#fic: cynthia basri

[amlovelies]

an interlude

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

[amlovelies]

Cynthia, Julia, 77? (For the playlist thing :)!)

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

[amlovelies]

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

[amlovelies]

countdown

this is 110% some self indulgent au angst inspired by this ask about how cyn would act if she knew she only had a month left to live

fandom: fhr

pairing: Julia ortega/f!sidestep (cynthia basri)

rating: heavy heavy angst some suggestive language

words: 1.2k

read on ao3

              You’ve failed. Ran out of time. There will be no justice, no moment of truth, no reprieve for your fellow regenes.

              Just another ending.

               You know the signs well enough, know how quickly it would progress. There’s a cost to be paid for the way you were created. Cells told to split and grow at an unnatural rate, and some kept going even after your decanting.

               You estimate you only have a few weeks. Can already feel yourself weakening, losing the stamina necessary to be Retribution. Exhaustion tugging at your limbs, your reactions are dulled. A slower death this time, but more final than a plunge out of a fourth story window.

               There will be no justice. No righting of wrongs, at least not for you. You gather everything you’ve collected. Every scrap of evidence, of the corruption that is the foundation of this city, of the ties to the corporations, to the special directive, compiled and organized and ready to be delivered.

               Only one thing left to do, and you know you’re being selfish, know this isn’t the way to do this. She deserves better, she always has, but you can’t help yourself.

               The surprise is clear on Julia’s face when you show up at her door. You’ve been avoiding her since that night, too close, you can’t trust yourself. Guess that doesn’t matter now.

               You stop her questions with a kiss, arms pulling her down to you. Needing to memorize the feel of her, the softness of her lips and the firmness of her arms under your hands.

               She lets you take her by the hand pulling her towards the dark sanctuary of her room.

               You cry after, cradled in her arms in the darkness, her hands tracing lazy circles across your skin. You wish the pattern of her touch could erase the patterns already inked into your skin. You already feel so marked by her. It would be more fitting.

               “Not that I’m complaining, but this was a bit of a surprise.”

               There’s a question there even if she doesn’t ask it. Concern coloring her voice. She’s right to be concerned, not that you’ll tell her that.

               It’s easier to take her face in your hands, kiss her until both your breaths come out in heavy gasps, her touch no longer lazy but firm and unyielding, as she rolls you onto your back. She knows that you are distracting her, but she wants this badly enough herself to not say no.

               You let her make love to you again knowing she’ll hate you tomorrow. Your final act of villainy.

               She holds her questions, though you are sure they are still swirling in her mind. She holds her questions and she holds you tight to her chest. Small endearments bubbling from her lips as she kisses your forehead, carefully navigating your features in the dark to place a kiss on each eyelid, the tip of your nose, the edge of your mouth. Her thumb running over the scar. She doesn’t need sight to find it anymore. Just muscle memory.

               You grab her hand and pull it to your mouth trailing kisses around the edge of her emitter and your lips buzz from the contact.

               You’ve been waiting for death for so long, wishing for it, you should be happy to know this will all be over soon, but you wish it didn’t mean losing this.

               It’s time to leave. Exhaustion is pulling at your eyelids, and you can’t risk falling asleep here, not like this, with her bare skin pressed against yours.

               It’ll be easier on her losing you this time. Knowing there wasn’t anything real to actually loss. Just this facsimile of a person, this machine trying so hard to be real          

               It’s hard to tear yourself away, the little sigh escaping Julia as you slip out of the sheets. “That time already?” forced lightness in her voice, trying to be casual.

               You pull the layers on one by one; you wish she would talk, would yammer. It’s too quiet in the darkness, too quiet and you can feel the intensity of her stare on your back, can feel her eyes and this will be the last time.

               The last of your clothing secure, and this is where you should reach for the lamp let her know it’s safe now. Break the stillness of her bedroom make this moment end. Really the last time this time.

               You reach out hand rattling the pull chain and something breaks within you. You can’t do it, can’t pull the chain and make this moment end. You aren’t ready to say goodbye to her.

               Damn Ortega. Damn her for making this hurt worse. You don’t mean that. She’s the only thing that made any of this worthwhile. The only bright spot.

               You don’t turn the light on, instead you return to the warmth of her arms. She’s surprised, but it only takes her a moment to adjust, to pull you hard against her soft skin,

               You shatter, tears you’ve held back cascading down your cheeks. Wet against the skin of her chest where you have buried yourself. Trying to memorize the feeling, the smell, every little detail.

               You knew you were always going to lose this. That you could only steal moments with her, there would be no future of nights spend in each other’s arms, lazy morning waking up to her voice in your ear. A lifetime together. That’s something humans get. Not for you.

               Your stolen time has run out.

               “Please,” she begs, panic cracking her voice to smithereens, “please talk to me, Cyn.”  She knows something is wrong. Has probably known from the moment that you showed up at her door.

               “Tomorrow. I’ll tell you tomorrow.” It’s not a lie. Not really. She doesn’t believe you. You can tell by how the tension hasn’t shifted in her body at all. Grips you tighter and there will be bruises on your skin tomorrow from her fingertips. One last thing to remember her by.

               You sleep, face against her chest listening to her heartbeat. She keeps her arms around you, loosening slightly, but never losing contact. For once you have no nightmares.

               You wake before she does, manage to slip out into the dark of the pre-dawn street.

               You leave a note under your mug in the kitchen counter. She deserves more, deserves more that the quickly sprawled I love you. Deserves more than a last-minute confession. You’re too much a coward to say it to her face, too much a coward for many things.

               The broadcast will go live in a few hours. All your deepest secrets exposed to the entire city. Even if some networks get shut down quickly, the net you’ve cast is wide. Carefully compiled dossiers sent to every newspaper, to every journalist with a shred of integrity. Community leaders, major shareholders, no one will be able to claim ignorance now. The truth will be out there. You can’t control what happens now, not that you ever really could.

               Ortega will know the truth about you. Know that you are Retribution, know that you aren’t human. She’ll hate you then. All the love and concern you felt last night evaporating in the arid summer heat.

               Cynthia Basri will be dead, the illusion ruined.

               Then you’ll just have to wait for the sickness to finish off the rest of you. 

tag list @lord-king-saint @rosarx @plotbunny-bundle @wayhavenots

[amlovelies]

eyes wide shut

I’ve had this mostly finished for like months. posting it now so I don’t delete it. an attempt at ortega’s pov for the in the dark love scene

fandom: fhr pairing: Julia ortega/f!sidestep (cynthia basri) rating: M/E there’s some smuttyness also discussion of suicide words: 1.2k ao3

             It still feels like a dream. Any moment now, reality will come crashing in, the warm body trapped underneath Ortega’s will evaporate into the darkness, and she will be alone with her regrets.

               It hasn’t happened yet. Cyn is still here, still in her arms. She hasn’t run yet. She sighs as Julia runs her hands up her side, a deeper groan as she tangles her hand in her wild curls, pulls her closer, kisses her until they’re both breathless.

               It’s thrilling how affected she is, confirmation that the attraction wasn’t one sided like Julia sometimes feared. If the needy sounds spilling out of her mouth are any indication, she wants this badly, and maybe she needed the dark, and why hadn’t Julia thought of that earlier? Should have guessed. Should have guessed from the long layers, even in the worst of the summer heat.  

               Hard to think of that now over the thrill of feeling skin against skin. She’s so warm, tension bleeding away as Julia works her way down her body.

               Sloppy open-mouthed kisses along the edge of her collar bone, letting her free hand explore, slowly trailing down.

               A moan escaping Cyn as Julia’s hand cups her breast, running her thumb over the pebbling nipple. Her own hardening in response, at the way Cyn’s hips jerk forward against her thigh. They’ve only just begun and Cyn is already desperate for friction.

               It’s hard for Julia to hold back, wanting to let her hand delve down between Cyn’s legs, make her cum again and again. There will be time for that. Needs to make this last, she’s been waiting too long for this.

               Wishes she could see her face, could watch her eyes roll back, lashes fluttering against her cheeks. It’s easy to pull up a decade’s worth of dreams and fantasies, to imagine reactions to the soundtrack of whimpers and sighs escaping Cyn. It’s enough for now. More than enough.

               She hadn’t dared to hope to get this far. Plotted and planned, yes, but hope was something Ortega had lost a long time ago. The same day she lost Cynthia.

               Put that thought away. So many other things to focus on, like the expanse of Cyn’s bared torso trembling under her hands. It’s strange without sight, having to navigate by feel. Her senses heightened, trying to make up for the loss, trying to fill in the gaps. Is this how Cyn feels around her, missing that extra piece of input, all the other senses scrambling trying to make sense?

               The rough textures on her soft skin. Reading scars like braille under her fingertips, so many memories. There are words she doesn’t recognize, vocabulary she hasn’t learned yet. Burns and cuts and the puckering of poorly stitched skin.

                Each touch creating new questions which her mind is quick to supply answers for. Answers she doesn’t like, but that fit too easily to be ignored. Too many similarities for it all to be coincidence, telepathy too rare a gift.  She won’t complete the thought. Won’t let her self say the words because that will make it real, because that will mean she has to act.

