#fhr fic

[payloadofgeckos]

"Hey there, Ric. It's me, ya boy." Chapter 3

Just uploaded chapter 3! hope you enjoy Argent and Ricardo being buddycops and ignoring jurisdiction lines

[butchselkie]

Title: The Unquiet Grave

Relationships: Julia Ortega/Sidestep (F/F), Anathema & Sidestep

Rating: M (mind the tags)

Chapters: 1/2

Two survivors of the Heartbreak Incident are haunted by the ones they failed to save.

(Or, everyone knows Ortega saw Sidestep everywhere during those seven years, but what if Sidestep was also haunted by Anathema after they were taken back to the Farm?)

[ellajean-jpg]

Taking this and running

[cigarettesandinevitablebetrayal]

WIP W'Monday

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.

[heartbreakincident]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

"I had no idea," Chen muttered, shifting away from the archway into the living room to sit down at the table in the kitchen. "About the migraines." "It was a choice," Ricardo said. His lips pressed together into something that wanted to be a frown. "What do you mean?" Ric shrugged. "I mean it was a choice for you to not know. Anathema and I tried to invite you around, but whenever you heard he'd be there you'd bail. I always thought that if you two could just... get through a couple conversations together you'd realize you had more in common than you thought, but you never did. And then—" "Yeah." He cuts Ricardo off because he knows how that sentence ends. And then it was too late. Chen learns what one of Eden's bad days looks like, and then promptly makes it worse because he's stupid.

3,498 words, pre relationship steelstep with eden. eden and chen both end up at ricardo's, and it's all downhill from there.

[side-stepping]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Finally, you think. He’s taking this seriously.

[tu-omnia]

what if i dropped my self-indulgent steelstep 'this is my situationship yes he smokes weed' romantic sex fic. what then.

[doriansbutt]

its 2 fkin am and i wrote a thing????? way longer than i planned lol

m!ortega/m!sidestep, post-alley kiss in retribution.

It’s dark.  You know maybe it’s a little dangerous to be out here at night without your armor or the protection of a...friend.  But you don’t care.  You simply look like a pedestrian sitting on a bench, having a smoke.  No one can tell you’re still shaking.  No one can tell you’re still feeling the panic attack from earlier.  No….last night?  Time moves differently in a panic attack.

Reluctantly, you pull your phone out of your pocket, watching the screen light up.  3 missed calls.  You thought there’d be more, honestly.  It seems Ortega is trying to honor your wish for space…

You sigh heavily, burying your face in your hands.  You can still feel his fingers on your back, his hands on your bare skin.  Tear start to well, unbidden, and you stubbornly wipe them on your sleeve.  You’re not even sure why you’re crying right now.  You thought you’d gotten it out of your system earlier.  Emotions never did like to play by the rules.

Running a hand through your hair, you hold your cigarette in your mouth and take a deep breath...and dial Ortega’s number.

Sitting here, anxiously bouncing your leg and running your hand through your hair over and over, you know you must look a little crazy.  And maybe you are.  You’ve been so careful, but Ortega….something about him turns off all common sense.  You’re startled so bad when you hear his voice that you almost drop your phone.

“Teigue?”  He sounds...nervous.  Worried.  He always sounds worried.

You clear your throat, your voice catching when you try to speak.  “Uh...hi….uhm…” Shit, do you sound as breathless as you think?

“Are you okay?”  

You shake your head, even though you know he can’t see.  You leg is bouncing even more now, nerves alight as you gather courage to… Christ, it really has always been this hard to talk about your feelings, hasn’t it?  Your therapist appointment left you frayed and ragged, and Ortega’s kiss….his hands….it just sent you that little bit over the edge.  Feelings are...the worst.

“Teigue?  You still there?”  Ortega’s voice sounds more concerned now and you smack yourself. You didn’t want that.

“Yeah, I, uhm….I wanted to...uh…”  You pause to take a breath, to take a long, final drag from your cigarette before flicking into a puddle in the gutter.  “Sorry.”  The word sounds like a whisper.

Ortega takes a breath to reply, but you don’t let him.  You already know he’s going to tell you you don’t have to be sorry.

“I just….I wanted to talk about yesterday.”  The words are rushed and you’re not even sure you spoke them in English.  You bury your face in your free hand.  Why is talking so fucking hard?

“I’m listening,” is all Ortega says in reply, but it’s enough.  It’s what you needed to spur you on.

