Hello, all! I was gonna start the Sidestep Q's again, but got a frying pan to the face in the form of a reminder that it's Art Fight. So, y'all are gonna be busy as hell already. Love all my visual artist friends and mutuals, but dear gods does Art Fight sound a bit like a crucible XD
But! Instead I'm gonna do this fun little writing game @grapecaseschoices tagged me in. I don't usually do a lot of rereading of my writing, which makes this a bit of a challenge, but it also seems like a way to reflect on what I've done and how my style has changed over the years.
The Rules:
It's time to toot your own horn and find appreciation for your own writing by posting your personal favourite sentences/lines/quotes/paragraphs of your fanfics or original fiction. choose as many works as you'd like, (preferably they're already published somewhere but it's fine if you've never posted your writing but want to take part in the tag!)and let yourself (and others!) fawn over your literary talent! the goal of this is to read your old writing and find things that you love and are still proud of weeks or months or even years later!
Trying to distract himself, he forced his attention to what was physically around him. The campfire crackled soothingly beyond the thick fabric of his tent. It wasn’t the low crackle of smoldering ash, but the sharp snap of fresh logs catching flame. Someone was tending to it still. Despite how close his tent was to the bonfire the Chargers had built, the bitter cold of Ferelden still seeped its way into Dorian’s bones. He wondered idly if he’d ever feel warm again. Cursing himself for enabling his insomnia, he slipped out of the bedroll and got to his feet.
He tried to stretch a bit to appease his angry muscles. It did little good. Ignoring the aches, he leaned down to rummage through his pack. He pushed aside wrapped rations, quills, inkwells, scribbled notes, and rolled maps of the area to pull out a thick tome. Its old worn leather was soft against his fingers. He turned it over in his hands, letting the weight of it comfort him. He had been elated when he’d found it hiding among the other books of Skyhold’s library. Vetrani was a visionary of magical theory, difficult to find in Tevinter due to his radical ideals on the Fade, and it had been a damned miracle to find one of his books so deep in the south.
He stepped out into the night. The scent of woodsmoke was thick in the air and Dorian hurried to get closer to the warmth. The trees around Ferelden weren’t found in Tevinter and, when burned, Dorian found the campfires smelled different. Much more floral. Less of a robust spiced edge of what he remembered of his home. The flames of it twisted up in shades of orange and gold. As he approached, he noticed a familiar figure sitting in the grass.
- By Blood & Lyrium, Ch. 5
My Dragon Age long fic is perhaps one of my favorite pieces in totality that I've written, which I'm still planning on finishing. A sprawling lore overhaul guised as a parallel plot retelling focusing on the relations and growth of primarily side characters. It's told in a tone meant to evoke not only character voice but older pre-90s fantasy epics. Chapter 5 was originally seven years ago now and I think it really holds up. Some of the language could be tweaked to be fully on theme, but it has some of my favorite setting descriptions I've ever written. Specifically, I remember really wanting to get across to readers that this Dorian is an academic and noble in a foreign land - and I do think I evoke his conflicted homesickness throughout this chapter.
Eoin looks up at him with a quizzical frown as they walk out towards their usual spot among the scruffy grass. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“You don’t call Mum ‘mum’ anymore,” Eoin says. Ciaran winces at the question, his frown deepening as his little brother continues. “You used to, but you don’t no more.”
Ciaran sighs. “It’s complicated.” He pushes a few stray hairs from his face. When he looks down at Eoin, he sees the expectant patience there. He takes a deep breath. Eoin won't let it go now without a satisfactory answer, so there's no use avoiding it. “She’s never really here anymore and, when she is, she doesn’t hang around the house. She doesn’t really feel like my mum anymore.”
Eoin worries at the hem of his shirt, twisting it between his fingers. “I don’t think she likes it when you call her Rebecca,” he mumbles. “I think it makes her feel sad.”
Something tightens in Ciaran’s chest and an old bitterness crawls up his throat and makes a home behind his teeth. “It makes me sad, too," he manages to mutter.
-Scarlet Welly Boots, Ch 4
A series of truncated vignettes meant to capture snapshots of my OCs life, Scarlet Welly Boots was a very experimental piece for me. It was a brief return to multi-chapter fics after a long stint doing one-shots, but I was playing around a lot with shortform chapters (anyone who knows me well knows I prefer my chapters 5-8k words) and challenging myself to capture what I needed to in a limited word count. It's also just a deeply personal piece to me. I'm very proud of how a lot of the dialogue in specific turned out.
They raise their hand to knock and the door swings open, bringing them face to face with Ricardo. He's dressed up for going out, in a silky purple shirt and a nice pair of slacks that hug tight across his hips. A hint of musky cologne lingers around him. He blinks once and then again as if not convinced they're really here. "Shadi?"
Rashad swallows down the tightness in their throat at the old nickname. "Sorry it's so late." It used to be so easy to talk to Ricardo, especially when it was hard with everyone else. Now it feels like they struggle with the most basic conversation. Or they argue. And they'd really like to not argue tonight. "I didn't mean to interrupt" -they look over his outfit and gel-tousled hair once more- "your outing."
"What are you doing here?" Ricardo's tone is abrupt and confused. His eyes widen just as Rashad's do as the question leaves his lips. He scrubs a palm over his face with a groan. "That's not how I meant that. It's just, I wasn't expecting you." He laughs sharply. "I guess it almost feels like-"
"Like I'm avoiding you," Rashad finishes honestly, regretting it immediately as Ricardo flinches. "I've just been busy."
Ricardo looks at them, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. "So you keep saying."