               For now, she can pretend. For now, she can ignore the little voice in the back of her mind and focus on Cyn.

               Focusing on mapping out her contours, the sensitive patch of skin on her right side, the small divot on her left arm from a stab wound. Julia’s hand sliding down the arm towards Cyn’s wrist.  Under her fingers, she can feel scars. Ones she’d guessed might be there, but hadn’t wanted to look. Hadn’t wanted to have it confirmed. As if she could ignore Cyn’s hollow stare or the way she wrapped her arms around herself. As if she might break apart at any second, only willpower and stubbornness keeping her together.

                Did Heartbreak ever end? Did they ever really leave that room? Or is she still there trying to fight the gun away? Needing to save her, needing her to want to be saved. To stay. Not to leave. Juia can’t lose her. Can’t lose this.

               Not when Cyn has finally let her in. Not fully, and maybe that’s a fever dream, but more than she ever did before.        

               Julia presses her lips down on the scars, again and again, each touch of her lips an apology. For not being quick enough, for not being there, for not knowing what was waiting for Cyn on the other side of that window.

               Maybe the dark is better. Cynthia can’t see her face; Julia doesn’t have to try and hide; doesn’t have to try and pretend she isn’t gutted.

               She can’t lose her again. Can’t have her slip through her fingers, Julia wouldn’t survive it a second time. Wouldn’t want to. Maybe she can understand that ridge of scars a little better.  

               Cyn tries to pull her hand away as Julia trails kisses over her wrist, but Julia won’t let her. Not yet. She needs to do this, as if her lips have any ability to heal, but she can’t find the words, actions are all she has. A broken sob from Cyn cracks Julia open all over again.

               One final kiss, this time to the palm of her hand and Julia releases her. She expects it, but it still stings when she pulls her hand back, out of reach and lost in the darkness around them.

               “I love you,” Julia tells her because she doesn’t know what else to say, knows it isn’t enough, knows Cyn doesn’t believe her, but she hasn’t run so that has to count for something.

               She’s still here in her bed, still letting her touch her.

               Kisses that taste too much of unsaid things. Of lies and secrets and pain.

               Julia wants to stay like this forever. Cyn’s head resting on her chest, hands and legs intertwined, the slide of skin against each other.

               Sleep pulling at her corners, no reason to fight to keep her eyes open in the darkness. Safe, Cyn is safe in her arms.

               Wants to protest when Cyn starts to move, to shift away, pull her back and never let her leave. Use her hands and mouth and convince her to stay, just a little while longer. Julia isn’t ready to let the moment go, not ready to watch her pull away like she always does.

               Too soon she is moving away. Too soon she is slipping out of Julia’s hands, fumbling for her clothing in the darkness. Each layer being replaced, each wall being rebuilt, distance reestablished.

               Julia wants to reach out to grab her hand, pull her back into the bed with a laugh, not let her leave until morning, or ever. Never sounds good right about now.

               “You can turn the light on now,” her voice is hushed in the stillness of the bedroom.

               It’s never easy to watch Cyn walk away, to let her leave. Julia is all too aware that it could be the last time.  

               At least she isn’t running out the door like she’d done so many times before. Julia would rather drive her home, would rather she never leave, but she makes herself be content with watching her walk down the hall from her doorway.

               Cyn turns before descending, and she never used to do that before, turns with an intensity in her gaze and a small smile on her lips. It’s not the words she hasn’t returned yet, but Julia will take it. Will lock in away in her mind in the place where she has begun to let her hopes grow.

fhr taglist: @lord-king-saint @roxaroux @lilyoffandoms @plotbunny-bundle @stealthbaguette

[amlovelies]

For cyn/julia: trailing kisses from your lover's lips to their neck

thank you for the prompt kitbug 💜 this is pretty short and mostly just me trying to get more comfortable with writing sort of spicy content. I'll get there someday

from this prompt list

like a moth to you

pairing: julia ortega/f!sidestep (cynthia basri) rating: M heavy make out session words: 700 read on ao3

You thought you remembered this. Memories played and replayed a hundred times, a thousand times, in your dampened cell at the farm. Even after you’d lost hope, after you knew she had forgotten you, you couldn’t forget this. You thought you remember how it felt.

You were wrong.

Your memories were a pale shadow compared to the reality of her. It was bad enough just watching her move, so sure in her own body, confident, beautiful. Her well-muscled arms and the broad expanse of her shoulders drawing your eyes. So much worse with her leaning forward, and that look in her eye is something you do remember. Her touch is gentle on your chin, her thumb brushing along the edge of your lip for a moment before she tilts your face up to capture your lips in a kiss.

It’s soft, almost tentative, until you let your arms wind around her neck, let your hands get lost in the dark mass of her hair. It’s all the sign she needs to deepen the kiss, to let her tongue delve into your mouth. Her one hand still cupping your face while the other is firm on your waist, her hips pressing against yours keeping you trapped against the edge of her desk.

She’s too good at this. Too good at turning you into putty in your hands. Too good at silencing the smarter parts of you. The parts that tell you this is a bad idea, such a bad idea, that you should walk away now.

She wants more

God, you do too.

Just like a sparring match, you are scrambling to keep up. Her lips moving against yours, pulling and pushing in equal measure. You’re out of practice and out of breath. Desperate reactions, as you try to keep up to not lose yourself completely to the pace she sets, her hand moving to the back of your neck, holding you where she wants you. Putty.

Her lips leave yours, and she chuckles at the needy whine that escapes you. Stupid smug Julia, and you want to say something to bring her down a peg, but she’s still kissing you. First a press to the corner of your mouth, teasing, so close to where you want her, a peck to your cheek, and finally a kiss to the edge of your jaw.

Her hand on your waist staring to stray, light teasing touches at the edge of your breast.

You’re still clothed. You’ll always have to be clothed, too many secrets on your skin. Your mind knows it would ruin everything, but your body doesn’t. The ache in-between your legs trying to drive away all reason, all logic, all rational thought.

If she doesn’t touch you, you’ll die. If you let her touch you, you are doomed. Stuck balancing on the razor’s edge, and her teeth find your earlobe. The warm of her mouth followed by the sharp sting of her teeth.

Paralyzed, you need to stop this you need to leave, but that would mean she would stop. Would stop the messy trail of kisses down your neck. Only slowing when she reaches the edge of your shirt. She lingers there, her mouth hot and insistent on your skin, setting your nerves to dancing.

She bites, not hard, but enough for you to give a started yelp.

The next kiss is soft as an apology against your neck. A warmer one against your lips, but without the heat of only a few moments ago. She rests her forehead against yours for just a moment before pulling back, letting the tension between you break and dissipate.

You find a reason to leave. You both know the excuse is flimsy, but she doesn’t protest. Her gaze is heavy on your back as you walk away, and you want to turn back, to let yourself be drawn back into her arms, but you resist.

You tell yourself you should keep your distance. You can’t continue to tempt fate this way, but you already know it’s futile.

You will let yourself be drawn back to her, drawn back into her arms, the temptation of her kiss. Even if it ends up destroying you, there’s no other way you’d rather go.

tagging: @lord-king-saint @roses-and-roux @lilyoffandoms @plotbunny-bundle

[amlovelies]

shifting

this is another one of the prompts I shame deleted earlier in the year. ♙: sharing a bed from the non-sexual acts of intimacy list

fandom: fhr pairing: Julia Ortega/f!sidestep (Cynthia Basri) rating: T swearing and some suggest language words: 1.3k read on ao3

               It’s been a long fucking day.  Tiredness pulls at your limbs; the sight of the roadside motel almost brings a tear to your eyes. Maybe you’re going soft, grown too used to sleeping under a roof, on a real bed.

               It’s cheap, you could have even afforded to pay for the room without feeling the pinch, but Ortega takes care of it. She’ll expense it anyway.

               A few hours of sleep and then you’ll be in position tomorrow to stop the tradeoff. Bad guys get caught and the city will be a little safer, but that’s tomorrow’s problem.

               The door to the room opens and you feel your heart sink. It’s dingy and small. The single bed might pass for a full, if you were feeling generous, which you aren’t. There’s no way you can share that with all six feet of Julia. She takes up too much space as it is, and even as exhausted as you both are you can tell from the gleam in her eyes that this is giving her too many ideas. Bad ideas. Terrible ideas which make your pulse race and your hands feel clammy.

               “How cozy,” she says with a purr in her voice as she sits down on the edge of the bed. It groans with her weight, and the sound makes something twist in your stomach. The combination of the mattress creaking and her looking at you like that is a terrible thing. This wanting is a terrible thing.

               “I’ll sleep on the floor.” The words rush out of you.

               “Don’t be an idiot, the carpet looks even worse than the comforter.”

               It does. Mysterious stains litter its surface, but you’ve been through worse. Not that Ortega would understand that, at least it’s inside.

               “I’ll be good I promise,” she says as she rises from the bed and holds her hands up in mock surrender.  

               You shoot a withering glare in her direction.

               “Please, even I have my standards,” she says with another glance at the dingy comforter.

               “Hardly,” you scoff.  “Otherwise, I’d definitely be safe.” Still don’t understand why she keeps kissing you. Will probably never understand it.

