#just screaming about fhr again

[lyvli]

code dived retribution and i'm going insane over chen's fucking heartbreak memory like holy shitttt

he heard sidestep mentally screaming for him, airstrike their location to stop heartbreak, and sidestep just goes "yeah of course ortega and the mission comes first, never me, i never mattered" aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

it's not even entirely chen's fault bc it was kinda like fog of war and he knows sidestep should have been dead and ortega was the only real one but AHHHHHHHHH THE ANGST bc chen still regrets it, like regrets that he could have done more and save sidestep, and that if he really knew what was going on he wouldn't have let the bad guys take away sidestep

but then sidestep goes "Wouldn't you? You hated me."

peak enemies to friends to lovers angst *chef's kiss* so much hurting each other bc that's all they know how to do, and that they're too similar in more ways than one!!!!!

also some of chen and sidestep's interactions were so cute, like:

[...] He lets out a soft breath. "We both know Ortega is the looker here."

"Don't sell yourself short," you say, chewing the inside of your lip. "You…look good."

"I don't know how to reply to that, so I won't." He doesn't look at you, striking up a pace that's just a bit too fast. Not that you don't keep up. "You do too."

"Asshole. If I call you a liar now, you'll do the same to me." He would, too. Checkmate.

"Of course." The answer comes with a hint of a smile, softening his face. "We just have to suffer being handsome together."

LIKE FUCKK... the way he gets all soft around you dfsghliidflgui

not gonna lie tho, i was very ok with ortega before, but this book kinda of made me dislike them? lol like, good for the ppl who do the poly route for steel/ortega/sidestep but you literally cannot have a conversation without ortega being the elephant in the room? if that makes sense

it's also interesting if ortega is male, because then it becomes a full on love triangle, and it almost felt like you couldn't dodge the poly route?? idk

going to have to sit here and try to figure out all the trigger conditions for the various interactions, but it'll be worth ittt (probablyyy)

[sidesteppostinghours]

4 + 5 + 8 + 40 + 34 and I) G) F) for Cyrus Becker my beloved 🧡

afternoon idle!! oh my god questions galore *cracks knuckles* cyrus get your ass over here youre up

4. How easy is it to earn their trust?

Very difficult, and at the same time easier than youd think. he definitely doesnt entertain everybody, but hes not unreasonable. hell hear you out if you give him enough reason to (or if he thinks its beneficial to get to know you. do you see why he gets attached to people hes supposed to be manipulating so often). ortega and mortum required him to establish a relationship, which is how they got so close to eachother so quickly. herald got by because cyrus thought hed be a useful contact in the rangers. chen couldve earned his trust a long time ago, they had to work with eachother a lot back when he still ran with the rangers, but chen squandered it on his suspicions and its been too long for cyrus to have any interest in patching up their relationship. argent has largely flown under his radar, she hasnt piqued his interest more than the passing curiosity of why she wanted the regenerator.

5. How easy is it to earn their mistrust?

the default is mistrust. sorry yall, hes not taking any more chances than necessary. hes a telepath, he knows all too well what secrets other people hide, and hes not interested in giving people a chance to prove his suspicions wrong. but after hes grown to trust somebody? its... embarrassing how difficult it is to lose it. even though his trust is much shakier nowadays, you still need to have fucked up Majorly to get him back to mistrusting you. if you somehow manage to do that,,, uhhhh. what do you want on your tombstone? (ig its technically its possible to not die and even earn that trust back??? ortega managed, but thats ortega and hes statistically more likely to kill you or ruin your life. depends on how badly you fucked up. id say theres a good 5% chance youll survive the experience without the need for intense psychotherapy)

8. What were they told to stop/start doing most often as a child

listen. follow orders. be exactly who we need you to be. cyrus was a deeply rebellious regene, but he wasnt stupid about it. hed go against the mission in secret, and just enough that nobody wouldve been able to trace any problems back to him. that doesnt mean he was never caught, but he was too competent of a regene to be scrapped, which saved him multiple times before. those few times did cause handlers to keep a closer eye on him though, just in case. handlers would usually keep a harder grip on cyrus, hold him to stricter standards. it contributed a lot to his own self talk. SPEAKING OF WHICH:

40. How sensitive are they to their own flaws?

you must imagine me holding him and looking lovingly into his eyes while i dump a gallon of insecurity and perfectionism on him. hes a proud man, he thinks hes better than what other people are capable of, but that arguably makes things worse when he does make a mistake. he of all people shouldnt be like this. add the puppetmaster scar on him and its a hefty load of 'i need to make sure every single step of my plan goes exactly right Or Else." the worst thing about him is that a lot of the petty flaws he thinks apply to him arent correct. AND HE CANT EVEN NAME HIS ACTUAL FLAWS. cyrus you are so smart and walking around with zero self awareness, its the best. please consider stepping into acid.

34. How hard is it for them to shake a sense of guilt? 

hohohohoho. well. the first step is to get him to feel guilty in the first place. traditionally immoral actions arent going to get to him, obviously. the thing that springs up guilt for him most often is themmys death. he has. a Lot of survivors guilt about that. especially because hes convinced himself he couldve done something and *gestures to the ask above*. guilt will haunt him for life if it doesnt get resolved in a healthy way, but hes gotten good at burying his emotions a long time ago. even when he feels like that, he reserves a specific time to think about it, otherwise itll impede on his plans in the long run. that designated time is. usually when hes supposed to be sleeping. his sleep schedule is just a little bit messed.

I) Do you prefer to keep them in their canon universe?

oh dude i Love putting cyrus in aus. its so fun to poke him with a stick and see what happens. the first one i put him in was a band au, it helped me figure out how he would interact with herald. basically cyrus was a masked guitarist (for backstory reasons) for a band daniel happened to be a fan of, except the two of them managed to meet at just regular old work, with cyrus not realizing daniel was a fan and daniel not realizing cyrus was from one of his favourite bands. it led to fun, mlb-esque shenanigans between the two lmfao. the second one i put him in was the becker siblings au, which i still have thoughts and emotionsTM about. that au let me indulge in the 'cyrus is an older sibling' headcanon and i will forever be in debt to it for the amount of protective cyrus i got. third and current au im obsessing over is a 'cyrus survives hb' scenario, where ortega managed to stop him before he jumped out the window. i am getting! so much ortega x cyrus content out of that au! and so much survivors guilt cyrus. cyrus 'using' ortega to forget about heartbreak my beloveddddd. he also says 'i love you' to ortega in this au and canon ortega is SO jealous. also x2, hes an alcohol vice step in this au. heartbreak hit hard and the tequila hits different.

aaaand i still like his canon version better. its just so very much him. out of every step ive got, hes the one i get to stay closest to how i envision based on the choices the game offers. plus he caught me completely by surprise suckerpunching me with an obsession over him and i cant Not respect that.

G) What trait of theirs bothers you the most?

not sure whether this means on a character creation level or as a person, but ill answer for 'as a person' because im overall pretty satisfied with how he turned out! but like. god what is there to not be bothered about. my manipulative little shit of a son. ig the trait that frustrates me the most is his self destructive tendencies. like. Sir. are you at all aware of the fact that people care for you and want you safe? and that you can respond to that concern with something other than "i can use this", "sucks to be them", or, "no theyre not"? sir. sir answer the question. hes so empathetic and also literally a telepath but somehow cant compute genuine concern at him. as frustrating as it is though, i cannot deny that it is deeply funny to watch him fumble so badly.

F) What do you feel when you think of your OC (pride, excitement, frustration, etc)?

normal. the ones where people look at me and think "wow, that is a person who is having (a) regular thought(s) about their character! very cool!" you will never see a person who is more normal about their guy than i am (i am grabbing him by the teeth and shaking him like a dog with a very strong kill instinct).

truly though, thinking of him gets me buzzing. hes like a puzzle, i keep breaking him apart and putting him back together again to see how everything works. i have this thing where ill often think about showing character analysis to the characters themeselves, just to see how they would react, and i undeniably do this the most with cyrus. i want to explain step by step (hah) why he is the way that he is now, like the whole timeline is plotted inside my head and its so!!!!! i am!!!!! chewing on him!!!!!

questions from here!

[kittlesandbugs]

FHR: Animal instincts Pairing: Chargestep Warnings: Canon typical violence and suicide ideation, and Sidestep is not in a great frame of mind fresh out of the Farm Word Count: 1103 Summary: Just a little bit of "Sidestep was found by Ortega shortly after escaping the Farm the second time" AU, Riley is having a great time lol

"Riley?" 

