void whole and suffer through their fates once more. And he sees himself running through hallways decorated with crucifixes, or down a hill trying to avoid barbed wire and the sick alike, or just away from the compound, shielding something in his arms he thinks wasn’t really there.
It’s the hyacinths that break through, at first. Haunted by the images of his mangled hands and the smell of dirt and wood mixed with his blood, the sweet draft makes him remember this isn’t real. His body feels heavy, the sheet under him too hot. He thinks he hears a monitor beep for a moment before his overworked brain is taking over again. He regains consciousness of himself, never for too long, and as the scent becomes fainter as time slips through, he assumes he’s in a hospital.
Slowly, he starts hearing voices around him. Feeling hands on his body, the rough strokes of a sponge, and then it’s back to nightmare world. To his own past. Only the flowers clue him in as to the passage of time, overpowering the smell of disinfectant for a day or two, and fading steadily until they’re replaced again. He wonders vaguely who’s sending them to a widower and an orphan. A hushed argument stops that train of thought, and he finds himself straining to make the words out, but he gets a headache and misses most of it.
Light hurts, when he's finally able to lift his lids enough for it to enter his pupils. He manages a frustrated noise at the effort that takes, and tries to focus his vision. He’s got company, and they don’t look like doctors. Blurry enough, no whitecoats or scrubs. He blinks, blond and brunet frozen in place, and is this just another layer of his dreams?
As if to gainsay it, they’re moving in an instant. The dark haired man dashes forward to shine his phone light into his eyes, knocking something over with a crash and a swear, as the other runs out of the room yelling for a nurse. It’s very medical then, something gets pulled from his mouth and he’s still thirsty. He can talk, though, as he must. He’s got no idea what’s the date or even the president, but he knows who he is. He’s told he’s in a hospital, and gets so overworked explaining why, he gets a sedative and sinks back into the maze that’s his mind.
‘He’s not awake.’
‘I said waking up, not awake.’
‘Hush, I just saw his eyelids twitch!’
‘Because he is waking up.’
He lifts a hand hoping to stop the back and forth as his eyes open and adjust to the light. After a couple more fleeting wakeful episodes where he’d drawn circles and looked at picture cards for doctors, this is a welcome enough change. Two men in regular clothes, looking cautiously at him.
‘I heard they gave you the neurological a-ok!’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Waylon, this is Miles. As he said, we’re glad you’re on the path to recovery.’
Blake doesn’t feel like he is. His body feels all wrong, and his mind isn’t doing much better. He gets his glasses and wrings his hands, reminding himself he’s in a hospital, he’s safe and he’s, apparently, on the path to recovery. He counts his breath, inhales the scent of the flowers he guesses on his nightstand and settles himself.
‘Who… what are you doing here?’
‘What happened to you… we survived it too. Waylon had some morphogenic therapy, and I’ve been the swarm.’
‘What?’
‘We think the radio towers that caused you to crash were a variant of that, that the whiteouts from your recordings are a signal of sorts, akin to the images I saw after…’
Blake stops listening. The man’s got a nice voice, and it’s easy to zone out to the sound of it. There’s sunrays streaming in through the windows and he doesn’t mind Miles hovering nervously around his bed. Waylon cuts himself off, and he only then realises he’s crying. Miles moves to dry his face with his own bedsheets, and he sighs at that. Looking concerned, the men say their goodbyes shortly after and he doesn’t have the wherewithal to ask them to stay, doesn’t know why would he want them to. He remains with his memories and his loss, and wonders still who is he to them.
He’s awake when they come back, and not expecting it. He’s despondently playing with a tiny hyacinth, markedly ignoring the broth that makes for the main meal of the day, when they come in. They’re holding hands, and seemingly cowed.
‘I’m sorry I talked so much last time.’
Blake nods, takes a deep breath of the disinfectant, the flowers, his food, and cologne he recognises. That makes him remember. ‘You were here before. Before I woke up.’
It’s Miles who answers, stepping forward with a look of concentration. ‘When we heard about what- when we heard about you, we wanted to know you’d be alright.’
‘You don’t even know me.’
‘Yet I don’t see anyone else here.’
‘Miles!’ The blond sounds more hurt than Blake himself is. ‘We know you didn’t deserve what happened to you. And healing is hard, but we know it can be done.’
‘We know you’re brave. You dragged yourself out of a hell you didn’t ask for, you were only trying to get justice for that Jane Doe.’