               She frowns at that. Taking a step closer to you and reaching out.  You jump a little as her hand brushes your hair out of your face, lingering, letting a curl twine around her finger, before tucking it behind your ear.

               She’s too close. Her eyes dart down to your lips. You can’t let her kiss you: not alone in this tiny room, not surrounded by the empty desert, not when you have nowhere to run.

               “I’m sure the bathroom is even more horrifying.” Your voice breaks the moment and you take the opportunity to turn away.

               “You’re probably right,” she responds with a chuckle, stepping back and giving you the space, you so clearly need. If she’s disappointed, she doesn’t let it show. She has to be used to this game by now.

                You take your turn in the bathroom first. You’ve seen worse. The light flickers and there is mold growing on the shower curtain, but it’s serviceable. Three checks of the lock before you feel comfortable enough to use the toilet, to expose your bare skin, to expose the glowing orange tattoos crisscrossing your skin.

               You hate seeing them, hate being reminded, but maybe you need it tonight.

               She takes her turn in the bathroom after you. There is an alarming groan as the shower starts followed by muffled cursing.

               You focus on getting comfortable, making yourself as small as possible on one side of the bed. You try to ignore what’s happening on the other side of the bathroom door, but you can't. Guessing how she is undoing her long braid, letting her dark hair fall around her in heavy waves and curls, before peeling off her suit. You’ve seen most of her at this point. Ortega has never been shy, and you hate how easy it is to conjure up an image of her bare skin in the florescent light.

               Suddenly, from the bathroom, Ortega’s loud and off-key singing jars you from your thoughts. She sings in the shower, of course, she does, but not well.  She’s no siren, and rather than drawing you in, the singing makes it easier to move your thoughts to safer waters.

               It’s easy to pretend to already be asleep when she crawls in next to you, your name a quiet question on her lips which you refuse to answer.

               She doesn’t press, just sighs as she settles in, facing the opposite wall and leaving a scant few inches of space between you.

                               It’s a good thing you are so petite; Ortega takes up so much room. Physically and metaphorically, it’s always been the case. In whatever room she’s in, drawing in all eyes, filling the space, filling your thoughts. You need to sleep, but it hard to turn your mind off, to stop thinking about those few inches. Impossible to stop thinking about the woman next to you when you can hear her quiet breathing.

               The farm taught you techniques, ways to sink into sleep. You put them to use. Counting your breathing and willing your mind to stop thinking about how close she is, to let darkness claim you.

                You wake sometime in the night when Ortega shifts in her sleep. Shifts and rolls over to mold her body against yours. You tense for a moment at the contact, but it doesn’t take long for you to relax into the warmth of her body. The static of her mind a soothing white noise to lose yourself in. Her arm is a light weight across your waist. Not trapping you, but just holding you. You could slip out easily.

               You should slip out. Spend the night on the floor, or even better yet, slip out the door and into the night.

                But it feels too good, and you can’t bring yourself to leave. Safe. Not a feeling you are used to, especially in sleep, and not one you should be feeling now. Not with Ortega’s flirting and innuendo and the secrets hiding underneath your clothing, but you do. You don’t need any techniques to return to sleep, the soft rhythm of Ortega’s breathing all the lullaby you need to let it reclaim you.  

               Her voice wakes you in the morning, a gentle cajoling in your ear, “Cyn, despiertas.” A small kiss to your temple, her body shifting, as she props herself up on an elbow.

               You don’t want to move, don’t want to wake up, don’t want to leave this bed or this shithole hotel.

               Pain, hot and surprising, blooms in a deep place in your chest, and you squeeze your eyes shut tight to keep any tears from escaping. You want this, and you can never have it. You should have slipped out of the bed in the night. You shouldn’t have let yourself taste this.

               Something you can’t have. Not the way you want it. You never fully understood it before. The preoccupations with sharing a bed, sex was easier to understand, a biological urge, but this was different.

               A vulnerability, trust, it’s hard to feel the tension return to your body. You know she can feel it too, the way you stiffen, losing the softness of sleep, that heavy lassitude and the way your limbs had almost melted into hers.

               Like something you can’t quite describe, they didn’t program you for things like this, you can’t peek into her mind to see if she knows the words. If she felt it too.

               Maybe she did. Maybe she didn’t. She’s shared her bed with others, it’s probably not the same for her. Just sleep. Just heat, not like a revelation.

               You can’t ask her, so instead you quip, “your breath stinks.”

               She laughs as she rolls away, and her absence is so fucking cold.

tagging: @lord-king-saint @lilyoffandoms @roses-and-roux @plotbunny-bundle

[amlovelies]

Spotify #49 for julia/cyn if it works? 👀

Send me a pairing and a number between 1-100 and I’ll write a short scene based on my Spotify Top 100 playlist

thank you friend 💜 this one ended up a little bit spicy 😳 still doing these as half hour flash prompts

49. a little death - the neighborhood

Touch me, yeah I want you to touch me there Make me feel like I am breathing Feel like I am human

Want

pairing: julia ortega/f!sidestep (cynthia basri) rating: m (minors dni) words: 400

Your hands are shaking as you pull the shirt over your head. Not naked yet, still in an undershirt, but you are exposed. Even in the dim light the tattoos seem to glow. She’s seen them already, touched them in the dark before she knew when she could only feel your scars and think they were the only things that marked you.

Her eyes glance down and you keep waiting to see disgust, but it doesn’t happen. Instead, her eyes trace over you, slowly appreciatively, moving up your torso, lingering over the swell of your breasts, before meeting your gaze. Not disgust there, just an intensity which makes heat pool in your stomach.

Her movements are slow and deliberate as she crosses the space between you in her bedroom. Perhaps she fears any sudden movement might sent you running for the door.

She’s not wrong. Half of you is screaming out that this is dangerous. You need to run, to flee, to never look back. The other half is caught, ensnared in her brown eyes. Not caring about the danger, ready to expose your throat, at least you’d die at her hands.

“Is this okay?” she asks as she reaches out, fingers teasing under the edge of your undershirt, her hand finding the bare skin of your waist underneath.

It is. It isn’t. You can’t decide.

She pulls back, retreating a little, replacing her hands in the same position but this time on top of your shirt, and you exhale a breath of relief.

You never thought you would end up here, there was no version of events where she would still want to touch you after knowing the truth, where she would still want you.

Her hand is warm as she cups your cheek, pulls you in for a brief kiss, but you don’t let her pull away.

Easier to lose your fear when she is kissing you, easier to feel human. The bare skin of her shoulders in warm under your hands.

“It’s okay,” you whisper as the kiss breaks. “I want this.”

Her hand slips back under the shirt, her palm on your lower back, emitter against your spine.

“I want you to touch me, Jules.” You kiss her again, deeper this time, deep enough to draw a moan out of both of you.

“I want you,” you admit as you surrender yourself to her touch.

tagging: @lord-king-saint @roses-and-roux @plotbunny-bundle

[amlovelies]

Kindling

big thanks to everyone on discord for your help and feedback on this one 💜. Julia and Cyn rescue some hostages and then make out in an alley 😉

fandom: fhr pairing: Julia Ortega/f!sidestep (Cynthia Basri) rating: M, death/violence mention as well as some mild spice words: 2.9k read on ao3

               Even without your telepathy, it’s easy to know where to go. The craned necks of passersby and the distant sound of sirens all point towards Los Diablos’ latest disaster. Ortega had been frustratingly vague in her message, no information, just an address and a ‘come quick’. Not that you really need details. There’s nothing else you’d rather be doing.

               There had been a time when you had to work to slip behind the barricade unnoticed. Back when you were still an unknown vigilante, as likely to be a nuisance as an assistance. When you had to amplify your usual projections: ‘don’t notice me’ and ‘there’s nobody there.’  It’s still uncomfortable letting them drop, feeling the moment when you are seen, when you are recognized. Feeling little excited exclamations of ‘Sidestep’ and ‘hero’ in the minds around you.

               Uncomfortable, unfamiliar, but also real. You spend so much of your time hiding, just a ghost in a crowd, dancing at the edges of life, but not now. Not when the officers give a respectful nod in your direction. Not when they look at you like someone who matters, like someone who can help.

               You allow your mind to expand, to scan the city block around you as you take in the scene.  Brushing over the crowd, you sense nothing to be concerned with, just morbid curiosity and anxiety. A customer is worried about their favorite teller. Exclamations that this is a nice neighborhood, things like this aren’t supposed to happen here. Never mind that they have no idea what ‘this’ is, they’re just irritated at the disruption to their daily routines.

               You know the moment Ortega notices you by the lift at the edge of her mouth. She throws a smile in your direction that makes your stomach knot before returning her attention to the officer in front of her. You still don’t know what to do about this new thing. Fuck, you shouldn’t even call it a thing, that makes it too real. So what if you’ve been kissing, so what if you’ve let her see your face? You’re sure it’s just a passing fancy on her part, a new way to stave off boredom, and you are too stupid and selfish to stop it.

               She nods at your approach, and you take the opportunity to listen in. An established routine, it’s happened more than once that the LDPD failed to give the Rangers crucial information.  Sometimes it was simple incompetence, like an officer in over their head who was unable to recall the right details. Not always though. Not everyone has such an appreciative viewpoint of the Rangers, and some have a real problem with having to play second fiddle to a woman. Want to see her knocked down a peg or two (or in that case, nursing a couple broken ribs).

