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absolutepokemontrash · 3 years

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The Brothers and Side Characters Go on a Road Trip!

So, Diavolo, Lord of the Devildom, wants to go on a road trip for reasons unknown. You know what? Screw it, the reason is because Dia wants to do a fun human thing because MC brought it up during tea time. No one can defy the king, so TIME FOR A ROAD TRIP!

Shut Up! HE DOESN’T NEED DIRECTIONS! (Lucifer)

He was going to turn that car around. That’s it, he was going to leave. Someone else drive.

I hope your MC likes staticky traffic updates because that’s what Lucifer constantly had on the radio.

Obviously, some of the brothers complained, so Lucifer put on Beethoven’s Symphony no. 9. HELL YEAH TURN IT UP DJ!

Lol JK no one can car-dance to classical music. Just go back to the staticky traffic updates…

Lucifer would have preferred it if MC or Barbatos were riding shotgun next to him, but Diavolo ended up getting it. Dia is constantly asking Lucifer to stop so he can take pictures of the most mundane shit.

Lucifer stopped stopping after the first fifteen requests.

“I’m not stopping at McDonalds- hang on. Hi McDonald’s employee, one black coffee please.”

In true father fashion, Lucifer got lost and REFUSED to ask for directions. They were lost for five hours before Diavolo finally asked:

“Lucifer, you can turn on the GPS right?”

“Yes, but I don’t trust it.”

Everyone screamed in frustration and were all fully prepared to abandon Lucifer at the side of the road.

Please… can someone else drive? Anyone else…

Are We There Yeeeet..? (Mammon)

Okay, so, Mammon was one of two ways on that road trip. One: complete ADHD daydream zoned out. Or type Two: AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRREEEEE WEEEEEEEE THEEEEEEEEERRRRRREEEE YEEEEEEET???!

He wanted to stop and go to all the tourist traps, by the end of the road trip Mammon wanted to open his own.

The Avatar of Greed loves driving, problem is, he’s used to driving off into the sunset as a lone bachelor, not with his friends and brothers in the car as well.

He only got to drive once, and it was awful. 0/10 would not recommend. Luke thought MC was driving and called shotgun…

Mammon just turns on the radio for music and hopes something good is on at least ONE channel.

STOP WEAVING BETWEEN LANES YOU MORON-

Not all of Mammon’s time driving was bad, the combined powers of Luke and Mammon meant that everyone stopped at a petting zoo at the side of the road. Everyone had a good time, even though when they got back into the car they all smelled like a farm.

Did anyone else hear that oinking in the car-

*Vibes to Music in the Backseat* (Levi)

After being cruelly dragged from his room and placed in this stupid van… he just climbed into the backseat and put on his headphones.

Maybe anime openings could drown out this problem…

Levi only drove for fifteen minutes, it was the most terrifying fifteen minutes of everyone’s lives.

Mario Kart is not a substitute for proper driving school!

Listen- Levi actually saved the entire trip, after stopping at a gas station everyone noticed that Levi never complained about what was on the radio because he was wearing headphones, so everyone bought their own pair and the car trip was so much more pleasant…

No matter how many times Lucifer told Levi to get his feet off the seat, he wouldn’t listen, he was GAMING and they took him away from his gaming chair! HE NEEDED TO SCRUNCH HIMSELF UP LIKE A GOBLIN TO FOCUS DAMMIT!

Whenever the car would stop so everyone could get out and take a picture or look at something, Levi had to be practically dragged out of the car and manually posed for the pictures.

“Is this one of those vans with TVs in them? I brought the first five volumes of TSL on DVD!”

While Satan was driving they stopped at a lake, and Levi burst out of the car and made friends with all the lake fish.

He was still soaking wet when they had to leave.

I’m a Responsible Driver- IS THAT AN OLD BOOKSTORE?! (Satan)

Satan, we believed in you…

Our favourite nerd wanted to stop at any and all historical spots or cool looking bookstores he saw.

When everyone went to buy headphones, he got a pair with cat-ears on them! Because obviously!

Satan’s a responsible driver, and he’s not as prone to road rage as one might think. He has patience, remember in the Jobs event when he worked in customer service? Those kinds of jobs take a godlike amount of self control to do.

Asmo called shotgun and Satan got to have the wonderful experience of having his ear chatted off by his dear brother.

Satan was not about to have fast food for the eighth time in four days, if everyone wanted food, he’d stop at a restaurant.

He was terribly sorry to anyone who needed to use the restroom, but they should have gone at the last rest stop.

When Satan stopped at the lake, he gave everyone a long lecture on the historical significance of the place, then noticed that Levi was being crowned king of the lake and decided he should cut his history lesson short before Levi abandoned his family to chill with the fish forever.

I wanted Satan to be the normal chill one with the radio… I really did… but deep in my subconscious I feel like Satan would put on one of those language learning DVDs so he can learn another language on the go like a total dork.

Road Rage (Asmodeus)

No one saw this coming but- Asmo gets some B A D road rage. Someone cuts him off? “Hi hello dear, WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO SHOVE MY FOOT UP YOUR ASS?!” Someone doesn’t use a turn signal? “YOU BRAIN DEAD MORON! LEARN TO DRIVE!” Someone just pisses him off? “*prolonged horn sound*”

It’s just… the car trip was so taxing on the poor Avatar of Lust… he was crammed into the middle seat for the majority of the trip… he had to give his sleeping mask to Belphie… Beel was getting crumbs all over him and he couldn’t move over… just so tragic…

Solomon called shotgun and it was the greatest couple of hours of his life. He got a front row seat to Lucifer and Barbatos dragging Asmo back into the car because he tried to pick a fight with another driver.

Asmo wasn’t having a good time…

He didn’t want to stop for any gas station food or go through a drive-thru so it was another expensive restaurant trip. Rest In Peace to the gang’s wallets.

When he wasn’t driving, Asmo was loudly talking with MC or talking on the phone. It was a blessing in disguise when they went through an area with bad phone reception and Asmo finally had to shut up.

Oh well… at least he got a few nice pictures for Devilgram.

MCDONALDS! MCDONALDS! MCDONALDS! (Beel)

We all know Beel is massive, right? His head is touching the ceiling and every speed-bump hurt.

He’s the one begging to stop at every gas station or fast food place they pass by.

Beel’s section in the car was covered in empty bags of Doritos by the end of the trip.

When Beel got to drive, Belphie got shotgun! Hell yeah dream team!

Poor Beel, he got distracted and ended up somehow popping a tire. He pulled over next to a farm, changed the tire, then got back in the car and kept driving.

Uh… there was an awful lack of snoring next to Beel- OH FUCK THEY LEFT BELPHIE!

Belphie was found sleeping next to the cows on the farm they had stopped at earlier.

The cows didn’t want to give their sleepy god up so easily…

After that… Beel didn’t want to drive anymore…

“Look, cows.” (Belphie)

I really need to stop with the cow jokes but I CAN’T

*snore*

Belphie’s crammed between Beel and MC for most of the trip and is probably drooling all over poor MC’s lap or shoulder.

Beware, he jolts up randomly and looks around in a panic before he realizes he’s in a car. This happens every three hours.

Belphie’s not allowed to drive, he’d fall asleep. But when Lucifer takes the wheel and puts on that fucking staticky radio, Belphie forms an idea.

“*ahem* four thousand bottles of beer on the wall, four thousand bottles of beer,”

Mission success, Lucifer wanted to tear his hair out.

Belphie ended up asking to stop when they get to a stretch of road with no streetlights, everyone got out of the and stared at the stars.

…listen, it’s a miracle no one got axe murdered but the stars were gorgeous.

Remember when I said Satan put on those language learning DVDs? Yeah uh…. Belphie woke up from his last nap of the trip almost fully fluent in Spanish. At least one person gained a new skill on this trip…

Oooo, Look at Thaaaaat! (Diavolo)

Even though the side characters were in a different car most of the time, sometimes people would switch to the other car if they met up at a gas station.

By the end of the road trip Dia looked like one of those tourist dads, Hawaiian shirt and all.

Dia can’t drive

He’s absorbing human culture… and human culture involves ordering everything at this random Wendy’s.

Diavolo’s camera roll is so unbelievably full by the end of the trip and he refuses to delete ANY of the pictures.

Most of the pictures are of really weird and boring stuff, like traffic signs and trees, but the picture he ends up printing out and putting in a picture frame is a picture of the whole group at the petting zoo having a grand old time.

He wanted to take home a baby goat but Barbatos said that wasn’t a good idea :(

Help. (Barbatos)

So, it could have been worse for Barbatos, he could have been stuck in the car with the brothers and MC.

Dia always had the seat up front, but when he left the car to go hang out with the dude-squad, Solomon got the passenger seat.

Solomon decided it would be a good idea to pester Barbatos to go faster and take weird shortcuts through (probably not legal) backroads and creepy forest paths.

Good thing Barbatos, Luke, and Simeon had functioning brain cells and knew that’s how horror movies began.

Barbatos stopped for fast food once and only once. It’s not healthy!

He’s the only driver to take suggestions for music, meaning that the side characters’ car was the best one of the two.

“SOMEONE GET THE BARF BAG!”(Simeon)

He’s just… he’s just trying his best not to vomit…

Simeon thought the car would be a good place to get some writing done while they drove down long stretches of road. Simeon was wrong in that assumption.

With his head down way too much while the car zoomed down the highway, Simeon felt himself getting *very* sick about four hours in.

He was worried he may have accidentally eaten something of Solomon’s… but nope. The angel was carsick.

Luke had the important job of patting Simeon on the back as he leaned over the barf-bag while Solomon dry heaved up front.

Hurry and open the windows before Solomon barfs too!!!!

Other than the car sickness, he had the job of making sure Luke was entertained, there was a good hour of eye-spy until they just got to a stretch of forest.

After that, Simeon realized that he could just give Luke free permission to ramble about whatever he wanted and that would keep the little guy entertained for HOURS.

What do You Mean I Can’t Legally Make This Turn?! (Solomon)

Shifty bastard can drive, problem is, he doesn’t care about the laws of the road.

He ended up getting pulled over after breaking approximately 11 traffic laws in less than ten minutes.

“License and registration.” “Yeah yeah yeah…” “…sir, this license expired in 1989.” “…shit.”

Solomon gunned it and managed to use his magic to hide the car and evade the very confused traffic cop.

Luke was completely aghast at the flagrant law breaking, but Solomon’s excuse was that the 80s were a lawless wasteland and he completely forgot he legally had to update his license.

He’s an equally obnoxious passenger as he is driver, but at least no one in the car is bored.

“You know, back in the day cars didn’t have seatbelts.” “Solomon put your seatbelt back on.”

…Can we keep it? (Luke)

He was against this from the start. A road trip? With those nasty demons? No! Never!

Okay fine… maybe he wanted to see some more of the human world… he agreed to go.

After helping Simeon through his car sickness, he misheard the other car say that MC would be driving, and Luke wanted to hang out with his third parent 🥺

That’s how he ended up riding shotgun next to Mammon. It started out rough, but when the two spotted the petting zoo it was all sunshine and rainbows.

Luke made friends with all the animals! He was like a little Disney Prince. He got especially attached to this one piglet, it was a surprise to Simeon that the goodbye wasn’t tearful.

Luke smuggled that piglet out of the petting zoo and they were all over fifty miles away before anyone noticed.

Of course, everyone was just shocked that Luke had stolen something, but he looked so cute holding the little piggy… awwww…

The bros obviously joked that Luke had gone to the dark side and was totally evil because he had taken the pig, much to the poor kid’s dismay.

Simeon tried to convince Luke that he needed to return the piglet but Luke was adamant that he could totally take good care of it.