Flinch and freeze and no, keep going, don't falter, don't react, keep walking. Just a twitch you can smooth over feigning ignorance. No one knows you by that name anymore, and if they think they do, you'll fix them. It doesn't take much, you know that now. A tweak, a twist, a pull, you unravel the threads and become less than a memory. Less than a ghost. 

Lower your shield, open your mind, find that spark of recognition and cut the memory loose. It's just a tumor on their recollection, to be excised and—

Hand on your shoulder. 

Static-walled brain. 

Scream. 

Yours. Turn on your heel, throw a fist, soft flesh, startled grunt, pivot and run run run run. They can't catch you again, can���t trap you again. You won't let them, all you have to do is run! 

“Riley!” 

Heavy footsteps run behind you, but you're no rabbit now, you're the fox. You duck into an alley, throw a garbage can, hear the crash and stumble and swear. Good, like that, you'll escape, and if they corner you, well, you still have the gun. 

Use it on them or use it on yourself, either way you get away. 

“Riley, wait!” 

The name makes you flinch again. You, not, not you, you're nameless, name forgotten, number shucked. Riley plummeted to her death, forgotten, betrayed, alone. You're not her. Just no one. You need to be no one, no one at all, nothing, nothing of import, nothing worth perceiving. You need to not be, not until you're ready. 

But your pursuer won't let you go. 

They're gaining again, fuck, they're fast, the footsteps almost loud enough to drown the wet thuds of your own heartbeat in your ears. Your breath wheezes loud in your chest. Your muscles burn as you push through crowds that can't see you because you won't let them. You're a visage of your former self. Not yet fully recovered from years of isolation and wasting misery. The only thing sharp about you is your mind, and your pursuer is immune. 

You dart down another alley, trying to get away from the crowds so you can move and—

FUCK. 

Bouncing off a fresh and new brick wall, instinct recognizes your fatal blunder just soon enough to stop you from concussing yourself on it. You land on your ass, breathless, arms aching from taking most of the impact for your skull. What was a throughway four years ago is a deadend now. 

And now, you are too. Dead. Worse. Trapped. 

You shake your head to clear it, scrabbling around, backed up against the brick like if you pressed hard enough, you could phase through it. You fumble through your disheveled clothes, your hand seeking and closing on cold metal as you fight to free the gun from the holster hidden beneath layers of loose fabric. You're such an idiot. 

A shadow looms over you, features darkened by the blinding halo of the sun slowly sinking into the cityscape behind it. “Jesus, Riley, what's—” 

The voice mercifully stops, as does the approaching figure, as you finally, finally, train the gun on them. Your hands are shaking, unsteady as you feel, but you know where the heart is, and you won't miss it. You can't. 

“Hey. Hey, c'mon. Put that thing down. It's me, Riley.”

The voice is low and soft, like someone trying to soothe and cajole a dog on the verge of biting. Something familiar wiggles in your hindbrain like a parasite, and you refuse to let it latch on. Your hands shake harder as the figure tries to subtly inch forward. Too hyper aware of everything to let it slip by, you cock the gun. 

The hands are quick to come up, open and empty, placating and pleading. “Whoa, easy, easy…” He—your brain admits that now— he says softly, his voice raw like an exposed nerve. “It's just me, c'mon Riley…”

You know that voice. You know that stance. You know him. You lo—  no. You hate him. You pulse thuds louder and wetter in your ears, drowning out his attempt to soothe and de-escalate. Your eyes flood with burning salt, blurring your vision, but you can't wipe or blink it away. You should shoot him. You want to. He didn't try to save you, him or Steel, the other Rangers, the other vigilantes, all the rest of this fucking city. They all left you to rot and scream and suffer in the obscurity of the lab that made you just so it could eat you alive and spit out your bones. 

But he keeps inching forward, talking in that low and familiar tone that was always like novocaine to your fractious mind. Knees bending, he lowers himself down in front of you where you sprawl against the cold unforgiving brick. You train the barrel on his skull with a choked animal noise of distress, unable to put any more distance between you. And he just lets you do it, looking over your clenched and shaking hands with that heavy familiar hound-brown gaze. 

“What happened to you? Dios mio, you're a wreck,” he says, his soft voice cracking as he takes in your sorry state. He doesn't flinch as you press the cold metal to his forehead, cocked and loaded and ready to blow whatever brains he has out onto the street. 

You should. You should put a final nail in the coffin of your past. You see the weight of the last few years in the bags under his eyes and the harder plains of his face, smell it on the heavy alcohol in his breath. Your index finger strokes the trigger. Your hands shake so hard that you just might depress it by accident. Maybe you should just put you both out of your sad sorry miseries.

He just looks at you, that same way he always did. Like he has all the faith in the world you'll make the right call. Like you can do no wrong in his eyes. Like you hold his heart between your sweating quivering palms, and he'd let you… he'd let you… 

The realization makes you recoil like you'd been struck across the face, and the gun clatters to the asphalt. By some miracle, it doesn't misfire from the impact. He swipes it away, out of both your reaches. Before you can scramble away from him like the feral animal you are, he pulls you in tight against his chest. Caught in the trap of him, exhausted and weak, all you can do is bury your face in his shoulder and howl.

[wonda-fhr]

For the Overprotective Dialogue prompts 32) “Get away from [them].” for Justin, thanks for your support @m3k-fhr 💕

Warning, it gets a little bloody under the read more break.

----------

He is only a henchman. But a panicked henchman, and that makes him dangerous.

You have no idea how Ward managed to get so blindsided and are eager to hear their explanation. But first you have to get them out of here without hurting them any more.

Ward's claw hand is defective and useless. The blood oozing from the head wound is not alarming. But the blood they cough up between agonizing, rattling breaths is enough to worry you.

The knife at Ward's throat trembles. The orders the henchman stammers out are more like a plea. He's the last of the three, the one who was lucky enough not to be here when you arrived, the one who arrived at just the right moment to cause complications. But his bleeding colleagues and the certainty of being outnumbered now have robbed him of all confidence.

"Please, get away from them. They belong to me, and I take care of my crew. I'm here for them so they don't end up like this." Your gaze falls on the battered bodies of the other two henchmen, who are only vaguely breathing. The panicked man can't see your smile under the helmet, but he can hear it in your voice despite the distorter. Confused by your friendly chatter, his eyes widen, he is ready to hesitate.

That's all you need, just that little window of readiness to reinforce his hesitation until you're in range. As you grab the knife hand, Ward rolls out of the way and remains leaning against the wall, coughing blood again.

The man, trapped in your strong grip, makes a desperate strike at you. Your reflex causes you to flinch for a moment, and you feel the wrist you are clutching break in the movement. He screams and falls to his knees in front of you.

"Oh, sorry. Unfortunately, pain can't always be avoided. But it'll be better in a minute. At least for a while." Your tone remains friendly, even if he can't hear your last words as you knock him down with a few well-aimed blows, his blood on your glove refreshing the dried ones of his comrades. Only when he is unconscious do you let go of the soft wrist and turn to the rescued person, who is trying strained to speak.

"Thanks for the rescue, boss. Sorry about that. The guy was behind me all of a sudden."

You take off the big helmet, give Ward your unwavering smile, and kneel down beside them. Gently, you examine their injuries before helping them to their feet, supporting their weight as best you can.

"You don't have to apologize or thank me. We're a team. A better one than these three were, it seems."

[joideka]

Meet Me Under the Stars (Pooka!Sans x Reader)

A pooka is a creature from irish folklore! It's a mischievous spirit who often takes the form of a horse.

More facts about the pooka will be shown at the end! Warnings: Innuendos, but mostly fluff (and kisses)

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun beat upon the harvester's back, shining fiercely as you gritted your teeth, swinging your grain cradle. 

Swing to side, cut, lift over shoulder and deposit. 

Swing to side, cut, life over shoulder and deposit. 

And over and over again. 

Your family and all the neighbors around had been working before the crack of dawn to get the harvest in... rain was coming, and all knew that if the rain hit the wheat now, it could ruin the grain before it could get milled. 

A sharp whistle from your father, gesturing for you to switch with your sister. You handed her the scythe, stretching your sore muscles. 

He handed you a glass of milk wordlessly, eyeing the people hard at work. 

"We're naht going to get it dahne, lass. dere's too much." 