                               Even if she hadn’t asked, you would have checked. Would have let your consciousness spiral out, gentle fingers touching lightly against the minds around you, getting a fuller picture of the situation. It’s too ingrained a reflex, your primary role, reinforced in endless hours of training. Always meant to be a fly on the wall, not a part of the action, only there to report and monitor. Not anymore. You are so much more now.

               Seems like a botched robbery. The ringleader is a fire boost, Pyradical, and he has at least two modded goons with him.  That’s more firepower than the LDPD can comfortably deal with. It makes sense they called the Rangers in. You’ve heard the name before. He’s new on the scene and young. Early twenties or so, another desperate kid taking a chance with the boost drugs and looking to get rich quick. He was blamed for the robbery of La Brea Jewelers last month. Nasty. Last you heard, the security guard was still in the ICU recovering from the burns, but that had been a solo job. He’s getting more daring.

               Ortega gives you a look as the officer mentions hostages, and you switch your focus. A year ago, this would have been outside your range, but not now. A deep breath as you push your consciousness out to toward the darkened bank. Heat, intrusive and suffocating, blazes across your consciousness and your lips pull back in a snarl in response. You change direction, not trusting yourself to touch the knotted maelstrom of Pyradical’s thoughts. Even that brief connection was enough to make your muscles tense and bunch.

               The hostages are easy to pinpoint, beacons of terror and despair. The officer had said four hostages, but you only count three. Did they separate the hostages? Or is this an inside job? You need more information so you let your consciousness dip down, no longer a light brush, but letting yourself connect with one of them.  

               You rear back almost instantly as the scent of burning flesh fills your nostrils. A steadying hand on your shoulder keeps you from wobbling.

               “You okay?” Anathema asks. Her brow is furrowed until you give her a small nod. Her frown returns, however, as you relay what you had seen in the teller’s memories. The branch manager was dead, Pyradical holding a flaming hand to his face when he refused to input his half of the vault combo. You need to move quick.

               It’s a simple plan: you and Anathema will sneak around back and focus on getting the hostages out. Ortega will create a big showy diversion and keep Pyradical busy. Getting attention is what she does best after all. Power has been cut to the building, so you don’t have to worry about any alarms. Anathema rubs her hands together and you grimace as the sharp scent of acid fills the air.  You’ll never get used to the sound of metal bubbling as she presses her palm against the lock. You close your eyes and focus on the minds inside. The world narrows down. Narrows down to just this building, you feel yourself settle into your body. Awareness focused, reflexes honed, like an arrow ready to be fired, listening and waiting to react.

               The mod guarding the back door goes down easy. He had no hope of dodging your punch to his throat. Especially not when his brain is telling him you’re still a foot out of reach. He goes down and you keep moving.

               It’s stuffy inside, warm even for Los Diablos. Sobs, muffled and hopeless escape from behind the teller line, but no sounds of alarm. You step over the prone body and into the dim interior of the bank, Anathema following close behind. Any second now Ortega and her distraction should arrive.

               Glass shatters as her familiar form crashes through the front window. A roar of surprised anger erupts and chaos descends. It takes an effort to ignore the sounds of the fight, the fizzle of Ortega’s mods and flesh hitting flesh, you have to ball your fingers into a tight fist as you resist the urge to join her. Orange and white light paint the walls in bright flashes as you draw closer to the hostages.

               You catch an intention and roll to the left as a bullet narrowly misses you. Before you exit your roll, Anathema is already moving, her fist flying towards the shooter’s face.

               You trust her enough to turn your back on the fight. The hostages look dazed, eyes unfocused and tears staining their faces. The fear rolling off them hits you like a wave and you strengthen your shields. You make quick work of the zip ties binding their ankles and wrists. One of them begins to bolt, fear clouding his judgment. He’s only focused on the safety promised by the daylight shining through the shattered window, not one the flames shooting from Pyradical’s hands.

               It’s a good thing you’re quick, hands flying out to grab the back of his jacket and pull him away from the danger. Heat billows in waves from the lobby. Even through your mask, your eyes burn from the acrid smoke as cheap décor goes up in flames.

               Ortega’s voice taunts from the lobby. You can’t make out the words, but you know the tone. As long as she’s laughing things are under control.

               It’s easy enough to soothe the hostages, just a gentle brush against their minds, a promise of safety, of making it out of here alive, to trust, to be ready.  A firm command to their minds and they follow you out the door.  

               You lead the hostages to the waiting hands of the paramedics who are waiting with shock blankets and oxygen masks. Your objective completed you turn back to the building. Smoke pours out the shattered window mixing with the omnipresent Los Diablos haze. If you don’t end this fight soon the whole building is going to go up.

               You’re nearly to the building when Ortega leaps out the window.

                 “Get down!” she yells. Not that you are given a choice as she barrels into you. The wind is knocked out of your lungs as she tackles you to the ground.

               “What the fuck—” but the words are lost in the explosion that shakes the ground.

               Your ears ring. Ortega’s lips are moving, but you have no idea what she’s saying. Probably some dumb quip.

               This is not the time or the thing you should be focused on, but she’s so close. It feels different. Different now that she’s kissed you. Different now that you’ve felt her lips against yours. Fuck, you want to feel them again.

               You should focus on the fact that there was just an explosion, but instead your whole world has shrunk down to the weight of her body pressing you into the ground. The concrete is hard and painful under your body. There’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

               “Was that really necessary?” Your voice has none of the steel you were hoping for. It’s a gulping flustered thing.

               “Better safe than sorry,” Ortega says with a wink. “Besides, I’m quite comfy.”

               “Really? Is that all you think about?”

               “Only around you,” she says as she presses her lips down against yours. Even with the mask in the way, you can’t help but gasp. She doesn’t need her mods, or even to touch your skin to leave you feeling electrified.

               And then she’s up, all movement and action, turning back to the burning shell of the building. Anathema emerges, one of the goons in tow, and you breathe a sigh of relief as Julia surges forward to help her. Smoke rises in thin tendrils from her suit, and there are patches where the fabric has burned away to reveal her pale freckled skin underneath. Skin that is untouched and undamaged despite being caught in the explosion.

               Pyradical is dead, going out in a blaze of glory rather than allowing the Rangers to bring him in.

               The hostages are shaken up, but physically fine. The goon you’d left unconscious by the back door is carted away in the back of an ambulance, the other in the back of a cop car. He’s lucky to be alive. Anathema shielded his body with her own during the explosion. Not that he’s feeling particularly grateful right now.

               The action is over and you let yourself slip into the background. Anathema has already left, back to HQ for a shower and change of clothes. Ortega holds court answering questions and smiling for the cameras. You should leave, head home, but you can’t bring yourself to yet. Not with the glances Ortega keeps shooting you.

               At last satiated, the press leaves, and with them the rest of the crowd. It’s oddly peaceful. The fire from the explosion has long since been put out, though smoke still hangs in the air. The surrounding area is almost empty, now that the excitement is over, people go on with their day.

               You fall into step with Ortega as she walks to where her motorcycle is parked. It’s a natural instinct to envelop her in your projection, to let her pass unnoticed as well. A young woman nearly walks into her, and Ortega shoots you a questioning glance. You shrug, she should be used to this trick of yours by now. It’s just easier to wrap you both in a bubble of anonymity. To not have to worry about sharing her with the public.

           Her smile turns wicked, and something in your stomach flutters, twists, knots. You don’t have the language to describe the things that smile does to you. You can’t read her thoughts, but you can guess her intentions. This is when you should dodge, should step to the side, distance yourself. You don’t. You let her grab your hand and pull you into the dimness between two buildings.

                Her hands are quick, nimble, as they roll up the edge of your mask with ease. As if it was a regular practiced movement, and maybe it is becoming one. How many times have you let this happen now? You’d have to stop her if she tried to remove the whole thing, but she doesn’t. Only your mouth is exposed, and only for a moment, before she captures your lips in a kiss.

               This is so much better than that ghost of a kiss during the fight, so much better when you can feel the brand of her lips on yours. A small sigh escapes you, and that’s all the invitation she needs to deepen the kiss. Her tongue darts out, teasing and quick; one hand grips the back of your head. Her nails scrape against the nanoweave of your mask as she angles you exactly how she wants you.

                Oh, this is foolish. This is playing with fire and knowing that you will get burnt, but not caring. You have so many scars already, what is one more?

               The kiss breaks and she pulls back. You chase her lips, wanting more, needing more. Another drag, another kiss, you’re used to wanting things that will end up hurting you.

               “You’re too damn tall,” you huff. You need her closer, but you don’t trust your footing balancing on your tip toes. Your arms wind around her neck as you attempt to pull her down to your height. She concedes bending down to kiss you again. She chuckles against your lips, the reverberations traveling down to your toes and sending a shiver down your spine.

               Before you can protest, her hands move to your waist, and she lifts you with an ease that draws a surprised squeak out of you, one that is cut off as she captures your lips again. Your legs wrap around her waist as if by instinct, pulling her flush against you. Nothing but your skinsuits between you. You trust yours to stop a knife, a bullet, but now it feels so insubstantial. Unable to protect you from hungry press of Ortega between your thighs as she holds you pinned against the brick wall of the alley.