Welp, time for Lucifer to fix this.

“Luke, you need to go put the pig back, it’s not yours.”

“No! I’ll take good care of it!”

“That doesn’t matter, you stole it. It’s not your property, do you want to end up a scummy thief like Mammon?”

“No not at all. Let’s go return the pig.”

“THAT’S ALL IT TOOK?!”

#Obey me #Obey me!#Obey me Headcanons #obey me shall we date #obey me! shall we date?#Obey me Lucifer #Obey me Luke #Obey me Simeon #Obey me Diavolo #Obey me Solomon #Obey me Barbatos #Obey me Mammon #Obey me Leviathan #Obey me Belphegor #Obey me Beelzebub #Obey me Asmodeus #Obey me Satan

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kiruuuuu · 3 years

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Protection Mountain: The Finale⛰️

Yes. It is here.

Montagne/Bandit conquered my heart so quickly with what was meant to be a oneshot, then turned into a small series of oneshots, and ended up as my longest series in Siege. And now their main story is coming to an end. I would like to thank absolutely everyone who participated in this journey, be it through direct messages, magnificent art, shared ideas, comments, reblogs, likes, the simple act of reading and enjoying - you helped make this happen, you motivated and encouraged me. Thank you for falling into this bottomless hole with me 💖

A special thank you goes out to @ekhap, who commissioned this piece in the first place - without you, it’s likely I never would’ve written it. I’m so happy you enjoyed it, and I hope all of you who stuck around long enough to read this will too.

I have actually managed to post the entire series on AO3 as well, so you can comfortably read (or re-read) it here!! And without further ado, here is the final chapter of Protection Mountain. (Rating T/M, hurt/comfort + a ridiculous amount of fluff, ~8.5k words)

“I’m leaving tomorrow”, says Madeleine, voice soft and always a reprieve from the harsh reality of the hospital room around them. “I don’t think coming back will be necessary this time.”

Montagne squeezes her hand, making her smile.

She’s been juggling family and career for her entire life and right now is no different: on slower or off days, she hops on the train to visit, taking the opportunity to report on some local stories on the way, utilising her travel time to write up or edit her pieces. A busy bee, always worried about being overshadowed by her older brother. They haven’t seen each other this much for years and though the occasion could be merrier, Montagne is fiercely grateful for her presence. He’s unloaded some of his worries onto her and she onto him, and somehow they ended up lighter than before. Tourés tend to stick together, given the opportunity.

“Why do you say that?”

“You might not realise, but you’re looking much better, Gilles. You’ll be let loose on the world again soon.”

They exchange a quick grin over her choice of words. She’s certainly more of a menace to society than he is, and they both know it.

Next to her, Lion is sitting in a second chair, rigid. He’s confessed to Montagne in private that Madeleine reminds him of his mother – whatever that might entail – and so he’s unfailingly awkward around her, probably ruing the fact that they happened to drop by at the same time today. Dealing with strangers isn’t usually a problem for him; dealing with family of friends, however, is.

Apparently, Bandit won Madeleine over immediately, surprisingly enough. She says it’s his horrific German accent whenever he attempts to speak French and his deadpan humour, but Montagne is relatively sure she senses a bit of how much Bandit cares for him. Tourés are also protective of each other, siblings even more so. She wouldn’t have told him a thing about Montagne’s current condition if she hadn’t thought his worry genuine.

And then, out of the blue: “Cathérine called me.” She still sounds conversational, but her gaze becomes a tad more attentive.

Montagne stills.

Lion’s gaze is jumping back and forth between them, the man even more uncomfortable now.

It’s the last person he expected Madeleine to mention, so he needs a second to compose himself. “What about?” He tries to search for emotions, for any kind of reaction to encountering his wife’s – ex-wife’s name, but comes up empty. It’s like hearing about an old, lost friend of his: someone who once used to be important enough to be mentioned in his will, now someone who barely counts as a remnant in his thoughts.

“You, of course. Maman tattled and, eventually, it reached her. She wanted to know how you are and whether contacting you directly is a good idea.”

“And your reply?”

“I said I’d ask you.”

He nods, thankful. During their divorce, too many people presumed what would be best for either side instead of addressing them directly. It didn’t feel like their own private business anymore, somehow it affected everyone and so everyone was entitled to an opinion and a listening ear. He appreciates Madeleine allowing him this kind of control. “I don’t think she has my current number. Please give it to her and let her know I’d be happy to talk.”

And that’s that. They kiss cheeks and do a half-hug, exchange verbal pleasantries which are nonetheless heartfelt, and then she and her mild perfume are gone, leaving behind a slightly relieved-looking Lion.

“You do look a lot better, you know”, he confirms Madeleine’s earlier assessment, and though he seems intent on changing the topic – for him, family is still a sore topic most days –, Montagne’s mind lingers. Vague memories form a blurry whole, the image so distant it may well originate in a film he once saw or a book he once read.

Catou used to be his entire world and there were days he was convinced he couldn’t go on if she were to leave him. Yet time, the wound-healer, sometimes corrodes instead – and in their case, it must’ve mistaken their passion and devotion for sickness, for it cured them. They noticed before comfort turned into indifference, but only barely. By the time they decided on breaking up, another man was involved as well, though Montagne assigns him no blame whatsoever. Until their divorce was finalised, Catou kept her friend at arm’s length and he never even attempted to get any closer; but while she didn’t allow herself to fall in love again until Montagne openly gave his blessing, he could see the seeds growing already.

Neither of them cheated, he knows this for a fact. They’d never. He noticed how she became aware of the possibility of being with another man after a few of their long talks which denoted the beginning of the end, and while it hurt, he vowed not to stand in her way. If he couldn’t support her, he at least didn’t want to hinder her.

What hurt the most wasn’t any misguided feeling of betrayal or even jealousy, no. It was the realisation that he simply didn’t suffice. He gave her his everything and it turned out it wasn’t enough.

Maybe this is why he won’t accept Bandit’s proposal: the creeping fear of committing fully and finding it to have been in vain.

“You never spoke about her.” His friend has indubitably noticed his mood by now, or maybe the lack of response gave it away.

He supposes he hasn’t. Neither to Bandit nor to Lion, actually, not even when the topic had strayed to Claire and Alexis. “There isn’t much to say”, he summarises well over a decade of companionship, eroded and erased slowly by the very thing which tainted it in the first place: time apart. “We fell in and then out of love. She was a remarkable woman. She deserves someone who can keep up with her.”

Lion fidgets a little, avoids eye contact. Montagne’s words might’ve struck a chord but he’s too exhausted, too restless to talk it out. Madeleine’s statement has given him hope that he can leave soon, leave Bandit’s birthplace behind, hopefully to return and make happier memories in the future.

His friend’s next question catches him off guard. “Why did you marry her?”

It’s so much out of character for him to ask that Montagne needs a few seconds to come up with a reply. “I loved her, with all my heart. I expected to spend the rest of my life with her. Why do you -”

“Then why are you saying no to him?”

Montagne stares, shocked. The slight petulant undertone, the hint of defiance, the blunt accusation – Bandit himself could’ve posed the question, and it’s not for the first time Montagne realises how alike the two of them really are. But what leaves him utterly dumbstruck isn’t the implication of Lion approving of a marriage between them, no, it’s the fact that he can’t come up with a reasonable answer.

At least not one which doesn’t sound like an excuse.

He must’ve realised the impact his words have left behind, so Lion swiftly changes topics yet again, allowing for Montagne to recover and respond to a few simple inquiries, but nothing really manages to soften the blow.

~*~

There’s a reason he chose le Roc over more modern, flashier, possibly more efficient alternatives.

When he was younger, he used to hide his height by slouching, felt embarrassed by the fact that he’d stick out due to something he neither chose nor controlled – as a tall, muscular man, he’s perceived as intimidating or, worse, a challenge. He reacted to mentions of his physique with sheepish smiles and laughed it off when people referred to his ability to beat up whomever he liked, portraying it as enviable.

It took him a while until he began seeing his build as an advantage. It took friends confessing they felt safe with him around. Acquaintances appreciating his company during the dark. His soon-to-be wife admiring his drive to put his stature to good use. Ultimately, it influenced first impressions only, a quick glance upwards, but as soon as people heard him speak gently, noticed his aversion to unnecessary violence, be it verbal or otherwise, they forgot about his impressive physique immediately.

Like le Roc, it’s a shield. He utilises his own body to protect others and has subconsciously done so his entire life, be it to separate his little sister from her bullies, friends from aggressors, or even two agitated strangers: he absorbs the blows which to him are no more than light punches whereas they could cause more harm on their intended victims. He’s been likened to a mastiff and their instinctual drive to break up fights by simply standing in the way.

Like le Roc, it’s an asset. And like le Roc, it can get damaged.

What he hadn’t realised is just how much he relies on his body to function exactly the way he needs it to.

His life is his job, they’re irredeemably intertwined, and imagining one without the other is … nigh impossible. His mind struggles to come up with alternatives – helping others is in his essence, but picturing himself working in a nursing home maybe or a school, a community centre, is madness to him. Catou had been very involved in these kinds of projects, volunteered wherever there was a need, and while he saw the good she did, the joy she spread, she had a certain soft touch he simply lacks.

He’s a mountain. He can kill and besiege and protect and recover and rescue, but the thought of being responsible for children not his own, or the well-being of elderly people, terrifies him. A small mistake, a brief distraction could prove fatal. He’s trained for combat.

He needs to recover.

Sometimes, he wakes up and can’t feel his limbs. He hasn’t stood on his own two legs for who knows how long. Movement hurts, lying down hurts, existence hurts. But what hurts most is the prospect of never returning to the work he’s destined for.

No one is allowed to catch a glimpse of his frustration as he feels it’s ungrateful, possibly even malicious. Not only should he be elated over having survived at all, it would also imply he regrets having taken the actions he did, and nothing could be further from the truth. Saving Lion was inevitable; he just wishes he could’ve gotten away with less serious injuries. He wishes so fiercely. Bottling up his anger is destructive and being fully aware of how irrational his behaviour is merely continues the spiral of negativity, yet he’s powerless to change it. The people closest to him are still processing the shock of almost losing him and don’t need the added burden of his dread for his own future.

He wonders whether Bandit is repulsed by him. Aside from his atrophied muscles, he’s lost weight, there are the burns which will likely mark his body for the rest of his life, another ugly scar on one thigh where he’s been stitched up. His skin is discoloured in multiple places and he vividly remembers the way Madeleine winced when she visited him the first time. He already doesn’t consider himself overly attractive, so he must seem frightening. It doesn’t help that Bandit distanced himself the way he did at first – though it was likely the shock affecting him still.

Recently though, his lover has been doing much better. He’s been doing amazing, actually: when Bandit isn’t visiting him, he’s out and about, meeting with friends from the GSG9, eating at exotic restaurants, working out, keeping himself entertained. He keeps messaging Montagne, sending photos of dogs he meets or particularly tasty dishes they need to cook together (or rather attempt to), and every line of text lightens his heart. Bandit even keeps Six and Blitz up to date, informing Doc of Montagne’s condition unprompted, and converses with Madeleine as best he can. Of course, there are bad days sprinkled in now and then, days on which his gaze is endless and unfocused, days on which Bandit is either taciturn or won’t stop talking about unrelated things so Montagne can’t ask him how he’s doing. Recovery isn’t fast or linear, Montagne knows this.

He’s so goddamn proud nonetheless.

And even though seeing Bandit flourish, having watched him pick himself back up and carry on where he left off, witnessing the man he loves with all his heart succeed over this void in his chest once again causes Montagne’s chest to swell in pride and adoration, there’s a bitter note to it. An out-of-tune note, a scratchy, unpleasant one. Because Montagne believes he knows the reason for Bandit’s sudden motivation to improve his existence. And it’s not for its own sake, not for Bandit’s own benefit alone.