‘He’s a journalist too.’ Waylon leans into Miles sounding fond and vaguely guilty. ‘He knows what that means.’
Blake closes his eyes for a moment. The openness of his visitors is disarming, the cautious concern in their faces seems alien. ‘I don’t know what that means.’
Miles looks like he’s going to protest, but Waylon says he should expect a visit from occupational therapy soon and drags Miles out. Passingly, Blake wonders how would they know that, being that he’s got no healthcare proxy, but doesn’t care much for the answer. Later that day, he’s indeed visited by the therapist. Going through the exercises, he thinks back to the discharge plan his case worker had reviewed with him earlier, and how he’d planned on moving to the middle of nowhere and sleeping with a shotgun under the bed until he moves it into his mouth. Somehow, after talking to the journalist and his friend it seems a bit bleak. Not that he should care, he probably shouldn’t get used to their presence.
Against all odds, they visit again the next day. And the next. And he starts to get used to them, despite himself. They don’t stay for long, but he enjoys their chats. Waylon will ask a question, he’ll volunteer a short answer, and Miles will talk in paragraphs about whether he agrees or disagrees. Or Miles will ask, and then Waylon will change topics from his reply three or four times, keeping it lighthearted.
It’s a few days later when Miles apologises for his comment about his dead family, but Blake only distantly registers as he sees him change the flowers on the vase next to him. Miles’ movements become slower under his attention, until he’s turning with a nervous look.
‘Did you want another kind? I’ve been arguing with Waylon for weeks in favour of irises.’
‘Do you like irises? I said they’re too earthy, but it’s really up to you.’
They exchange a look like they’re honestly worried they’ve fucked up with the flower choice, like it’s a real problem. ‘I don’t know?’
‘I’ve got bulbs coming, you’ll be the judge then.’
‘I like the hyacinths.’
He listens in as they devolve into a discussion of soil nutrition and bulbs versus seeds, visuals and sunlight, and he can’t really believe these men have been through the hell he survived, but is happy for the chatter. When his physical therapist arrives, he can’t help himself.
‘Please, come back. I mean, if you’re in the area and…’
‘Really?’ Waylon looks surprised, whilst Miles pumps his fist behind him. ‘We’ll come back, I’m just glad we’re not exhausting you.’
‘Yeah, how else are we gonna teach Way about the s tier blooms?’
They’re shooed off the room quickly, and Blake gets to his feet before the therapist asks him to, ready to regain his stamina and control. Where he’d let her make small talk on their previous appointments, now he asks about whatever’s transpired since his hospitalisation and what did Miles mean about the engine. He gets small answers, but she must bring it up with his care team, since when he gets dinner it comes along with a number of newspapers.
He reads first his own story, savaged from the recordings found in the camera that miraculously survived his ordeal. The reconstructions of the belief system that lead to the mass suicide in the grounds he was found, delirious and dehydrated. Then, he reads about the asylum, and the crimes perpetrated inside through leaked documents and the notes of the men that refused to die with the truth and are trying to get him with the program.
He doesn’t understand it entirely, pesters his nurses until once takes pity on him and shows him some takes from the recordings they’d got as they each picked their way through a hell comparable to the one he survived. His heartbeats pick up, trying to find a connection between the energised journalist he’d met and the broken, bloodied body lying on the underground facility; the soft spoken blond and the crazed man in inmate overalls that had crashed a jeep into a police station. He can find similarities; he’s seen Waylon limp slightly, for example, which he attributes to the state of his calf when he’d exited the vehicle rambling about the swarm and Jeremy and the bodies strung from the ceiling.
He sees them in a different light when they next enter his room. They’re laden with flowers, which only makes his newfound knowledge more bewildering. Blake gets out of bed, helps them set the vases down, and has to reckon it’s a miracle they’re here and taking an interest in his healing. He’s thankful beyond words they weren’t decapitated or burnt alive or cannibalised… and he finds it in him to be glad he’s alive himself. When he tries to put this into words he finds his throat won’t let him, and he’s sitting back down, overwhelmed, tressing his hair. He’s crying, and he’s annoyed that he is.
‘I’m sorry about the irises, okay? I’ll compost them when we get back’
He looks up at Miles, who’s looking somewhere between joking and earnest, but it’s Waylon who speaks in a whisper. ‘I think he knows, now.’