               Adrenaline from the fight is still coursing through your veins. Your very blood transforms into an electrical current, dancing through your veins and grounding you on the feel of Ortega’s lips. You wonder if this is how she always feels. Your fingers knot in her hair, pulling it out of her careful braid. The small curls at the nape of her neck wrapping themselves around your fingers much like how your limbs are wrapped around her.

                You should stop this, eventually you will have to stop this, but that thought is a small voice compared to the screaming of your body. A voice drowned out by the groan Ortega makes as you nibble on her bottom lip, and her grip tightens on your thigh. For a few moments the rest of the world ceases to exist. There is nothing but this moment. You don’t think, can’t think of anything but her. Her hands and her lips and the blood pounding in your veins. You thought you felt alive during that fight? There’s no comparison.

               Eventually, the kiss breaks, and she rests her forehead against yours. You both are breathing heavy; your pulse is a wild erratic thing. A softer kiss this time, not quite a peck, still letting herself linger, but the frantic need of a few moments ago has dissipated.                

                Your legs wobble when she sets you back down on your feet. From the smug smile on her face, you know she notices. You wish you had a sharp quip at the ready, but you’re still too drunk on her.

                At least pulling your mask down means she can’t see your facial expressions.

               You walk back to the bike in silence. She’s closer than she needs to be. Her hand keeps brushing against your arm. Gentle, accidental touches which you know are no accident at all.

                “Come back to HQ with me?” she asks as she climbs onto the bike. “I’ll order pizza and you can keep me company while I do paperwork?” 

               You don’t have to read her mind to know she isn’t thinking about paperwork. Not with the way her eyes trail over your body. Letting you know she is looking, appreciating.

                “Only because I’m hungry,” you lie as you take the helmet from her outstretched hand and climb behind her.

                “Don’t worry,” say says with a wicked laugh, her hand squeezing yours where it rests on her waist. “I’ll make sure you’re satisfied.”

[amlovelies]

are we there yet?

this is another one of those deleted prompts from January that I am just now filling. better late than never right? Sidestep days, post nanosurge hurt/comfort. some mild spoilers for the public demo

big thanks to everyone on discord for all your help and feedback with this 💜

12. things you said while you thought I was asleep from this prompt list

fandom: fhr pairing: Julia Ortega/f!sidestep (Cynthia Basri) rating: T mention of mental trauma, migraines, nosebleeds, and cursing words: 2.7k read on ao3

              It’s not until you hear Ortega’s voice that you realize the pounding isn’t just your migraine, but rather her fists against your front door.

               “Cynthia, I swear to God I will break this door down!”

               Part of you just wants to try and call her bluff and roll back over, try to lose yourself to the state of semi-consciousness you’ve been floating in for God knows how long. The other part of you knows she’ll do it. There’s thunder in her voice; she’s reached the end of her patience. Breaking it down wouldn’t even phase her, and the last thing you need right now is to deal with that mess. 

               “Don’t you dare,” you try to yell, but your voice just cracks from lack of use and dehydration.

               It’s too fucking bright outside, even with Ortega looming in your doorway blocking most of the light. She’s tense, brow furrowed and her lips turned down in a frown. You’re too tired for this. Too tired for whatever confrontation she wants. You don’t bother with a greeting; it’s not like you invited her here. Leaving the door open, you trudge back to your bed and bury your face in the pillow.

               You hear her close the door as she walks into your small studio. “I guess this explains why you weren’t answering your phone.”

               You peek up to see her kneeling next to the shattered device. You’d thrown it when it wouldn’t stop ringing. You had tried to turn it off, but the buttons were too small, too difficult to manipulate. You just needed the noise to end. There was already so much chaos in your head, bouncing and rebounding off the sides of your skull, pooling behind your eyes, settling between your teeth. You were so desperate for some semblance of peace.

               Was that two days ago or three? You can’t remember. Time has stretched and blurred, too many days in pain. Too many days with your brain full to bursting. You’re no stranger to pain, no stranger to migraines, but it’s never been like this. The first few days you’d been able to keep going, to swallow the pills, to swallow the pain and keep moving. It’s not like your comfort had ever mattered, but the pain hadn’t stopped. Two weeks now and you are tired, so tired.

               “Somebody wouldn’t quit calling,” you say with a glare which just bounces off her. “I’m not dead, so you can quit worrying and go home.” The words slur on your tongue. It’s difficult to make it move the way you want to, but you get your point across just the same.

               “Like hell I will.” Stubborn. “I’m not leaving you here like this.” So damn stubborn and arrogant. What does she think she can do to fix this?

               “Please, just leave me the fuck alone, Julia.” It’s hard to keep your eyes open. Crystals dance in the edges making everything blur and twist.  

               “Not a chance.” You feel the bed dip as she sits down next to you and places a soothing hand on your forehead.

               You whimper at the contact. The press of her hand alleviating some of the throbbing in your temple, making it a little more bearable. After a few minutes she gets up, and you groan at the loss of her touch. You almost call her back, ask her not to leave, not to stop touching you, but that would be too much. You can hear her rummaging around the apartment. You should probably care, probably worry about the invasion of privacy, but it’s too much effort.

               Besides, you are the most incriminating thing she could find.

               When she comes back to sit on the bed, she gives you a choice: the hospital or the ranch. She’s already packed your bag, and her mouth is a firm line. There’s no way out of this. She is more than capable of carrying you out of here against your will.

               You take the lesser evil. Not that you are thrilled by the thought of spending hours in the car, not with the havoc the migraine has wrecked on your ability to keep any food down. When was the last time you ate anything besides dry toast? If you get sick in her car it’ll serve her right for meddling.

               By some miracle the traffic isn’t terrible. Ortega is driving fast, reckless, but that’s Ortega. Los Diablos disappears behind you and the relief is immense. The roar of too many souls in too little space fades away.  You can still feel the drivers around you. Blips of impressions, emotions, frustrations, occasionally the lyrics of a favorite song, but they’re gone too fast to stick, too fast to hurt. They can’t touch you.

               Ortega helps too. The static nothing of her thoughts like a cool compress to your fevered brain. A maze to get lost in, to try and shut everything away. Not that you’d ever tell her that. It would just give her another reason to stick around every time you get hurt.

               Shields had been your first lesson. The most important thing in a telepath’s arsenal, it’s too easy to be overwhelmed otherwise, to lose yourself in the howling around you. So many thoughts and feelings and emotions. Shields were your savior.

               Your shields are gone.

               Maybe the nanovores devoured them. A small price to pay when you compare it to the flesh missing from Ortega’s arm, to so many people just gone, to so much loss. What was your sanity in the face of that?

               Maybe you are broken. It’s never taken you this long to recover before. It’s never been so hard to get your shields back. You’re not sure how much more of this you can take. She’ll force you to the hospital if this continues much longer, and you won’t be able to run. Even at your best she’s always been faster and stronger than you. Right now, you doubt you could dodge a single blow, doubt that you could throw a punch or misdirect a mind.

               It’s not like the doctors could do anything for you anyway. Not the ones in Los Diablos at least. There were other doctors, specialists who loved nothing more than taking you apart and seeing what made you tick, how to make it better, how to make it stronger. What would they think about what you had done?

               How would they try to use you because of it?

               It’s too easy to remember. Too easy to remember rough hands and cold instruments. Fluorescent lights reflecting on exposed tattoos as you ran the drill again, again, again. Failure was not an option. Especially not when she was watching.

               Your mouth tastes like copper and it’s too familiar.

                “Jesus, Cyn,” Ortega’s voice breaks through your thoughts, “your nose.”

               Fuck. Looking down you can see where the blood has already dripped onto your flannel.

               Shields don’t just protect you from what’s outside. There are things inside you thought you’d locked away too.

               “Don’t worry. I didn’t bleed on your seat.” You’d meant the words to bite, to set her at ease, but you just sound exhausted. Weak. She keeps glancing over at you, her brow wrinkled.

               The shirt is already fucked; you might as well use the sleeve to sop up the mess. You’re almost grateful for the nose bleed. It’s better than the memories you were lost in. There’s pain and then there’s pain. “I’m fine. Just keep your eyes on the road, idiot.”

               A huff, but she turns her attention back to the highway.

               Good.

               “I thought you said the nosebleeds had stopped.” Her voice is tight and you can see the tension where her hand grips the gear shift. Sparks dancing over knuckles.

               “I did,” you say as you let your head rest against the window. It feels cool against your forehead and you sigh in relief. “It’s not that big of a deal. It’s better than it was.” It is. The first few days after the nanosurge, it felt like the nosebleeds were happening every couple of hours.

               Minutes pass in silence, and for a moment you think that maybe she’ll just let it go. That hope is dashed as you feel the car begin to slow down. You’re still an hour at least from the ranch. Still climbing the grapevine up into the mountains. You haven’t even reached the toll roads that sprung up to replace the damaged five following the big one. Not that Ortega would have to pay, the shiny Rangers decal on her windshield a free pass almost anywhere in the FEZ. You’re nowhere near the central valley, and you feel a stab of fear at the thought that maybe she’s changed her mind. Maybe she is taking away your choice, and she’ll turn the car around and drive you to the hospital.