Taking a deep, steadying breath--as shaky as it is--and speak.  You force yourself to speak.  “It’s not your fault.  I just...wanted you to, uh...to know that first.”  He doesn’t fill the pause you leave him.  “I’m sorry, I just...I just freaked out.  I don’t...touching is….”  You sigh heavily.  Why did you think you could do this?  

“It’s okay.  I’m sorry, I crossed a line…”  You can tell he wants to say more, so you wait, but it seems he’s waiting for you to respond.  

It takes all your energy to muster a grunt.

“Are you okay?”

That’s a heavy question, now, isn’t it?  You don’t really know how to answer but something inside is yelling at you to just be honest.

“No…”  The sniffle you add isn’t fake.  Christ, of course you’re crying.  Your head hurts, you still feel like you have too much anxious energy, like your body is three sizes too big to fit in your skin…  You shake your head slowly, burying your face in the crook of your elbow, your sleeve catching your tears.  You hadn’t noticed you weren’t holding the phone to your ear anymore until Ortega’s voice is louder.  Startled, you bring it back, struggling to find your voice.

“Teigue?  Can you hear me?  Are you still there?  Please, talk to me, Teigue.  Please-”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m here, sorry…”

The sigh of relief he lets out is heavy.  “Where are you?  Are you home?”

Looking around, you suddenly realize you don’t really know where you are.  It’s not somewhere you usually go, not that you keep usual haunts these days.  But you haven’t been around here before.  “No, I uh...I don’t know where I am,” you admit slowly, trying to keep the anxiety still spiking through you from latching onto this thought.  

You try to pretend Ortega doesn’t sound even more concerned when he replies.

“Are you outside?  Can you find street names?  Buildings?  Anything notable?”  He’s jumped into crisis management mode--the next step is hero mode and you know he’d run across the whole city to keep you safe if he had to.  “I’ll come get you if you need it.”

You start walking, rubbing your eyes to clear the dryness, the itchiness your crying has left, and looking for an intersection.  As you round the corner of a larger skyscraper, you recognize the area.  “I’m uhm...I’m near Memorial Park, I think.  A few blocks away, maybe…”

“I’ll be there soon,” he promises.  

“‘Kay…” Is all you can muster before hanging up.  Despite your unease, you feel a little calmer knowing someone’s coming to your rescue.

When you finally arrive at the park, you find an unoccupied bend and nearly collapse into it.  Your body feels heavy, and you may as well have dragged yourself here.  Exhaustion sits in your very bones, and you pull up the collar of your drab olive military jacket.  You wish you’d worn a hoodie today, but you weren’t exactly in your right mind when you left your apartment.  Did you even make it back home yesterday?  You don’t really remember, and that’s disconcerting.  You’re no stranger to panic attacks.  You know how disorienting they can be.  But you can’t afford to get lost like this.  You can’t afford to lose yourself to your mind.  Not anymore.  You feel the pull of sleep dragging you into darkness when a hand rests on your shoulder.  You snap up, eyes wide with panic, arms raised in defense before Ortega’s voice fills your ears.  He brushes your hair from your eyes and you can see the worry clearly written on his face.

You can’t help it.  You practically throw yourself at him.  You’re tired and you don’t feel good and you’re still buzzing with residual anxiety and that’s what you’ve decided to blame your actions on.  

He catches you, because of course he does.  His arms are strong and tight and safe around you.  You feel safe.  You feel okay.  It’s….odd, that he has that effect on you.  

He pulls back for a moment, taking you in.  You must look worse than you thought, if the furrow in his brow is anything to go by.  “Let’s get you home, okay?”  He wraps a steady arm around you and you suddenly feel ashamed at needing help.  His help.

You shake your head, hair falling in your face.  “I don’t….I don’t wanna be alone…”  Your voice is practically a whimper.

He just holds you tighter.  “Okay, that’s all right.  We’ll go to my place, okay?  You’ve got clean clothes there still.”

A nod.  You think you nodded.  You can’t find your voice, so you hope you nodded.  Your lip is quivering and if you opened your mouth you know all that would come out is a strangled cry.  You don’t want to be alone.  But you’re not sure you want to be around someone else.  Does Ortega override that?  You’re not sure yet.  He overrides a lot of things…  All you can manage to do right now is hold onto him and let him help you.  You know you need it.