He knows, of course he knows, and how were they able to downplay it like that? The swarm and an engine, when they witnessed that level of human degeneracy? When they could have died a hundred times to expose the abuse of people that held a negative importance towards the systems that should have protected them? When Miles got shot so many times, so close to safety… next thing he knows he’s standing up to hold the shorter man by the shoulders, as if he’s expecting him to be an apparition, pulling him closer as he shakes.
‘You were dead, you were dead! You could have run, but had to go back for those bastards in the tanks, and you could have died!’
‘Stop, you’ll remind him of the scene I made when I saw that, and then you’ll have to shut him up.’
Waylon’s voice is between snippy and curious as he eyes him with caution. Blake thinks back to their handholding and the familiarity between them, and blushes as he releases a bewildered Miles. But now it’s Waylon’s naked body he remembers; ready to be cut in half and he’s pulling him into an uncoordinated hug as he babbles about that, and Blair’s attempts on his life; and the blond’s ramrod posture relaxes as he pats Blake’s back dubiously before pulling away.
‘We weren’t sure about sharing the details yet, but I suppose you were bound to find out.’
‘It’s good you did. It sucked for us as it sucked for you, but now you know we get to come back from all that.’
Blake looks from Miles to Waylon, floored by the simplicity of the statement. By his own willingness to believe it. It seems to hold some water. Yes; what he’d seen in the nurse’s phone totally qualified as sucking, more comparable to his own odyssey than he thought possible. And yes, here they both were, alive and happy to argue about scrambled eggs versus poached, to share touches that aren’t menacing, to try and reach out to a basketcase like him.
‘How do you do it?’
‘We just try. And we want you to try.'
‘With us.’ Now it’s Waylon blushing, and it’s not a bad look. ‘Unless you’ve got other plans after discharge.’
‘No. No, if you’ll let me.’
They share a smile as they nod, and Blake can’t remember the last time he felt hopeful. They start an argument about whether he’s too tall for a futon, and whether it makes sense to get furniture for their rental when they’ll be moving as soon as Blake is done with his outpatient follow ups, and how Waylon’s plants are already gonna take up half a U-Haul, and all he can think is these men moved in the middle of what must be a media frenzy to comfort a stranger. Had hushed conversations in the room as he laid dying for all they knew, with no other visitors. He’s distracted as Waylon shows him a picture of a low table shaped like a rubik’s cube.
‘Foul, right? The kind of thing you’d be glad if the movers break?’
‘We’re the movers, you philistine.’
‘Thank you.’ He looks from Waylon to Miles, who are still glaring fondly at each other over their furniture talk. ‘Did I not thank you for the flowers? Thank you.’
Set during the Bozja quests in the Shadowbringers post-patches
Tsveta rubbed her eyes as she finished cleaning Lawman, the gun that she had recently acquired while restoring Gunnhildr's Blades. She and her family had been in the Bozjan Southern Front for the last week, helping retake their homeland back from the Garleans. Cid and Lidka were off repairing the magitek reapers that they had "randomly found" (stolen from the Garleans that morning), while Castimir and Geordio were helping the new recruits get some training in - the brothers' wives and children had already gone to sleep earlier that evening. Bajsaljen, the leader of the Resistance, was working on some of the area maps next to Tsveta. The sudden sound of someone awkwardly clearing their throat caused both Tsveta and the older Hrothgar to look up.
Only for Tsveta to lay eyes on eight people, seven of whom she never thought she'd see again - Delyan, Wenzel, Stanik, Zivan, Traicho, Klabik, Radovan, and Domasco. Ever since Lidka, Castimir, Geordio, and their families joined Tsveta in Eorzea shortly after Tsveta defeated Gaius at the Praetorium, they had been alienated from the rest of the family - their brother Wenzel was the only one out of the seven siblings who still spoke to them willingly. Tsveta stood up sharply, whistling; Castimir and Geordio stopped and turned, growling when they saw the rest of their brothers. They quickly joined Tsveta, the three standing shoulder to shoulder. Castimir spoke first, crossing his arms and all but sneering.
"What's this, then? Hoping to take advantage of the fighting and chaos to hawk some fish, make some easy coin? We know the lot of you are too craven to actually take a stand against the Garleans."
To their credit, the eight brothers all looked guilty, refusing to meet their gazes. After an uncomfortably long moment, Delyan stepped forward and spoke. "We don' want no trouble, we're just lookin' for the Garlonds and my daughter."