Montagne remembers stewing in his own thoughts, fighting the urge to call himself useless, agonising over what might become of him, and there’s no way Bandit didn’t catch him wiping his face when he burst into the room that one day a while back. He must’ve noticed how red Montagne’s eyes were, unusually red. He must’ve realised how fucking weak Montagne is. And probably decided it was his turn to take care of his love.

The next day, Bandit announced having joined a local gym for the time being, as well as his intention to watch a film by himself later. It can’t be a coincidence.

There’s nothing worse for Montagne than being a burden.

~*~

Bandit’s energy is enviable. It seems he’s attempted to prepare for every scenario imaginable: he’s washed all of Montagne’s clothes, bought a variety of snacks and pastries, piled magazines on the bedside table, purchased all kinds of toiletries and remedies including a remarkably well-stocked first aid kit, arranged lush-looking fruits on the small desk of their hotel room, and even produces ear plugs and a sleeping mask the moment Montagne mentions feeling vaguely tired.

It’s hard not to get swept up in the atmosphere his lover creates, especially when his own chest seems unusually light compared to the weeks prior – he’s elated to be discharged from the hospital, even if all kinds of other worries creep up on him during moments of quiet. Being able to return home is a wish he harboured without realising: he thought all he needed was distance from the very place that so consciously reminds him of his own frailty, but it turns out privacy and a new environment don’t suffice, not even close. Sharing a space with Bandit and Bandit only is an immense improvement, yet he longs to sleep in his own bed, feel like he belongs instead of being a perpetual guest. Still, he’s grateful for the spacious hotel room, some peace and quiet, and the assurance that no one is going to randomly check up on him anymore.

Except for Bandit, of course.

Maybe it was Madeleine’s comment which inspired him, or maybe he hadn’t realised how much he’d recuperated already, but once his sister had bidden farewell, his condition improved fast. It culminated two days ago, when Bandit entered his room to find him awkwardly holding on to the bed frame but standing, fully upright with no outside help, due to his own strength. He half expected to be scolded, though his weakness must’ve taken its toll on Bandit as well because all he did was burst into tears from happiness.

Montagne very nearly joined in.

Six arranged a flight directly once she received the message, paid for a wheelchair without batting an eye and ordered him to take it easy nonetheless. His leg will take a while to heal and the broken ribs forbid the use of crutches, so Montagne dutifully agreed and thought he could hear her smiling over the phone. He missed her curt, professional yet caring attitude, and it seemed she’d be glad to see him again as well.

All of which is why he’s allowed to spend his last night in Germany’s capital in the very same hotel room he occupied before it all fell apart. The life before tastes like honey, sweet and much too rich, thick in his throat and welding his mouth shut: how much he took his health for granted baffles him. How careless he was. How ungrateful. He longs to get back to lazy evenings with an oversized cat purring on his chest, to the chaos of messing up yet another recipe, their light-hearted bickering, not a care in the world. He’s desperate to return to it, without that creeping feeling of guilt over turning Bandit down for a mixture of sentimental, inadequate reasons he can’t even explain to himself. He lacks the words to express why the image of swapping rings or – heaven forbid – inviting his entire family to a big ceremony fills him with nothing but dread when instead he should be exuberant. Flattered, maybe.

“Do you want to shower?”

Bandit reminds him of a puppy, easily distractible and well-meaning, radiating pent-up energy. Montagne regrets having to refuse him anything. “No, I’d rather just read a bit and sleep. I can shower at home tomorrow.”

His lover very nearly pouts. “Are you saying I have to find another excuse to touch you all over?”

Montagne’s chuckle almost gets stuck in his throat. He’s not ready yet and has been racking his brain for reasons why they can’t sleep in the same bed, or why he won’t be able to undress at any point. He’ll have to deal with this eventually, but his foolish mind has convinced him he’ll be able to postpone it indefinitely if only he manages to use his injuries as a pretext.

If he wasn’t so fucking terrified, he’d call himself childish.

There’s no doubt Bandit has made an effort to tidy up the room, yet there are unmistakeable traces of his prolonged stay everywhere – the overflowing suitcase, tissues poking out from under furniture, too many cables for too many electronic devices carelessly strewn about. Housekeeping probably gave up after two weeks and resigned to only vacuum wherever possible and change the bedsheets, and the thought of exasperated staff dealing with the stubborn git he missed like hell makes him smile. He’s heard stories from various nurses and highly enjoyed Bandit’s redemption arc of starting out as a nightmare and turning into the highlight of their days. If he saw correctly, Bandit even bought them flowers. He must be very proud of his newly discovered move to weaken grudges.

“Wanna get on the bed?”, Bandit interrupts his thoughts a little too casually, so Montagne eyes him with suspicion.

“Do you want me to get on the bed?”

His better half purses his lips, probably considering whether it’s worth pretending like he has no idea what Montagne means (and oh, he hasn’t even considered this prospect, they’ll be finally alone and undisturbed, and despite his aversion to show any part of his skin, his body expresses some interest in the scenario) – but Bandit still manages to surprise him by muttering, almost embarrassed: “I just really want to cuddle right now.”

It’s disarmingly adorable, and Montagne’s heart melts. “Let’s do it, then”, he agrees. There’s some awkwardness in manoeuvring him out of the wheelchair and onto the much-too-soft mattress, but Bandit is stronger than he looks and able to provide enough support. As soon as Montagne sinks into the plushy pillows and Bandit presses himself against his side, all tension suddenly vanishes: his muscles relax, his thoughts calm down, his skin stops prickling. He hadn’t been aware how much he missed simple contact like this, the heat of another body against his own, the blissful feeling of being safe, being home, being loved.

This tiny bubble of everyday life suffices to soothe his cracked soul. He wishes he could wrap around Bandit fully, envelop him whole, drag him onto his chest, pull him into his arms – even offering his shoulder for Bandit’s head to rest on would help with his burning desire to be as close to him as possible, but for the moment he can’t. Not without considerable pain. Still, Bandit’s hand has slid into his, their fingers interlaced, and a gentle, regular breath caresses his cheek. Now and then, Bandit nuzzles him, presses a kiss to his cheek, sighs in contentment. They could stay like this for eternity.

And yet, Montagne’s guilt prohibits him from letting go completely. He has rejected this man. Refused to accept him into his life fully.

“If you wanna watch something, I pirated eleven films we haven’t seen”, Bandit murmurs against his jaw and makes him chuckle.

“I remember the hotel’s internet being unreliable. Don’t tell me you used public Wi-Fi? Mark would be horrified.”

“Yeah sure, I just sat down in the nearest McDonald’s and downloaded a hundred gigs of illegal stuff.” Bandit’s grin is boyish and attractive and so cute Montagne just wants to burn the image into his brain. “Better, actually – I asked one of the boys to do it. So we conspired together.”

“Are you going to miss them?”

Bandit thinks about it and eventually shrugs his shoulders. “Sure. It was nice seeing them again. But I think I miss everyone at Rainbow more. I haven’t been apart from everyone this long… ever, I think. Since I joined.” There’s more on his mind, Montagne can tell, so he waits and peeks down at the dirty blonde hair, the wild beard. Apparently Bandit decided shaving was too much of a hassle, so he gave up on it completely for the time being – and Montagne wholeheartedly understands. If he could grow one, he definitely wouldn’t be running around with naked cheeks.

After a while, Bandit adds, quietly: “I did visit Cedrick.”

Montagne wants to smack himself. How could he forget that Bandit’s twin still lives in Berlin? And while he’s proud of Bandit for taking the initiative and seeing him of his own accord, Montagne feels that he himself could’ve raised the possibility sooner. He knows they’re close, as close as any family member could ever hope to be with someone as fickle as Bandit, and he probably would’ve done wonders for Bandit’s psyche. “How is he? How is his family?”

“Good. They’re good. Gave me too much food, as usual. His wife got a promotion recently and the boys are doing great in school. They want to go to university later, imagine that. The first Brunsmeiers to go to uni.” Bandit glances up at him. “I also told them about you.”

There it is. He must’ve been dying to tell Montagne, judging by his pink cheeks and nervous fidgeting, and his demeanour as much as his words conjure up a bright smile on Montagne’s face. They had an unspoken agreement, an implied promise that they wouldn’t tell their families until they’re ready, which meant until Bandit was ready – coming out to friends was a big step, coming out to Rainbow a massive hurdle, and coming out to his family must’ve been a mountain to climb. His comfort zone has been steadily expanding, yet actions like these still turn Bandit into a skittish cat sometimes.

For someone with commitment issues like this, it’s incredible that Bandit decided for them to get married.

“Dom, mon amour, I am so proud of you.” He kisses Bandit’s temple and smiles even wider at his desperately dismissive mumbled reply of ‘’s nothing’. “That is wonderful news. How did they react?”

“Well, they wanted to meet you immediately.”

Yet they didn’t. Montagne’s smile fades a little. Did Bandit not want anyone to see him like this? Best case scenario, he figured that Montagne’s current state simply wouldn’t do him justice, and worst case… Would he be ashamed of him?

“But obviously, that didn’t work out, so I told them -”

“Why didn’t it?”

He must’ve noticed something, maybe an odd expression, because he reassures him instantly: “My love, I saw them yesterday evening. You’ll meet them soon enough, trust me. They were very supportive, in any case. I think Ced is just glad to know there’s at least one person out there who can tame me.” Bandit’s hand brushes over Montagne’s belly, toying with the hem of his shirt, and he puts his own over it.

Maybe he’s being dramatic. Thinking about it, his recent thought spirals followed a similar pattern to the dangerous ones Bandit entertains much too often, the ones Montagne has been trying to interrupt whenever he notices them. Except that Bandit can’t read minds as of yet and probably has no idea what’s going on with him, and how should he. Montagne hasn’t said a word. They haven’t mentioned their brief engagement, or whatever the fuck was going on for a bit, at all.

Maybe when Montagne said that he was worried about losing Bandit, he didn’t just mean Bandit’s own withdrawal from their relationship.

“I don’t like that you see me like this.”

Bandit reacts not, doesn’t glance upwards, but there’s a tightening of his half-embrace. He’s listening.

“I can’t stand it, in fact. I feel useless and powerless and I can tell it weighs you down as well.” Once he’s started speaking, the words nearly tumble out of his mouth by themselves, one by one does the truth finally spill over. “I’m sorry. You’re trying so hard, mon cœur, I know you’re trying so hard to be strong for me, and I love you for it, but… I don’t want this. I don’t want to be like this. I should be the one there for you.” His heart is heavy, his mind darkened and his eyes burning, threatening tears as evidence of his own fragility. Rarely do his emotions get the better of him yet his self-control is raw and worn out from too much use without a chance to replenish. “I know I should be grateful I survived, but I feel like an annoyance. I don’t even know if I can go back to Rainbow, I don’t know whether I’ll fully heal and I hate it.”

Before he can feel guilty for loading even more onto Bandit’s shoulders, his love cradles his head in surprisingly warm hands, whispers his name and puts their foreheads together. “It’s okay”, Bandit mutters, even though both of them know it isn’t, “Gilles, stop. It’s okay. Listen to me.”

Montagne expects platitudes and white lies, misplaced optimism, a few phrases people throw out and pat themselves on the back for consoling someone, but instead, Bandit says: “Look. All of this fucking sucks.”

Well. It sure does. Montagne frowns.