-Love That Doesn't Have a Place to Rest
This is easily my favorite piece I've written in the last six years, with a close second being Don't Let Me Break This. I have such a deep fondness for the the way I explore Ricardo's sexuality and how he's struggled and thrived with it in time. For all I wish FHR would get more into the nitty gritty political details, I'm glad the lack of it has given me the space to breathe and fill in those blanks as I choose. Publicity and how it takes a toll on one's identity and particularly on what aspects of identity one is allowed is a topic I find deeply fascinating and, while I have a more explicit fic in the works on this topic, I'm glad I could lampshade those themes here. But I did highlight this particular excerpt because I'm deeply proud of how it showcases that Rashad and Ricardo know each other so well as to know how their conversation will go but still languish in the void of things they can't say to each other. It's a really fun dynamic to play with.
He knows he shouldn’t, but Felix has never been one to not take risks, and this is such a small one in comparison. Sliding his hand a little closer across the table, he brushes his little finger against Julian’s. He watches Julian’s gaze flick down to the touch, his expression infuriatingly unreadable behind the walls he’s erected. But then his expression softens, ever so slowly, like watching water run down the icicles that hung outside the windows that one winter up north. He hooks his little finger around Felix’s, stilling them both, and he tilts his head slightly towards Felix.
His expression gives away little, but Julian feels emotions like a radio turned up just too loud for Felix’s empathetic senses. He feels himself losing his footing in the stream of it and, instead of fighting it, he lets the undertow pull him into the depths of Julian. Julian feels like loneliness and isolation so often - cold and profoundly deep and ancient as the oceans - but there is more deeper in the blue. There is warmth like volcanic vents, giving life to passion and drive and something small that Felix has to pay closer attention to in order to realize its name. There is hope there, cracked and brittle under the pressures around it, but bolstered by the attraction that tastes sweet on Felix’s tongue. Would he drown here, in the currents of Julian’s heart? Could he, knowing that as soon as they catch Julian’s hunter, he will be gone with the rest of his team?
-Catalyzing with a Breath of Calefaction
A deeply silly title for a very soft fic, but I can't be bothered to change it. I have such love for Julian and Felix, especially in this fic. As much as I love established relationships or romance born from them, it was really fun to write a relationship of just two people getting to know each other, especially when one has stopped opening up at all. It also let me play with Felix's empathic senses and decide how I felt they should manifest. Which, in turn, let me do my favorite thing in writing: metaphorical descriptions.
Lastly, something from a WIP for fun!
"Right," Ricardo announces. He rolls his shoulders and, much like Rashad in the car, Anathema watches him become the Marshal. "Let's go save the world again."
He turns and steps towards the barricades, leaving the rest to follow suit. As Anathema widens their stride to keep up, they bump gently into Rashad's arm. "You gonna be okay?"
The silhouette of their cowl shifts, no doubt as their jaw works in mild annoyance. "Yeah. I'll just keep to the fringes."
"Well, you know I'll watch your back." They elbow Rashad playfully. "Hard to kill the indestructible, even with spooky mind powers." She wiggles her fingers for effect.
-Untitled WIP
I'm finally braving writing pre-HBI character dynamics, which is something I've struggled with and lowkey been afraid of working on, but I'm really enjoying it as I get into the swing of things. I'm quite enjoying walking the tightrope between What We Know From the Books and understanding Sidestep has been through a lot of trauma and that's colored how they think of their past relationships with the Rangers. It'll be four chapters when it's done and I'm so excited to share it eventually.
Well, that's all from me. To pass it along, I'm tagging @glitchy-npc, @heartbreakincident, @butchselkie, and YOU, if you've written anything. Share with the class and don't forget to tag me so I can see it!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Ortega/The Puppet (Fallen Hero), Ortega/Sidestep (Fallen Hero)
Characters: Ortega (Fallen Hero), The Puppet (Fallen Hero), Sidestep (Fallen Hero)
Additional Tags: Extremely Dubious Consent, Drunk Sex, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Mutual Pining, Ortega is Named Ricardo (Fallen Hero), Established Relationship, Complicated Relationships, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Lies, Internalized Homophobia, Dubious Morality, Porn With Plot, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Kinktober 2025, Identity Porn
Series: Part 4 of Think Not With My Heart
Summary:
Ricardo would rather not spend another miserable night alone, but he can't exactly call Rashad, what with the current state of their relationship. However, he can call the man he's honey trapping.
Well, about a month ago, @glitchy-npc tagged me and, uh, I promptly forgot about it and then had a bit of a nightmare fortnight, so I'm finally getting around to it.
Gonna tag up here because there be smut down at the bottom. Gonna tag @autistic-sidestep, @silvery-bluish, @old-reflexes, and @serenpedac
From The Second Hand Unwinds, a Adam/Nate/Raine fic:
"Something is wrong." The decor is long antiquated, if the music is in vogue. Adam casts his eyes about the crowd, even as he keeps in step with Nate's waltz. He's almost certain the fashion the guests are sporting is wrong, too. He narrows his eyes. "How did we get here?"
Beside him, a familiar voice sounds. "Can't even enjoy yourself at a party, du Mortain?"
He and Nate slow to stop. Raine grins beneath his colombina cavalli mask, dressed in a fine embroidered coat and trousers. He makes a gesture and Nate bows his head, relinquishing Adam with a chuckle. Adam's eyes snap between the two, narrowing, but he says nothing as Raine picks up where Nate left. He cocks his head at Adam. "What's wrong? Is it not to your liking?"
From Chapter 2-2 of Mateo's route:
Steel and Charge vanish as they turn the corner to the next set of stairs. You could call out, but you don't. You let them press on ahead of you and Anathema. You didn't tell them they were climbing too fast because they weren't. You had slowed down. Out of selfishness, out of your own comfort. The dampening field was thinning and you didn't care. Liked it, even. Because it hurt you less.
You should've known better. It hurt you less, but you weren't the only one to worry about. Anathema had kept pace with you, because you were supposed to watch each other's backs. They were always the better person compared to you. They didn't deserve their fate. They didn't deserve to suffer for your mistakes.
But you can't wake up, because you couldn't wake up then, and you sure as fuck can't wake up now.