Tsveta snorted as she answered, Castimir and Geordio both looking to her; while she was the youngest of the three siblings, they had long since defaulted to her as the Matriarch. When she spoke, her accent was thick and she started to drop syllables - she was angry. "Liddy's safe, she's with our father, an' you're lookin' at the Garlonds. You 'member Bibi - Cid nan Garlond? He took us in when y'all couldn' be bothered t'care. We've been Garlonds for months now."
Delyan flinched, taking a step back; the others paled, the anguish plain on their faces. It took Delyan a long moment to muster the courage to speak. "The Warrior of Light... that's you too, huh?"
Tsveta nodded, her gaze softening but her hackles still raised; her tail was whipping around agitated. "Aye, I'm the Warrior of Light, but Cas, Geo, and Liddy are all Warriors of Light too - they've been helpin' me with Scion business. Rikki Rose is just a name I took when I first started."
Delyan visibly wilted as he looked - actually looked - at Tsveta. He took in her machinist's gear, her gun, the way her wavy hair was cropped short around her ears instead of the shoulder-length it had been when she left the ship so many months ago, the wedding band on her left ring finger, the necklace containing the moonstone and amethyst ring and pendant that Cid made her as a child that never left her neck. He then looked to Cas and Geo on either side of her, seeing that they were geared similarly. Deylan's shoulders slumped as he bowed his head.
"Aye, I'm a damn bloody fool - all eight of us are. All I wanted was to protect the family, keep us all safe, but the three of you went and protected entire countries to keep total strangers safe, an' now you're saving our homeland from the Garleans; we're just here to establish trade routes an' vendors. I - we - never saw the forest for the trees."
Tsveta folded her arms, her hackles and tail starting to settle as she resisted the urge to lean into Geo. "Well, we can't forgive y'all right away, but that's as good a start as any. Now, we can make introductions with the quartermaster, he'll tell you where to get set up."
The rest of the day was tense between the eleven siblings, but Tsveta tolerated it, hopeful that the alienation between them would finally end.
[ boondock saints : connor + fem!reader ]
fluffy february : prompt 25
⚠ warnings: nothing major, will-they/won't-they vibes, established friendship but deeper feelings linger, college-like au something whatever
A/N: Almost there...and doing something different with how I approached writing x reader here since I've been more inside reader's brain so far. Also slightly based on another idea I had but tweaked it for here.
. . .
You fold your arms tight against your torso, rubbing your hands quickly over your arms.
Connor doesn’t hesitate, instinctively moving to take off his peacoat. After all, his mother raised him right. But his eyes seem weightless as he drapes the wool around your shoulders.
Your body slumps slightly under the newfound warmth, and he finally exhales as he watches the collar graze softly against your jawline. He can’t help the feeling settling under his skin…his coat looks so good hanging off your back.
You smile at him, the laugh wrinkles at the corners of your eyes curling upward. “Thanks. It’s freezing in here.”
He shakes his head, faking the confidence he knows he lacks when he’s around you. “No problem.”
The two of you sit there, waiting for the lecture hall to open up for your next class. Connor’s mouth drops open to speak again, to say something that he’s wanted to for so long, but he stops and relapses back into that self-doubt that keeps its strangled hold on him.
He’s lost count of the number of times he’s found himself here, so close to you and yet so far. He’s lost count of how many times he’s had the chance to be honest, to admit how he feels about you.
But does he really know how he feels? It can’t be real, he tells himself. He tries to convince himself (again) that he doesn’t know what he feels about you. He’s been in love before, had girlfriends, and had plenty of just friends that are girls. Yet this feels different. And it’s confusing as hell.
Connor’s heart beats hard in his chest, suddenly aware of how close your body is to his. Surely you can hear, maybe even feel, the pounding rhythm within him that only your presence can create.
He catches your eyes blinking up at him, giving him the slightest bit of hope that maybe…just maybe you feel the same towards him.
But a wave of college students flows into the corridor, breaking his thoughts and the hope of what could be…maybe.
You’re both unaware of how close your faces had leaned into each other, only noticing as you both pull back slightly. Maybe in another life, in another corner of the universe, some version of you and Connor exists like it should exist here.
He presses his lips together, his trademark sign of defeat.
You suddenly grab his hand, clasping your fingers tightly around his, a small smile painted on your lips as his hopeful blue eyes fall back on you.
And Connor feels the universe inside his soul, because maybe…this could be.