               Should you bail out now? Run while she least expects it? The hillsides are sparse and desolate following last season’s wildfires. The twisted layers and striations of the rocks are a stark reminder of the violent potential of the land. There’s nowhere to hide. Nowhere that she couldn’t find you, couldn’t catch you. Still, it would be better to die of exposure or thirst in the mountains than to return to that place.

               “What are you doing?” you ask, trying to hide the panic in your voice.

               She doesn’t answer as she brings the car to a stop off the side of the road and gets out. Not turning around then. You breathe a sigh of relief as you hear her rummaging around in the trunk, a thud accompanied by a soft curse, and then she is pulling open your door. You repeat your question.

               “Do you expect me to just ignore it? Just keep driving like everything is fine?” she asks as she opens a bottle of water and begins to dampen a napkin with it.

               “Yes? It’s not like you’ve never seen me with a bloody nose before. Fuck, you’ve given me one.”

                She shushes you before pushing your hand out of the way and gently dabbing under your nose with the wet napkin. “That’s training. It’s different.”

               “Not really,” you say with a shrug. “Blood is blood.”

               “At least it’s stopped,” she says with a frown as she finishes wiping away the evidence.

               “See I told you it’s nothing to worry about, idiot.”

               Her hand cups your face, eyes staring into yours and you can’t bear it. You have to look away. You’ve helped bandage her up more than once, plugged in her mods, wrapped her cracked ribs, but you’ve rarely let her return the favor. Always dancing away from her hands, finding a way to slip away in the crowd before she can pull you to the medical tent. Too many secrets too easily revealed that way.

               There’s nothing for her to stitch or wrap or heal now, just you and your broken brain and blood on your shirt, but she is here, so present. Her thumb is rubbing along your cheek, along your scar, her hand so often finding its way there.

               A kiss to your forehead, her lips lingering as if she could have any effect on the damage underneath the surface.

               You don’t argue when she tells you to drink some water. Swallow the pill she offers you. It’ll be stronger than anything you have access to. You’re thankful for the clean shirt she offers you. The last thing you need is to give Tía Elena another reason to worry and fuss after you. Julia leans against the hood of the car as you light up a cigarette.  Just one, and then you are pulling back onto the road.

               Maybe it’s the nicotine, or the painkiller, or just being away from the city, but you can feel the pressure behind your eyes lifting.

                 You drift in and out of consciousness. Ortega chats with herself, a running commentary of complaints, about paperwork and the media team. The stupid outfits they wanted her to wear for a photo shoot. Never comfortable with silence, she always wants to fill the space with words or actions. Can’t pace when she’s in the car, so words it is.

               You don’t really sleep, not really. Just drift in and out. There’s a lot less traffic on the roads this far from the city center, and it’s peaceful. Your head still feels tight, unpleasant, but the painkillers Ortega gave you were no joke. Guess she wasn’t kidding about the Ranger’s health plan being second to none.

               “Cyn?” your name draws your focus, but you’re too tired to respond. “Are you asleep?” A pause as she waits for you to respond, and when you don’t, she keeps talking anyway. “Still wish you’d let me take you to the hospital. Stubborn idiot.” A soft chuckle, and she continues, “I know, I know, pot kettle but still, at least I let the doctors look me over before I ignore their advice.”

               She keeps talking, her voice quieter than before, barely a whisper in the empty air of the car. “I hate it, you know--” she takes a deep breath and her voice is brittle when she begins speaking again-- “watching you slink off after a fight. Not knowing how badly you’ve been hurt.”

               It’s nothing she hasn’t said before, but usually with shouted words and frustrated huffs, not whatever this is. If you didn’t know better, you’d say she sounds fearful, or maybe that’s just you. Fearful of where Julia might be going with this.  She stops speaking, but you can hear her fingers tapping against the wheel, as if continuing the conversation in her own head.                  

               You want to pretend to wake up, to save yourself from her concern, but you feel frozen. It’s like listening from underwater. The combination of the lingering pain and exhaustion and the numbing effect of the painkillers keeps you submerged, unable to surface.  

               “I worry about you. I just wish . . .” her voice trails off. ”I guess that doesn’t really matter.”

               Her fingers keep tapping against the wheel. You wish you hadn’t told her to turn off the radio. Her singing would be preferable to the anxiety you’re feeling now.

               You don’t want to know what else she might say.  You desperately want to hear what else she might say.

               “Cynthia, I—" Her voice cracks and it feels like a blow, quick and painful in your chest —  “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.” There’s a desperate edge to her voice which you don’t understand. You’re the one who almost lost her, not the other way around. Why else would you shatter yourself, except to save her?

               For a moment you had thought she was going to say something else. You should be relieved. Relieved that she didn’t say it.

               You’re being fucking stupid. Drugged and stupid and wishing for things you can’t have. It’s always been an unsteady thing, this spark between the two of you. She’d push and you’d pull away. She’d give up, and go out.

               Photos in the tabloids screaming out at you from the newsstands.

               Who has Charge been seen with now? What sharp jawed man has had his arm around her waist?

               She never denied it, and why should she?

               You said it yourself. It was just fun.

               There’s a tightness in your chest making it difficult to breath.

               It doesn’t matter how much you want to hear those words. It doesn’t matter how much you wish you could reveal the truth to her. You belong hidden. In the darkness. Any attempt to expose you to the light will leave you shriveled and burned away. Exposed for the fraud that you are.

                You jump in surprise as fingers tuck a strand of hair gently behind your ear

               “Sorry,” she says as she pulls her hand back. She gives a small embarrassed laugh as she rubs the back of her neck and adds, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

               “Whatever,” you grumble and avoid looking at her. Reaching forward you turn on the radio. It takes a minute or two to find a station, but once you do you settle back into your seat in relief. The noise is a much more controllable pain. “Are we there yet?”

               “Not quite.”

[amlovelies]

"People lie all the time" for chargestep please 💕

Five Word Prompts

So first an apology @pearlsandsteel. I’m sorry it took me so damn long to fill this prompt, but at long last I have something! It’s in the early early days not long after Ortega and Cynthia met for the first time, so not super shippy, but it was fun to think about their earlier dynamics.

something earned

pairing: Julia Ortega/f!sidestep (Cynthia Basri)

rating/warning: no warnings

words: 678

If it wasn’t for the ankle, Ortega would probably never have been able to convince her to come back to headquarters. After half a dozen fights, and plenty of cryptic evasions, Ortega was more determined than ever to get to know more about this mysterious “Sidestep.”

               It’s not that new players on the scene were rare, lots of people wanted to try their hand at the hero game, but newbies rarely lasted. After all, it only took one wrong move, one misjudgment, and it was all over. If they were lucky, they’d go home with a scar and a story. Many weren’t that lucky.

               Ortega knew it wasn’t luck, but skill which had kept Sidestep in the game this long. She moved with frightening certainty, always dancing out of danger at just the right moment, always finding the opening to take down her adversary. She was a wonder to watch on the field, and if Ortega knew with the backing of the Rangers she would be an amazing asset. Think how many more people they could help?  

               The locker room is empty as Ortega helps Sidestep onto one of the benches. She winces as she adjusts her weight, trying to keep it off the twisted ankle.

               Ortega grimaces. It was her fault, she’d been too impulsive and moved in without double checking her six, Sidestep had pushed her out of the way at the last moment, but landed wrong.

               “Let me get you some painkillers,” Ortega says as she begins to rummage around in her locker. “This should help.”

               Sidestep stares at the pill on Ortega’s palm unmoving. After a moment she shakes her head, “I just need something to wrap it with and I should be fine.”

               “Don’t be so hardheaded, this will help with the swelling too.”

               With a sigh, Sidestep picks the pill up out of Ortega’s palm. She lifts her mask just enough to place it in her mouth, and Ortega gets a glimpse of tawny skin and chapped lips, before it is pulled back into place. Anonymity restored.

               “I’ll bind it for you,” Ortega says as she drops into a crouch, “but you should probably still have a doctor look at it. We have access to some of the best doctors here. You could to if you think about my offer.”

               “I already told you no, Marshal.”

               Ortega grimaces, “Ortega is fine.” She had worked damn hard to become Marshal, but the title always felt so impersonal and distant. She may not wear a physical mask like Sidestep, but she had her disguises just the same.

               As she finishes binding the ankle, she askes the question that’s been weighing on her mind, “What’s your name? I can keep calling you Sidestep, but if we’re going to keep working together, then maybe we should be on friendlier terms.”

               “Julia.”

               Ortega is a little taken aback, “really? What a coincidence—” but then she notices the soft laughter coming from Sidestep, “—very funny. You could have just not answered. No need to lie to me.”

               “C’mon now, Ortega, people lie all the time. Don’t be so uptight I thought that was Steel’s job.”

               “Job, passion, meaning for living” Ortega smiles wide and laughs. She doesn’t even mind the deflection. It’s still progress.

               The binding finished, Ortega stands and offers a hand to Sidestep. She stands carefully, putting weight on the leg gingerly, testing it carefully.

               “Better?” Ortega asks.