You sighed, looking at the fields. Despite your best efforts, only half of the biggest field was done, with other families still working hard on others, almost done. Your field had gotten three inexperienced workers, slowing your process as your father had to berate them over and over again. 

"Maybe not by day, but into twilight?" You suggested. Your accent was softer than your father's, due to your mother having served under a more refined family at one point. She had taught your siblings and you to speak with refinement, even if you got made fun of it at times. 

"Dat's cutteng it awfully close to w'en de fae roam, lass."  

"Well, maybe just me, den," you offered. 

"Lass, even if yooehr luck has been extrahrdinary in avoideng any encounters, I don't want to risk it. What if a dullahan comes a-rideng by?"  

"I'll cover my ears," you defended. 

"Y/N..." Your father shook his head. "I can't in good conscience let you do somet'eng like dat."   

You paused, biting your lip in thought. 

"What if I cut it down to a quarter, and leave it for de pooka?" 

"Well.... if you're out 'ere cutteng fhr de pooka..." Leaving behind a portion for the pooka was nothing new, but it was usually all harvested by then. It did instill fear in what the pooka would do if the grain wasn't all done. 

"It is a new moon- I blessed myself and our family, so I should have good luck." 

"Alright den lass. Since it's a new moon and you did as you should." He patted your shoulder. "Are you sure you want to do it by yooehrself?"

"It's our family plot, I'll be fine." 

He nodded, handing you another scythe. "Get a-going lass, we've only got an hour of daylight." 

You grinned, running to assume a line. 

The sun set faster than anticipated, yet you continued on, your father explaining the situation. They stacked five bundles of wheat at the end of the field. 

"If you see the pooka, tell him that's his portion, so he doesn't get cross," your mother fretted. "And make sure you find a four-leaf clover if you feel unsafe, or call for Soot." Soot was the family cat, pure black with amber eyes. 

"I will, mum." You pressed a kiss to her cheek, watching her wrap a shawl around you. 

As they walked back to the house, you began to cut again, wincing as your muscles screamed at you. 

Sunset began to occur, the rays of the sun winking out behind green hills, lights appearing in the village. 

You wiped sweat away, looking at the dirt road stretching into the forested hills.

A whinny caught your attention. 

A black horse stamped up to a rise across from you, the last traces of light illuminating a long and ragged mane. Smouldering yellow eyes caught yours. 

A small smile tugged the corner of your mouth, watching as it galloped down towards you. You didn't move, waiting. 

The horse galloped up to you, trotting around you, twisting and turning. It seemed to be showing up, tossing its mane.

"What's this? A human, out after night? How brave," a disembodied voice came from the horse.

"Shush," you warned. "You're going to attract attention with that form."

The voice came, slightly teasing. "Are you saying that I'm a distraction?"

"Very much," you agreed, smiling. "Hello, Sans."

The horse seemed to shiver, pressing its muzzle into your hand. It nickered softly, closing its eyes. "I love it when you say my name..."

You couldn't help but smile, stroking the long muzzle. "I'm more than happy to say hello, but I have to finish the harvest." You pointed over to the pile of grain for him. "That's your portion."

The pooka trotted over after sniffing at you, bending his head to inspect the grain. "It'll do, although I'd much rather have you."

"Tough luck," you teased. When you had first met, you had questioned his voice, not recognizing the accent- but it seemed fairies had perfect voices. You would never tell him that. He would love to hear how his voice sent little shivers down your spine, causing a faint blush, how it seem to infiltrate your thoughts at the worst times... at church, at the fair, or even in your dreams.

"Do you really have to finish all this?" Sans questioned, trotting back over, breaking you from your ruminations.

"Yes, I promised my father I would." "Speaking of your family, have you shared about the misfortunes of your great uncle? I can share it again if you like~"

"And hear it for de tenth time? No thanks. We don't like to dwell on de past." You began to swing your scythe again, minding its closeness to Sans. You had met Sans a few years ago, when your family had first moved out here after your great uncle had died. One day, you had decided to walk to the next town over, not expecting to get caught up in friends' gossip and news. It had been late when you had attempted to go home, clutching your shawl around your shoulders as you hesitated at an unfamiliar crossroad.

That's when he had appeared, but as a rabbit, inspecting you curiously. You had politely greeted him, asking, somewhat jokingly, if he knew the way to your house.

The next moment, his horse form had been in front of you, offering you a ride.

Normally, you would've politely refused. But something in the way he asked struck a chord within- and you had mounted his back, clutching onto his mane as he rode off into the hills.

And he had taken you home- after trampling through several gardens, jumping walls and knocking down fences. You had manged to stay on through sheer fear and will alone. You had never been more grateful to see your home. Sans had commended your riding skills, but had laughed as you fell over once you had dismounted, shaking like a leaf.

Sans had since then taken a shine to you, visiting at the dead of night to lure you into rides and gallops across the countryside. He shared stories of families who had lived there for years before you, or of the animals, or on rare occasions, stories of the fairies.

This was the earliest he had ever decided to find you, and you weren't sure why. You hadn't exactly stayed out past dark for the purpose of meeting him, but you couldn't deny that a tiny bit of you was happy to see him.

His muzzle pushed into your shoulder, nickering.

"You're moving your arm funny," he commented.

"I've been doing this all day," you confessed, stretching. "It'll be better in the morning."

"Does this mean you can't ride tonight?"

"Probably not at full gallop..."

"That wasn't a no." His voice filled with excitement. You grinned, mentally thanking the gods for the horse not actually speaking. That would've been weird.

You swing, grunting as the last of the wheat fell. You grimaced. "No, but I don't want my parents to see me gone, when dey know I'm out here."

"Nonsense, they're all asleep, trust me."

"Trust and the fae don't exactly go hand in hand."

Sans snorted in mock offense. "Hey now, watch it." 

I grinned, setting down my scythe. I walked over to a fence, using it as a mounting block. Sans obliging held still, waiting.  "Excellent," he tossed his head, once I had mounted onto his back. "Shall we?" "Take it slow," I warned. "I can take it slow~" "Sans."

"Yeah?" "Shut up or I'll smack you."

Sans laughed, whinnying as he walked onto the dirt road. He began to trot, letting you find your comfort level. Your back hurt, but not to the point to where you were doubled over in pain. You tapped his side with your foot, signaling he could go faster. He neighed, going into a gallop, springing a fence to go over a hill, stopping briefly as he surveyed his path. He began to run again, leading you into the forest. "Where are we going?" You called over the wind. "It's a surprise!" Sans galloped through deer paths, splashing through streams as he went deep into the forest.

You held your breath, gazing at the depths of the forest, black. No moon was here to illuminate the night, only the stars. Branches threatened to knock you off, your head ducked into Sans' neck as you waited for the path to clear.

Finally, Sans slowed, walking through thick bushes to a small glade. "We're here!"

You slid off, bouncing on the balls of your feet to ease the ache in your legs.

"Where are we?" The glade was simply enough, a circle surrounded by trees, moss and grass making a lush carpet, with small fairy rings of mushrooms dotting the greenery here and there.

"A secret place of mine." His ears twitched.

"Really? I'm flattered."

"You should be... few see a place of the fae."

"A place of the fae?" Confusion brushed over your face, but you were distracted quickly, gasping as lights began to twinkle underfoot. Fireflies rose from the grass, their abdomens twinkling as they floating above you. Males stuck to the ground, shining their own lights in tandem to other males.

"Whoa..... dis is amazing," you breathed. "Mhmm.." Sans flicked his tail. "Would you mind if I slipped into a more comfortable form?"

"Your true form?" You asked, sitting. "Yes.... one of them at least."

You nodded, not bothered by his last comment.

Sans' body glowed, his form dissolving into a more humanoid shape... before a skeleton appeared before you, eye sockets crinkled in amusement. This form no longer as alarmed you as it once had. He wore crisp trousers and a long coat, leaving his ribcage exposed as he sauntered over. If he had been anything but human, you would've been mortified. Strangely, with Sans, it didn't ever register the same as him being shirtless. "Like this place?" He asked,coming to sit beside you. You nodded, staring at the fireflies. One flew over to use you as a landing perch, its light softly flashing as it perched on your forehead. Its legs tickled your skin.

"Sans.. this place is amazing!"

"I'm glad you think so... I've been waiting for someone to share it with."

You fought a blush, waving it off. "I doubt I'd ever find this place again."

Sans chuckled. The two of you stayed quiet, looking at the fireflies.