“I’ve been in the hospital before, I was injured pretty badly and felt less worthy than a sack of potatoes, believe me. I was hardly myself, I couldn’t sleep, the constant pain was horrendous and on top of that, all the pretty nurses were talking smack -”

This startles a small huff of amusement out of him and effectively interrupts his intrusive thoughts. “Aren’t you supposed to make me feel better?”

“- I’m getting to that part. But you probably know how degrading it is when you can’t even piss by yourself, right? That’s the fucking worst. You’re like a baby, and you definitely feel just as stupid. It was one of the worst months of my entire life. But you know what? I got better.”

Ah. There we go. Montagne’s mouth goes thin.

“No, I know what you’re thinking: empty promises. You don’t understand how true it is, though. I’ve been rock bottom a few times, but it gets better. You’ve been there for it, so you know what I mean. And don’t even think for a second that each rock bottom was the same level, no, there were times when everything seemed hopeless, but honestly? Each time, it got a little easier to get back out. To get out and get to a better level than before. My parents…” He catches himself and shakes his head a little. “I don’t wanna keep talking about me right now.”

Montagne nudges him. “Please do. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

A deep breath later, Bandit continues: “My parents valued independence highly, so Ced and I were encouraged to help ourselves, which I suppose is a good thing. But it also taught us to not rely on anybody else. To not expect any safety nets: you fall, that’s it. Convincing yourself it’s worthwhile to go on after you’ve fallen was hard. I felt like I failed at life, and for a bit, giving up was the better alternative. But I did have a safety net after all: Ced did his part, a few friends did, my boss, too. So it worked out.”

“But you got worse again”, Montagne mutters.

“Yes. I got worse. Still, by then I knew not only that it was possible to get back out, but also that others would help. Miles away from asking for help, mind you, but with more hope. I kept learning. And…” Despite his reluctance to go on, Montagne remains quiet and waits. Some part of him realises it’s something Bandit has to say. “And… as horrible as that sounds, as much as I don’t even want to imagine it… I think I’m at the point where I could go on without you. If you didn’t – didn’t make it, for example, I could… I think I could. The beginning would be the absolute fucking worst, no doubt, but I’d find something to – to make it worth it. To continue.”

Wordlessly, Montagne drags him into a bear hug. Presses their bodies even tighter together, ignoring the stabs of pain in his side, ignoring all his muscles protesting, ignoring the uncomfortable weight against his injured ribcage. He just needs this man like air all of a sudden, and it seems impossible to him how he could’ve ever rejected him in anything.

He knows exactly what Bandit means. It might be put in a morbid way, but he’s trying to express just how much Montagne has helped him. Comparing this version of him with the fragile creature he once warmed in his arms is unthinkable; this Bandit isn’t vulnerable anymore. And though he was hit hard by Montagne’s near-death, he ended up recovering, largely due to his own strength. A few years ago, he would’ve reacted very differently to nearly losing a loved one, that much is certain.

Bandit is clinging to him as well, taking measured breaths against his jaw and hiding his face. “You’re the strongest fucking person I know”, he whispers, voice cracking. “And even if you lost all your limbs or your eyesight or what the fuck ever, you’d still be you. You’d still be as great as you were before. That’s a fact, you dumbass. And if you can’t do Rainbow anymore, you’ll open a stupid dog café in Marseilles or sell Fairtrade products in a corner shop, I don’t bloody know. All I know is that you shouldn’t listen to that irritating voice in your head because it has absolutely no fucking idea what it’s talking about.”

By now, Montagne is chuckling and crying at the same time, overcome by too many emotions to be able to process any of them. It feels like he was allowed a deeper look in Bandit’s workings, like he’s able to understand him a little better. More importantly, he does feel significantly less stupid now that he knows Bandit is familiar with thoughts like these and already opened himself up about them.

“I’m also worried you’d be put off by all my injuries”, he admits after a while of comforting physical contact, feeling much more confident in himself and assured they can actually talk things out.

His better half lifts his head to squint at him in confusion. “Put off…? Like, grossed out? This is nothing, I once had someone in my arms whose guts were – wait, you don’t mean that I’d find you unattractive, do you?”

Montagne eyes his love for a moment, the man whose knees get weak whenever Montagne whispers a single filthy word in his ear, the man who has admitted to having more wet dreams about him than he’d like, the very man who so valiantly held himself back until Montagne allowed him to let loose, and who has never held back since. The man Montagne missed every lonely second he spent without him over the past weeks. “Well, I’d hope not”, he mutters.

Bandit looks at him like he grew two heads. “Are you serious?”

“The bruises still look quite bad, and all the -”

“Okay, listen. You stop talking. I’m going to kiss every one of your bruises until you’re not sure whether it hurts anymore, and then I’ll make you come so hard you’ll pass out. To hell with waiting, I won’t take this for another second.”

He’s not sure whether he should take it as a threat or a promise, but when Bandit starts pulling Montagne’s clothes off his body, he finds that he has no intention to argue whatsoever. And it’s good to know this part of him still works. “Be careful, mon cœur.”

Dark eyes flick up and are accompanied by a growl: “Can’t promise that.”

And though this one was definitely a threat, all Montagne does is smile. He didn’t even realise how much he missed this.

~*~

Bandit continues to do all the work for them the next morning: he orders room service and serves Montagne breakfast in bed while also shoving everything he finds into their suitcases. No need to separate their clothes or belongings; they’re going to the same destination anyway. They should travel more, take some time off and explore the world together – a notion Montagne hadn’t entertained until now as he was never really tempted to leave France or just Europe in general without good reason, and their missions abroad together with the other operators’ supplemental information used to be sufficient for him. But now, the thought of spending a week in a hotel with no one familiar around him but Bandit, the image of them going on walks while holding hands, pointing out quaint aspects of the place around them… it’s enticing. He vows to bring it up sometime.

Muscles still sore from the previous night, his mind is the opposite: he feels refreshed, optimistic, motivated. Part of the reason is undoubtedly the sex, he can’t deny it – falling asleep with Bandit in his arms, the faint feeling of satisfaction still coursing through his body, it’s as invigorating as the act itself, the knowing, challenging stare as Bandit swallowed -

Well. He shouldn’t dwell on it. They don’t have a lot of time planned between leaving the hotel and the departure of their flight.

But anyway, it’s not just that, it’s also the conversations before and after. The way Bandit made him realise what exactly is important, that he can rely on his lover without a guilty conscience. He kept repeating how beautiful Montagne was, even during, and though it caused him to blush in considerable embarrassment, he certainly feels less self-conscious now. There wasn’t a single second in which Bandit’s assurance wavered, no moment where he showed doubt. He meant what he said.

And, thinking about it, it would be the same for Montagne. He wouldn’t care about Bandit’s physical state. He’d still love him unconditionally.

Then why are you saying no to him?

It’s different, Montagne wants to argue in his head. But is it? He’s known Bandit for longer than he did Catou when he proposed to her. They were at a different point in life then, not entirely sure about their careers (well, she wasn’t), uncertain about their future (and children is still a sore spot he refuses to entertain), really too young to make such a momentous decision. He’s been living together with Bandit for long enough to assess how well they work together. How well they fit.

No. It’s not any different in his heart. Where it’s different is his head: he’s twice shy, irrationally worried about getting hurt. And consequently hurts Bandit instead. Bandit has openly declared his wish to make their undying love and loyalty official, whereas Montagne punishes him for a crime he didn’t commit. A crime which was nobody’s fault, in the end.

Watching Bandit tear through the room and toss most of what they own into the nearest suitcase, Montagne notices how there’s one object Bandit hasn’t touched. Montagne’s passport. And he probably never will again, without explicit approval. He made a mistake, apologised and learnt from it.

Now it’s Montagne’s time to do so.

“Dominic”, he says, and instantly all activity halts. Bandit is comically frozen mid-throw, like a deer in headlights. Montagne never calls him by his full first name. “Mon amour.”

“… yes?” He seems unaware of the severity of the situation as of now.

“I would like to change my mind. If it’s still possible.” Montagne extends his hand and, instinctively, Bandit glides over to take it and sit down on the edge of the bed. “I do want to marry you.”

Bandit blinks at him. “Oh”, he says. And then: “Really?”

“Yes. I’ve thought about it, and I realise I’ve been unfair. We don’t have to rehash how… questionable your proposal was, but it made me overlook the most obvious truth: that I do love you above all and want to spend the rest of my life with you. And I do want to make it official that way.”

Bandit still looks dumbstruck, probably overwhelmed from the suddenness of the announcement. “Uh -”

“If it’s alright with you, I’d like us to have rings, too, so I can carry something on me at all times that marks me as yours and the other way round. So yes, mon cœur. My love. I hope your proposal still stands, because I would like to accept it.”

By now, his lover has turned crimson. He’s fidgeting with Montagne’s hand, bending his fingers and generally not knowing what to do with his own, and his embarrassment is terribly endearing – up to the point where he mumbles something Montagne would swear he misheard. “… for the benefits”, Bandit ends, apparently addressing his own feet.

Now it’s Montagne’s turn to blink, uncomprehending. “What was that?”

“I wanted to marry for the benefits”, Bandit repeats, louder, and Montagne’s mind screeches to a halt.

He stares at Bandit, Bandit stares at the ground. “You… what now?”

“Not just – well I mean, also, but definitely not only… you know, financial, because I think there is…” Bandit’s tongue seems to be disobeying him. “But, mostly because…”

“What on earth are you saying, Dom?”

“I wasn’t allowed to visit you.”

The shoe drops.

Boy, does the shoe drop. This explains so much. Montagne blanks for a second before his brain retroactively feeds him bits and pieces of information which now neatly fall into place, now that he’s been handed the solution on a silver platter. In his delirium, he never questioned why Madeleine was the only one coming to visit him – hell, even his parents did – instead of Bandit as well; he did hear about a fight between Bandit and Lion and probably, in his feverish mind, figured that Bandit was banned because of this and couldn’t visit him as a result. But never, not for a moment, did he consider the option that they simply turned Bandit away because he was no more than a stranger to them, no official connection between them.

No wonder Bandit went stir-crazy, no wonder his mind snapped and convinced him faking official documents was a reasonable long-term solution, no wonder he announced their wedding so casually without ever officially proposing. It was never meant to be a step forward for them as a couple, was never meant as any kind of declaration – it was meant as a preventative method in case they ever find themselves in a similar situation.

No wonder Bandit is thoroughly embarrassed by Montagne’s acceptance speech.

If there even was any left, all of his residual anger vanishes upon this revelation. He’s not even dismayed about Bandit’s motives: had he, at any point really, explained himself, Montagne might’ve actually agreed with him – because while a marriage means something much more sentimental and symbolic to Montagne, he understands Bandit’s viewpoint as well, especially under the circumstances.

Bandit is still avoiding his gaze, so he lifts his lover’s hand and kisses its palm until he has his full attention. “We’ve become victims of a grave misunderstanding”, Montagne states, a smile playing on his lips. “I understand now. Still, my point stands: I would like to be married to you, for the reasons I stated, and also for the reasons you had in mind. But I’d like you to think about it, because we obviously have different approaches and I want to be sure our expectations match.”

And this is the moment burning eyes meet his, framed in an expression so open and vulnerable that Montagne has no doubt about the authenticity of Bandit’s next words: “I don’t need to think about it.”

Montagne’s heart doubles in size. His composure, his tension, all of it melts instantly, replaced by a heady rush of pure serotonin as he realises just how right this decision feels. Inevitable, almost, like this has been their destination all along without either of them being aware, but now they’re here; exactly where they belong. All their time together has led up to this, the difficult conversations they had, the obstacles they overcame, all the beautiful little moments which were wholly theirs. It’s incredible to him how far they’ve progressed, from near-strangers who barely exchanged a word to lovers so intimate they’ll spend the rest of their lives together.

