fandom: fhr
pairing: julia ortega/f!sidestep (cynthia basri)
warnings: retri spoilers, but no real warnings, canon typical stuff
words: 483
read on ao3
this has been sitting in my drafts forever as part of a large thing (and me trying to write smut) which is never going to happen, but I like this part so might as well share it here. this isn't cyn's canon but still.
Fate certainly has a sense of humor. After so many years of pining, so many years not allowing yourself to cross that line with her
You keep waiting for the disgust to show on her face, for the shock to wear off for the knowledge to settle in. You aren’t human, you never have been.
It hasn’t happened, if anything her attentions have grown more heated, her kiss lingering in a way which leaves little doubts about what she is thinking. What you are thinking too.
It’s hard not to remember that night. Hard not to replay it while you try to hold sleep and the nightmares at bay.
No more secrets inscribed on your skin to keep you apart, just the casts on your legs.
You should have known Ortega would find a way to get creative.
Her kiss starts out gentle, holding her weight off you making sure not to put undue pressure on your abused limbs,
Her lips soft and plush against yours, pulling back to look into your eyes as she brushes your hair back from your forehead.
The smile on her face is fragile, and you have to close your eyes. A pair of feather-light kisses to your eyelids and her fingers trace familiar paths on your face. A pattern you would remember anywhere, you would feel it sometimes back at the farm, the phantom touch of her thumb on your cheek, and for the briefest of moments the oppressive static of the dampeners morphed into something comforting. The illusion never lasted, fading away in the face of the stark solitude of your cell, of your existence.
You’re afraid to open your eyes now. Afraid that this will all shatter and this will all have been a dream that her love will be nothing but a foolish dream. You close them tighter, trying to keep the tears which threaten at bay.
“Did I hurt you?” Concern evident in her voice as her weight shifts to move away from you.
That’s enough to get you to open your eyes, to reach out and pull her back, not ready for her to leave your side again, not with the memories so close on the horizon.
“You didn’t hurt me.”
“Are you sure?” she hesitates before she retakes her position on the edge of the bed, hands hovering over you instead of touching, like you might break at any moment, she isn’t totally wrong.
“I never thought . . . you shouldn’t . . . “ the words escape you. “I never thought I could have this.” You finally admit. Honesty. More than you usually give but you’re already at her mercy so what does a little more vulnerability cost?
“Neither did I.” She leans forward, her forehead pressed against yours, your breaths mingling, as her fingers lace between your own. You’re not sure how long you stay like that, letting her breathe pull you back to the present. It feels like only a moment, it feels like seven years
caught in the cyn/julia feels again so here's some half written sidestep days angst I hurt myself with
It’s a new concession, another concession, letting her know where you live. Just like letting her know your name, to see your face. Ortega always pushing and you just keep giving in. It hard enough to fight her stubborn ass especially when you don’t really want to. You want this to continue. You wish you could invite her in and let her fulfill all the promises held in her gaze, in her kiss.
You dream about it sometimes, waking up to tangled sheets and knotted thoughts, face heated with embarrassment and an ache between your legs.
It’s hard to face her after nights like that. Hard to not react to the casual way she touches you. A hand on your thigh in the car, always standing too close looking at you like she knows. You’re once again grateful there is no other telepath on the Ranger’s team. Chen’s disapproving looks are bad enough. Though maybe Themmy’s encouragement is worse.
This dream is different. Still the same heated caresses, the brush of her hair as she kisses a trail down your body, but the body is different. Always your skin was clear in your dreams free of the tattoos that mark you but this time they still lined your body, covering you like caution tape a warning to stay away.
One she ignores.
You cry when you wake up. Hot wet tears Never something you had dared to picture before, to even imagine. Your hands shake as you light up a cigarette, inhaling deeply, letting it flood your system and try and ease the shakiness of your limbs.
this is from a prompt I shame deleted in early 2021 and am now filling in mid 2022 because I write at a snails pass
#17 things you said that i wish you hadnt from this prompt list
Too honest
fandom: twc
pairing: Nate Sewell/F!detective (Riley Jordan)/Morgan
rating: M (really like older teen but I’d rather err on the side of caution)
words: 1.2k
read on ao3
The bar was not a place Nate could easily picture Riley. He had grown used to their long afternoons together in the library. To her face buried in a book, a pad at her side as she scribbled notes, ink covering her fingers and occasionally her face when she had to readjust her glasses. It’s a pleasant change, for all of the noise and bustle and whatever passes for music now days. She’s all smiles and laughter, catching up with old friends.