"You know..." An arm snaked around your shoulders, pulling into his side, fingers tapping along your arm. "I couldddd bring you back here sometime." "Yeah?" Belatedly, you registered his touch, shuddering a bit under his arm, the chill of his bones reminding you of his status as fae.

"Yeah... for a small payment." Your eyes met his eye lights.

They were a slight gold color, white centers gazing at you. In this form, you could see every small chip in his bone, how his smile crooked up the corner of his mouth, how his constant smile set you on guard and yet completely disarmed you.

You leaned back in his hold, grinning. "I'm listening."

"You see, I can't do too much for free. I need a bit of encouragement, a little something to goad me into doing it. Get me?"

"What do you want?" An eyebrow on your face raised, skeptical and wary.

"A kiss."

"A.... kiss."

"Yep." Sans nodded enthusiastically. "Just one, for now~"

You pretended not hear the last bit, thinking about his offer.

Did you really want to go through with his offer? Sure, you were attracted to him... but a kiss seemed a lot to ask for when he never gave you a hint of his own feelings...

"Is kissing a fairy considered good luck?" You wondered aloud.

"Want to find out?" Sans offered, running his hand up along the back of your neck, angling your head towards him. He didn't press forward, analyzing your reaction. You stared up at him, meeting his gaze. His eye sockets seemed to droop, half lidded. Eye lights fuzzed to mere blotches of golden light, mimicking the fireflies. "Yeah," you whispered, leaning in. Your lips met his teeth, his other hand coming to run through your hair, careful not to tangle your hair between his fingers, his other hand keep your lips firmly planted on his teeth. Behind closed eyelids, you saw spots of golden light as fireflies began to float among the two of you.

You began to understand what magical meant.

He pulled back, his hands moving to cup your face.

You blinked, dazed as you tried to regather yourself.

I just kissed- I just kissed a fairy. I JUST KISSED A FAIRY!!!

Sans chuckled, pulling you into his arms, pressing a skeleton kiss to your cheek.

"Well? Do you feel lucky?"

You snapped from your internal meltdown, finding yourself wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

"... Lucky enough for another kiss?"

Sans' eyelights flashed, his grin widening. "Better, I can give you a ride-"

The smack that occurred from your slap was probably heard from the next town over, the pooka laughing as he fell onto the grass, a red hand print on his cheek.

"I warned you," you grouched, folding your arms. You tried to rid the blush that had taken over your face, even making your ears hot.

"Yes, yes you did..." He sat back up, dusting himself off. "But in all seriousness, it's midnight... and you might want to get some sleep before the day comes." He stood, holding out his hand to you. You took it, rolling your eyes as he pulled up into his arms again.

"Shall we?" He asked, grinning. "When will I see you again?" You blurted out, not wanting to still seem upset with him. You truly weren't, except a tad mortified.

Sans' expression softened. "As soon as I can, dear." He brought one of your hands up to his face, kissing it. "I'll definitely take you here again.. next new moon?"

A smile took over your features. "I'd love that," you said shyly.

"Good, because I doubt I could get all the fireflies here again on short notice."

"Again? Wait.... did you plan dis?" You began to laugh, as Sans actually blushed.

"Come now, a fairy's got to keep his secrets." His voice was full of mischief, yet slightly defensive.

"Aw, I think it's sweet." Your hand clasped the side of his skull. You couldn't help but beam at him.

He softened, a skeletal hand coming to cover yours.

"I'll walk you home?" He asked.

"Walk?"

"I believe the humans consider that more endearing that you riding a black horse into the village."

"Usually," you agreed. The two of you began to walk, his hand entwined with yours.

As the forest thinned and parted, the stars blazed from their heights, lighting the world in front of you. You could see storm clouds in the distance against the stars, your elders' predictions correct.

A quiet whistle broke out from Sans. He stared at you with blurred eye lights, smile soft.

"You look beautiful under the stars..."

You blushed, hiding your face for a moment with your free hand.

"I'm so glad I get to see you at night, under the stars."

"Me too," you admitted. His hand yanked you towards him, his teeth pressing a quick kiss to your lips.

"And you're even prettier when you're all flustered," he teased, pulling away to let you recover.

"Shut up," you grumbled as he laughed, turning onto the dirt road home. ---------------------------------------------------------------

Quick Info Dump!!

A Pooka is a mischievous spirit from Irish folklore. It is often portrayed as taking the form of an animal, such as a rabbit or a horse, and is known for playing tricks on humans. In some stories, the Pooka is said to be a benign but mischievous presence, while in others it is portrayed as more malevolent, with the ability to bring harm to those who cross its path. The Pooka is also associated with the Otherworld, a realm of magic and mystery in Irish mythology. An important thing to always remember about a Pooka is that they have the power of human speech and when inclined make great sport of those they talk to as they like to embellish the truth. In Ireland, the Púca seems to be the most feared Faerie possibly because it appears only at night and enjoys creating havoc and mischief. We feel this is doing the Pooka an injustice because there are no recorded incidences of a Pooka actually causing a human bodily harm.

Blessing yourself under a new moon is an actual sign of good luck from Irish folklore! More omens include: if you find a horseshoe, spit on it and throw it over your head and you will have good luck; if you pick a flower on May Eve it is said that the fairies will come and take you away with them; and if you drop a fork you will have company.

Say hi to me at my AO3! -writefromtheheartandsoul

Have a lovely day/night!

[sidesteppostinghours]

heard we were being sad about orpheus+eurydice fhr au again

He’s coming, you say, whispering softly into their ear. Wait for him. 

They can’t hear you. You could scream and cry and berate them till you’re blue, but you are not heeded. Even if you were, your words are empty. He will never come. Orpheus was meant to fail. Eurydice was meant to die. And you? You were meant to watch.

He'll be here soon. You still try to warn them– oh, you try, you really do. You go ignored. It’s not your place to intercede. Sometimes, instead of trying to stop them, you comfort them– cup their face in false hands and tell them it’s alright, this won’t last forever. They can’t feel you, but maybe a breeze comes through and makes things easier for them. You talk to them in dreams, though you don’t think they remember it when they wake up. You won’t get through to them, but you need to try. Anything to delay the inevitable. To their credit, they always hold out a little longer than last time. Stubborn to a fault, you almost envy them.

Just a little longer. You can feel the need stuck in the back of their throat. Their patience wavers. There are days so bad you can’t help but feel pity, though you know they’d never accept it. In the loneliness of their mind, you can hear them calling out. 

Orpheus?

I’m waiting for you.

I know you're coming for me.

I know you hear me.

Tell me you’re coming.

Orpheus.

Please.

One day, the cries will stop. You will look on as feathers molt into fur, and they trade their beak for fangs. But for now, you stay with them. You sit with them. Take your place in their mind, and tell them a story.

Once upon a time, there was a poor boy…

started writing in between classes and im deeply obsessed with orpheus parallels with ortega/chargestep so have this. warning for ortega being inebriated and wanting to die.

Time to rise Orpheus. The day breaks and you with it. 

(I don’t want to. Don’t make me.)

That’s not an option. Get up Orpheus. 

(I have no legs. I have no hands.)

You will be repaired, doll of lyres. 

(I don’t want to be. I want to lay here and die.) 

Scio, sweetheart. 

(Will I see her again?)

Only on her deathbed. 

(I don’t think I can do this anymore.)

You will. 

Get up Orpheus. 

Get up Orpheus.

Get up-

“Ortega! Get down from there!”

Chen pulls you off the ledge of the building you guess you were climbing over. You're not really sure. 

You’re downstairs now. Your arm is over Chen’s shoulders. 

“-tega! What did you drink? Can you even hear me?” 

You’re nauseous.

You’re not nauseous anymore. 

“Ok that’s. That can be someone else’s problem, come on.” 

He lifts you once more. He’s good at that. He does is a lot when you fuck up or do something stupid which is always cause you’re a poor excuse for man. 

You snuggle into the passenger seat of his car. It’s cozy, it smells like him. You don’t smell good. 

“Drink this.” He says. He tips your head back and water pours into your mouth.

You do your level best to not choke.

You’re on the wrong side of your couch. This is Eurydice’s spot, not your’s.

Sidestep. Sidestep’s spot.

You shake your head, the smallest bit of clarity returning to your vision and mind. Chen has pulled a chair from the kitchen to sit in front of you. His expression swims but you think he’s concerned. Not a clue why.

“So. ‘Never gonna drink again?’” You spit onto the carpet and he grimaces. 