[ boondock saints : connor + fem!reader ]
fluffy february : prompt 26
⚠ warnings: nothing big, established relationship, pre-canon/au something whatever, v. short and v. sweet
A/N: I mean...I had to, right? I love him so much. 🌻
. . .
“Ye said they were yer favorite so…” Connor’s gentle voice drags out as he stands in your doorway. Your eyes drift down to the bundle of sunflowers he’s holding, brown paper wrapped around the bright yellow flowers and golden green leaves.
Naturally, you exhale warmly, sighing at the fact that he remembered such a tiny little fleeting detail from God-knows how long ago. “They’re beautiful,” you assure him, noting to yourself how beautiful he looks holding them. “Thank you.”
He steps inside, handing the bouquet to you, and follows you into the kitchen. As you search for a vase buried somewhere in your cupboards, Connor shrugs off his peacoat and drapes it over a chair. “Bet ye thought I wouldn’t remember, yeah?” he teases.
You make a face, pouting that he would even consider the idea of you not having faith in him. “That’s not true, Connor,” you quickly correct him as you find a simple cobalt blue glass cylinder.
Connor chuckles, shaking his head with that famous smirk crawling up the side of his face. “It’s alright, lass. I’m a guy, and that’s what guys do.”
“Not you.”
For all his faults and all the stereotypical guy things he does, Connor has proven to be a true gentleman. From always walking on your outside as you trek down the sidewalk together, opening the car door for you, or even just how his hand touches the small of your back…Connor could very well be the hero from those romantic movies of the 1950s.
But your hero has visible tattoos, a gruff Irish brogue, and a smoking habit that would make Humphrey Bogart jealous. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.
You fluff the sunflowers into the vase now filled with water. “You’re different,” you start, admiring the simple arrangement on your kitchen table. “You listen. You pay attention.” You graze a finger over some of the petals, and then bring your eyes back up to meet Connor’s. “You know me. I’ve never had that before.” A smile breaks your face, and you laugh a little, realizing you’ve never received flowers from a guy — ever.
He slowly walks over to you, caressing his fingers along your cheek before lightly stroking them into your hair. “And ye know I’m not going anywhere, yeah?”
You nod, biting your lip before Connor bends down and kisses you. His hands hold your face, and you breathe in his scent of coffee and cigarettes mixed with sunflowers. You can feel him smiling against your mouth as he hums, “I love ye, lass.”
Your heart skips a beat, because you’ve never had that before either. He really is the hero of those romantic movies…
And you’ll always think of him whenever you see sunflowers.
[ boondock saints : murphy + fem!reader ]
fluffy february : prompt 27
⚠ warnings: shitty knowledge about plumbing and fixing a sink, Handyman!Murphy, Murphy's got a nice ass, established neighbors, canon-adjacent-ish? idk
A/N: So close I can taste it! One more and then Fluffy February will be done—in mid-March but who's counting? 😂 I would've been done sooner but my Murphy-muse hit me hard re: his upcoming OC series so...yeah. Stay tuned! 🩵
. . .
Just when one thing gets fixed, something else breaks. But that was to be expected in your little apartment. And it’s not like there’s an actual maintenance guy on call, not since this place is technically illegal loft housing. So of course you and the other tenants are left to take care of things yourself.
As much as you pride yourself in being a handy girl, unafraid of DIY projects because you grew up helping your dad fix things around the house, some projects required more than two hands—or arms stronger than yours.
Fortunately, you have Murphy. That sweet, quiet, dark-haired Irish boy that lives across the hall. His brother, Connor, will also help sometimes, but Murphy is the one you can always count on. Murphy is the one that makes your heart flutter anyway.
You watch him crank the wrench around a pipe joint underneath your leaky sink. You can’t help but stare at the way his arms flex, the sheer concentration in his narrowed blue eyes as he loosens the faulty piece of piping. You’re quick to hand him the small plastic bucket to catch the water that had settled in the pipe, refusing to flush out once he had turned the water line off. Murphy, unfortunately, still gets wet, though, as his dark gray t-shirt shows a few splatter marks across the right side of his chest. He waits for the water to stop dripping into the bucket, then pulls the curved pipe section off completely, setting it beside him.
You take the bucket of water and dump the rest down the shower drain, hoping that it doesn’t go on to leak into someone else’s apartment. Though, you wouldn’t be surprised if it did—shit like that happens all the time. At least this time, this problem is fixable and within your control. Or rather within Murphy’s control, since he knows more about plumbing issues than you do.