It’s a short walk back to the detective’s apartment. The streets of Wayhaven are peaceful, light gathering in the pools of rainwater, shimmering along the asphalt and painting the night in softness. Painting her in softness. It has been growing harder and harder for Nate to ignore the feelings Riley elicits within him: longing, regret and most of all guilt. Guilt that he should be feeling this way when she so clearly had feelings for someone else. Not just someone else, Morgan.
Morgan who he’d never seen like this before. Morgan who moved on so quickly, always seeking new pleasures, new distractions.
What sort of man wished a heartbreak on his friend? Wished that Morgan would fall back into her old patterns, and maybe just maybe there might be more than friendship in those long afternoons with Riley. He’d often wished for a companion, a partner, but never found someone he could envision that with, until now.
Fate was nothing if not cruel.
At least he has moments like this, walking in comfortable silence. She’s humming something he doesn’t recognize under her breathe. Steps a little unsteady from the wine she’d been drinking, or maybe just from dancing with the song in her head.
He opens his mouth preparing to ask about the artist, to horde more details of Riley and her life, but before he can her steps slow and then stop in front of the bakery.
Her eyers study her own reflection in the window. One hand reaches up to brush her cheek, contemplative, a small frown marring her features.
“Is something wrong?” He can’t sense anything, no dangers lurking in the shadows, something else must be going on.
Her voice is halting, quiet, “do you think I’m pretty Nate?”
“Riley, I think you are one of the most stunning creatures I have ever beheld.” He answers too quickly, without thinking, more honest than he intended.
She turns surprise evident on her face, “you’re full of it.” Brown eyes searching his face trying to gauge his sincerity.
“I assure you I am not.” Perhaps he should have gone for a more teasing tone. One that is light and friendly, but it’s hard to do so.
There’s a long list of things it is hard to do. Or hard not to do. Right now, Nate would like nothing more than to sweep Riley up in his arms, to kiss her breathless, to stare into her eyes, to make her understand how beautiful she is. How is he supposed to keep his tone light when it weighs so heavy on him?
“Oh,” she’s looking at him and he can hear the way her heart is accelerating, and hope sparks to life within him. “Nate, I--” she reaches out a hand placing it against his chest. Can she feel how his heart his hammering in his chest?
A long moment where she searches for words and Nate waits with baited breath. Wants to say something, to sweep her off her feet, but he can’t. She’s been drinking. He can smell the wine on her breathe, strong now with her this close. This moment, whatever it is, wouldn’t have happened otherwise.
He must do the right thing here. For Riley’s sake, for Morgan’s sake.
Her hand is small in his, delicate as he pulls it away, the cool night air rushing in to fill the void where her touch had once been. The urge is there, to place a kiss on the back of her hand, but he swallows it down and instead gives it a brief squeeze before releasing it.
“It’s late; we should get you home.”
Riley nods, eyes not meeting his and he mourns the loss, what he wouldn’t give to lose himself in their warm depths.
He only has a moments warning, the sound of familiar footfalls, before Morgan steps out of the shadows, “am I interrupting something?”
A small shriek erupts out of Riley, her hand flying to cover her mouth, “Morgan! You scared me half to death!”
He should have sensed her sooner. Too distracted by Riley, and what if she had been another supernatural? One intent on hurting Riley? He needs to be better, to be more careful, to not lose himself in far-fetched dreams and longings.
He didn’t expect her here, she still has a few hours of patrol left. Had she heard their voices and come to say hello? She never would have bothered with any of her old flings. Just more evidence that this is something more between them, something he shouldn’t get between.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” Morgan drawls as she wraps an arm around Riley’s waist, “that’s not how I intended to make you scream.”
“Morgan!” Nate splutters, words failing him as his face heats. Wishes he could say it was just indignation and embarrassment at Morgan’s words, but he knows its more. “That’s highly inappropriate.”
“I am highly inappropriate,” she responds with a dry chuckle, “but Nate is right, we should get you home.” She doesn’t wait for a response, just starts walking, her arm still around Riley’s waist.
Nate watches them walk away unease sitting heavy in his stomach. How much had she overheard? They will have to talk after this, clear the air.
“Aren’t you joining us?” Morgan calls over her shoulder, her grin wicked, and he knows she overheard it all.
A small squeak escapes Riley, her eyes darting back between the two of them. Her heart rate skyrocketing, her skin heating, a hundred other small changes his vampire sense allow him a peek into. One he wishes he could ignore.