It’s not about the proposal itself, not about the wedding or even the marriage after – Montagne himself knows best that a marriage is no guarantee for happiness; instead, it’s something deeper, significant only to them. A promise to each other, a promise to take care of each other, to stay loyal and supportive, to listen and talk to each other. Ultimately, it’s extremely private, yet they might decide to share it with the world regardless.

“Come here”, he pleads and kisses Bandit, half drags him onto himself and pushes his hands under Bandit’s shirt – no, his own shirt, he notices, the one Bandit slept in. A shirt he brought Montagne to wear in hospital and a shirt he took back to wash it, but it seems he didn’t get around to doing so. Instead he just wore it. “I love you so much”, Montagne whispers against scratchy beard hair, and of course that moment someone knocks on their door.

They look at each other and simultaneously roll their eyes. Lion has terrible timing.

“We don’t have much time left!”, the other Frenchman announces from the other side of the door. “So whatever it is you’re doing, you better -” He stops once Bandit yanks open the door with an annoyed scowl.

“We were actually getting ready”, Montagne lies smoothly and can’t help his beaming expression. The same glowing, fluttery feeling which has settled in his stomach is tugging on the corners of his lips, forcing him to grin.

Lion raises a sceptical brow. “Seems like you kissed and made up then.”

“And out”, Bandit provides helpfully. “Don’t stand around, get this luggage downstairs, I’ll take care of Gilles.”

“That better not be a euphemism”, Lion scoffs, but Montagne catches him fighting a smile himself.

Maybe the two of them are contagious. It would certainly make for a more pleasant flight.

~*~

By the time they’re back in England, Lion is thoroughly done with their shit.

The entire jouney, Bandit fawned over Montagne and tended to his every wish – uttered or not –, all of this done on top of all the accommodations he’d booked in advance. They spent a relaxed hour in the airport lounge, sipping on overpriced drinks and listening to the bustling around them, and even flew first class despite the shortness of the flight. Not even the screaming baby that performed the entire duration as if it was having its debut on the big stage was able to put a damper on Montagne’s or Bandit’s mood, and part of him understands Lion’s irritated response to their admittedly disgusting lovey-dovey aura.

His friend started out being cordial and visibly swallowing various remarks, progressed to thin-lipped, high-browed and disapproving, and ended with eye rolls and audible sighs. Every affectionate nickname worsened his mood, every public display like kisses or interlacing their fingers prompted a judging glance, and every soft-spoken sentence had him check his phone for the time.

Montagne has no space in his fully-occupied heart to feel any sort of guilt, especially because he suspects Lion is largely doing it for Bandit’s benefit as the German seems to relish the reactions he provokes. He is very smug.

His suspicions are apparently confirmed when he’s alone with Lion for a minute while Bandit bodychecks his way through an unmoving and uncaring crowd blocking the baggage claim. “Seems like you came to an agreement after all”, Lion states neutrally.

“We did. And if I’m honest, something you said helped with my decision.” Lion only nods, like he expected it. Curious. “Don’t tell me you’ve come to like him? If so, I won’t need a wedding present from you because that’s all I could wish for.”

“Let’s not go that far”, comes the hasty response and Montagne chuckles.

“Then why?”

A one-sided shrug. “I think everyone deserves a second chance.”

They share no more than a significant look before Bandit returns, masking his annoyance with overdone cheeriness, and so his statement remains unexplained. Whether he finally noticed the mirrored qualities he and Bandit share, whether he’s referring to Montagne’s first marriage, or whether he’s implying that he might meet Bandit with a different attitude in the future, Montagne doesn’t know. Still, the assertion resonates with him.

Seeing the oh so familiar landscape rush past the window on the last leg back to Hereford evokes an odd kind of nostalgia in Montagne. The view is one he’s always enjoyed, it marked the end of a difficult mission, the return to normalcy in a way – because his life at Rainbow has become the new normal for him, his everyday life, the foundation for his daily routine. The company of his colleagues is dear to him, as is the work itself, and as gruelling their training schedule is, he sleeps better when his muscles are sore and his head heavy.

Knowing he won’t be able to go back to this life for the foreseeable future causes a bittersweet feeling in his stomach. He will still participate, no doubt, will be included in briefings and kept up to date, will confer with teammates, offer advice. So it’s not like he’ll be isolated or exiled. But the knowledge of being incapable of doing what he’s used to stings a little.

Even so, his mind is focused on another matter. There are many more obstacles to overcome in the future concerning their engagement, starting with their respective families (though he’s under the suspicion Madeleine has realised something is up, even if she might not be aware of the severity of the situation) and ending with important decisions on how to hold their wedding party – but the most valuable aspect is that they’ll be doing it together.

Although he’s not so sure whether Bandit is ready for some of it.

“Take it to your grave or I’ll haunt your son when I’m dead.”

Lion seems largely amused by the threat, patiently waiting in front of the main entrance to Rainbow’s headquarters for Bandit to open the door. “One of his friends is a flat-earther, so he’s faced worse.”

Montagne snorts and Bandit nearly slams into the doors from scowling back at the other Frenchman. “Seriously though. This is just between us for now, alright? Even I haven’t told anyone, and neither has Gilles. Right, my love?”

“I’d like to point out that you were the one who told Olivier about your ‘proposal’ in the first place, mon cœur. Drunkenly, if I remember correctly.”

“Does that mean I can’t even tell Gustave?” Lion seems intent on making Bandit faceplant after all – he’s got the easy job of pushing Montagne around whereas Bandit is tasked with the much more difficult assignment of holding doors open for them on the way to their canteen. “I would love to see his face.”

“No. Nobody. Especially not in Rainbow.”

“What about Père Bertrand?”

“Absolutely not. Who knows whether he’s a snitch.”

“Who would he snitch to? God?”

“Look. I don’t know why this is so hard for you.” Bandit’s voice is rising in agitation as he shoulders open the last door, back turned to the room behind him, eyes fixed on Lion. “Just don’t. Tell. Anyone. Okay? No one needs to know. No one! This is just between us.”

Montagne’s composure is crumbling. Wordlessly, he indicates the entirety of the canteen with a vague gesture, trying his best to hold back a hearty laugh.

In response, Bandit whirls around with a wild expression, only to be faced with an entire room decked out with the gaudiest decorations in pink and white, plus literally all of the other operators arranged along the wall, holding confetti cannons or glasses of champagne, wearing party hats and utterly aghast expressions, and above them, floating below the ceiling, are gold balloons spelling out E N G A G E D.

The awkward silence is palpable.

The champagne bottle in Blitz’ hand pops with a startlingly loud noise, making everyone jump and almost taking out Twitch’s eye in the process, and Lion just starts roaring with laughter, holding on to the wheelchair as to not lose his balance.

“Welcome back, Gilles”, Doc offers and lifts his glass for a toast, and that finally breaks the spell. Everyone rushes at them, congratulating them and greeting Montagne after his long absence, Rook with tears in his eyes and Jackal with an encouraging smile, there are too many faces and too many well-wishes to identify them all. Their gesture is heartwarming, and though Bandit stands in the middle of the crowd, hiding his bright red face with one hand (and repeating that no, he is not taking questions right now), he’s far from fighting the many hugs he receives. When Sledge takes him into his arms, there’s audible bone cracking and joint popping, and Montagne is suddenly glad to be confined to the wheelchair.

Maybe their reveal didn’t go quite as planned, but the support they’re receiving is invigorating. Montagne might’ve preferred a small wedding prior to this, yet being confronted with hard evidence of how much all these people care for them is beginning to change his mind.

He will talk about it with Bandit, later. For now he has a party to attend.

#rainbow six siege #montagne #bandit #montagne/bandit #lion #fanfic #protection mountain #I'm personally very happy with how all this is concluded #thank you to the one person who started all this you know who you are #thank you also to suzie for keeping this ship alive all this time #thank you all #💗💗💗#ALSO #CAN YOU GUESS WHO'S THE SNITCH?

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amiramorozova · 3 years

Text

Dual Summoner x The Darkling pt. 40

Pairing: Dual Summoner Amira Silina x The Darkling General Kirigan/ Aleksander Morozova

Word count: 1658

As I tried to sleep I had a tough time getting comfortable but once sleep hit me there was peace. I slipped into one of my dreams but this was a different dream, it was one I had once where I was home with my parents and never been to the little palace. I walked out of the room smiling seeing them there. Mom made breakfast and it felt normal. It felt peaceful as I looked at my hands seeing there was no ring and when I touched my neck in the dream it was gone too. I realized I was dreaming about a life without meeting him and somehow it felt less stressful.

"Morning Amira, take a seat." My mom said as she was preparing breakfast and I sat down ready to eat. I wasn't sure how I knew this was all a dream but I didn't care at the moment as dad came in and kissed my forehead. "You look good but you should clean up soon, we'll be having company." My father said which made me curious cause I had this dream several times and it would never have been this way.

Still, I went ahead and did as father asked, going to clean up as I wondered who the guest was and then walked out in something nice I found in my closet. Mother smiled as Father put his arm around mom setting the table but I noticed two extra seats at the table and I wondered what that was about. As much as I wanted to not worry about it, something just told me to look as I did seeing the initials on my wrist showing up. "impossible..this is my dream." I whispered

"Amira come on, the guests will be here soon." Mother said, motioning for me to sit down at the table as I walked, overseeing my half-brother there as I took my seat. "Worried little sister? Well you probably should be you're meeting your future husband." Aidan said as I just looked at him knowing this wasn't right. I always had this dream when I was younger and Aleksander was never a part of this but neither was Aidan.

Then there was a knock on the door which made me look as I saw Baghra and Aleksander walking in being greeted by my parents. I got up but then sat back down as I knew I couldn't break the dream versions of Baghra, my parents and Aidan would only think I was having hesitation. Nervous in a way to deny what was going on so I had to go along with it but when his eyes met mine he seemed just as surprised as me that here we were.

We all sat down eating like it was natural but I wouldn't talk to him, I was still angry with him about what happened outside the dream. I had to wait till breakfast was done to be excused then walked out of the room going outside. It was Keramsan, where I had been when I had run from him and father had taken me before the stag as I heard footsteps behind me and the door closed.

"Amira." Aleksander said as I kept my back to him, "What are you doing in here? This is my head, my dream." I said as I was taking in the surroundings, I couldn't forgive him for telling my friends I was confused even though I knew his secret had to be maintained but I needed my friends to know and I needed someone to confide in. Still, he approached behind me as he touched my shoulder and I felt it like I always did our connection, being two sides of the same coin shadow and Sun. "Our connection has gotten stronger, you must feel it the same as you know it has always been here since our first meeting in your secret training area." Aleksander said

I wanted to deny it to say that I didn't feel it but that was a lie and I had to figure out what to do but I let out a sigh as I leaned back against him where his arms wrapped around me. It felt peaceful to give in to the connection sometimes, less stressful than being angry with him. This was the only time I could ask so I had to ask or we were going nowhere. "Who was she? The one you lost to cause the fold?" I asked

I felt a shift in Aleksander's hold as I knew that was probably out of line for me to ask but we had gotten nowhere. This time he sighed as I looked up at him and he looked out at the surrounding area. "Her name was Luda, she was my healer. When the King's men came after me, we planned to do things as we had before. She would hide and I would fight." Aleksander said as his arms around me tightened a bit. "They killed her right in front of me, so I used the cut on those men to seek revenge as I tried to get her to a healer. I knew then nothing good comes from being with someone who is just mortal."

