#flychargestep

It would make sense to me, since everything points towards Sidestep returning to their body eventually.

Although I don't see a way any of Sidestep's relationships going unscathed after the reveal of what happened. Or even if Sidestep somehow keeps it a secret, then they would have to explain why the relationship changed so much while the Impostor was on control of Sidestep's body. Since, logically, the Impostor wouldn't continue the relationship with Herald...

It truly would be fucked up if the Impostor did continue Sidestep's romantic relationships, huh? In some way it would be karmic justice for Sidestep, who has used the Puppet's body in a similar way before (not exactly continuing Ace's relationships, but Sidestep did began some with a body that wasn't theirs).

Bonus

HQ Shenanigans 2: Electric Boogaloo

Danny: Ortega, quit being a bastard and stop picking a fight with Step.

Step: Haha hear that? Even Danny thinks you're a bas—

OK first of all so sorry for the text wall I got carried away with this first prompt 😅😂🙏🏽

I'll be cross-posting on AO3 soon if it makes it easier for anyone to read!

28. feeling for each other in the dark

Canaan x Chen x Ricardo, steelstepcharge poly

SMALL WARNING: panic attacks, PTSD (this is fluffy I swear)

"Chen?" Cain's voice does a small wobble they do nothing to hide.

It's pitch black in the house, no light, not even through the black-out curtains shadowing the window somewhere that Chen had installed just for them to be comfortable in his place.

Ironic.

They stand, paralyzed, blunt fingernails gripping the countertop, irises swallowed by black as they try, and fail, to catch any hint of light in the darkness.

Total blackout. Probably affecting the entire block.

Canaan tries to bite back the icy fear making their palms sweat, make their heart race. Breathe, they remind themself, like Finch said. Four seconds in, five seconds out.

They suck in a breath, a little harder than they intended, and try to count down.

One.

It's dark, too dark, did they cut off the light in their cell? It's dark, so dark, can't see the walls, can't see their hands, how long has it been? Can't tell can't tell can't tell can't tell–

Two.

Can't see can't see can't see still, can't feel their feet, their face, can't see their hands as they raise and touch their face, their eyes, and- hands? Hands? Did they have hands? Can't tell can't tell can't tell, so dark, so cold, no light no sun no warmth no breeze no flow, no air, can't breathe. Can they? Breathe? Can't tell, so dark too dark, please turn the lights back on please, they'll be good, they'll fix whatever they did wrong this time they swear, no eyes no hands no skin can't see—

Three.

"Ricardo?" They whimper, curling onto the floor, and they might be hyperventilating but they can't stop.

Not coming not coming they're not coming no one is. It's dark, still dark, too dark, and they can feel it, can feel the drugs muddling their mind, were they always drugged, is that why they feel this way? Why they can't see? Can't feel but they can. No body to feel, nothing they can see, but they feel anyways, feel the hands on their body, cold latex and surgical, can see faces behind masks, piecing their body back together, can't see can't see can't see no one's here but they are and Ricardo isn't coming, no one to save them—

"Cain?"

Four.

Dark, eyes sewn shut, body not their own. Nothing behind the mask, beneath the strings, and they chose this, didn't they? Did they? Was it ever their choice? Their body? Their limbic system? Their mind?

"Canaan? Canaan, please."

No. Dolls don't have minds. Don't have names. They don't have one, not theirs, never, eyes sewn shut, dark, dark, dark, so dark, a Void, swallowing them hole, dark, devouring, something moving in the mirrors, swimming in the blackness—

"Cain!" Someone shouts and they gasp, gulping in air, their cheek stinging with cold tears and pain, pain they need, pain that grounds them.

"I'm sorry, Cain, I had to snap you out of it," he says, his hands set firmly on their shoulders, mechanical and cold, solid and soothing, everything they need right now.

"Mierda, Cain, are you alright?"

"Chen?" They croak, "Ricardo?" Reaching out, searching for their faces in the darkness, desperate fear creeping back in when they can't see, can't find, can't feel, is this real? Is it imagined? Are they awake? Were they ever awake? Still dreaming? Still dreaming, still dreaming, still caught in the nightmare, the Void, the darkness, caught in a stranger's dance, tangled in the strings—

"I'm here," Chen whispers, grabbing their hand, placing it on the rough flesh of his cheek, letting them trace the scars.