From Chapter 1-1 of Cass' Route:
You see Herald winding up for a tackle and your instincts say dodge, but the delay between your mind and her body ruins your reaction time and you gasp as he slams bodily into you. You've seen her shift her hands into talons, but they refuse to do as you command beyond balling her fists and hammering down on his back. It does little to stop him and you both crash through the windows of the mall storefront.
You ignore the haunted orchestra of shattered glass and bouncing mannequins in favor of continuing to beat on Herald, scratched and tearing at his nanoweave suit when punching and slapping fails. You bury her silver fingers into his blonde curls and yank hard enough for some of the strands to come free. Your other hand reaches out randomly as the two of you tumble, closing around something thick and unyielding, and you bring the stray mannequin leg down hard on his nose.
"Fuck!" He shouts, running counter to his public image of the perfect wonderboy. But he does, finally, let go of you. At least, he does after another compelling argument from the mannequin leg.
And, finally, from Too Busy Being Yours, a smutty piece about Ricardo and Rashad's puppet, Xiao:
He starts a steady rhythm, rocking against Xiao with his arms braced on either side of the man to keep from simply falling against him. Xiao bucks up against him on reflex, back arching, and Ricardo can't help but open his eyes to watch Xiao gasp. There's no denying that he's a handsome man. He should want to be in the moment. He should want to watch Xiao's eyes roll and lips part and neck bob as he swallows hard with every move of Ricardo's hips. He should.
The younger man moves to prop himself up on his elbows. "Ricardo-"
But it isn't the voice he wants to hear. It isn't the hair he wants to see mussed, or the skin he wants to see flushed, or the lashes he wants to watch flutter shut. Xiao isn't the person he wants. So he slips two fingers past Xiao's lips to keep his treacherous tongue busy, closes his eyes, and traces the shape of his collarbone with his teeth.
(5101 words) by CigarettesandInevitableBetrayal
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Ortega/Sidestep (Fallen Hero)
Characters: Ortega (Fallen Hero), Sidestep (Fallen Hero)
Additional Tags: Ortega is Named Ricardo (Fallen Hero), Mutual Pining, Past Relationship(s), Drunken Confessions, Regret, Survivor Guilt, Suicidal Thoughts
Series: Part 3 of Think Not With My Heart
Summary:
Despite their best efforts, Rashad Basri couldn't ignore Ricardo's birthday.
A/N: Instead of sticking to chronological order, I've decided to just write and post them as they come, so have what actually happened on Ricardo's birthday. You can read on AO3 or
This is a bad idea. Rashad knows this as they step out of the cab and hand over the fare. It drives off immediately, leaving them to face their decisions in the form of the looming luxury apartment complex that Ricardo calls home. It's the same as it was eight years ago - they double checked. Same complex, same building, same tricky little fire escape they used to unlock and climb up because having a record of being here would reveal how often they visited. In retrospect, they're not sure why it was so important to not have record of how much time they spent with Ricardo. Maybe it was because fewer records meant fewer places for the Special Directive to look.
Maybe it was just plausible deniability. Things between them never really did recover after the Nanosurge, after the interviews that followed, and Rashad still remembers the months of distance after. They shouldn't have gotten as close as they did back then, but there was something exhilarating, almost electric, about it. Rashad had relished how easy it felt to be emotionally and physically intimate with Ricardo in a way they'd not wanted to with anyone else before. They'd been too selfish and had misread the signs, only being put into perspective by Ricardo's voice played over a tinny speaker. He'd laid down boundaries and Rashad respected them. But they never could fully stay away.
Just like how they still can't stay away now. Rashad had almost let it slip by without a word; another silent signal to Ricardo that neither of them are the same people as who they used to be. Rashad had even orchestrated a job for Heartbreak to keep themself busy all day, but as the hours ticked by, a heavy weight had settled in their stomach and they couldn't ignore it anymore. The CEO of Vector Technologies would have to wait, anxious in the knowledge that he'd only just barely dodged a visit from Heartbreak. Today is special and they couldn't just let it pass by unspoken. Instead, they'd dropped off their armor at their base and scoured six different drug stores to find just the right card.
And now they're here, dancing with danger, sticking their hand into a fire that's burned them before. It will burn them again if they persist. It is inevitable.
They still have time to turn back, to let their presence here be nothing more than passing shadow, but their feet lead them forward regardless of the innumerable reasons to leave. The doorman is the same as eight years ago, but Rashad doesn't give him the chance to recognize them as they paint over their presence. It's a simple tug of muscle memory to have him buzz them in. The door clicks behind them, shut and locked.
The stairs are an agonizing experience. They could've taken the elevator, but the stairs afford more time to think and reason with themself. Perhaps that time even gives them the chance to turn around. But they know now that's not going to happen. They're too deep in Ricardo's orbit to avoid him as much as they'd like, drawn up to his apartment as if by gravity itself, and they don't want to leave anyway. The truth is that they miss him even when they shouldn't. There was only one place they'd ever wind up being tonight.
Rashad doesn't know how long they spend staring at the door once they arrive. They flex their metal fingers against the handle of their cane, trying to stall as they drum up the courage to knock. Slipping the card under the door is always an option, but that wouldn't accomplish what they want. It wouldn't assuage the guilt of wanting to pretend they forgot Ricardo's birthday.
They raise their hand to knock and the door swings open, bringing them face to face with Ricardo. He's dressed up for going out, in a silky purple shirt and a nice pair of slacks that hug tight across his hips. A hint of musky cologne lingers around him. He blinks once and then again as if not convinced they're really here. "Shadi?"
Rashad swallows down the tightness in their throat at the old nickname. "Sorry it's so late." It used to be so easy to talk to Ricardo, especially when it was hard with everyone else. Now it feels like they struggle with the most basic conversation. Or they argue. And they'd really like to not argue tonight. "I didn't mean to interrupt" -they look over his outfit and gel-tousled hair once more- "your outing."