So healers don't have long lives. I thought

"You are eternal, but you also have your human connections. It wouldn't matter if you get to stay with your friends for another hundred or four hundred years, if anyone is slit in the neck or stabbed in the back with no healer around they will die." Aleksander said as I thought about it "What about stabbed in general?" I asked as he adjusted me to look at him "For normal Grisha, it could be life or death, for me my Merzost powers could save me. For you..I don't want to think about it." Aleksander said

"What if I could use Merzost? I can use the cut." I said as he moved his hand to touch my collar bone area where the stag bones used to be before I absorbed it. "I dreamed of the day I'd find my equal, the one to be with me through all this burden I've carried. You make me second guess my decisions but Merzost, you don't know what it could do to you if you use it." Aleksander said as I looked at him. "Show me your inner desire, my powers don't work here as this is your dream so you have control."

I have control, the words he's never really said to me before and I knew I had manipulated him out of his cause of wanting to eliminate the first army general for now. Still, I closed my eyes as the area around us changed, when I opened them I looked at him seeing he was in his 2nd army attire and I felt my own as I touched my neck feeling my necklace, and looked at my hand seeing my engagement ring but it wasn't alone there was a wedding ring on my hand too.

Aleksander let go as he looked around seeing we were not in the little palace anymore and I realized that too. "Where are we?" Aleksander asked as I shrugged a bit but then we heard walking coming in and when I looked I saw a girl standing in the doorway with a teddy bear. Aleksander looked at me and I looked at him knowing this was my subconscious choosing this.

"So you do want to marry me." Aleksander said as he looked at the girl and she came over hugging him. She was so small so she couldn't have been more than two or three years old as I picked her up. "You want a family?" Aleksander asked as I looked at him "Everyone thinks about their future, well most people. I guess you didn't have that thought.

I walked around the place as she was quiet but this was my dream so I guess my desire to be out of the little palace wasn't wrong. Was the luxury good? Yes, but it lacked what I wanted, some more uniqueness to a home that wasn't a room. This place reminded me of home but then I looked out the window and saw it in the distance, the little palace.

"So I want to be out of the little palace but not far from it." I said as he had walked behind me and looked out the window to see it. "I built the little palace for Grisha to be safe, I never thought a Grisha would find it to be the worst place ever." Aleksander said as I looked at him. "I was eight, I was left because of what I was and they decided it was best. I didn't get a say in what happened." I reminded him

"The library has Ravkan names. Did you look at that?" Aleksander asked as I smiled knowing I did. "I did, I found two I liked. They were girl names which explains why she's a girl here." I said as he turned and faced me expecting my answer. "Kira or Alisa." I said as he thought about those names as he seemed to be having his thoughts. "Kira Alisa Morozova but to the people Kira Alisa Kirigan." Aleksander said then looked at the little girl in my hands.

I liked that idea but I knew she didn't have powers in this dream because of the possibilities between us. "She is normal in your mind right now." Aleksander said, "there are so many possibilities. Sun Summoner, Tidemaker, or she could be like you, it's hard to tell." I admitted as I looked at her and she was keeping her teddy bear in her hands. I was going to say something more when I woke up and sat up

What just happened...I mean two sides of the same coin but this connection is something more. I thought

Taglist: @lifeisingrey

#general kirigan #aleksander morovoza #darkling x reader #team darkling #darkling #the darkling #shadow and bone #shadow and bone fanfiction #grishaverse #ben barnes #fanfic #sunsummoner #tidemaker #dual summoner

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interstellarflare · 4 years

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Broken || Javier Pena

-PART TWO-

Warnings: Swearing, mature content, violence, gore.

Summary: Fairly new to Colombia, you are partnered with Steve Murphy and Javier Pena, some of the best DEA Agents in the country. You and Javier don’t get along, that is until you save his life.

Author’s Note: This is my first series from the NARCOS fandom. It might not be amazing, but this idea came to me when I was watching the series.

You had been stationed in Colombia for over a month, and so far it had not been the change you had hoped for. While the cases were more enjoyable and full of adrenaline, Javier was the most frustrating, self absorbed, undermining, incompetent, son of a bitch you had ever worked with in your career as a DEA Agent.

He was impulsive, downright rude, and was an absolute pain in the arse. And now, you sat in the passenger seat of Javier’s car, bored to death as the late night stakeout reached the three hour mark. Leaning against your arm as it rested against the window, you sighed loudly. “This is a dead end...” you mused tiredly, turning your gaze to the man beside you “no one has walked out that door for three hours”. “I’m not blind L/n, but thank you for stating the obvious” Javier snarled, his hands clenching around the steering wheel in annoyance. You groaned, slumping further into your seat, your eyes remaining glued to the pastel yellow door.

The paint was flaking at various spots, both shaded and illuminated by the light hanging overhead. Silence fell over the car, a slight tension filling the air. An uneasy feeling settled within your chest, a nervous feeling. “Something isn’t right” you spoke lowly, moving your gaze to survey the streetscape. It was quiet, too quiet. It was unnerving. “Pena-” “I know...” Javier quickly interrupted, his eyes moving to your form with a knowing expression. Without another word, Javier cautiously started the car’s engine and drove away. Whatever was meant to happen tonight, whoever you were meant to tail, they knew you were there.

“Fuck...” Javier mumbled, “fuck fuck fuck-” “Hey!” You interrupted, suddenly turning to glare at the man beside you “We’ll get them, some other time, we just-” “We just nothing...” he spat angrily, suddenly pulling over in an abandoned street “next time, it will be me and Steve doing this. There is no we in any situation. Not one”.

You swallowed thickly, your eyes narrowing on Javier as he glowered at your form. Out of everything this piece of shit had said to you, this was by far the most hurtful. You had had enough. Instead of getting mad, instead of crying in front of Javier, you bit your lip with a long winded sigh and stepped out of the car, making sure to slam the door extra hard. So hard in fact, the entire car wobbled.

Even at night, Colombia was still fucking hot. But you weren’t bothered, all you wanted to do at this moment in time was to get away from Javier. You had put up with his hurtful words long enough, tonight was the last straw. Another car door closed, followed by rushed footsteps. “Y/n, get back in the car!” Javier called out, jogging to catch up with your brisk pace. You kept walking, ignoring his annoyed tone as he suddenly stopped in front of you. He breathed heavily, giving you a bewildered expression “C’mon, just get back in the car, it’s too dangerous to be out here alone-”

“Fuck you, Pena...” you growled “I’d rather take my chances than spend another second with you in that car”. You moved to step around him, your aim was to keep walking until you reached your apartment which was an hour away by foot. But when Javier suddenly caught your arm with his hand, you snapped. You swung your arm, clenching your hand into a tight fist as you aimed for Javier’s face. Faster than you thought possible, Javier caught your fist mid-swing, letting go of your arm to spin you around in a dizzying motion. With your right arm strung across your chest, and your left effectively pinned by Javier’s strong and more muscular arms, the DEA Agent pulled you flush against his body, your back pressed against his chest as he held you in place.

You struggled against his grip, your cheeks flushed bright red with embarrassment. “Let me go you son of a-” “I’ll let you go when you calm the fuck down!” he shouted angrily, oblivious to the fact that you had somehow managed to free your left arm. With all the force you could muster, you elbowed Javier in the ribs. With a loud groan, his grip on your form loosened, allowing you to step out of his arms as he collapsed to the road beneath him. Panting heavily, you turned to face Javier, unable to stop the frustrated tears that fell freely down your cheeks.

“I’ve taken a lot of shit from you Pena, in the month that I’ve been here...” you croaked, hating the way your voice broke “but what you said in the car just now, that was taking it too far. You’ve hated me ever since I got here, why? What is your problem with me?” When no response came from Javier, and he instead maintained a pained expression, you shook your head sadly. There was no particular reason as to why he hated you, he just did. You turned on your heel and began to walk away, beginning the hour long trek back to your apartment.

After reaching your apartment, you spent a good long twenty minutes in the shower, enjoying the warmth, and the feeling of the water cascading over your skin. You couldn’t help but feel a little guilty for hurting Javier, but at the same time he deserved it.

After drying off, you changed into a pair of navy blue pyjama shorts and a black singlet top to combat the Colombian heat. It was 11pm, and you wanted nothing more than to curl up on the couch, watch a little TV, and fall asleep. You were half way there. You were starting to drift off into a dreamless slumber when there was a sudden pounding noise at your apartment door.

You jolted awake, your heart racing at the sudden loud noise. Who could possibly be at your apartment at this time of night? You cautiously approached the door, looking through the peephole as your hand hovered over the door knob. You muttered a string of curses under your breath, opening the door whilst glaring at the person on the other side. Javier looked even worse than he did through the peephole. His hair was disheveled, his clothes in disarray, his nose was covered in dry blood, there was a small cut underneath his left eye, and he smelt like alcohol.

“What the fuck happened to you?” You asked loudly, looking him up and down with a bewildered expression. Javier smiled lazily, you had never seen him smile before. He leaned against the doorframe, more like slumped, as his glazed eyes met yours “I...might have gotten into a bar fight, and very, very drunk-”

“I can see that...” you mused, completely confused as to what to do. Your first thought was to call Steve, and inform him of the situation. But a small part of you felt...what was the word? You sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of your nose with a small shake of your head. “Come on, get in here” you grumbled hesitantly, stepping aside to allow Javier to stumble through. He turned to face you with a small chuckle “I uh...I need to talk to you...” Javier slurred, giving your form a once over, taking in your pyjama shorts and tank top greedily.

With an awkward clear of your throat, you folded your arms over your chest, averting your eyes away from Javier’s stare. Javier continued, ‘tsking’ quietly to himself as he racked his brain for the right words to say. If he was going to be honest with himself, he had no idea what he was doing here. Seeing you cry did something to him. What that something was? He had drowned in in alcohol two hours ago. Yet his subconscious brought him here. Maybe this was all some really, bad drunken mistake. He shouldn’t be here, Javier knew that he was the last person you wanted to see.

But when his eyes locked with yours, a strange sense of guilt overcame him. He felt horrible, he felt sick to his stomach. Or maybe that was the alcohol. You stood in complete silence, waiting for his answer, and it was only then did Javier realise that he was staring. He shook his head, sighing heavily as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He winced, but continued “I cam here to apologise, because if I was sober, then I would have most likely made it worse”. “And you thought that showing up to my apartment in the middle of the night, completely wasted, would make it better?” You asked, raising your eyebrow in emphasis.

Javier flinched, shrugging his shoulders awkwardly “Yes?”. You hissed, shaking your head slowly. You were beyond tired, you just wanted to go to sleep. Why was he still here? “Come on, Pena. I’ll get you set up on the couch, then we can-”

“No! I’m not done” Javier suddenly shouted, throwing his arms out wildly “I have been such a fucking arsehole to you, and you didn’t deserve it” he blurted, stumbling backward far enough to collapse onto the couch. He looked so defeated, so upset. You sighed, watching as your partner rambled on. “You are probably one of the most amazing Agents I’ve ever worked with, you know. You’re so smart, and caring, you always manage to make someone laugh...you’re more than amazing really. There’s a part of me that looks forward to seeing you every day, and then I just fuck it all up”.

Your eyes widened, you couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Javier was apologising in his own, weird Javier way. “I really am sorry, I’m a real arsehole” he groaned, slumping further into the couch. You laughed quietly to yourself. There was no way he would remember this tomorrow morning, but even in his drunken state, you found his apology sweet. You knew you shouldn’t have, but that small selfish part of you that found him attractive out-ruled your rational thinking.

And you hated yourself for it.