"We both are," and. Ricardo's hand, brushing against their forehead, an accident, probably, but he uses the opportunity to swipe away a strand of sweat-soaked hair from their face, letting his fingers trace down to brush against the scruff of their patchy aftershave.

Canaan sighs, swallowing back the bile that had been bubbling up their throat, melting into his touch, melting into the embrace Chen pulls them into, feeling their dual heartbeats against their shoulders. Pressing themself into the comfort of Chen's thoughts, warm and accepting, trying not to shiver, trying not to shift uncomfortably against the static hum of Ricardo's mind. Friend, not foe, not handler, not asleep, awake, no danger, Ricardo, it's Ricardo, and they reach out for him, fingers bumping against his forearm. He reaches up, skin sliding beneath their fingertips, real, because they can feel the tickle of his thick hair, the curls catching and releasing, and his fingers wrap with theirs.

"I... I'm okay, now," they sigh, letting their head fall back against Chen's shoulder. "Just... darkness. Don't do well in it. You know."

He shuffles beneath them, behind them, ah. They're sitting on the floor. Were they always on the floor? Chen and Ric probably didn't want to move them to far, and, yes, it's there, the concern in Chen's mind, recognizing a panic attack when he sees-not-sees one. "Better now that you're both here."

"Always, bonito," Ric says, drawing out a happy sigh from Canaan when he presses a kiss into the damp fuzz of hair on the side of their head. "I'm sorry we didn't find you sooner. We couldn't find our phones and Chen's focus was a bit scrambled with... well."

"Oof," they nod, wincing, brushing an apology against Chen's mind, and it's accepted without second thought. No anger, no blame, just a warm cloud of concern, soft and soothing like a bubble bath, thoughts rising and popping. "Was it a blackout?"

"Yeah," Chen nods, "nothing in the house is working right now. Windows outside are pitch-black, too."

Affecting an entire district? Could be a villain attack, or someone who massively screwed up with wires they shouldn't have been poking. Probably enough to warrant a search from the Rangers if it doesn't come back on soon, and, shit, they hate that thought, hate that they might have to leave them here in the darkness, alone, called away because of some idiot on a rampage.

"That's unfortunately the case, it seems," Chen groans as the buzz of his work phone cuts through the gloom, sending a burst of blue light from the dining area. Ricardo winces, blowing out a frustrated hiss as his hand grips tighter onto Canaan's in an apology.

"The city can survive for a few minutes without our help," Ricardo grumbles, standing up and holding onto Canaan's hand, helping them follow his rise. They hear a small clap as he offers another hand to Chen, synthskin and flesh meeting awkwardly, clumsy in the dark as he helps Chen up as well. "We're not leaving you without making sure you're going to be okay. Chen, you keep some candles in the cabinets, right?"

Chen nods in the dark, the limbic motion like a twinge in a web in Cain's mind before they push him to remember that Ricardo can't see it, can't sense it like they can.

"I do," he says, mind catching onto the idea and he presses a quick kiss into both of their heads (bumping his nose against their cheek, angle awkward unable to see where he's aiming and they stifle a giggle, one of the few perks of their height difference is the silly accidents) before moving to stumble across the kitchen in a crusade for candles.

"Do you want to stay here, or go back to the bedroom? I'll grab Spoon and bring him to you."

"Here, please," they croak, not wanting Ricardo to go too far, not wanting more hallways and doors separating them ever again. He nods and leans, kissing their forehead, leading them to the couch, squeezing their hand to make sure they will be okay. Canaan squeezes back. Tries not to reach out for him again when he backs away to find the door that Spoon is whining behind.

Can't resist reaching out for them in the dark, their telepathy a hand that reaches farther than their broken body ever could. Brushes their fingers against the static cloud of Ortega. Ghosts over the calm, steady train of Chen's thoughts chugging around, wondering absurdly if twenty candles is enough light to make them comfortable, and, yes, it is, and they can feel him blush at their mental chuckle. Spoon is a bright beacon of thought that comes bouncing along, a safe haven in the darkness, because he can see what they cannot.

They give soft kisses before they go, Ricardo swearing soft curses towards the insistent blaring of their beepers, and Cain feels safe.

No need to reach into the dark anymore. They are here in the candles around them, the weighted blanket that smells like Chen, the lingering cologne that wafts among the candle scent, and Spoon's soft snoring that lulls them to sleep.

Safe.

55. tracing the lines on the other's hand

Cerrísa x Ricardo x Daniel (mentioned), flystepcharge poly

Tiny NSFW mention but no TWs!