Has Riley thought about it? The three of them together? Images too easy to recall rise in his mind, walking in on them in the library. Lace against Riley’s skin, Morgan’s lips travel along her collarbone. . .
A raised eyebrow from Morgan as she waits for his response. He knows it’s no good trying to hide it from her. They’ve known each other too long, and their senses are too strong too attuned to each other after almost a century.
The smile grows larger across Morgan’s face and he needs to redirect this somehow.
“You’re more than capable of getting her home, no need for me to tag along,” he tries to keep his voice neutral, to push those thoughts away, to slow the rapid beat of his pulse. He doesn’t wait for their response, turns on his heel and retreats, but he can still feel the weight of Morgan’s gaze long after he is out of sight.
tag list: @agentnatesewell @rosarx @lord-king-saint
thank you friend 💜 full disclosure I haven't written in months, but I'm trying not to over think things and maybe just the process of posting this will help me get over my writer's block
77. arsonist lullaby - hozier
pairing: julia ortega/f!sidestep (cynthia basri)
warnings: allusion to sexy times and some suicidal ideation
words: 300
You have to remind yourself that you have a mission. Something bigger than yourself, bigger than you and her. So many things that need to come crashing down, there has to be collateral damage, and you didn't care when you figured it would just be you.
You were hoping it would be you. A light at the end of the tunnel of getting through each day. A reprieve from every memory which haunted you, from the prison of your hated flesh.
It's hard to hate it now with Julia pressed against you, hands making lazy circles on your back, warm and real and pressing you close to press a kiss to your temple, hunting in the dark to find your cheek, the tip of your nose, your lips.
It was so much easier before she found you and made you real again. Not just a ghost with a mission, the fire of retribution driving you forward, but a person once again.
You can feel the flames flickering, smothered under her caress, hands weighty and sure on your skin.
You wish you could let her. Let her smother the flames, wish that you give up and let yourself just bask in her warmth.
You pull back, letting the empty night air fill the space between your bodies. Pull back and slip out of the bed even as her hands reach out to pull you back.
She was your sun once. Filling your sky and your life with her stupid smug grin and laugh. But then you spent years in places the sun can't reach, it was only your fire, your mission which kept you alive.
The day will come when she learns the truth, and you'll need your fire then, even if in the end it leaves you in ashes.
Send me a pairing and a number between 1-100 and I'll write a short scene based on my Spotify Top 100 playlist
It’s another perfect summer day in Sunset Bird. Warm, but not sweltering, just enough heat for you to seek relief in the cool waters of the Pacific.
You’re laying back on your surfboard, you can hear the waves crashing against the shore, but you’re far enough from the breakers to just bob peacefully as the swells pass underneath you. If it wasn’t for the cries from the gulls wheeling overhead you could almost fall asleep.
“Thanks for joining me,” Cove’s voice breaks through your sundrenched haze. “I know surfing isn’t your favorite.”
You turn to face him, hand raised to block out the glare of the afternoon sun. He’s not wrong. Even living feet from the beach, you’ve never gotten the hang of surfing. Coordination had never been your strong suit, and a day on the waves usually was more frustrating than fun.
“This part isn’t too bad, and besides, you love it.” And you loved Cove.
Not that you can tell him that, especially not with the end of summer looming on the horizon.
A small frown creases his face, and you wonder what you’ve said wrong. “You don’t have to do things just because I want to.” His voice is serious enough to make you sit up.
His blue eyes are watching you intently, so concerned that maybe he pushed you into something you weren’t comfortable with. It had happened more than once, but Lizzie was usually the culprit. You’d gotten better at saying no, but it was still a struggle at times.
“I’m having fun Cove, I promise. I always have fun with you.”
His frown softens, “me too, Molly.” He sighs deeply, “I wish summer would never end.”
An old wish, oft repeated, but carrying new weight this year. August marked not simply a return to the strictures of school and routine, but your departure for the East Coast and your dream school.
Right now, it felt less like a dream and more like a boogeyman causing you to lay awake at night as anxiety churned in your stomach. Everything was going to change; Cove would still be here, but you would be in a new town with new people.
You don’t feel ready. You wish you could stop time, let this afternoon stretch out into infinity, but life doesn’t work that way. Just like the waves crashing against the shore, time will continue to march on, and you would have to try and find your balance.
Cove’s hand on your shoulder shakes you from your twisting thoughts, “Wanna go get ice cream? My treat?” he asks.