“Alright cowboy...” You spoke lowly, your mild annoyance changing to amusement as Javier stuck out his bottom lip in a pout “let’s get you cleaned up and ready for bed”. Awkwardly and certainly ungracefully, Javier stood to his feet and trudged after you as you made your way to the bathroom. There, you carefully washed the blood from his nose, and dressed the small cut underneath his eye. Afterward, you sed him up on the couch with one of your pillows and a spare blanket.

“Now, go to sleep...” you ordered sternly “you’re such an inconvenience”. Javier giggled, something you didn’t think he was capable of doing, and smiled up at you dreamily. “You love me...” he drawled teasingly, before completely passing out. You froze, your heart suddenly beating a million miles an hour as you moved to turn off all the lights in your apartment. He couldn’t know, right? He was drunk, that’s all it was.

You sighed heavily, collapsing into bed with a tired groan. You were so going to mess with Javier tomorrow.

#javier pena x reader #javier pena #javier pena imagine #narcos x reader #narcos #narcos imagine #pedro pascal

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harold2sco · 3 years

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Pre-Birth Wounds

Let’s discuss the concept of “Pre-Birth Wounds.” This is a subject that many people never take into account, yet it greatly affects the quality of your existence on Earth.

Most people have been taught to believe that the path of an individual’s life unfolds after birth. Yet, I'm going to assert that this is not the case; that the factors shaping and molding you appear much earlier.

One thing that we've failed to do in many societies is care for mothers during their time of pregnancy. And, by caring, I mean nurturing them, empowering them physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually.

See, the females of our species literally take it upon themselves to onboard new Souls into the planet. They become vessels of pure cosmic energy and divine creation.

Women essentially bring forth and perpetuate humanity. Therefore, it's important that each mother is surrounded by energies that fulfill her, that remind her of this divine essence.

Because everything that goes into her goes into the baby and, consequently, goes into our human species. So we are creating the template for who and what we are through her.

This is the time period for a woman, during her pregnancy, when we need to fill her with Love, good energy, everything we want to reproduce and experience more of in our world.

But that doesn't happen very often. In fact, many women during this time period are treated harshly. An expecting mother may be pushed by the social system to work non stop like a machine; to surround herself with harmful chemicals in the environment.

Many of our money-driven societies are set up to be this kind of dog eat dog world. Everyone is scratching and clawing to get “Theirs,” and a pregnant woman must often do the same.

Therefore, subconsciously, she will be worried about survival and safety. This woman may also be related to toxic people or have a partner who hasn't done his own self healing.

Both people in that relationship then, who are psychologically battered, will push each other's buttons nonstop. They may have arguments, experience ongoing feelings of despair and disappointment. In extreme cases, physical violence might become a factor.

Just imagine what all this could be doing to an unborn child. In the womb, we are vessels of pure potential that are being impressed upon constantly by what the mother is experiencing.

And, at the core level, we're all energetic beings surrounded by others who carry their own electromagnetic and etheric fields. We constantly mix and commingle with people and are exposed to their emotional baggage.

Through that process, our own energetic sovereignty is often breached. These disruptive frequencies can then throw our lives completely out of balance. And a baby, being exposed to this, may begin to feel unsafe, under attack, unwelcomed in this world.

Studies have been done to follow the children of parents who, early in life, went through a prolonged period of starvation, torment, terror, or suffering. The children of these people often grow up, well into adulthood, feeling that they are never safe, or will somehow be attacked.

They may even develop to be much smaller and less physically capable than the offspring of people who didn't go through such an enormous hardship. Some of these adult children will hoard things. They may feel inappropriately attached to physical objects.

Others will eat to the point of becoming obese. Because, buried inside of their neural circuitry, is a fear that there will never be enough; that what they have will run out, or that they are in danger of losing bare essentials.

The people themselves are usually not able to identify these underlying fears without help or long periods of introspection. That’s because, in the womb, we don't have language yet.

We don't understand words, reason, or verbal cues. But we do have an emotional, energetic experience which, in itself, speaks volumes. The nervous system memory morphs into a belief structure that makes sense out of fears implanted before birth.

You see, thoughts, experiences, life events, emotions, are not words. Words are simply tools we use to transmit our own internal experience into the minds and bodies of other people.

They are secondary symbols, not the experience itself, which is fundamental. In fact, think of it this way. Every emotion is simply a sensory-based representation of some “Thought or information level Frequency.”

The emotion is, therefore, a thought, in the body. The mother will have certain thoughts in response to her environment. These ideas will be translated into a language that the very cells of her unborn child can understand.

Many of these destructive ideas are not hers. Because thoughts aren’t only generated inside of our heads. We transmit them out into the surrounding world.

Therefore, people around the pregnant mother will give their energy to her. If they are petty, “Small-Minded,” or suffer from self-hate, she gets that as well.

This becomes a dangerous cocktail that is mixed together and absorbed by the baby, a being that is pure potential, at its most vulnerable and impressionable state in life.

I’ll give you another example of how this plays out. Studies have also been done to follow the lives of children who were adopted through foster care. Many have gone into the system because their parents were drug addicts or lived a very destructive lifestyle.

Regardless, during those first few weeks of life, there is an incredible bonding process taking place between child and mother. Musch of our development is reliant upon going through this connective process.

Any newborn who is torn away from his or her mother during that time, endures a tremendously traumatic experience. The mother is probably in extreme distress, which her child can feel.

The baby also experiences a sensation of being “Torn Away” from its safety net. Emotionally, that bond is being ripped apart. This leaves an enormous wound and void within the child.

The infant may be placed in a foster home within weeks. Sometimes he or she will be passed right into the arms of a waiting family.

The new “mother” and “father” will very often go on to adopt the baby as their own. Therefore, the child would only really know and remember his or her adopted family.

Yet, following the same children throughout life, it is very very common for them to have attachment issues, fears of abandonment, oppositional and defiant behavior.

Young boys and girls like this may constantly feel the need to make others react, just to prove that they exist. These children will create, through their behavior, situations that cause peers, classmates, and even other adults to push them away.

All of this, and more, can be caused by an emotional/psychological/ Spiritual injury inflicted on the child either before birth or shortly after. The baby, teenager, adult, will go through life wanting to connect; wanting to feel complete and to bond with other people.

The problem is that he or she simply won't know how to accomplish this. Because the traumatic event wouldn’t be stored in regular memory. It would not exist in words or rational thought, but in the energy system of that being.

Even those of us who were raised by “birth parents” may pick up similar wounds in the womb, shortly after birth, and all throughout life. Just imagine what you might be carrying around, stuck in your system, right now.

It could show up as pain, injury, body dysfunction, weight gain, destroyed or abusive relationships, an inability to succeed and thrive, perpetual poverty, you name it.

There are nearly infinite manifestations that can come from experiences and harmful energies trapped in the human system.

You may be able to talk these things through with a traditional therapist and, over time, work them out. However, there is another way to do the same thing that most people never consider.

That is to cancel out the frequency of abandonment, fear, or whatever else is stuck inside of the body. Once that’s removed, the human being is designed to operate perfectly.

You can accomplish this by applying, to the “wound,” a higher, cleaner, restorative vibration.

Here’s a metaphor to help explain how it would work. Imagine that there is a clog in the drain of your bathroom sink. It has built up over a long period of time. The blockage may contain hair, grime, sludge, hard mineral deposits, all backed up in your piping.

You could go underneath the sink and disassemble everything. You can pull it apart, pipe by pipe, to pinpoint where the exact location of each sticking point is. That might work, at least to some degree, but only after you’ve put in a great deal of effort.

However, what if you instead found some natural solvent; what you might call a “High Frequency” You could run that through the pipes, dissolving the sludge, grime, and build up.

This describes the work that I do with people, connecting them with powerful Divine, healing energies that transform every aspect of their lives. IT’s a way of working with the very intelligence of Nature, the intelligence that created your entire body and everything in existence.

By bringing that level of information in, no kind of dysfunction or disruption can stay put. That’s one of the quickest ways to clear problems out, by working at the energetic level.

The REAL power is in your inborn ability to dissolve toxic experiences, not reminisce about them. This is how we, as humans, Truly Evolve to transcend the difficulties that attach to us throughout life.

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afewmarvelousthoughts · 5 years

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Only For A Moment Ch. 39

Master: @afewmarvelousthoughtsadmin

Pairing: Bucky X Reader

Summary: For most of your life you’d been able to keep your abilities a secret, that is until Hydra got wind of you. After years of being in their clutches, you break out when The Avengers expose SHIELD/Hydra. Since then, you’ve been on the run. Things are going as well as you could hope when you see a familiar face… Could the Winter Soldier really be in Bucharest too?

Warnings: Slight, uh, consensual violence but other than that just fluff(ish)

A/N: My babies, my firstborn fic, how I love them so. Once again thank you all for being so patient! This is a shorter chapter but it just needed to be solo and not with what is after this. I hope y’all like being back with these two. I know I do.

Tags are open!

When the sun finally peeks through the windows you’re on your side, face hidden in Bucky’s chest, bodies pressed as close as you can get them.

He kisses the top of your head. “Do you want coffee, doll?” You shrug, unsure you want him to let you go. He squeezes you, “Come on, we can watch the sunrise.”

Bucky releases you and sits up. For a moment you feel untethered without his skin against yours. Until you look at his torso.

“Oh god, Bucky!” On his left ribcage and near the middle of his abdomen are large dark purple bruises, the faintest touches of green on the outer edges.

“I’m ok, Y/N,” he insists. You ignore him knowing what could be under them. Gently you lay your hands over the bruises, sending your power into him. You hate this. Hate that you can do this. But-

“Y/N, what are you-”

“You could have internal bleeding, or a cracked rib, or a clot, or-”

“I am fine, baby,” he tries to move your hands away but you don’t let him. Your sense seeks out anything that could be life-threatening. You’d only ever used this to harm… “Can you really feel if somethings… wrong?”

You can’t look at him, just nod.

“That’s incredible.” You want to tell him it’s not. It’s monstrous. Being able to feel inside of someone like this makes you feel less than human… you don’t though because he’d stop you and you need to be sure you didn’t hurt him more than what was obvious.

Once it’s clear that he really is ok save for some nasty bruising you sigh and sit back on the bed, your head falling into your hands. “I could have killed you…” It’s barely a whisper.

“I shouldn’t have grabbed you like I did. I-”

“I could have killed you, Bucky!” You snap.

“Ok. And I could have killed you the other night. We’re even.”

You stare at him, jaw slack. Even.

“Y/N…” He moves to stroke your cheek. You slap his hand away and shoot to your feet, turning your back to avoid the hurt in his eyes.

Your mind flies back to your determination to survive when you thought he’d come from Hydra to collect you, to his statement a couple of days ago about using everything you had in you to fight for yourself and those you love… He’d been so right then—about your fear.

For thirty years you’d been terrified of so many things but the first true thing you’d learned to be afraid of was the person in the mirror. All that fear meant you never learned to control this force which somehow lived inside you, not really. Hydra had sharpened its edges but didn’t necessarily teach you how to wield it; you were their weapon after all, not your own… Now your lack of control put the man you loved at risk. Maybe if you could control it, control your strength, your body and this…

“Bucky,” slowly you turn to face him braced for any emotion to be written on his face but the patience you see there. Your words catch in your throat, momentarily overwhelmed.

Tender hands cup your face as his lips press gently to your own. Some of the tension immediately melts away.

You loved him, it still made your head spin but to the marrow of your bones, you knew this truth. Reluctantly you break the kiss, looking into his eyes, warmer than their slate blue color had any right to be.

“I want you to train me.” He blinks as if trying to clear his vision, expression disbelieving. “What I did…” Your hands hover above the bruises.

“Doll, you weren’t-”

“In control,” you cut him off. “I know. That’s the problem. You barely put a scratch on me the other night because you can control yourself, you understand what you can do. I’ve never been in control.”