"What are you doing here?" Ricardo's tone is abrupt and confused. His eyes widen just as Rashad's do as the question leaves his lips. He scrubs a palm over his face with a groan. "That's not how I meant that. It's just, I wasn't expecting you." He laughs sharply. "I guess it almost feels like-"
"Like I'm avoiding you," Rashad finishes honestly, regretting it immediately as Ricardo flinches. "I've just been busy."
Ricardo looks at them, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. "So you keep saying."
Rashad tries not to flinch in turn at the barb. They watch Ricardo carefully for a moment, trying to gauge if that was as bitter as it sounded. There's a grief etched in the lines beginning to settle by his eyes and across his brow that Rashad doesn't know how to reckon with. Especially when they know they've personally caused a good amount of it.
"I just came to give you this," they say at last. They offer out the envelope, which Ricardo takes with a slow caution, as though it might bite him. As it slips from their fingers, Rashad takes a step back. "I'll let you enjoy your night."
They turn away, but Ricardo raises his voice to call out, "Wait!" They do, caught off guard by the desperation in his voice. They stand there, an ocean's distance somehow between the two as they stare at each other. Then Ricardo straightens up, backing away to hold the door open wide. "Come inside for a bit?"
Even to Rashad, their own hesitation seems to stretch on forever. They raise an eyebrow. "I thought you were going out?"
"I didn't have any plans," he says, his lips drawing up into an easy smile. "Just killing some wanderlust. This will work, too."
Rashad falters. They've delivered the card, they've said their piece, so they should leave now. There's nothing left here they need to do. If they were smart, they would leave now.
They follow him into the apartment.
It both is and isn't the first time they've seen it since before everything fell apart. Xiao has been here, but it looks different from his eyes to their own. Still warm and welcoming, but not as familiar and cozy as it is to them now. Funny how that works.
Ricardo wanders towards the kitchen, dropping the card on the table nearby. He doesn't open it and that's a small relief to Rashad. It's an old habit revived from their younger years, when they and the Rangers would compete to find the silliest birthday cards, and Ricardo opening now would only wrench open old wounds. As Ricardo moves to turn the corner, his eyes linger on them as if they might disappear at any moment. The attention makes Rashad's skin itch. "Do you want something to drink?" His hand lingers on the open archway, holding him in the limbo space between the kitchen and living room.
Rashad's brows furrow. "You know I don't drink."
"I meant a coffee," Ricardo says with a chuckle. It's a strange, awkward sound like he's only now starting to realize how hard it's become to hold a conversation between them. "Or maybe a soda, given the hour."
It is too late to acceptably ask for coffee, Rashad knows. So instead they ask, "Do you still keep those glass bottle Mundets?" It's a longshot, they know. Ricardo never personally liked them.
Ricardo smiles, soft and fond at the familiar choice. "Yeah, I still keep a few." Something bitter and grieving twists in Rashad's chest. They don't smile in return.
Ricardo disappears into the kitchen and out of sight. Rashad is left standing in the living room, amidst things old and new, and completely uncertain what to do. They elect to take a seat on the couch, resting their cane against the accent table. It takes less effort now with the Rat King interface to shift their prosthesis up and onto the arm of the couch. They sigh as it relieves some of the arm's weight from their shoulder.
As Ricardo digs through his fridge, Rashad smoothes their left hand over the soft leather of the couch, already worn despite the fact that it has to be new. As Xiao, they couldn't comment on it. It wasn't a new couch, it was just Ricardo's couch. Not like now. Ricardo's footsteps sound behind them, so they look over their shoulder. "Did something happen to the old couch?"
"Oh." Ricardo says quietly, as though he's stalling so he doesn't have to answer. He places the glass bottle on one of the coasters on the coffee table — also new — in front of Rashad. He winces. "It, uh, blew up."
Rashad blinks, eyes drifting to stare at their drink, as they try to process that information. No, they can't have heard him right. They look back up to Ricardo. "What?"
"It blew up," he repeats, more firmly. He sits down in the armchair furthest from them. His fingers toy with the neck of his beer bottle with a familiar nervous energy. "Along with half my apartment." He takes a sip of his beer.
"You were bombed?" they demand, sitting up. In her hidden compartment within their prosthesis, the Rat King stirs anxiously at the wave of upset that roils like an angry sea in Rashad's mind. She calms quickly under Rashad's mental assurances. They return their focus to Ricardo, waiting for answers.
Ricardo's brows raise. "It wasn't a big deal. I poked a bear and got a warning shot in reply. Nothing major."
"They bombed your home," Rashad repeats, hoping maybe this time it'll drive the meaning through Ricardo's thick skull. How can he ignore the severity of the situation? "That's an assassination attempt!"
Ricardo waves his hand. "I wasn't even home, so they clearly weren't trying to kill me. Besides, loads of people nearly kill me. It's an occupational hazard."
Frustration urges harsh words to their tongue, but they bite down hard on their tongue. Rashad takes a deep breath through their nose. "I don't like how cavalier you are about this." They reach for their soda, both to keep themself from saying more and also to give them something to do that isn't getting to their feet and shaking Ricardo. "About your own safety." Just like he was on the night of the Gala.
They take a swig, barely able to appreciate the familiar shape of the cold glass in their hand. It tastes mostly as they remember. Sweeter than they recall, fizzy and strongly of apple. It doesn't calm their irritation like they want, but it does help them to swallow it.
Ricardo smiles ruefully, eyes turning away. He tries and fails to hide a chuckle in his beer as he takes a long sip.
Rashad frowns. They know that chuckle. "What?"
Ricardo shrugs, lips still pulled into a small smile. "I didn't know you still cared." He says it gently, tone soft and full of fondness, like it's a treasure on his tongue.
It hits them like a blow to the gut. Every inch of their body feels horribly rigid as ice crawls across their skin, the frost of it spreading through their veins and wrapping its spindly curls around their bones. They set the bottle down harder than intended, the glass making a sharp clack against the coaster. "Why wouldn't I?" they demand.