“Don’t know what you expect from someone like me. When’s my word ever meant shit?” You wonder if you could get him to punch you.

“You- I’m not entertaining this. You need to get your shit together.” He doesn’t say ‘before you end up dead’, but you hear it anyway. Or maybe that’s you saying it.

You let your head tip back over the couch. He wants you to try. You don’t know how. 

Yes you do. Rise from your corner. 

But you’re already so far gone.

Then go all the way. Pursual when you cannot see your target is what you do best. Find them.

They’re not dead. 

No.

They’re dead.

Not to you. 

I already failed them.

Then fail again. 

Isn’t the definition of madness trying the same thing over and over expecting a different outcome?

No, that’s a misconception. And anyways, when has that ever stopped you before?

Fair. 

Now tell him something so he doesn’t send you to a madhouse. 

You look back at Chen. His clenched teeth twist his scars on his lips and his hands are clasped together so tight you swear you hear the creak of metal. You slump forward, uncoordinated, and put one of your hands on his. 

“I’ll tell my… therapist,” the word is still a rock in your mouth, “about. This.” You’re not sure if you mean the drinking or the climbing. 

That’s not true.

Yeah well fuck you I’m not getting sent to a madhouse. I’m not crazy.

Then what’s this?

“That’s good.” Chen breathes out in a long relieved sigh. “That’s good.” 

You tug him off the chair and into a hug. You know he can feel your heartbeat through your shirt, and you know he needs that. 

Out of his view you stare daggers into the wall. You’re determined (for now). You have to find them again.

Miles to walk Orpheus. 

And promises to keep.

And promises to keep.

[amlovelies]

like real people do

this is another one of those prompts form the beginning of the year that I am just getting around to filling. I don’t have the original ask because I deleted it out of shame, but better late than never!

from the fictional kiss prompts

lazy morning kisses before they’ve even opened their eyes, still mumbling half-incoherently, not wanting to wake up

fandom: fhr pairing: Julia Ortega/f!sidestep (Cynthia Basri) words: 685 rating: M no smut but implied sexual content read on ao3

            You aren’t used to waking up like this. There’s no jolting escape from memories better left hidden, no nausea of your psyche slamming back into your flesh, but rather a slow gradual awareness of the self, of your surroundings. The sheets feel lush against your skin--too soft, expensive, just like the plush pillows beneath your head. There’s no soreness in your back from your too cheap mattress, instead your limbs feel languid and heavy. You don’t want to move, not that you could if you wanted to. Not with the way that Ortega has you almost pinned to the mattress.

               Part of your brain is screaming at you to run. So many years spent hiding; it’s a hard habit to shake. You still can’t bring yourself to look down, to see your tattooed limbs in the early morning light that is bleeding through the curtains. On display, as if they aren’t something to be ashamed of, as if you aren’t something to be ashamed of. You flush as you remember the night before, the tenderness of her hands as she caressed your skin. As if you were precious, as if you were real.

               There’s a grumble of protest as you begin to shift to try and extract yourself. Her grip tightening pulling you back, pulling you closer. A whisper, “stay, please” her face nuzzled into your neck. A kiss on your shoulder. A shiver down your spine.

               “I will,” you say, your voice a raspy broken thing. You hear her sigh of relief. A trail of kisses along your jaw her lips are seeking yours finding them by touch alone. Her eyes are still closed refusing to let the morning arrive.

               All thoughts of getting up fleeing as she kisses you. It is slow and languid. You didn’t think you could get any closer, but she pulls you flush against her body, hand running over you side, down your spine. Not with intent, but just exploring, enjoying the feel. And you let yourself be lost to it. Let it quell your rising anxiety and panic and just be present in the moment.

               The kiss breaks, and you watch as she squeezes her eyes tighter shut for just a moment before opening them. Her smile is luminous as your eyes meet. She reaches out to your face, thumb tracing the scar on your cheek.

               “I was afraid to open my eyes,” she admits. “You usually disappear.”

               You don’t know what to say to that. You still don’t know how to deal with the pain you can see in her face, the pain of those missing years. Did you really believe she would just forget about you? That you didn’t haunt her thoughts the way she always did yours.

               So instead, you kiss her again, and her arms pull you tight against her, maybe still not quite believing you are actually there. You’re not sure you believe it. This was never something you thought you could have. Never in your wildest dreams did you think you could be here. In her bed, in her arms, in her heart. Revealed, and she still loves you. Still wants you.

               “You did promise me breakfast.” A joke because it’s easier, familiar territory for both of you.

               “That I did,” she says with a laugh before intertwining her fingers with yours and pulling your hand up to kiss your knuckles. You try not to flinch as the sheet falls back and exposes you arm. The orange stark and shocking against the whiteness of the sheets. There’s no sign that it bothers her. Can she really be this accepting of your inhumanity? You kept waiting for it to be too much for her, for the knowledge to settle, for the shock to wear off, and for her to turn away from you. It’s no less than you deserve. You never deserved her. She doesn’t deserve what you have done to her life.

               “Hey--” her voice breaking through your thoughts as she squeezes your hand a little tighter trying to draw your attention away from the tattoos— “thank you for staying.”

tagging @lord-king-saint @roses-and-roux @lilyoffandoms

[whalesfallmoved]

hand over wound (1/??)

half an excuse to play around with form, style, and the second person pov. this isn’t what I typically write, so I’m ahhhhh about it all around. alas, FHR lives rent free in my head right now. only read over it a few times for mistakes, so apologies for any typos.

pairing: ricardo ortega/f!sidestep, pre-heartbreak rating: t word count: 2175 warnings: mentions of blood, injury. typical canon content. 

[read on AO3.]

--

You’re in an apartment that isn’t yours with a man you shouldn’t trust and a gut bleeding out over his nice, expensive bathroom, and that doesn’t sound like the start of a bad joke so much as the start of the end of your life. 

(If you could call it a life, if you could call it anything more than all your stolen seconds ticking down to this moment. Torn stitches— fucking stupid, stupid mistake, this is how they’re going to get you—)

(He’ll take you to a hospital and they’ll look and they’ll know and he’ll know and and and)

Fuck.

Two choices:

One. You can suck it up, ask for a first aid kit—he’ll have one, twice as nice as the one you’ve got and he doesn’t even need it—all those Ranger benefits he keeps trying to entice you with, go team! Maybe even some halfway decent painkillers.

You lock yourself in the bathroom, stitch yourself up clean enough to get out of here without bleeding on his floor, too. You can meet his questions with a hard laugh and a fuck off I’m fine go finish making the food I’m starving.

(and why the fuck did you come here why did you let yourself get swayed by his fast grins and his bright eyes? He isn’t your friend, he isn’t, even if he thinks he is.)

Fuck.

Two. You make a run for it. More questions. Potential for passing out in a dark alley. Vulnerable and wounded until you can get back to your own shitty place and hope to god Ortega doesn’t think to follow you. Which he will, you know he will, and you’re fast but he’s always been faster, just as quick on the draw with a mind of static to take your edge. 

You pull the tight undershirt up higher, flinching at the sight of your own skin, focus on the blood rolling sluggish and hot instead of the flinty orange patterns. The wound’s deep and fresh and curled like a crooked smile. 

Black clothes help. Red splatters vibrantly on the white marble counter, onto the floor, sticks to the soles of your feet (bare, shoes kicked off at the door.) You’ll have to clean that up. How the hell will you do that? With his goddamn bleach white towels? 

God— fucking— fuck.

Okay. You can do this. You just ask. Ask for the first aid kit. Slam the door in his face. Or run. 

You want to run. Feel that rabbit-heart drive bursting up under the skin to book it and maybe that’s what you need to do. Yes. That’s what you need to do. Leave Ortega the mess—you’ve saved his ass enough times you won’t feel bad about it, or at least not so bad you’ll apologize for it later (you never apologize, even when you maybe should) and—

A knock, and you jump, gasp. “Still alive in there?” He asks, that same smile-lilt to his voice. He’s teasing you, a little, but there’s an edge of concern too. 

(shitshitshitshitshitshitfuck)

“Just give me a second.” You bite out, trying to sound put upon rather than panicked. 

Shirt tugged down—fuck, that hurts—and your teeth sink into soft cheeks, hard enough to sting.  

A pause. You wait for the sound of footsteps to move away from the door. Silence, instead.

Exhale. 

“—Hey, are you alright?”

Goddamnit.