Once the new pipe section is installed, Murphy crawls out from underneath, turning the water line back on before he slides out of the cramped space completely. He stands up and twists the cold tap to run the water. After a couple of spurts and burps, water flows out of the faucet like normal, but then Murphy leans down to check his handy work.
You fight a smile as you stare at his blue jeans pulled tight against his backside. And then you fight the disappointed pout as he stands up again, a proud grin stretching across his grease-stained face. “Lookit, lass! It’s fixed!” He looks and sounds like a little kid, and now you can’t stop the smile forming on your lips. Murphy’s brow furrows slightly. “What?”
Stifling a giggle, you lick your thumb and reach up on his cheek, rubbing away the streak of grease he had inadvertently painted on himself when he wiped the back of his hand on his face. “Sorry, you just got a little schmutz there.”
Murphy chuckles, blushing under your touch. And even as the grime disappears off his skin, you keep rubbing your thumb over his cheek. His smile fades, but his gaze intensifies, mirroring the heat now flushing your face.
You’re not sure who leans in first—all you know is that the moment your lips crash against Murphy’s, you never want the kiss to break.
[ boondock saints : connor + fem!reader ]
fluffy february : prompt 28
⚠ warnings: implied sexual content, foreplay, friends-to-lovers, loosely lyric-inspired, pre-canon/au something whatever, those damn blue eyes again
A/N: The end. 🩵 This whole challenge was so much fun and muse-motivating, but I definitely need to prep more next time. 😅 And sorry not sorry for ending with my babe, Connor.
♫ music inspiration: "This is the Last Time" by The National / "Motorcycle Drive By" by Third Eye Blind
. . .
This is the last time.
This is the last time you’ll be friends. The last time you’ll be able to look at each other without swallowing your feelings.
Connor stares at you, those ocean-blue eyes crashing like a wave into your soul. You must be holding your breath, swimming in his stare while all the words remain unspoken.
And he suddenly lays his hand along your jawline, holding your face close to his. You can almost taste him, everything you’ve ever wanted within reach. His breath hitches, and your lips graze his gently. But the moment fast swells into a passionate kiss.
Connor holds your face as your tongues dance around each other. All this time, you somehow already knew what he’d taste like. You already know him better than you know yourself.
Either he pulls you into him or you lean in willingly, doesn’t matter really. All that matters is that your body is pressed into his, finally. You grab at his back, lightly digging your nails into his shoulder blades as he tangles his fingers into your hair.
You’re the only thing he wants. And you said you wouldn’t cry about it.
Still, you feel the salt sting your closed eyes, not out of heartbreak, but out of relief that you never have to hold this feeling in ever again.
He lifts you up effortlessly, and you wrap your legs around him as he carries you to the bed. You continue stealing kisses as he cautiously lowers you. And Connor leans back, almost losing his balance until he arches back toward you, dragging his lips up your neck and back to your mouth. You sweep the hem of his t-shirt up his back, your fingers tracing his spine until you pull his shirt up over his head, revealing his tanned sculpted torso.
His grin accents his face as he notices you staring at his body, forcing you to flick your eyes back up to his. You have only a moment, a brief fleeting moment before he captures your lips again. His tattooed hand holds your face again, while his other hand trails down your side and to your hip as you instinctively lay back. You pull him with you, his heat radiating above you as you crave to feel everything.
Your lashes flutter open, met with his own blinking over those damn blue eyes. A nervous smile curls his lips briefly, and his gaze holds you in place like always. You blush from the memory of Connor looking at you across the room for the first time—somehow, even then, you knew you loved him.
And this is the last time you’ll ever wonder if he loves you too.
Tsveta swung her legs as she studied on a school bench between classes at Sharlayan University. She had just transferred as a Junior double-majoring in Mechanical Engineering and Music Theory after completing dual two-year programs at Bozja Community College, and between classes and her part-time job at the local mechanic's she was busy, and needed to get schoolwork in any free chance she could.
Her concentration dropped when she heard the young, cheerful voice of Alphinaud, 16 year old prodigy and TA for two of Tsveta's classes - he and his twin sister Alisaie had started a couple semesters before Tsveta, and so far were two of her only friends despite the six-year age difference. Her eyes widened when she saw who the teenager was with - the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, a group of postdocs studying under the legendary philosophy professor Louisoix Leveilleur. Tsveta had heard quite a bit about their group during student orientation the week before - a good chunk of the school gossip revolved around the Leveilleur Twins and the Scions of the Seventh Dawn - but this was the first time she'd actually run into them in person.