Ricardo's smile falls. "Come on, Shadi, I didn't mean it like that." He scratches the back of his neck. "More that I'm glad you still do."
"Which implies you thought I wouldn't," they counter. Their brows pull down with their frown. Does he really not understand the implication, the meaning unspoken?
Ricardo balks at that. Slowly, he leans forward to set down his glass. "Rashad." Their name is strained patience in his voice, as though they're being a fool. "You rarely pick up when I call. You leave my texts unread. Hell, you're barely around headquarters anymore."
"I'm not going to spend all my spare time around the Rangers," they protest. It's an effort to keep from grinding their teeth. "I'm retired. I have a job, bills to pay, rent to make."
"I would cover all that if you'd let me," Ricardo snaps. He runs his fingers through his hair, mussing it further, making it messy and wild.
Rashad sits up straighter. It's a tenuous compromise between their urge to leave and desire to stay. "You can't fix my problems by throwing money at them."
He's bouncing his leg now, fast and frustrated, and Rashad knows it's because he'd like to be up and pacing. "So how can I then?" He demands, face tight with his irritation.
"You can't." Because he really, truly can't help them. Because they don't want him to. They'll only break his heart again. They're running for a precipice that they can't come back from this time. Out of luck, out of time, only here to finish the job and pay back what they owed when they survived the fall. And if Ricardo know, he would try to fight the inevitable, would try to pay the debt in stubborness and blood, even if it killed him. Rashad can't have any more of his blood on their hands. They won't. It's already stained their hands, sticking in their nailbeds, like a reminder of how often they've nearly lost him.
But Ricardo gets angry. The beer and whatever else he'd drank before Rashad got here bolstering his tongue. His lips curl. "No." The words are clipped by rage. "You won't let me. You won't let me help you."
They can't let him help because letting him help would endanger him, but they can't tell him that. He'll just have more questions, always more questions, until he got the truth of their plans. Then he'd fight them about their plans. Rashad slumps back into the couch, too overwhelmed by exhaustion to keep going. "Can we not do this please?"
"What?" Ricardo asks, throwing his hand out towards the room. His eyes roll dramatically. "Start a fight every time we talk? Because it's starting to feel like that's all we do anymore."
They scrub their palm across their face, meeting his eyes at last. Something in their expression must soften him, because his rage melts away under their unflinding gaze. He sits back, too, swiping his beer back off the table. He turns it in his hands, fingering the neck of the bottle with an anxious energy. "I…I'm sorry." He looks away, wincing. "It used to be easier. I just…I miss what we used to have."
Rashad opens their mouth and snaps it shut, looking down at their lap. Their fingers twitch for something to fidget with, so they reach for their soda. "I do, too," they admit. They take a drink quickly, to keep from voicing any more than that.
Ricardo watches them wordlessly for a moment, his eyes heavy with all the things Rashad is sure he'd like to say. The silence stretches between them and, for once, Rashad longs for something to break it. At long last, he asks in a voice barely above a whisper, "Then why can't we go back to that?"
He asks it so simply, unaware of the naivety of it's foundation. The world would be so much easier if Rashad could tell him everything. They can't, but they can at least give him a fraction of it. "Because we're not the same people as we were back then." They take another sip of their soda to hide their remorse, trying and failing to avoid seeing how Ricardo flinches. "You're can't keep holding onto ghosts."
Ricardo doesn't respond for a bit and Rashad doesn't break the silence for fear of stoking the argument back to life. They keep looking down at their soda in hand. It's a relic of the past, just like themself, and a concession made by Ricardo because they don't drink. Apple soda and whatever food Ricardo threw together and movies on the couch. Not this couch and not this time. Maybe never again. Rashad wishes the hole in their chest — where Ricardo and dead friends and broken dreams of a home reside — didn't ache so much. They can't afford to entertain its presence.
The Rat King twitters at the edge of their mind, calling their attention back to the conversation. They look up, seeing Ricardo staring at them expectantly, and they flush as they realize he's waiting for an answer to a question they didn't hear. "I'm sorry," they say, the words tasting like sawdust in their mouth. "Could you repeat that?"
"Right. I keep forgetting." Ricardo's cheek twitches, his eyes flitting down from Rashad's eyes to where their jaw meets their ear, as if he might could see the damage from this angle if he looks hard enough. There's that familiar guilt twisting his features again before he swallows it, washing it down with a long swig from his bottle. "I asked why you dropped by."
Rashad swallows down their own guilt. They point weakly towards the kitchen entrance, where Ricardo had set down the card. "I wanted to give you something for your birthday."
Ricardo doesn't relent. Even if he keeps his tone free of accusation, the way he leans forward, eyes focused on them, they know he's hunting for something. "You could have mailed it. Or left it on my desk at HQ. Why did you come here?"
That is the question, isn't it? They could have done either. Should have down either. They should not be in Ricardo's living room, drinking soda and bickering. Their shoulders slump. Against their better judgement, they admit, "I didn't want you to think I'd forgotten." They should leave it at that, with a degree of separation to use as a shield. "And I wanted to see you." They never could keep that space between them.
Ricardo's eyes widen, his expression going slack, before a slow, warm smile spreads across his face. He sits back, looking too content despite how the night has gone. He polishes off his beer and it must be for liquid courage, as the next thing he asks is, "Do you ever wonder what we could have been? If we could've made it work?"
Rashad falters, looking away. Their jaw works, their words struggling to find the right order. "I used to." Ricardo's eyes could burn a hole through their head, but they still avoid his gaze.
"What changed?" His bottle echoes hollow as he sets it down on the coaster.
There are too many answers to choose from and far too of them are too damning to offer. What are they supposed to say? That they died? That they spent years in a dark cell with no hope of seeing him again? That he wouldn't have loved them anyway, because of what they are? They could talk at length, exploring for hours all the ways the Farm reminded them of what people see their kind as, even if they've always been a poor example. A weapon does not dream of kind smiles and arms to hold it. Not because Rashad hadn't wondered about those things every time Ricardo had shot them his crooked smile, but because shattering expectations cut deeper than any cruelty the Farmhands could dole out. Rashad can't afford to hope for more again.