“I’m fine,” you drop to your knees and your side screams and the blood gets stickier, you can feel the fabric dragging with every move. Throw open the cabinets. Maybe he was organized for once in his life and put the first aid kit in here (fat chance) and nothing, nothing, just bare bones cleaning supplies. 

Frustration and pain build up, you slam the cabinet with a teeth-clenched groan and the knock comes again, more insistent this time, hard knuckles on hard wood— can’t you just fuck off can’t you leave me alone why did i come here—

“Noa. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. God, what do you want?” You snarl, voice raising to a pitch.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.” Your hand clutches at your side and comes away red, smeary. You have to do something, you have to move. Think. You can’t stay here. 

He’s not going to let you go. You should’ve just run while you had the chance, now he’s just outside the door waiting, on alert, knows you better than anyone (which isn’t saying much but it’s saying enough) and knows enough to not let you just snarl your way out of this. 

Shaky inhale. “Maybe.”

“Okay,” he breathes—relief? you don’t know and it chafes, what’s there to be relieved about?—gives a softer laugh, “no big deal. Just open the door.” 

You don’t want to do that. You really, really don’t want to do that. He’s going to want to help, he’s going to want to see, the way you’ve helped him before.

(warm brown skin interrupted by mods and scar tissue and the expanse of his back, defined muscle rippling under your fingertips— stay still, you snap, smacking his shoulder, and he laughs— ouch, watch it, I’m wounded— and that’s your own fault you idiot, needle/thread, and you lay his stitches so much neater than your own.)

“I… can’t.”

“...You can’t?”

“No.”

“Is it that bad?” His voice takes on a new edge, sharper now, the kind of break down the door, get the job done edge that comes with being a Ranger, you suppose. Not quite hard, still light enough to pass for his brand of charm-sly soothing, but you know better than to fall for that.

“I’m fine. Can you just…” you push up onto your feet, choking down another groan, pain splitting through your side like a disc-saw, “can you just get the first aid kit?” 

You think you hear a faint curse, and then: “yeah, be right back.”

In the space between, panic sets in.

Panic’s a cold emotion, and it’s a sick kind of luxury. You never got to panic before, riding it out out out all silent scream while everyone else’s thoughts and feelings stuck to your teeth, wormed down to the base of your spine. With Ortega you’re alone in your head and the only thing left to do is wait. Fists clench, ease the shaking. 

A few minutes pass, tick-tick-tick, and he’s at the door again, knock softer this time, and please, please, please leave me alone you want to say but you don’t, you just press your palm (red-stark) to your side, and maybe— maybe if you slam it open, it’ll knock him back long enough to give you a head start. You just have to get out—

“Noa.” He knocks again, and you think you hear his breath hitch, maybe, and you want to know what he’s thinking, you want to know so badly but it’s just deafening silence outside the door.

“Yeah… yeah.” 

One hand to your pulsing gut, one hand shaking, the knob unlocks with a soft click, and you’re stumbling back into the bathroom, and he’s there, filling the doorway, eyes soft-hard and brow furrowed. His eyes flick over the counter, the floor (blood splatters, streaks of it) and he lets out another quiet string of curses, “what the hell happened—?” 

He’s moving forward, and you stumble back till your knees hit the toilet.

You both still. Freeze. He’s got you cornered, and he knows it, he must know it, fuckfuckfuck— breathe, you have to breathe.

“You didn’t tell me you were hurt.” He murmurs, softer than before, one hand curled around the green-white first aid kit. Bandages. Stitches. Alcohol.

Maybe you could grab it. Run? No, that’s stupid— he’ll just grab you, shove you back, ask for answers you can’t and won’t give.

Fuck.

Again, you say: “I’m fine,” and feel your lips curl back, a snarl fit for a dog in a ring.

“Yeah, you look it,” he shakes his head, tries to smile, like he isn’t surprised but he wishes it were different, and he’s not going to get mad at you, not yet, we all get hurt in this business but it still can’t be different, it can’t be, asshole, so stop asking, “c’mon, let’s… go in the living room, and I’ll—”

“No,” you snap hard, working around the toilet toward the counter. A little more room that way, and you won’t sit, even though you’re starting to feel it, the shakes and the dizziness. Drip, drip, drip, and your hand curls tighter over your stomach.

“No?” He blinks, more confused than offended.

(you have such a delicate touch, he scoffs as you wrap pristine white bandages over the stitched gash, rough but slow, and you roll your eyes don’t get fucking shanked next time then, and he gasps, mock-offense, brown eyes sparkling, searching your mask for expression he won’t find but you’re smiling, you’re smiling because he’s beautiful.)

“Just give it to me. I can deal with it myself.” 

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” It is.

“Sure it isn’t.”

“It’s just a flesh wound, alright? Someone got a lucky scratch in that last fight. Didn’t think it’d open again. But it’s not that bad.”

“Well, I’m still not going to leave you here to stitch yourself up.”

Fucking— always so stubborn, why won’t he quit? 

“Either give it or I leave. Take your pick.” 

He stills, watching you, and you wonder how you look to him.

Like a scared animal? Wounded little monster he found and picked up for some fucking reason? What does he want with you? What is he thinking? 

His eyes trail over you, clothes all black and layered, baggy enough to hide everything, 

“You’re kidding.” He wants you to be kidding.

“Do I look like it?” You tilt your head back, challenging, stilling up—shoulders stiffen, legs numb, prepared to run or to fight. Like he’s not blocking the only exit, like he’s not the one person in the world you can’t outmaneuver—Sidestep brought down by a head full of silence and a pretty fucking face.

They would laugh at you. They will if this escalates, if he sees. He’s got all his good intentions, it’ll be the death of you. He’ll be the death of you.

“So what’s it gonna be?” It’s supposed to sound like a sneer-snarl but it comes out weak, the razor edge of fear sliding just under your tongue.

But he must miss it. Or chalk it up to something else. “You’re being ridiculous,” he shakes his head, “it’s really not an issue.”

Ortega, always believing the best of you. That you don’t want to inconvenience him. 

He wants to stay.

(you’ve never had anyone who wants to stay before.)

“I just wanna do it myself, fucks sake.” You burst, cutting him off at the finish line, and now you’re up on your feet, reaching with your free hand for the kit, ripping it from his hand.

“Just...” what was the line? “Just go finish making the food, alright? I’m starving.” and he lets you take it, lets you slam it down on the counter. You drop your blood-wet palm and clench it, as if to say see I’m fine it’s not that bad and his eyes drift over you again, harder than before, and he’s annoyed, well that’s too bad.

“Can I at least…”

“No.” 

Jaw clenches. Works. Ortega never knows when to not push, when to not be that wonder boy so full of heart, head first into the action, and you’re small potatoes so what the fuck is he doing here, really, with you? There’s a dozen other vigilantes in Los Diablos that would probably work with him, that would fall for his knockout smile twice as fast and twice as hard.

(oh, you’ve fallen alright, but he doesn’t need to know that.)

But he knows you. He does. More and less than he thinks he does. And he knows you’re not bluffing. You’ll leave. 

Shoulders still raised, jaw still stubborn, he slowly nods and steps back. You feel relief unshutter in your chest. “Alright,” he sighs, slumps.

Does he want you to stay? Or does he just want to make sure you don’t pass out in some grimy back alley to get picked over?

It doesn’t really matter.

(why is he letting this go that easily?)

“If you say it’s not that bad, I’ll believe you,” he nods, and it feels like a lie, sticks around in your skin the way lying does when someone lies with their mouth but not with their thoughts. “Just let me know if I can do anything, alright?” Smile, again, he’s always smiling except when he isn’t, effortlessly charming. 

“...Okay.” You mutter. There isn’t anything he can do, and you both know you won’t ask.

You stand off, not flinching and not moving as he steps back, hands twitching at his sides—to raise them in surrender or grab you, you don’t know, so as soon as he’s through the door you grab it, slam it closed, lock it fast.

Safe. Or as safe as you can be.

Fuck.

[ortegatrash]

All the king’s horses and all the king’s men

FHR fic. The Ortega twins go skydiving together for their 18th birthday. One of them relearns how to walk again.The other never does anything again.

Major character death, angst.

"We're going to be proper adults soon," Ricardo grins, giving Julia a playful punch to her side. "Ready for it?"

Julia rolls her eyes at her brother even as she sticks her tongue out. "Well I know I am definitely completely ready for adulthood," she tells him. "But I'm not sure about you, you still look like a bratty teenager to me."