Tsveta mentally shrugged and turned back to her schoolwork. Part of her wanted to go over and introduce herself - she had no friends yet here - but when she was an undergrad and her dual majors were different from those of the Scions, there was little reason for them to accept her into their group. Maybe I should have followed Luce to University of Ishgard after all, we'd be able to do double dates with her friends Aymeric and Estinien whenever instead of waiting for winter break. As busy as she was, Tsveta wished she had more local friends beyond just the twins.
Almost as if they had read her mind, two of the women approached - both blond, one wearing a silver cat ear beanie, the other wearing braids. The one with the braids spoke first; Tsveta had already gotten the impression from others that she was the "leader", so to speak, of the postdocs.
"You're Tsveta Garlond, right? I'm Minfillia Warde, and this is Y'shtola Rhul; Alphinaud's been telling us all about you, and we were wondering if you wanted to come to a little house party Saturday night? It'll be our postdoc group, Alphinaud and his sister, and some of our other friends; don't worry, you wont be the only undergrad present."
Tsveta gaped for a moment, then shut her mouth and blushed; she had not expected this to happen. "Well, that's mighty nice of you, and Alphinaud seems like a good kid. I have a shift at the mechanic's this Saturday, but I may be able to swing by after work?"
That seemed to be the right response, as Minfillia lit up and clapped her hands together. "That settles it, then! Let's swap numbers, I'll text you the address."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thankfully, her shift on Saturday was slow and easy; Tsveta was able to knock out a good bit of schoolwork during her down time. Once her shift was over, she rushed home to shower and change. She thought about changing into one of her dresses, but decided to keep it casual with a pair of jeans and a tank top, along with a jacket tied around her waist. She drove her motorcycle over to the address Minfillia had texted her, finding the house quickly; she could hear music blasting as soon as she pulled up. She took a deep breath, gave herself a once-over, then walked up to the front door.
The front door swung open approximately two seconds after she knocked, coming face-to-face with Alphinaud and his twin, Alisaie. The twins were just as excited to see Tsveta as she was to see them - she had been worried she wouldn't know anyone. Each twin grabbed a hand and pulled her through the house, introducing her to everyone. She was surprised (but relieved) to see that Krile Baldesion, her academic advisor, was among those present. A white-haired man - introduced as Thancred Waters - pressed a rum and coke into her hands, which Tsveta accepted gratefully.
"So, Garlond, huh? You wouldn't be related to Cid Garlond of Garlond Ironworks, would you? They're one of the sponsors of our little research group."
Tsveta took a long, eager sip of her drink before responding, bobbing her head. "Yeah, funnily enough, Cid's my father. It's part of the reason I transferred to Sharlayan University, actually; they offered me a good scholarship thanks to all the work he's done for the school and the research groups over the years. I would have gone to the University of Ishgard otherwise."
Thancred nodded sagely. "Yeah, that's as good a reason as any to come here; we're glad to have you, we need more STEM majors in our little group. Make yourself at home; there's food and more booze in the kitchen."
Tsveta all but chugged the rest of her rum and coke, replacing it with a gin and sprite. She quickly found herself on the couch with Alisaie, swapping Youtube vids as the Scions regaled her with stories. For the first time since arriving at the school, she wasn't lonely.
Tsveta stared down the tankard of earthy ale as she sat in the Wandering Stairs, the Crystarium's sole tavern, already feeling queasy as her stomach churned. This was decidedly not a brew she normally partook of - she preferred mead and brandywine - but Ardbert always swore by it, and now that they had "fused" or whatever it was that had happened she figured she could give him one last taste of the stuff before she returned home to the Source - she wasn't sure when she'd come back to the First. She sensed a snicker in the back of her mind - Ardbert found this whole ordeal amusing.
Tsveta grumbled as she picked up the tankard, the hoppy smell making her nose scrunch in displeasure. She took a deep breath to steel herself as she brought the tankard to her lips. Well, here goes nothing. I have no idea how people drink this regularly. She took a long drink, only to choke and gag as the bitter liquid hit the back of her throat, her nostrils starting to burn. Ardbert, the absolute bastard, started laughing as she gasped for air. Thancred, bless him, started clapping her back to help her clear her system - she had dragged him along for moral support.