But they need a more human answer, something grounded in a familiarity that Ricardo can understand. Rashad swallows heavily as they wade into the dark waters of their memories as Sidestep. It's a dangerous task. The memories are enticing, taking their hand and begging them to indulge in the nostalgia that colors those days. When had they stopped taking chances? When had they stopped believing he'd catch them if they fell?
It must have been when he didn't.
Their tongue is lead in their mouth, but still they push through the reluctance. "You decided where we stood long before I did." Bitterness sticks to their teeth, but they swallow it down. They can't afford to lose their neutral tone as they say, "And then you told the public before you told me."
There's a moment where Ricardo doesn't respond, brows furrowing, his lips set in a clear frown. Rashad clenches their jaw. He doesn't remember. Why would he? It wasn't his heart that had broken. "Told the-" His eyes go wide as he realizes what and when they're referring to. He looks away, but not fast enough for Rashad to miss guilt in his eyes. His hands clench and unclench, but no sparks scatter like they would've in the old days. "I - mierda, would it even matter to apologize now."
"It would matter to me." They shouldn't have said that. Even as Ricardo's eyes snap back to them, glassy and hopeful, they know they shouldn't have pushed it. "It wouldn't change anything, but it would matter." Because it wasn't just telling the public that they were just colleagues, it had been allowing the public to tell them first. It had been the horde of gossip rag reporters and paparazzi mobbing them, demanding to know if they had any comment on the Marshal's statements or the speculation surrounding the photos. It had been the drowning in the mental storm of hunger and hatefulness and desperate need for intimate details Rashad hadn't been ready or willing to reveal. Carve out your heart and offer it to us, Sidestep, as you've offered everything else of yourself.
The couch cushions beside them shift and Rashad falls back into the present, looking up to see Ricardo has abandoned his seat to come closer. Too close. Rashad freezes, only just keeping from bolting from the couch. This is too dangerous a place to be, especially right now.
Ricardo reaches forward, either unaware of the stiffness in Rashad's posture or uncaring, and gently pulls the bottle from their hand. He replaces the cold glass with his own hand, running his thumb over their scarred knuckles. When was the last time they touched beyond a clap on the shoulder or grabbing an arm? Too long ago. Despite themself, Rashad tightens their grip on his hands. "I know I told you back then that….it was a PR issue. But that wasn't all of it." He's leaning closer, staring unbearably direct into their gaze. "I was a coward. I shouldn't have lied."
They should leave. They should run. They should pull from Ricardo's grasp and slam the door behind them. Every promise in his brown eyes is offered in falsehood, unaware of who they are or what they're doing when he's not around. "Was it even a lie?" Because they were never sure. Or, perhaps, they'd never been sure how much of it had been a lie.
"It was and I'm sorry." He's still staring, burning them with his gaze. He's too drunk, too raw, too unfiltered. "I'm not afraid anymore."
Rashad sees their opportunity and takes it. Their turn to be a coward. "I know," they admit, pulling their hand from his at last. To their surprise, he lets them. "I've seen the articles about your boyfriend." It's a low blow, but they need the space. They can't afford to be dragged back into Ricardo.
As expected, Ricardo draws back sharply. His eyes turn away at last. "Oh. Right." Another thing he didn't tell them about. That he let the press tell them first. Not that Rashad had needed them to. "I-"
"It's not my business," Rashad interrupts. They shift in their corner of the couch and, as though finally reading their discomfort, Ricardo slides back into his. "You don't owe me every little detail of your life."
"I could have told you. I should have told you." Ricardo counters, but the strength has gone from his voice. "Or introduced you two."
Rashad grimaces. "That would be a terrible idea." For a reason that Ricardo can't know, so they pick the least obvious reason if all of this was just a hint less complicated. "Does he even know about me?"
Ricardo winces and, if Rashad wasn't already deeply intimate with what Xiao knows, it would be a dead giveaway. After all, who would really want to tell their partner about their old, unresolved flame?
"It's complicated," Ricardo says at last and there's some truth to his words that Rashad isn't ready to unpack.
They shrug in response. "It always is." There's more fondness in their tone than they intended, so they take it as a sign to leave before they say any more that they shouldn't. "Its late. I should get going."
Ricardo starts, his body springing forward, but abruptly stopping short. "Hang on-" It sounds choked, forced out from his teeth. When he moves again, it's not towards them, but away. "Before you go, there's something I need to give you."
Rashad stands as he runs towards his bedroom. They can't help the softly teasing smile that tugs at their lips. "It's your birthday and you're giving me a gift?"
"More a return than a gift," he shouts through the cracked door. There's a bit of rummaging, the sound of fabric and heavy objects being moved. Something thuds loudly and Ricardo swears.
Rashad's eyebrows shoot up, but they manage to stay quiet as Ricardo finally emerges. Two familiar shaped objects rest in his hands: a folded prayer mat in teal and black and a worn paperback book. The sight of them tear grief through Rashad's heart like a knife. Ricardo must not notice the tension in their shoulders, as he doesn't falter as he thrusts the two objects into their hands. The fabric of the mat is as soft as they remember and surprisingly free of dust. From the cover of the book, Rashad immediately recognizes the glacier jutting from the ice fields, the faces of a man and a woman carved into each side. Stark white and teal lettering proclaims the title: The Left Hand of Darkness. The corner of the spine is still dented from where Rashad had dropped it so many years ago.
"Where did you get these?" Rashad breathes, because they should be ash in some forgotten incinerator. Or tossed out to mold in the landfills. Or maybe just washed out to sea, with the way some disposal companies conduct themselves.
"I saved them from your locker, at the old HQ." Ricardo tries and fails to give a nonchalant shrug. "They were emptying everything out when the new place was unveiled." He makes a sheepish sound that might be a chuckle, but Rashad can't be sure. "I couldn't bear to watch them get tossed out."