"You're the baby of us two!"

"By a minute, idiot!" She makes a rude gesture at him. "At least shave those baby hairs if you don't want to look like a stinky teenage troll," she teases. "They look like you glued pubes to your upper lip!"

Ricardo's face is predictably indignant. "What- They do not!" he protests, though he does rub his finger over it without thinking. "Look, give me a few years and I'll have a magnificent moustache, just so you know, and then we'll see who's laughing."

"Uh huh."

They're interrupted then by one of the instructors leaning over and pulling his headphones off to shout. "ALRIGHT, KIDDOS, ARE YOU READY TO JUMP?"

"We're adults now, not kids-"

"-We are, yeah!"

"THEN ON THE COUNT OF THREE," he calls out. "ONE!"

Fear and excitement dance in their shared look.

"TWO!"

They reach out to take each other's hands - because no matter what they do, they're in this together. Going to drag each other down together.

Going to fall together.

"THREE!"

They squeeze each others' hands.

"JUMP!"

They fall.

---

There are terrified, matching looks of horror as they both simultaneously realise something's gone wrong. That their parachutes are both tangled and not streaming out properly behind them like they should

and their screams of adrenaline filled delight and fear turn into screams of a knowing plummet to their own doom.

[Ricardo lives.]  |  [Julia lives.]

[vegetalass]

Interlinked - Scene i.

talking about babies unlocks my sharingan 

long time no see Fallen Hero!!

not to be a mooch and an idiot but I read @saturnstep‘s post about the FHR cast with babies and i wanted to write some of my own!! 

actually thats totally a lie bc i had a bunch of babie fics drafted up but i was totally inspired by them to finish one up and post it 

although my headcanons on the characters are totally different and my own ideas *weeps* 

anyways credit to them

hopefully i can finish the other 4 i have planned!! 

as u can see i made up a bunch of farm trivia,..... and made sidestep NOT a mess... but whatever im chilling 

link to my ao3 HERE

Warning: contains Fallen Hero: Retribution spoilers.

FH:R belongs to @fallenhero-rebirth

Lady Argent/gn!Reader - 910 words

Lady Argent sits stiffly, the baby in her arms held under his armpits like a China doll a child got for Christmas and doesn’t want. Bright red curls spring from his pale head and he giggles, reaching out for lengths of Argent’s silver hair to play with despite her absolutely apparent frown.

You’re watching from your place by the door, Argent pouting in distaste before she swoops to the side in an attempt to dodge the baby’s second attempt at going straight for her nose. She must look unreal to him. Like one of those old, military cartoons they made before the Earthquakes.  

While she has never been one to seem pleased to see you, she notices you before the baby does, her face displaying a combination of both relief and impatience at your arrival before you even manage to say hello.

“Oh, thank God,” she mutters while jumping at you, before practically shoving the small boy into your arms, who luckily finds himself content enough to begin giggling again at the movement, albeit disappointed at your lack of long hair. You’re surprised about the fact that Argent trusts you enough to hold a baby, but not shocked by her response.

As you rest the child against your side, checking to make sure he seems comfortable after the short and jolting trip, you turn to Argent with an expression of mocking disapproval.

“What?” Her eyebrows crinkle together as she crosses her arms, cocks her hip, and stares at you, now holding the baby under his bottom like they taught you in a Rangers first aid class a long, long time ago.

You easily drop the frown and chuckle softly, the baby bouncing with your laugh, smiling at the both of you as if you aren’t the physical embodiments of dangerous weapons with attitude issues.

“Don’t like kids, Argent?” You ask, despite having your eyes trained solely on the baby as you coo in delight at his happy expression.

Argent rolls her eyes at both the sight and your question and glares, but shakes her head in response anyway.

“I just…” she begins, sucking in a breath through her teeth, “I used to love babies.”

You nod at her, the pursed expression that was on her face now distant, her eyes cold and empty as she finishes, “And now, I don’t.”

Though you don’t intend on creeping into her mind, the image of a small girl holding a China babydoll assaults you, before it morphs into a picture of who you recognize as Argent screaming: half silver, half hairless, and all tears and blood in a forever-mirrored pool that surrounds her naked body as she cries.

You are briefly reminded of what it’s like to be born, at least, what you can remember of it, and you can practically taste the pills in the back of your throat. However, the illusion doesn’t last, as the real Argent coughs and breaks your concentration on whatever memory you had been caught in.  

Though her eyebrows are squeezed together, it only takes a second for her expression to return to normal before she sticks her lip out at you when she realizes that you’re staring, “What about you, Sidestep?”

As if on cue, the baby in your arms interrupts in a squeal, one of his perfect hands latching onto the collar of your shirt and pulling. Though Argent doesn’t mention the stretched sleeve, and you assume she doesn’t mind getting another look at your tattoos, suddenly, she hesitates, her voice small and curious, “Can you even… have kids?”

You glance at her, before you shake your head slowly, distracted by the blabbering boy who is now more interested by the straps of your undershirt than by the faded skin and glowing tattoos themselves. To think that you, a Cuckoo, would ever get to hold a baby.

You think of the nurses back at the farm. The lucky Re-Genes with long hair and soft skin who, despite being created blue, live pampered lives in big houses and walk and talk as though they were born to be someone’s actual parents. Gentle hands given to monstrous beings, sweet voices in place of AI. Their expertise labor is sold to the rich, eastern states and international families who can’t be bothered to care for their children with their own bodies and resources.

However, these Re-Genes live short lives, slaughtered for parts once their assigned children grow up and they get sent back to the Farm; but you’ve seen the way they work; the way that they hold each other, and you know what it’s like to know them through the way that they have held you.

And Argent is no different: despite her foul mouth and short temper, she is someone who now knows a lot about you. Though you’re still surprised you’re not dead by her hands, you no longer have to wonder why she asked for your help with taking care of a baby.

Though she continues to glower at you, it’s only when you realize that the baby is reaching out for her now, instead, that you allow yourself to release a shaky breath of laughter when you finally do pass him back to her waiting arms.

Even if Argent insists she dislikes babies, it’s only when her lips dip into the tiniest smile you’ve ever seen that you realize you can see the reflection of your face in her tired, silver eyes.

[sidesteppostinghours]

HI THERE HELLO HAVE YOU SEEN MY SON. WOULD YOU LIKE TO.

caine is a very calm, collected, stoic individual. it takes a lot to get him caught openly off guard or flustered.

getting picked up and kissed by a villain a foot shorter than him with no prior warning would do the trick tho

mitchel belongs to @hyper-pixels! i Did have ideas before this but unfortunately for caine all of them got thrown out of the window when i got this notif

[kittlesandbugs]

FHR: Escapist inklings (Ao3 Link) Characters: Sidestep (Farm, 2nd visit) Warnings: Canon-typical suicidal ideation, implied abuses at the Farm, nothing explicitly shown. Word Count: 735 Summary: Sidestep sits in solitary confinement, pondering possibilities for escape and stumbles onto an idea.

Lying on the mat in your cell, you toss and turn with restless frustration. It's impossible to get comfortable between the fresh bruises of the day and the dampeners weighing down on your mind. They're immutable around you, making the four close closed walls even more claustrophobic. A choke hold on your mind that would be much more merciful if it was clenched tight around your throat. 

If only you could be so lucky. 

You still on your back, the thin mat doing little to cushion your scrawny atrophied body from the cold concrete floor. Your stomach gnaws at your spine, fed just enough to keep your brain alive and active, because that's all they care about. Not fed enough to be comfortable, to remind you that good dogs get good meals. You ignore these slights against yourself. You're still breathing. Focus on that. 

In. 

Out. 

Slow. 

Steady. 

Don't think about how you learned this, years ago, a passive puppy learning to self-soothe to serve. They want that good obedient dog back, not the feral stray cat you became once out of their bag. You'll die before becoming that sad browbeaten creature again. And they'll regret the tiger you'll be once you figure your way out of this cage. Once you have your claws on their throats. 

How to get out is the only thing stopping you. 

Telepathy won't get you out of this, not with the dampeners trapping your reaching prying fingers inside your own skull. You aren't a shape-shifter. You can't dematerialize and pass through walls. You can't pass unseen and unheard through spaces between reality, not like the Void.

Hm. The Void. 

