#fh sidestep

[snaakesnack]

:rät:

[disastersteps]

...Looking at yourself. Did you really use to be that open? That happy?

happy sixth years of this guyloser i created! (Not their birthday,It's June 28th where I am at right now, which was the first time I ever design anita! :] )

also its a redraw of the first (techincally second) drawing!

cira 2019

[tedemiii]

looking through my files and i had forgotten i drew the scene in which sidestep and ortega re encounter 🥹 a lot of text was omitted bc of length though ajajajajj

[mosartandjunk]

me drawing any fallen hero fanart: what if theyre being silly on a couch

[swordsandspectacles]

Artfight might be over but that doesn’t mean I’m stopping my war on other peoples sidesteps

@autistic-sidestep get fuckin GOT - (I say, as if I haven’t already shown this in discord-)

Speedpaint and alternate version under the cut :>

[waterdeers]

im still obsessed w my fallen hero oc

[licuadora-nasir]

Registrations are open!

Akali (left) is @remnantsofmorality's Ais (right) is @rosaindomitus's and River (mid) is mine

[silvery-bluish]

WIP Wednesday

I got tagged by both @dogueteeth and @m3k-fhr! Thanks for the tags both of you <3 boy howdy it sure is still Wednesday somehow. I... don’t know who all’s been tagged yet, so if you haven’t done it yet I’m going to tag @rosaindomitus, @thenightdayblogger, @rangerdoubt if any of y’all have anything you want to share!! No worries if you’re not feeling it.

I haven’t been getting much writing done recently bc I just had a bit of a Job Change that is good but it is Kicking My Ass a little bit. It’ll even out at some point in here. The upshot is the following snippet isn’t something I did this week, but I did work on this document as a whole this week which I’m gonna say is. close enough.

AU In which Arsinoe runs into Ortega several years prior to what actually occurred in canon, relatively soon after they returned to Los Diablos. It doesn’t have a name yet because I’m bad at naming things, that’s usually the. last thing i do with a work. for a tiny bit of context Ars is currently shoplifting several small objects from a gas station. Throwing it under a cut because it’s around 450 words whoops.

---

He’s there. Just stepped through the door, your mind inventing him again, like it’s done before, when things are really bad, just standing there. Looking at you. Watching you.

You’ve thought about him older, before, line between desperate daydream and hallucination blurred. Grey creeping onto his temples. The mustache is new, but you don’t… dislike it. Thanks for the variation on the theme this time, brain, let’s stop doing this some time because it doesn’t get any easier, looking at him and knowing he’s not there. But you stop, anyway, and you must look even more bizarre than you already do, choppy, uneven hair hanging limply into your face, clothes you got… somewhere? You don’t remember where, actually, but they’re too big on you and hiding is a comfort. Makes you look like you spent the night in a dumpster and you… don’t think you did last night? No. Motel. Flickering TV, static blurring the words.

Anyway. This Ortega is older, not the time-capsule-frozen version your brain gives you sometimes, preserved like a bug in amber. Staring back at you, brown eyes to green, like he’s watching over you, somehow, or watching you suffer, you never can decide, you broke yourself out anyway, like dislocating your thumbs to slip out of handcuffs, so it shouldn’t matter, can’t matter but--

“Ars?” he says, voice a cracked whisper, and the bolt of panic at that and the static oh that’s actually his static and not just the sense-memory of it, not just the echo of too much static around you, and you’re running, dropping the bottle from your sleeve, because he doesn’t talk, he never talks, mouthing words like he’s trapped behind glass or someone hit the mute button, words couldn’t reach you and you never could figure out what he’d say anyway. But this him spoke, which makes him real, which means you’re fucked.

Nobody’s called you Ars in years.

Your shoes suck, objectively, for running, why didn’t you get better running shoes, worn sneakers you’d gotten out of a used shoes bin. Could’ve made somebody give you better shoes. Didn’t want to risk it yet if you didn’t have to, shattered-glass-sharpness of your mind the way it is. He’s between you and the front door, but there’s an employee entrance around the back, so you skid around the counter despite the dead-eyed distant-minded teenager’s vague protest and bolt, slamming the door open with your bad shoulder, ow, bounce off and down the alleyway you go, breath coming faster than it should, grasping around you for somewhere to hide, somewhere to hide, you can’t be here, you shouldn’t have come back here--

“Ars!” Behind you, following, because of course he is, need to get away, he can’t catch you, you can’t let him--