The barkeep was kind enough to bring over some warm bread for her to clear the taste out of her mouth. Thancred, for his part, grabbed his own mug and chugged the rest of his drink, flagging the barkeep for another. While he was still straight-faced, Tsveta could see the mirth in his eyes. Taking another deep breath, Tsveta pinched her nose and chugged the rest of her ale, all but slamming the mug down on the bar when she finished, much to Ardbert's continued amusement; even Thancred openly smirked as he finally spoke.
"Well, credit where credit is due, you are ever a dedicated friend. Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?"
Tsveta grumbled, finally reaching for the bread, tearing off a chunk and eating it before responding to Thancred. "On a scale of petting a coeurl to becoming a lightwarden, it's up there; I'd rather fight a primal than drink that again. But Ardbert says he always loved drinking it, so I'm not going to complain further." Indeed, she felt a wave of gratitude emanating from Ardbert - he never thought he'd get to taste anything again, much less his favorite alcoholic beverage.
Thancred chuckled as he grabbed some of the bread for himself. "Well, that's certainly mature of you. Are there other things you're eating for him?"
Tsveta bobbed her head as she ordered a tankard of mead. "Aye, we've been going through a whole bucket list of things he wants to eat and do for the last time before we leave the First, and things he wants to try for the first time once we get everyone back home. Thankfully, he hasn't gotten tired of me talking about fish yet."
That earned her a snort from Thancred as he buried his face in his mug - all of the Scions were well aware of her love for (obsession with, though everyone was too polite to call it such to her face) fish, having been her family's fishwife for many years before becoming the Warrior of Light. Tankard of mead finally in hand, Tsveta quickly followed suit, toasting Thancred.
Tsveta stepped into the tiny, cramped apartment, setting her pack down next to the front door. It wasn't much - tiny bathroom that she could barely turn around in, small kitchen with barely any counter space, bedroom with just enough space for a bed and a dresser, tiny living room with just enough room for a desk next to the window - but it was home and it was hers. The fact that the building was dilapidated and falling apart and that her apartment was full of cracks and stains (to the point that the whole building should probably be condemned and probably wasn't safe for occupancy) didn't deter her - it was home and she had actual privacy for the first time in her twenty-two years of existence. The apartment just needed a bit of fixing up, is all. While she couldn't do anything for the broader issues with the building, she could at least patch up the cracks in her apartment and attempt to clean up the stains.
She spent the better part of a week fixing and cleaning what she could and hiding what she couldn't behind furniture and a few decorations, rendering the apartment mostly presentable, if not exactly comfortable (not that she ever expected to have guests, unless she could convince her brothers and their families to join her in Eorzea - she just needed the space to sleep, meal prep, and generally have privacy). She bought a narrow bed second-hand from a Roegadyn who was moving (it was the cheapest one she'd found that was long enough for her - as one of the only Hrothgar in Limsa Lominsa, she was taller than most of the city's residents outside the resident Roegadyn and Elezen population). She'd also found an ice chest that she shoved into the kitchen corner, along with a drying rack that took up the small balcony connected to her living room.
The first visitor to her apartment happened to be none other than Y'shtola Rhul, swinging by after the two had met up for tea. The Miqo'te became surprisingly solemn upon seeing the apartment building, and downright somber upon stepping into Tsveta's apartment. Tsveta looked over as she started to set up a vase for some flowers she'd bought at the markets, noticing the other woman's frown.
"Is there aught amiss, Y'shtola?" As much as Tsveta's native accent and dialect tried to push through, she worked hard to mirror those of the local inhabitants.
Y'shtola was silent for a long moment before turning to Tsveta with a stifled tut, which made the Hrothgar nervous. "Hmm? Oh...no, nothing is amiss. This apartment is, how shall I put it, quite the fixer-upper, is it not? Is it enough space for you?" She must have picked up on Tsveta's nerves, as she gave the younger woman a concerned look and a small yet warm smile (which, admittedly, did help Tsveta relax).
"The apartment could use more work, aye, but it's an adequate amount of space - it's more space than I'm used to on a fishing boat, that's for sure. It's enough Y'shtola, I promise, and the building is safer than it looks."
That answer seemed to satisfy Y'shtola, and the look of displeasure faded from her face. "I will let it be if you insist, far be it for me to presume your needs. Now come, I want to see these booklets that the Arcanist's Guild gave you to practice your Eorzean."