You saw the paths she walked once. You made yourself forget them as the green faded from your sight and the burn faded from your veins. Could you make yourself remember them again? Could you walk them again? Pass through the walls of this place like the ghost you are. What's the worst that can happen if you try? You venture too deep into the space between? It crushes you like it crushed the Void? Ends your miserable existence here? You can't see a downside to trying. 

You breathe. In. Out. Remember. The acid of her Blood burning deep in your veins. The color of her Sky, deep underground. The paths they opened in the spaces between, seared deep inside of you. Push your fingers through the folds of your mind, peel and pry back the scars chaining the memories so very deep, gouge them out, let them flow fresh and green. 

(ignore the screams. yours. ortega's. they're all in the past.)

Your eyes open inside and you see. It's tiny, barely visible, like dust motes in a shaft of light. Small. Mutable. Immaterial. You can't walk this. Your flesh is weak but solid. It binds you to this plane. 

But your mind is strong. It doesn't need this flesh. It needs to go free, unfettered, unburdened, unreal. You have to escape the gravity well of mind to body. You have to unmake your self to become. 

You need to let it go. 

You reach and you drag your self, pulling taut, tauter, tight, tighter, and then finally the invisible cord binding you to you snaps. 

You think you scream. 

But no one comes in. 

Your body breathes on below, but you are weightless above. 

Immaterial. 

Free. 

On the moted path, you wander. Beyond the choke of the dampeners, you fly. Feather light and feather flow, you drift down towards another mind.

A guard. Yours. Seated in a padded chair, viewing screens that capture you and your cell, inside and out from every angle. 

You flow into the cracks of his mind, taking a tenuous hold amidst his stream of consciousness. He's bored watching you sleep, especially now that you've settled. He needs to go to the bathroom, but his shift mate has stepped out to smoke. He wonders what will be for dinner when he gets home after third shift is over. He half-hopes you'll start pounding the walls again, just to break up the monotony. 

You wonder… 

Can you do more than watch…? 

Tickle a little nerve. 

His hand jerks and he swears as the mug of coffee spills across the desk. In his panic, your tenuous hold snaps like a rubber band. 

You lurch upright, you again, you yourself, choking on bitter victorious bile as you laugh. 

[kittlesandbugs]

No rest for the wicked Fandom/Pairing: FHR / Chargestep Word Count: 700 Warnings: Retribution spoilers, but otherwise fairly innocent Summary: Ortega tries to get Sidestep to open up about how tired she looks.  It goes as well as expected.

"No offense, but you look like shit."

Your third cup of coffee of the day burns hot in your sinuses as he catches you off guard. It takes you a moment to cough it out. When is he going to stop sneaking up on you? 

"Someone has to keep you looking pretty," you snort when you can again, wiping your face on your sleeve, glaring at him for both the insult and the near-drowning. 

"We both know I don't need any help there," he says with a wink that makes your face warm up. Then he sobers too quickly. "Seriously though. You look rough.  You alright?"

"I'm fine," you growl, taking another slug of coffee.

"Riley…"

"What," you ask flatly.

He lets out a long-suffering sigh and mutters something under his breath in Spanish that you don't quite catch as he massages his temples with one hand. Mothering then, just like his.

Your face tightens, scowl deepens, and you repeat slow and punctuated, "I'm. Fine."

His back turns to you as he gets his own drink from the pot. Pours it into a sterile Rangers logo'd mug just like yours. You hide your frown with another sip even if he can't see it. Too many old memories itching in your skull. Too many things have changed. No way to tell if he's haunted by the same ghosts. Static is all you can get from his brain. 

He takes a seat across from you, hands cradling the hot mug of black coffee. Blessed silence reigns supreme. Maybe he's gotten the message. Maybe you won't have to spin anymore lies about how you have your spiraling life perfectly under control. 

"Are you sleeping okay?" 

You can't stop the cracked little "Ha!" that slips out. Sleep? When? Even if you could go a night without waking up screaming, you skip several just to keep up with your lives. Jolene isn't around anymore to give your body a break, even if you rarely gave your mind one. 

"Nightmares?" he asks quietly. 

"Yes," you cautiously admit because it's only half a lie. Doesn't count, right? 

He mulls that over before asking, "You wanna come over tonight?" 

Of course he'd ask that. You do sleep somewhat better there, but… You drag a hand down your face as you consider your options, because saying no to him rarely gets the desired result. Maybe after… No, no, you don't want him picking up the scents of expensive cigars and vodka off you. Asking questions. That won't end well. 

"Maybe tomorrow," you say, finally. "I already have plans tonight."

"With Angie?" Still no jealousy there. You do all manage to share well, for being selfish assholes. 

"No, someone else." 

"Look at you, being all social," he teases, but you can feel a brittleness to it. 

"I'm retired," you lie for the millionth time, easy as breathing. "How else am I supposed to pass the time?" 

"I'm sure you have ways. Do I know them?" 

There's an intensity there in his eyes that wars with the innocence of his question, and you don't particularly like it, so you drain the rest of your mug and stand. 

"None of your business," you retort as you abandon your mug in the sink. Time to bail before he tries to sink his claws any deeper. 

He puts himself in your path because of course he does, and you allow the easy embrace, the kiss, slightly bittered by more than just black coffee. You still need it as much as you need the caffeine. 

"What time are you off tomorrow?" you ask, too breathless and too warm when he lets you go. 

"Seven, pulled the mid shift."  His nose crinkles in displeasure, but it's a farce. You know he loves sleeping in. 

"I'll have pizza ordered for us."

"And dessert?" An eyebrow waggle and a grin you can't mistake the intent of, and you chuckle. That would almost certainly help you sleep.

"We'll see," you say coyly as you slip out of his arms towards the door. 

"Riley?" 

You pause in the doorway and meet his gaze. "Yeah?" 

"Please take care of yourself."

"I always do," you lie again and slip out the door. 

[whowhatifs]

*clears throat* *screams*

Aml you've done it again. 😭😍💜💜 Reading your fics is like getting access to actual canon scenes, so thank you honestly from the bottom of my heart for the effort and bravery to share with us. 😭💜

(More reactions under the cut because it got long)

"It was going to be the death of you one day." Allow me to reiterate my reaction: 😭❤️💔

“You’re right I did say that. Looks like you’ll have to sleep in the hall then Sparkles.” Aldjaksjdk amazing line 😌👏🏻 I love their dynamic.

"Comfortable. Too comfortable, too close to that feeling of home you could never really understand before, except you can now." This is fine. I'm fine. Everything to do with the concept of home and finding it is fine. Yup yup yup. ✨

"Anything to keep your eyes away from the bare expanse of his chest. You could reach out and touch him. Let your fingers trace the edges of his many scars, run them through the expanse of dark coarse hair covering his chest." Nnnfffjhhhhhh 😳 help me

"You wish you had another glass of water to throw on him, just anything to get back at him for making you feel these things." *laughs and kinda cries at the same time*

"They always taught you that desire was an easy trap to spring. How rational thought tends to fly out the window when libido gets involved. You know this. You’ve watched it happen." Oh a mood. I do not know what emotion I am feeling reading this, so maybe it's weird to tell you about it, but... it's just... I am in awe of your ability to elicit emotion and I gotta tell you about it!

"Just to see what it feels like, just to know so that it doesn’t hang over your head. Take away its power, take away his power." Such an intense and beautiful line, screams FHR and I love it.

I'm just sitting here. Staring at this gorgeous fic. Trying to figure out how to tell you how much I love it. I don't think words suffice, so mentally I am clinging to you like a big koala bear. *Nuzzle*

don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it

what’s this me actually posting writing! here’s my first real attempt at some Vesper/Ric content. sidestep days. vesper has a crush and is not happy about it.

fandom: fhr pairing: ricardo ortega/nb!sidestep (Vesper Bui) rating: T, mention of alcohol/drunkness and cursing words: 1.5k read on ao3

          The stairs are harder to navigate than you would like to admit. Ortega’s weight is heavy where he balances against your shoulder, humming under his breath hot on your neck, the smell of tequila making your stomach turn. It’s just nausea causing the tight fluttering in your stomach. Nothing to do with the way his body is pressed against your side. Nothing at all to do with it, just nausea and annoyance at having to make sure his ass gets home safe. Your movements are slow and deliberate the expensive carpeting muffling your stumbling steps. You’d drank more than you normally would. Some sick sense of competition driving you to try to keep pace with Ortega. Not that you’d been able to. It’s was a fool’s mission if you’d ever seen one, but then again when weren’t you following Ortega like a fool.

               It was going to be the death of you one day.

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