Rashad looks down at what's left of their belongings from bygone days. It's not much of a life; faith and a fantasy. They carefully shuffle the items to their arm prothesis, nudging the Rat King to help with making sure the joints don't pull any of the rug. They run their hands down the spine of the book, feeling where the edges are practically worn down to soft pulp. They must have read it a dozen times back in the day.
"You were right about that being a good read." Ricardo says, tapping the cover with two fingers. "Sorry it took me so long to read it."
"You read it?" They suppress the urge to rifle through the pages, as though they could be wrong about which copy this is. But they spy the highlighted passages and their own handwriting scribbled in the margins. They wonder how much of their notes he read. Probably all of them.
Ricardo smiles ruefully. "Cover to cover." He rubs the back of his neck. "Although it took a few years to finish. Now it's yours again."
Rashad can't stop worrying the spine, can't look Ricardo in the eye as they stare at the gifts. When's the last time that they even prayed? When's the last time they picked up a book and read even a page. Both feel like remnants of a past life, actions taken by the Rashad who'd been Sidestep, left behind when they'd been laid to rest by the rest of the world. Holding them now under Ricardo's attention, Rashad feels as though they're burning a hole through their chest.
"Thank you," they say, because it's the polite response. Because they should be thankful for Ricardo holding onto these. They're pretty sure he's been keeping the mat clean, not just storing it, and the book looks more loved than they'd left it.
"Of course," Ricardo answers. There's too much sincerity on his tongue when he says, "Anytime. Anything for you."
They nod. It would be too much to ask the universe to open up beneath them and swallow them whole. It doesn't, and they're left with the weight of their guilt and returned belongings. It is a small mercy that, with their arms full, Ricardo can't hug them like he clearly wants to. So he settles for walking them to the door.
Leaving the apartment feels a bit like walking out of Ricardo's life again. They could stay, falter in the threshold and turn to him again. They could drop the remains of their shared past with their reservations and drag him close. They could push him to the couch and shut the door behind them and indulge in the affection that burns in the back of their mind unquenchable.
They press the button for the elevator. Behind him, Ricardo calls out on last time. "Shadi!"
They stop and spare him the glance.
Whatever he'd been planning to say dies on his tongue. He averts his gaze. "Have a good night."
"You, too." They want to say more, but they don't. They've already overstayed their welcome.
As they turn their back on Ricardo, they hear his door click shut. They step into the elevator as soon as the door slides open, eyes flitting back to Ricardo's door again. They don't manage to drag their eyes away before the elevator doors slide closed.
You gasp, pushing a heavy dose of melodrama into your. "I can't believe it. The great Dr Mortum admits he needs help."
"No man can be an island forever," he says with a soft chuckle.
You bite back the argument at that. After all, you've long since learned that you have to primarily rely on yourself. Everyone else can be used in passing, sparingly, to keep yourself flexible and safe. But you don't want to argue that. Not when your eyes alight on the skeletal rig of a powersuit standing rigid in the center of the room.
You can't help but grin as you point to it. "Is that-"
"Steal" from Then All I Knew Was Wrong, Chen's perspective on the locker scene with Rashad:
The break room is thankfully empty other than Rashad. They’re bent over, practically inside the fridge, as they shift around what Wei can only assume is the contents of their shelf. It had been a bit of a struggle trying to remember what snacks they used to like, what they used to steal from the old fridges, what they might like now, and what of those options are halal. It was worth the effort, though, to make sure they could feel like they belong here. Wei won’t make the same mistake as last time. He only hopes it’s not too late.
He struggles with what to say first as he closes the distance between them. If Rashad notices his presence, they don’t show it. Their shoulders don’t even tense like they used to when he comes within ten feet. Admittedly, it’s been a while since he’s seen that tension in their shoulders while around him. It’s a nice change. One among many.
"Bite" from Gotta Hear It From Your Mouth:
His brows furrow and he opens his mouth to ask what she means when she grabs the lapels of his sport coat and nearly throws him. He gasps, back hitting the column, and the stem of one of the coupes snaps in his hand. She's presses up against him, eyes searching his face for something he can't begin to guess. Her hands reach up to touch him, one cupping his cheek, the other carding through his hair. Daniel sighs, closing his eyes to settle into the touch. But there's a sharp tug as she pulls his hair hard. Her lips press against his jaw and travel up to his mouth to swallow his whimper. The glasses slip from his fingers.
He's never felt like this before. Cass kisses him like she wants to devour him whole. Like she wants to take Daniel apart with her mouth, to taste every inch of him inside and out. He tries to find the balance to Cass’ teeth and tongue and nails, to not drown in that hunger or burn himself on the fire that warms his mind as she comes back, gripping his thoughts the same way she drags her nails across his back. He's used to being the one taking the initiative, leading the dance. But he realizes, as she bites his lip hard enough to make him gasp, that he's not going to be in control tonight. He can taste the metallic sting of blood on her tongue. It's not an unfamiliar taste, just suddenly in a new context. Daniel can't say he dislikes it.
Ugh, there were a lot of good choices for this one, but I think I've decided on:
Her expression softens. "I'm wondering what fantasies you've got hiding in that head of yours." She lowers her voice, but it never quite loses its raspy quality. It's a bit of an odd effect and he wonders if she's trying to sound a bit like she used to, back when she was Sidestep. "If I can compare to your imagination." She's so close, he can feel the warmth of her breath against his lips.
But the idea makes him falter. He draws back a little, shaking his head. "Those fantasies don't mean anything. It was a stupid crush, mixed with hero worship. This is different."
She frowns, eyes narrowing. "It doesn't have to be."
"I don't want it to be." It's a strange thing to admit. He'd thought so long about her, about Sidestep, about being her, being with her, being able to know her. And then he met her and she was nothing like he'd expected. Reality shattered the dream, but something else was left in the ruin. "I don't want the fan and reporter speculation. I guess, somewhere along the line, I realized that what I thought I knew wasn't you."