“That sounds perfect.” You make your way back to shore determined to not let anxieties about the future ruin the present.
not me filling a prompt like six months later 😅 this is some very self indulgent angst about a potential bad ending
from the small details for fictional kisses prompt list
30. this might be our last kiss ever so let's make it last
defeat
pairing: ricardo ortega/nb!sidestep (vesper bui)
warning: heavy angst and some violence
words: 700
read on ao3
You always knew it was going to end this way. No happy ending, for either of you. Screams and bright splotches of panic fill the air around you. Terror, the press named you well. They’re terrified of you. Terrified of what you’ve come here to do.
Unless you let him stop you.
“Don’t do it.” His voice is firm as he wipes the blood from his lip.
It’s been a hell of a fight up to this point, up until he managed to rip your helmet off, and you sent him flying with a backhand for his trouble.
Your both winded and maybe that’s why he’s trying talking. Or maybe it’s just harder to hit you now that he can see your face, sentimental fool.
“You can stop, right now. No one else has to die today.”
Except they do. They have to pay; someone has to fucking pay for this.
“Vesper, please, you don’t have to do this.” His hands are lowered, eyes never leaving your face. Thinks he’s getting through to you.
“I do, and I will,” you hiss.
“You’re throwing your life away going back in there.”
One step then two, glass crunching under his feet. Coming in closer, hands still held out and there’s no spark in is palm. Is he really so arrogant to believe he can talk you down? That all he needs to do is flash his stupid grin and you’ll give up everything you’ve worked for?
He goes stiff in your arms as your blade enters his side. “You should have taken the chance to stop me, Ric” your voice a whisper in his ear, intimate. Memories rising unbidden at the scent of his cologne, of his sweat, the sight of the small hairs curling by his ears. A flash and pop from his emitter as what has to be the last of his stores is absorbed easily by your armor. After all you designed it for this. Designed it for him.
He stumbles back with a curse; his hand clutches his side as he falls to his knees.
“Perhaps I should have.” He’s angry. Eyes pinches and narrowed, or maybe that’s just pain.
You always knew it was going to end this way. You tell yourself the tears are because of the smoke, not because this is goodbye, for real this time.
He’s watching you, trying to figure out your next move and you wish you knew what it was. You should finish this. Your revenge is within your grasp, you can finish this for good. Should do something besides crouching down to his level,
“Bui, please—” you hand around his throat cuts him off. So fragile. He’s on your list, just as culpable as the ones you’ve came here today to kill.
You wanted this. You wanted him at your feet, wanted him defeated at your own hand. You could end it all now, you’ve dreamed about it. You should be gloating, your victory at last, but it feels so hollow. You can’t bring yourself to tighten the hand around his throat, to unleash the nanovores and let them finish the job their cousins started a decade ago.
Instead, you kiss him. Ortega goes rigid for a moment before softening against your lips. You can taste his blood and his sweat on your tongue the familiar haze of ozone thick in the air. His arm moves as if to cup your face, a familiar movement behind the closed door of his apartment, but he’s not moving to deepen the kiss now. Electricity discharges harmlessly into the night as you knock his arm away.
“I’m not that stupid.”
“I wish you were.”
“Me too,” and it’s an admission you hadn’t planned to make, but the words are said. You kiss him again to stop him from talking, to stop him from trying, from asking again. You’re not sure you have it in you to say no again. You kiss him and he kisses you back, not holding back this time, your breaths mingling as it breaks but neither of you ready to move away just yet. This is the end.
“Vesper,” your name breaks the spell. He sags to the ground as you release him, red stained hand still clutching his side.
“Don’t, Ricardo.” You had your moment of weakness. You can’t afford another one. You don’t look back can’t look back.
If it’s not too late could you do 8. “The way cold glass fogs when you press your hand against it for” a Sidestep?
not me filling this almost a year later 😬 just a little scene not long after cynthia returns to los diablos
from the sensory prompts lists
I almost do
fandom: fhr
pairing: Julia Ortega/f!sidestep (Cynthia Basri)
rating/warnings: none, light angst
words: 646
read on ao3
It’s almost like living in a new city. You stay far away from your old haunts: the corner store where you used to get your smokes, that taco truck with the best al pastor you’ve ever tasted, the thrift store off Sepulveda where you found your favorite jacket. You find new places, busy places where you don’t get noticed. No more friendly banter with the sales clerk, you’re just another easily forgotten face.
A new Los Diablos for a new you.