               “Yes, thank you.” She steps back, makings sure she can navigate without assistance. “I should get going.”

               “Let me walk you out.” Ortega would rather drive her home, but Sidestep will have her mysteries. It goes against her instincts to watch her limp away, but Ortega forces herself to do it.

               A few steps from the door, Sidestep turns, “it’s Cynthia by the way.” Her voice is softer, quieter, without the usual bite that Ortega was coming to associate with Sidestep, and maybe that was the point.

               “Thank you,” Ortega responds with a nod of her head, “now get home and get that ankle elevated, Cynthia.”

fhr tag list (let me know if you’d like to be added/removed it’s not bother at all 💜): @lilyoffandoms, @lord-king-saint, @callmeroo, @thenshe--appeared, @elmshore

[amlovelies]

Slow dancing for chargestep 💕

Nonsexual acts of Intimacy Prompts

thank you for the prompt lovely!! 💜

So I really really was going to try and write something soft and fluffy . . . but I’m a bit of an angst monster (just like you) so this is what I ended up with. I hope you like it!

who’s hand do you hold

pairing: Julia Ortega/Cynthia Basri

warnings: a little angsty, but no real warnings

words: 765

                You’re not sure how you ended up in this situation. It’s all Ortega’s fault, as it always is. As you look at the wide smile breaking across her face you have to think she planned this. She looks too pleased with herself, too delighted.

               It had started innocently enough. An invitation for coffee and brunch, chilaquiles. Something she knows you used to love. Something she knew you wouldn’t resist. At least she hasn’t caught on that you don’t need any extra incentive. The draw of her is more than enough to make you break all your own rules.

               You convince yourself it’s safe enough. That it’ll be easier in the daylight. Reality can’t hide in the harsh light of the Los Diablos summer. You’re so used to moving unseen in the shadows, it feels strange to be afraid of the night. You had promised yourself it wouldn’t happen again; you wouldn’t allow yourself to pretend, to spend long moments in her arms. To let her kiss you and tell you the sweetest lies.

               It’s easier in the daytime when that feels impossible. When even the expensive blackout curtains can’t completely stop the light from seeping underneath. Not much, but enough to illuminate the sickening orange marking you for what you are.

               So even if she greets you at the door with a kiss, and casually calls you ‘mi amor,’ you still feel in control. If it’s a lie, it’s a comforting one. It’s one that lets you have this moment, because if you were honest with yourself you would stay as far away from Ortega as possible.

               Well, you’re lying to everyone else, what can it hurt to lie to yourself too.

               She tries to convince you to join her for another of the lavish fundraisers and events the elite of this city can’t seem to resist, and somehow the topic of dancing comes up.

               “I don’t know why you’d think that would tempt me; I don’t know how to dance.”

               “I could always teach you.”

               She won’t take no for an answer, typical Ortega. You end up in the center of her living room, music floating through the space she’s cleared. One hand is at the small of your back pressing you forward until there is almost no space between your bodies.

               She smells like a storm. The crackling promise of ozone burning with the lightning and the dark rich loam of the earth beneath. Her hand clasps yours and you can feel where the port presses into your palm.

               She doesn’t know that she has Retribution at her mercy right now, that she holds her enemy so delicately. If she knew would she hesitate? Or would she pour everything she had into you? How would you even know? There’s nothing but static and your instinct to warn you, and you already know you can’t trust yourself around her.

               Her hand gives yours a small squeeze, “don’t worry. I promise not to step on your toes--much.”

               You chuckle, glad for the reprieve from your thoughts. A day will come when you will have to face Charge again, but that day Is not today. Today it’s just Julia and Cynthia, and if Cynthia is just another one of your masks, so be it. If any of them could be real she would be the one you’d choose.

               Julia leads Cynthia around the room, humming in time to the music and smiling, always smiling. Her eyes are bright and warm and never seem to leave yours. Dancing is not so different from fighting, and for all your protestations otherwise you know this is something you could do. Especially in her arms.

               The song changes to something softer, and she pulls you closer. Pressed together, you let your head rest on her shoulder. You’re not really dancing anymore just swaying in place while the song plays on. The singer speaking of love and loss.

               You close your eyes and give in. Just until the song is over. You let yourself pretend that this could be real. And if Ortega feels the tears that slide down your face drip onto her shoulder, she doesn’t say anything, but just presses a kiss to the top of your head.

               Oh, if things were different, Cynthia would let Ortega dress her up and drag her to every event she liked. If there was no Farm. If there weren’t any secrets between them. Maybe even if you’d been able to walk away from heartbreak.

               But Cynthia is dead, and eventually Ortega will figure out she is only dancing with a ghost.

thank you again for sending me this prompt! I had a lot of fun working on it, and I’m pretty happy with what I came with 🥰

tagging: @lord-king-saint, @lilyoffandoms and @callmeroo (if you would like to be tagged/not tagged please let me know)

[amlovelies]

“time passes slower without you” or “zero fucks given. next please” for Chargestep please 😁

Five word prompt

so sorry this took me so damn long to write. work has just not been my friend lately, and I’ve been trying to give myself more grace about getting things done. Anyways, I hope this was worth the wait!

Tether

pairing: Julia Ortega/f!sidestep (Cynthia Basri)

warnings: angsty and mental health stuff, mild spoilers for retribution

words: 1k 

read on ao3

           It’s another session full of half-truths and awkward silences. You can’t fault Dr. Finch for trying, she is trying, but you know it’s futile. You’re not even sure why you keep coming. Actually, that’s a lie. You’re here because of Ortega. She asked you to do it; she went out of her way to make it possible. It matters to her, because you matter to her. You shouldn’t. It would make things so much simpler if you didn’t, yet even knowing that you can’t bring yourself to disappoint her. You can’t bring yourself to show her who you are, to show her why she shouldn’t care, why she should hate you.

           She’s waiting for you as you exit Dr. Finch’s office. She’s waiting with her sly smiles, the ones that make you can’t seem to get enough of. She’s waiting with her wandering hands, the only ones that have touched you with any measure of kindness. She’s waiting for you to get better, to open up to her, to love her like she loves you.

          How disappointed she’ll be when she realizes her waiting was for nothing. Add it to the list of your crimes against her. It’s crueler than anything Retribution has done. Bruises can fade and heal, but she’ll never forgive you for letting her hope, for letting her believe.

           You grab coffee afterwards, and she gives you time before talking. This patient Ortega still takes some getting used to. Your memories of her are always of impulse and caprice. The mature and calm side of Ortega so at odds with how you once knew her to be, and it worries you. What else has changed? You once accused her of loving a ghost, but was that a projection.? This foolish infatuation of yours, how much of it is memory and how much reality?

           “Penny for your thoughts?” she asks breaking your train of thought.

           You take a drag of your cigarette to buy yourself time to answer. “Nothing important,” you answer with a shrug.

           Her brow furrows and her lips purse as she looks at you. It’s not the first time she’s looked at you like that way. At first you believed it was only pity and regret, but now you can see something else in her gaze. A shiver runs down your spine. As many times as you may call her an idiot, you know that Ortega isn’t a fool.

           Not for the first time you wish that you could see inside her mind. if only to silence the doubts that echo in the back of yours. She wouldn’t sit here with you if she suspected you were Retribution, would she? The old Ortega would never have the patience, but you can’t be sure with this new Ortega. What if all the caresses and sweet words are nothing more than a ruse?

           You shake your head trying to banish the thought. She’s too much of a hero for that. If Ortega suspected you were a danger, she would never let you walk away. When you look up at Ortega now all you see is concern shining bright in her brown eyes. You jump a little with surprise when she reaches out to take your hand, but you allow it. Like a tether you let it pull you back. Pull you away from the swirling maelstrom of your thoughts. Pull you back to this small café and the Los Diablos sunshine.

           “Where did you go?” She asks.

           “No where I want to be,” you admit as you lace your fingers with hers.

           She squeezes your hand and says, “you’re not there anymore, Cynthia. You’re safe with me. I will always do everything I can to keep you safe.”

           Her phone chirps and, with an apologetic glance, she releases your hand to pull it from her bag.

           “It hasn’t been an hour already, has it?” you wonder aloud.

           “You know what they say, time flies when you’re having fun.”

           “I wouldn’t go that far,” you respond with a roll of your eyes, “but things do move too quickly when I’m with you.”

           “What do you mean?”

           “You’re the only person I can’t read,” you say with a shrug. “Everyone else I see the moves a few steps ahead. It takes forever for things to happen. I’ve already seen it play out three times in their mind, but it’s different with you. I have no warning. And you can catch me off guard in a way that no one else can.”

           “No one else who isn’t epileptic,” she says with a chuckle.

           “Right,” you say with an exasperated huff. “What I mean to say is time passes slower without you. I feel like I’m constantly trying to catch up to you.” She doesn’t need to know how the years stretched out at the farm. How each hour fractured and multiplied and never seemed to end.

           “And here I was thinking I moved too slow. Ten odd years to get you in bed is hardly a breakneck speed.” Ortega says with a laugh pulling you out of your memories the way only she can. For the second time that afternoon pulling you back into the present.

           “Idiot,” you say your voice full of fondness.

           “I have to go back to headquarters; will you be okay?” she asks as she rises from her seat.

