#fhr julia ortega

[bastardnoodle]

i'm on my knees begging for a healing montage. i crave hurt/comfort like a hotdog yearns for relish and mustard

[kidhellion]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE ORTEGAS!!!!!!

[b33tlejules]

i think i huave covid

[kirbofoolinaround]

they're appraising armor upgrades while their jock gf fucks around

blaming @disastersteps forever and ever and ever and ever (and ever) for getting me into fhr /j

[disastersteps]

'...oh? you're quiet now are you, jules?'

[dc-said-bi-robin-rights]

In Another World (1151 words) by ajvt

Tools, like him. Machines. Beeping. People standing over him. Latex gloves caressing his body, like worms, like sand. Face masks. Scalpels glinting under overhead lights.

He’s at the Farm. He never left.

no stop not again I will make you pay I will make you scream

“Cyrus?” Voice, faint. Light. Alarms, blaring. Roaring. Boots. Get them. Stop them. No escape. She won’t allow it. She won’t let her stop it.

“Cyrus, can you hear me?”

Maybe he did leave. Not that it matters. He’s back, and it’s worse this time. Not even a cuckoo. Just a thing.

“Cyrus, you need to wake up.” Why? Does it matter? They’ll make him anyway. He doesn’t need to do anything.

“Cyrus!”

Unless…

“Cyrus!”

Static. Familiar, like a hug. Scary, once. But not like theirs. Not completely. Not where it mattered.

“Cyrus!”

The man who was once Sidestep peels back the lid of his true eye and sees only static. His other eyes, his false eyes, his man-eyes, though… they see the woman.

An impossible thing. A weak hope.

And yet here. Here and real.

His lips crack open, parched and weak from years of disuse. He doesn’t know how many. “Ortega?”

Alarms blare, again and again. A storm of thoughts engulfs his senses, a haze clouding his visions. And yet the smile of the woman that looks down on him as real as a memory.

“You’re awake. Thank God. I thought…”

“You… you can’t be here,” he interrupts, blinking as if doing it enough times would dispel the illusion. “You moved on. You stopped looking.”

“What are you talking about?” Ortega asks, before shaking her head. “Nevermind, forget i said anything. We need to get you out of here before the guards come.”

“The… guards…?”

“Yes, the guards,” Ortega says, moving over to the machines holding him in place, out of his line of vision. It vexes Cyrus, not being able to turn his head to look at her, not being able to feel her in his mind, to simply have to trust that she is there. But she is, and a moment later, he hears the crackle of lightning surging into the machines behind him, followed by the release of the clamps around his extremities.

He was free. Just like that. Cyrus felt sudden tears spring to his eyes, tears which he angrily blinked away. So long spent lying down, half-naked, a thing for their tools to poke and prod… and then it was just over. Like a switch. It was almost too much to believe, too much to trust.

“Can you stand?” Ortega’s voice again, from behind him. Cyrus barely hears her, so she sighs and picks him up, holding him to her chest bridal-style as his eyes flutter closed. The practical part of Cyrus’ mind doesn’t like that—she should keep at least one arm free in case she needed to fight, he knows that—but he is so inconceivably, inexplicably exhausted he can’t bring himself to voice that thought. It was the kind of tiredness that went beyond the physical, like the point after a fight where the adrenaline wears off magnified a thousand fold.

It didn’t matter, though. Ortega was here. He didn’t have to be strong anymore. He could just… sleep. It would be all okay. Things would work themselves out, and…

They’re in a corridor. A man stands in front of them, a guard, like Ortega said. He is shouting, inside and outside. Cyrus can hear him, inside and outside. His thoughts are like a stream of hail, pointed and sharp, scared and furious, focused outwards. Towards them. Towards him. He has a gun, long, smooth, with a pump. A shotgun. He won’t hesitate to shoot if Ortega doesn’t turn back. Doesn’t stop. Doesn’t leave him here.

A moment later, the gun goes off in the guard’s mouth. He drops to the floor, chunks of his head splattering the walls. The only choice. One he doesn’t regret.

Ortega holds him tighter. Is she scared? Of him? That doesn’t make sense to Cyrus. She’s the Static. He should be scared of her.

“Come on,” she says, shaking off her shock. Cyrus doesn’t miss the fact that she steps over more bodies than just that of the guard as she continues forward. One of them is charred, which is interesting, because usually Ortega makes an effort not to kill.

Some of them aren’t, though. Most of them aren’t.

Was the guard the first? The last?

“You okay down there?” Ortega’s voice. They aren’t in a corridor anymore. He can see the sky.

The sky. How long has it been since the last time he could claim that?

“I should be asking you that question,” he says. It smells like burnt meat.

“I’ve still got enough juice to get you out of here.” A grimace. A smile? She doesn’t like killing. She’s doing it anyway, because Re-Genes don’t stop coming, don’t stay down when they should. Pain-Gate. Like the one he had.

Has she gone mad, like him? Mad, for him? Cyrus doesn’t know. Cyrus doesn’t care.

“You work for the government.” It’s a non sequitur, not to mention a stupid thing to fixate on, but she’s a Ranger. “You can’t do this. You’re a Ranger.”

“Not today I’m not.” Ortega smiles, and somehow he knows right then and there that this is fake. “Today I’m…”

He never gets to hear her finish.

His eyes snap open to darkness, sweat sliding down his body as he sits up, heart racing. The sheets feels familiar, as does the bed underneath him, and when he sends his frantic mind out he can sense only the woman, downstairs… cooking, humming to herself, thinking of bacon and cereal and other inane insanities. Beyond that, the fluttering thoughts of the horses. The goat that was more than a goat. And next to him…

“Hey,” says the Static, sitting up in bed, voice soft. She places her hand on his shoulder—his naked shoulder, because it doesn’t matter if she sees anymore, not after the crash. “You okay?”

The Ranch. Ortega. It’s a relief, in some ways. It’s a disappointment, in others.

“Just a dream,” Cyrus says, because he doesn’t blame her anymore. It was Steel who abandoned him, not her. He knows that now. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mmmh, if you say so.” Ortega presses a kiss to his shoulder and lays back down, closing her eyes. “Was it at least a nice dream?”

“It was about you,” he admits, which makes her grin. Cyrus rolls his eyes, even though she can’t see it. “Can it, old woman. Just because it was about you doesn’t mean it was nice dream.”

“Well, was it?”

She’s too smug for her own good.

Doesn’t mean she’s wrong.

“It was.” He lays back down and closes his eyes, feeling Ortega place her arms around his waist. “It really was.”

[idlenight]

Would you fellow Fallen Hero fans like my chargestep (bromance Julia + River edition) playlist?

Of course you do. Woe, playlist be upon ye.

[honeyglas]

You wish this moment could last forever.

[hadrassians]

tried a more painterly approach with this

[godshaper]

"mornin', sunshine. coffee?"

[alts here]

[nsewell]

god i wish i was a chestnut roan being gently but firmly wrangled by cowboy ortega. i commissioned the always lovely and talented @crownleys after reading all the good ranch content on patreon and she exceeded my vision in every way, thank you again for my life emma

[bastardnoodle]

so i finished retribution....eve is now pansexual! everybody say congratulations eve! erm suggestive warning for that last pic

eve (sidestep) uses they/them

[kidhellion]

pinups are back babey!!

[b33tlejules]

BUTCH STEEL PROPAGANDA... GO‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

Shout out to @autumnfangirler for sending me!! the most beautiful butch steel and julia makeout scene!! and then allowing me to redraw it in my style!!

[kirbofoolinaround]

giggling. twirling my hair. teeheeeEE

[disastersteps]

may i cut your...?