It feels so strange.

As if everything has been a big dream. One big, terrible nightmare, starting from their decanting and ending at the last time he looked at them and called them a fake.

They shuffle down a little, making the embrace a little more comfortable so that his head curls into the little space between nape and neck. He mutters something in half-sleep and presses closer, on his side, arm covering their torso like a weighted blanket. They press a kiss to his forehead, sighing at the wonderful way he melts into the touch, shifting even closer to wrap them tighter in his arms. Their next kiss falls into his disheveled array of dark, curly locks, still wet from the shower, smelling like soap and sex and ozone.

Their thumb swipes across the back of his hand, feeling the scars, feeling the hardened skin above his knuckles, memories of violence. They shake off the cold tendril of thought that begins to snake into their mind. It holds no power here, holds no place between them when he hums so sweetly against their chest. When small shudders of not-desire pleasure play with the muscles of his hand before they smooth them over, convinces them into relaxing again.

Smiling when their fingers trace down his, touching his nails, feeling the dip of height difference between cuticle and growth and a thin layer of nail polish they know is dark blue in color. Dark blue they'd watched Danny paint on, laughing, kissing his knuckles after Ricardo said something cheesy and stupid, and they can't stop the stupid smile that pulls at their face for the way their heart surges with affection. They trace the outline of his knuckles as if they can feel the softness of Danny's lips still on them, as if they can taste the roughness of them on theirs as they remember what it felt like when Danny projected it, aware of them watching when they were supposed to be focusing on picking a movie.

Slowly, gently, so as to not disturb him from his sleep, they pick up his hand and cradles it between theirs. Traces the port that rises up from the tendons of his wrist, feels the power that hums from it, slow and electric. Traces the folds of his palm, admiring the rough, almost sandy texture of the skin, so different from the rough-then-soft patchwork of callouses and scars and skin on their own, unique against the memory of Daniel's, calloused hands smoothed soft with years of consistent lotion use. Presses a thumb against the emitter, flushing at a memory when it sparks a little, sending tingles up their finger. They try to shove down their blush, running their fingers along the outline of his, remembering how they made them feel earlier, remembering the gentle roughness of them against their body, the intimate way they held them, as if they were something precious. No. Not something.

Someone.

Their breath shudders, a shaky exhale, taking that thought and quietly moving it to a shelf to contemplate it from a distance. Still too burning to touch. Still too heavy to hold. Ortega holds it well, and wields it even better. Chipping away walls that crumble and reform, constant and stubborn. What did they ever do to deserve someone like him by their side?

They kiss his knuckles, soft, thankful, sad. Holds them against their lips as he begins to stir from the comfort of sleep. Wants to keep them there forever. Almost nothing has ever felt more right to them than to be here beside him, tracing the memories etched into the folds of his hands, waking up to the warmth of his smile.

Fallen Hero, flystep (implied chargeflystep)

Word count: 1.8 k

Once again it's Antoine and Danny hanging out in a questionable place and talking about stuff. This time we've got uuh, smoking, some hints of Daniel's backstory that I'm making up based on scraps and favourite movies. Also, set in a hypothetical future where Daniel and Ortega work with Antoine after the villain reveal.

Blue-black sky. Just a bit of it behind clouds tinted a dull orange from too many city lights. Even those are mostly hidden by the crumbling outline of the tall buildings around you.

A smaller, matching orange suddenly glows next to you, in this part of the city the faint light from the street lamps isn't much competition. Antoine, perched on a rusty steel railing, looks up at you from lighting his cigarette with a look of sudden epiphany.

He reaches into the pocket of his battered, orange leather jacket and takes out the pack of cigarettes he had just put away.

Holding it out to you, he asks, “Want one?”

Your eyebrows go up. It’s not that you exactly mind smoking, in general, but you wouldn’t say you’ve encouraged his habit. You’ve certainly never indicated that you wanted to smoke, at least you don’t think so, you’ve never given much thought to it since you wouldn’t be allowed to anyway - it’s not just your diet that gets monitored.

“Why?” Is all you can think to ask, because you don’t know the answer to his question and you’re genuinely curious about why he’s suddenly asking.

His hand falls to his lap, but he doesn’t put the cigarettes away immediately. Instead, scarred fingers drum restlessly on the package.

“Dunno,” he says after a long pause, not looking at you, “thought you might want to have something to do while waiting. Or maybe I just wanted the company.”