           “I’ll be fine. I’m just a little raw, but it’s nothing another smoke won’t cure.”        

           “If you say so,” her eyes search your face, and she seems satisfied by what she finds there, but she still lingers.

           You don’t have to read her mind to know she wants to kiss you goodbye,

           You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t let her kiss you in public. You shouldn’t let yourself indulge, but there are many things you shouldn’t be doing, and none of them feel as good as Ortega does.

           You nod your head, and she dips forward to press her lips against yours. It’s brief and almost chaste, but still enough to cause your heart to thrum in your ears.

           And then she is gone. The minutes pass with agonizing slowness as you light another cigarette. It’ll be enough to get you home where you can lose yourself in Eden. It’ll have to be enough.

fallen hero tag list (let me know if you’d like to be added/removed✨) @lord-king-saint, @roses-and-roo, @lilyoffandoms, @thenshe--appeared

[amlovelies]

chargestep + rain!!!

THIRTY MINUTE FICLETS

Thank you for sending me this lovely 💜 it’s turning into a very chargestep day (what a wonderful thing) seeing as I have another prompt request I’m working on for them which I may finish tonight🤞 I’m pretty happy with what I was able to pull together in 30 minutes. Hope you like it! 

               You hadn’t expected the rain. It was such a rare occurrence in Los Diablos. The near constant California drought promising nothing but sunny days ahead. Not that knowing it was coming would have changed much. It’s not like you bothered to own an umbrella. Why would you?

               It would have been nice to not have been caught out on a jog with Ortega when the sky broke open. It would have been nice to not get soaked through, but that’s not what’s happening.

               Ortega is laughing as you run for the cover of the trees nearby. She pulls you in close under the branches. They keep the worst of the storm out, but not completely. Large sap scented drops still land on the top of your head and on your shoulders.

               It’s quiet under the branches as if the world outside has been muffled by the blanket of rain, everything lost behind the pattern of it’s falling. You reach out with your thoughts and feel emptiness around you. Any people who were in the park fleeing from the storm.

               “Don’t look so glum, it’s not that bad.”

               “I’m fucking soaked I’d say that’s pretty bad.” You say with a roll of your eyes. Weighed down with the water, your clothes cling to your body. They feel tight and constricting making you too aware of yourself.

               Ortega moves a little closer, a smile that means trouble breaking out across her face. “Oh, come on, isn’t it even a little romantic?”

               She reaches out trails her fingers down your arm leaving goosebumps in their wake, “haven’t you ever wanted to make out in the rain?”

               “It would be lot more romantic if I wasn’t freezing.” You respond with a scoff as you push her hand away. You already miss the contact. She doing that thing, that charming things she does, that very Ortega thing. Somehow, she can turn any situation around. Pined down my enemies and with no hope of reinforcement or shivering under a tree at Memorial Park. Ortega would find a way to make light. What an idiot, but even in your own mind the word has lost all bite.

               Ortega moves slowly, giving you time to move time to back out if you really want to. Her eyes never leave yours, so brown and beautiful.

               The bark of the tree is rough on your back as she presses you against it. A brief kiss to your lips and then she’s moving on, her attention on your neck, the lobs of your ears.

               “Feeling warmer?” she whispers, her voice husky and low in your ear.

               You don’t bother with words. Your lips meet hers in a kiss which deepens as you tangle your fingers in her damp curls.

               You’d never admit it, but Ortega is right, it is a little romantic.

tagging: @callmeroo, @lilyoffandoms, @lord-king-saint, @thenshe--appeared, @pearlsandsteel (if you would like to be tagged/not tagged please let me know!)

[amlovelies]

♗: One falling asleep with their head in the other’s lap. for Julia / Cynthia or ♤: Taking a bath together. for Mason and Serena please, if either inspire you! 😍💕 Or really anyone with the hair washing / bath... those make me so damn soft.

Non-Sexual Acts of Intimacy  (still taking prompts if anyone wants to indulge me further🥰)

💜💜thank you lovely for sending me these!! 💜💜

I’m going with the first one and maybe have ideas for the second one. This might be the closest to fluff I’ve ever written for chargestep, it may border on cheesy, but oh well

a certain clarity

pairing: Julia Ortega/Cynthia Basri (Chargestep)

warnings: death mention and light retribution spoilers

words: 493

               It was strange, the bubble of calm that seem to envelope them even as the crowd around pulses with frantic energy. Shouts and the cries of the injured ring out around them. Reporters scream out questions to every passer-by, microphones pushed out as far possible. They’re almost falling over the hastily erected barriers in their desperation for information, for story. As Marshal, she will have to face them soon, but not just yet.

              It isn’t that Ortega is hiding from her responsibilities, in fact she is disobeying the medics orders by staying. They had tried to hurry her off to an ambulance, so worried about the gash of missing skin on her arm, but there were still people caught in the rubble, people who needed more help than she did. Gauze and antiseptic would have to do for now. It could have been so much worse.

               Ortega had been sure she was going to die. She’d faced death many times in her life, but she’d never been as sure as when she felt the sting of the nanovores devouring the flesh of her arm. She was going to die, and it was going to be a long, painful death. There was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

               Until there had been. Ortega looks down to where Sidestep’s head lies in her lap. Her breathing is slow and even in sleep. She wishes she could remove the mask so she could run her fingers through Cynthia’s brown curls like her mother used to do when she was a child and feeling sick, but anonymity is more important to Cynthia than any comfort Ortega’s hand’s can provide.

               It’s not the first time that Sidestep has saved her life, maybe not even the tenth, but this, this felt different.  Perhaps it was the “no” that tore out of Sidestep as the nanovores attached themselves to Ortega’s skin. The desperation, the desperation that gave her the strength to stop them. Sidestep has saved them all.

               After the containment team had arrived, after they had cleared the field and Sidestep was finally able to relax, Chen, with his accusatory gaze and his questions, asked how she’d managed it.

               “I don’t know. I just . . . I just had to.”

               They’d been dancing around each other for months now. Cynthia always refusing Ortega’s attempts to take her out, but still succumbing to stolen moments of lips and bodies pressed against each other. No more than kissing, it never went further, and Ortega didn’t press, still unsure of her own feelings.

               Except she hadn’t been unsure today. Not when the nanovores spelled her own doom. Behind the pain and the fear there was one thought, “I should tell her.”

               Then Sidestep had saved them all, and the words wouldn’t come. Ortega can feel the moment, the clarity that death’s specter had provided, slipping away.

                Even knowing, or maybe because, she will not hear, she whispers, “I love you.”

Fallen Hero tag list: @lilyoffandoms, @lord-king-saint, @thenshe--appeared

[amlovelies]

43 + chargestep if u want!!!! -nataliehsewell

Send me a pairing and a number between 1-100 and I’ll write a short scene based on my Spotify Top 100 playlist

Thank you for sending me this @nataliehsewell 💜 sorry it took me so long!

and there’s nothing I can do, except bury my love for you

43. Moondust-Stripped; EP Version by Jaymes Young

This is pretty angsty. Discussion of death and grief 

             There was no grave to visit, no place to lay flowers, no headstone to hear her regrets. How could there be when there was no body, only a mass cremation? Would Cynthia be happy with the anonymity she was granted in death, ending up as just another nameless faceless victim?

               People knew Sidestep was gone, but they were used to masks disappearing. There were always others eager to try their hand at the hero game. There was talk of a park, a memorial, a plaque. If Ortega was still with the Rangers she would know more, but that was Chen’s headache now.

               Los Diablos may commemorate Sidestep’s name and accomplishments, even if few outside of the Ranger’s knew how essential she had been to stopping the Nanosurge. She would be written into the bloody and chaotic history of the city. Another name in the long list of lives sacrifices for the “greater good.”

               But Cynthia? Cynthia was gone. It was as if she never existed. There was no family, no friends, no one outside of the Ranger’s who seem to know or care. Ortega didn’t even know where she had been living, just another of Cynthia’s many secrets that she took to her grave. There was no opportunity to claim a memento. What Ortega wouldn’t give for an old hoodie or maybe even the blanket Mama had crocheted as a gift a few years ago. If she knew Cynthia at all (had she?) they would probably reek of cigarettes. She never thought she’d miss the acrid smell of smoke.

               There aren’t any photos of her face. Ortega had never regretted the times she’s burned out a pap’s equipment before they could get a shot of them together until now.

               She is left with nothing but her memories and time. Time she always thought she would have more of time. Time to come to terms with the depth of her own feelings. Time to work through Cynthia’s walls. Time to make her believe.

               Maybe it was better there was no headstone. No unfeeling stone for Ortega to break herself against in a too late confession.

               Without the usual mourning rituals Ortega learns to bury other things. Instead she buries the guilt and loss under the bravado and charm that everyone expects of Charge, expects of her. If her flirtations never come to fruition, then no one comments. At least Mama has stopped harassing her about settling down.

               She keeps her hair short. Even years later when her memory of Cynthia’s face is fuzzy and she can’t recall the sound of her laugh she still misses the weight of the braid down her back. Even after her memories have lost their sharpness, she can still feel the empty space at her side.

tagging: @lilyoffandoms, @lord-king-saint, and @morexgan