You almost believe it. You spend months creating new habits, taking new roads, always avoiding the dangers zones that spiral out from the city center, until it becomes second nature.
It shouldn’t be a big deal then, taking this bus. You convince yourself it will be fine and realize how wrong you are as the familiar shape of the Ranger’s HQ comes into view.
You’ve been able to avoid it for months now, it’s not like the city center holds much for you now. You’re back on the outskirts, back with the forgotten and the cast off, spending your days on the edges.
You’re safely anonymous on the bus, just passing by, hood pulled low to cover your features. Maybe you should move away from the window, but you can’t bring yourself to, some sick needs making you watch the building grow closer as the bus makes it way down the congested street. It looks larger than you remembered, familiarity making it shrink in your memories, into somewhere safe, somewhere close to home.
Even this early there is still traffic, still too many cars, too many souls crowding the clogged streets. You can feel them beating against your shields. Exhaustion, frustration, rage pressing in on you. Its an almost welcome distraction to the tightness in your chest as a red light causes the bus to stop in front of the doors.
You can’t help yourself, face almost pressed against the glass,
You could hop off now. Walk through the door and what?
Your heart twitches in your chest.
Tell the receptionist you’re an old friend of Ortega’s stopping by for coffee?
Would there be any recognition if you gave your name? It’s not like you could say hi I’m Sidestep back from the dead, but Cynthia?
Cynthia wouldn’t mean anything to anyone but Ortega, and even that is a maybe.
What if that name means nothing to her anymore? What if you don’t mean anything to her anymore? That would be for the best. Better for her to move on. Besides what was there to move on from? A few stolen kisses? You never let it go further, never let it be more, and it’s not like you were the only one she was kissing, of course, she would move on.
You’d spent so long waiting for her to save you, hoping hoping hoping, but she never came. No one ever came for you and why would they? You are just a thing. A tool to be used by others. There isn’t even supposed to be a you. Every memory every emotion you felt over those years was a manufacturing flaw.
Wasn’t it?
It doesn’t feel that way, not when you can see the stupid R on the door handle, almost hear Themmy’s laugh beside you. If you closed your eyes now you know you would see Ortega, beckoning you forward leading you back into the life you thought you had. The chord is rough between your fingers and you don’t even remember reaching for it. All you have to do is pull, tell the bus to stop, to throw caution to the wind, but you resist. Instead, your hand comes to rest on the cold glass of the window, fog blooming under your heated skin until the building is swallowed up and obscured.
It’s just a fantasy. Themmy is dead, and so are you.
fhr tag list: @lilyoffandoms @rosarx @plotbunny-bundle @stealthbaguette
I was tagged by the wonderful @sidestepping and @gingerbreton (thank you both 🥺) tagging you both back as well as @rosarx @wayhavenots @griffin-wood @coldshrugs and @nerdferatum (no pressure of course💜)
got plenty of wips to choose from still nothing close to finished. here’s some vesper and ric I’ve been working on forever
“What do you want?” you hiss as you answer.
“Bui?” he sounds tired, strained.
“Who the fuck else would it be?”
“I didn’t think you’d pick up.” If you didn’t know better you would say he’s embarrassed, but you know he’s incapable of shame.
“I can always hang up.” You should. You shouldn’t have answered in the first place.
“Please don’t” his voice is quiet, weak.
You try to pull some snark to the surface, some dumb comment but it’s hard to when you can hear his uneven breathing on the other line, hard when you feel so uneven yourself.
“What do you want, Ric?” you ask with an exasperated sigh.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“So, you figured you’d wake me up?”
“I didn’t though, did I?” You can hear the smirk through the phone. That stupid charming smile of his when he knows he’s right, when he’s backed you into a corner. Bastard. It’s just a lucky guess. You and insomnia are old friends.
“Do you want to grab some breakfast?” The question takes you by surprise.
“You can’t be serious. It’s three am.”
“So? We’ve done it before.”
“Yeah, when we’re drunk.” A lifetime ago. Bar crawling after a good fight, or a bad one, nursing wounds with a drink and bravado and eventually pancakes.
“We can do that first if you’d like.” He’s grinning, you can hear it in his voice. “I think I have a bottle of your gin stashed somewhere.”
“That’s a terrible idea.”
“Which one, the drinking or the breakfast?” the last thing you need is to drink around him considering how hard it was to keep your hands to yourself even sober. Can’t have another slip up like that, no matter how much you think about it.
“Just text me an address idiot” it’s a bad idea, but you’ve already answered the phone, can’t back down now