From Gotta Hear It From Your Mouth, an alternative ending to the Herald date for my Sidestep, Cass.
So, the inimitable @idlenight tagged me in this a few days ago, but I've got some slightly different things to present today.
For one, I've put aside my other fics to work on what I've called the Bespoke FHR collection - a sprawling edit/rewrite of my Sidestep routes, written specifically to account for all their little quirks and behaviours. I do a reading of them in a server with some friends biweekly and right now we're at the end of Cass' Retri run. So here's a little snippet of that:
"Do you have your masks?" you whisper.
"Yeah. Got a spare in my jacket, if you want it. Inside pocket," Pelayo mutters back. Rosie shifts the jacket in her lap. "Why? It's not like the Boss is setting anything off anytime soon."
You take the mask from Rosie, stuffing it in your own jacket pocket. "Never know when you might need to throw together something, and hospitals have some mean, heavy grade shit."
Pelayo gives you a weird look, but doesn't argue. It's technically a break in character - Ace is the facilitator, the social butterfly, the pretty face, and definitely shouldn't know how to rig a chemical weapon. The slip in behaviour is too low on your priority list right now to bother salvaging. You can only hope that they assume Ace has hidden depths or just let it slide.
They slow down to let your take the lead and your mind wanders while you head for a storage closet that looks promising. The mask rests against your palm in your pocket and you realize this will be the first time Ace has ever worn one. You've never been on a job with the group as Ace. Sidestep is the frontman — Ace, the hand in the shadows. It almost feels wrong to change that but, at the same time, it's almost like a right of passage. When this is all over, you'll have to share a round with the gang to celebrate.
And then, because I've been trying to learn how to draw, have some sketches and other strange drawings:
I'm now tagging...... @disastersteps, @autistic-sidestep, @nebuluxx, @gonesoft-ish, @reapersmarch, and @kidhellion (hope y'all don't mind the ping)
Actually posted on a Wednesday, too! It's a fucking miracle for me lol.
Anyway, I was tagged by @glitchy-npc and I've got a couple of pieces slowly working up, so here are some excerpts.
From an untitled Post Crash Seongwon piece:
The world feels different on Tía Elena's ranch. This far out from the cities and a good distance from any town, everything becomes slow and hazy and quiet. Even bedbound, Seongwon can watch the goats meander about their paddock. The insistent clucking of chickens is ever-present, even if she can't see them. The sky is pale blue and cloudless most days, darkening to star-scattered pitch every night. Once, she tried to stay up all night to watch the sky lighten again, to come full circle, but on the soft guest bedroom mattress and under the hand stitched quilt, she'd fallen asleep shortly after midnight. It was an unusual experience.
It was not a peaceful night's sleep — none of them ever are — but Seongwon had found her dreams bereft of the usual fraught memories that plagued her. Instead, they were dark and ominous and jolted her awake, sweating and panting like she was running from something. She couldn't be sure if it was that she hadn't dreamt since the crash or if she simply couldn't remember them anymore. She wonders if the crash has anything to do with it at all or if she's simply seen too many terrible things for them to be worth remembering. In retrospect, she's certainly not been help
From Too Busy Being Yours, a Ricardo/Xiao (Rashad's Puppet) piece:
Ricardo is too drunk to be sitting on his couch, snuggling up to the man he's supposed to be spying on. None of this night was supposed to go like this. He was only supposed to have one drink. One little night cap and he'd indulge in his lonely night ritual of thumbing through Rashad's old copy of The Left Hand of Darkness to reread their notes. Something about reading their thoughts and musings made him feel closer to them than he had in all their years spent working together.
But he'd reached for his nightstand where the book had sat for so many years only for his fingers to find a dust outline. He'd forgotten he'd given it back to them on the night of his birthday. And then he'd gotten up, pulled the tequila from the top shelf, and polished off the remaining half. That was around the time that he'd called Xiao, who had sounded worried at his slurring speech. It was sweet of him. Strangely sweet for a dubiously known criminal. Ricardo should feel guilty about it, but he can't be fucked right now. He can't remember if he invited Xiao or if the young man invited himself. He'd brought takeout from the twenty-four hour Thai place that Rashad had loved back in the day but, of course, he hadn't known what Ricardo liked there. He couldn't have. Just another coincidence to twist the knife lodged between his ribs.
From Gotta Hear It From Your Mouth, a Cass/Herald fic:
She breaks the kiss at last and Daniel has to catch his breath as she pulls away from him entirely. His lips feel bruised and he's certain he'll feel the bite of her piercings for a while after. She rolls her eyes at him as he stares. "Stop thinking about Ric," she snaps.
Daniel stays where he is, back pressed against the elevator wall, as Cass steps back and faces the door. He feels his face heat up as his ears finally catch up with his brain. Oh. Oh, God. Daniel wants to fall through the floor and sink into the earth. They're on a date and he's thinking about her ex.
The elevator doors can't open fast enough.
And from an untitled Felix/Julian prompt:
They stare at each other a moment, frozen in time. Felix's eyes flit across him, jaw opening and shutting as he takes Julian in. He's wide eyed and slumped through his shoulder, hair and clothes sodden through, dripping unpleasantly grey water onto the nice wood floors. Leaves and what looks suspiciously like algae clung to his sleeves and trouser legs. He smells absolutely foul.
In another circumstance, Felix might've laughed. Instead, he snaps out of his surprise and zips over to Julian fast enough to disturb the rug. "What happened? Are you okay?" He checks over Julian as quick as he can, making sure he's uninjured.
Julian pushes his dripping curls out of his face and straightens his glasses. "I fell in the lake."
Felix blinks at him. "What?"
I promise, I'll be working on another Rashad/Wei piece soon, I just need to get through my backlog of prompts.
Going to tag back @godshaper, @swordsandspectacles, @glass-warehouse, @thecryptidenthusiast, and @sekaiouja