“I’m not exactly qualified to help you figure out your ability, Y/N.”

“I know. But if I can understand the rest of… me better… maybe I can sort that part out on my own.”

His lips curl, arms crushing you to him, “I know you can, baby.

Spitting mud from your mouth the next morning you’re beginning to regret this whole idea entirely.

“You gotta get up faster than that, darlin’.” You shoot him a sidelong glare and pull his feet from under him.

He falls but to prove a point is up and in fighting stance in a blink. Bastard.

Groaning you stand. “Can we please take a break?”

“We’ve only been working for two hours.” His cocky smirk makes you want to punch him in his beautiful face, “You can’t tell me you’re already tired.”

It felt so much longer than two fucking hours. You’d thought yesterday afternoon had been tough—running, testing your strength, pull-ups, other physical activities you loathed. All that was nothing compared to sparring with Bucky, it was like being against a machine, even with him holding back.

You roll your eyes putting your tired body back into position. Before you’re fully ready he has you in a chokehold, this time without restraint.

Your breath cut to just a trickle, your power begins to rise but you press it down. Control, you want control.

“I know they taught you to fight,” you struggle to break free and fail. “I saw it when you got away from me on the balcony,” his voice is low, breath hot and tantalizing on your ear. “But you’re only able to think like a fighter when you’re panicked. That’s not gonna work.” He loosens his grip just enough to keep you from passing out.

“What they did to you didn’t just affect your body, it changed your brain too.” He kicks your feet out, catching your legs between his own as he lowers to his knees, effectively trapping you. “You think faster, absorb details better, but you aren’t used to it so you push back unless you’re in fight or flight.”

Darkness presses in. Panic explodes in the back of your mind causing you to lose your grip on your power. It beings to push against Bucky’s hold on you as you flail.

“No,” he growls closing the few inches you’d placed between you, grip once again tight on your throat. “Think. They trained your body but not your mind, you’ve gotta use everything together to be in control. Think, Y/N.”

He said it like it was so simple but… Maybe it was. With effort, you force the curtain of panic to the side. Instead of holding tight to control though—you let go, allowing your subconscious to take the wheel without fully getting out of the car.

In an instant, your brain buzzed with information. Consciously you push away the bits relevant to your power and instead focus on nothing but what you can do with your body. The out is suddenly so clear you’re embarrassed you didn’t see it before.

Bucky’s arm may be around your throat but he’s not truly restraining your head, instead keeping your left arm pinned with his own. Your head slams back into his causing his grip to give just enough so that your right arm can slip through his elbow breaking his hold, allowing oxygen to fill your lungs. Pivoting your body forward with all your strength you manage to gain enough leverage to slam you both backward. His grip releases fully. Shooting to your feet you press your boot to his throat.

Blood pours from his nose but his smile is bright. “Good job, baby.”

A day later he looks back at you, perched on the kitchen table, with an exaggerated expression of concern. “I have terrible news, doll.”

“What?” Your brows knit.

He holds up the empty coffee canister, “We’re out.”

“Well, that’s just unacceptable.” Honestly, pretty much everything was gone. “I cannot be expected to work in these deplorable conditions, Sergeant.”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking it of you.” He strolls before you, kissing your lips. “You ready to head back to the city.”

You look around the sparse kitchen before sighing and wrapping your arms around his waist. “Yeah…”

“We’ll be back soon.” He pulls away, tone light, “Besides, you’re nowhere near done training.”

“Much to learn you still have,” you say in your best Yoda voice. A laugh bursts from you at his confused expression. “My god, you haven’t seen Star Wars. We have to fix that.”

Tags:

@bluegirlusa1 @l0kisbitch @tazzi-baby @disagreetoagree @woodyandbuzz20-01 @mooniightbucky @saundrasays @breezy1415 @alyssaj23 @mywinterwolf @wonderlandmind4 @fairislesheets @anamcg317 @buckaroo-barnes @jazztherebel @peachthatdrinkslemonade @regulusirius @auskitty @babyimp1967 @katecolleen @handplucked @stevehesaidabadlanguageword @darkdragonphoenix @issanitydead @thestorydetective @buckysstar @wintersoldierswhore @greyeyedsmile14 @watchoutforfrostbite @for-the-love-of-the-fandom @jewelofwinter @siriuslycloudy2 @hardygal69 @jdoenson @gamorazenn @wildmoonflower @cutie1365

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky #bucky barnes #bucky fluff

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intothestarkerverse · 5 years

Text

Time Of Our Lives (Final Part)

Based on a prompt from @geekymarvel

Peter is tasked with an important mission that requires him to go back in time. Finding himself at a gala for Stark industries in the 1990’s, he comes face to face with a young and incorrigible Tony Stark who considers Peter’s attempts to deny his advances a challenge. Now, dogged by a horny young CEO who won’t take no for an answer, Peter’s task has become much more difficult….

(STORY CONTAINS ENDGAME SPOILERS)

Read on AO3

It wasn’t what he was expecting. But, then again, Tony had only a lifetime of Science Fiction from which to pull any frame of reference for an alien civilization. He had been busy picturing Doctor Who, Star Trek, Star Wars…none of them really prepared him for the real deal.

The Old Man, on the other hand, had seen plenty of aliens, at least from what Tony could see of his memories, glimpsed in stolen flashes as he took in their surroundings. Judging from Peter’s body language, he was just as awestruck and terrified as Tony was…and he’d been to space! There was nothing Tony wanted to do more in that moment than reach out for Peter’s hand, give it a little squeeze of reassurance and remind him that they’d already done the hard part…getting the Nullifier to even work. This was going to be a piece of cake compared to that.

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t because the Old Man was the pilot and he was the passenger.

The Heart of the Universe was beautiful: an impossibly large orb of light, the golden glow of which seemed to shift and shimmer and dance in a ceaseless movement. It spun and twirled, hovering several feet above the floor perfectly in the center of the cavernous room in which they found themselves by the whims of the Stones. One moment they had been in Tony’s bedroom, and the next…they were standing in an alien space station light years from earth staring at the origin of the Big Bang and the very universe itself.

Even without being in control of his own body, Tony could feel the anger radiating off of Peter. He’d never seen the boy’s beautiful features set in a look of such pure fury before. The fact that it was all for him, well, that made it all the more gratifying. The Old Man, though, he didn’t find it gratifying. There was a calm resignation there, something Tony had difficulty understanding. The Old Man had been expecting it, the fury, had prepared himself for Peter’s anger and was trying to convince himself that it was all for the greater good.

‘Maybe you’re greater good, Old Man, but not ours.’

“Shut up.” It was spoken aloud but softly, directed at Tony’s inner turmoil and not at Peter. If Peter heard, he didn’t react.

No, Peter was transfixed by the Heart of the Universe and Tony was transfixed by Peter. He could see the Heart reflected in the boy’shoney brown eyes. Old or Young, there was no distinction between the past or present version of the billionaire as they stood united in appreciation of just how beautiful the boy looked in the aura of creation itself. If Tony had ever doubted that the Old Man had been secretly harboring feelings for Peter all this time, he had his answer now. The Old Man loved him almost as much as Tony did. Almost.

It was a strange sensation, giving up control of his body to someone else. Tony could see, hear, and sense everything happening around him…but at the same time, every experience seemed to be coming to him dampened, as if he was coming off of a long night of drugs and alcohol…only just beginning to sober up. The Old Man’s thoughts echoed at the fringes of his consciousness, glimpses of memories rippling over him in waves and secondhand emotions washing over him like a warm spring rain.

There was an anger and a desperation to Tony, now, even more than there had been before. The prospect of losing not only Peter but his memories of their time together was a fate too terrible to contemplate. He had to do something, to find something, but his time was so very limited. It was stranger still to feel something tugging at the edges of his thoughts, an urgency that was not Tony’s but had to come from the Old Man’s mind. An urgency and something else.

Igor Novikov.

The name bounced through Tony’s thoughts again, unbidden, as it had a dozen times since the Old Man’s encounter with Peter…whispered on the subconscious of the parasite controlling Tony’s physical form.

Igor Novikov?

He was a physicist.

Tony recalled reading a paper by the man at some point in the wunderkind’s time at MIT. But what was it about, and why was it so damned important now?

Igor Novikov?

Tony’s thoughts were interrupted by a blaring noise overhead. An alarm.

Peter’s eyes widened as he looked over his shoulder at Tony and the Old Man. “I guess they know we’re here.”

“Guess so.” The Old Man dropped to one knee, resting the Nullifer on the ground in front of him. “Cover me while I get this started. We have to protect the Nullifer until all six stones have been reconstituted. They’ll disappear as they reform to locations I’ve already designated and enact the final protocols when the last Stone is safe. We have to make sure nothing interrupts this process, and we have to make sure that the Celestial Order doesn’t get the Stones.”

“Why?”

“Because we don’t want anyone getting the Stones, Peter. Not ever again.”

Peter just nodded, head swinging towards the sound as the doors to the chamber opened.

‘Holy fuck.’

Tony wanted his body back.

He wanted it back.

Needed it back.

He couldn’t let Peter go up against those things alone.

“He’s not alone, he has me, and I’m a hell of a lot better at this than you are.” The Old Man’s voice had bite, but he also had a point. Tony really only had a rudimentary idea of how this armor worked. Not that he wasn’t already probing the Old Man’s memories for more information about it, not that he wasn’t prepared to fight with nothing but fists and sarcasm if that’s what it took to save Peter…but as much as he hated to admit it, the Old Man was better equipped to keep Peter safe.

“Just relax, Baby Stark, I’ve got this…and you have other things you need to be doing right now. Igor Novikov, kid. Igor Novikov.”

What the fuck did he care about a quantum physicist when the love of his life was about fight those things?

They were huge.

Fifteen feet tall at least. Thick limbed and colorless as if they were absorbing the entire spectrum of light making their forms so dark to the eye that it actually hurt to look at them. Their movements were strange, every swing of an arm or movement of a leg followed by a shadowed trail that dissipated slowly behind them.

Tony could hear Peter audibly gulp into the coms. “Yeah, okay, Mr. Stark, keep them busy while you make the Stones. Okay. Got it.”

Tony wanted to watch Peter, but his eyes were trained on the Nullifer and there was nothing he could do to make the Old Man turn away. He heard the boy whoop softly, the sound of something moving by them very quickly, and then a few seconds later a resounding crash from somewhere to the right. Tony cursed internally as he watched the Old Man inputting the data and waited for the machine to whir to life and begin slowly printing the energy it was gathering into a small green gem. Only then did the Old Man look up and afford Tony his first glimpse at the fighting going on around them.

Peter was swinging around the room at a breakneck speed, barely missing a swinging arm, flipping over one of the monster’s heads, sliding gracefully between their legs and then bounding across the room. There were three of those creatures in the room now, and somehow Peter was managing to keep all of their attention trained on him. Anytime one of them would begin to look in Tony’s direction, the kid let out another whooping call and a piece of the room went sailing by the creature’s head. Several pieces of the room’s paneling were already missing and Peter had tugged another piece free in order to chuck it at one of the creatures as it tried to lumber in their direction.

This time as Peter made a dive for the creature, it managed a land a hard blow, knocking Peter backward. He flew through the air, crashing into the invisible barrier around the Heart of the Universe with a popping, burning sound that caused sparks of energy to cascade from his suit in a frightening rain before he collapsed to the ground with a groan.

They had to help him! Why wasn’t the Old Man helping him?

Tony cursed as his gaze left the boy to return to the Nullifer. It shut off, a shimmering gem sitting in the cradle of the machine. It remained there for a moment before it blinked away and the Old Man typed in a new set of algorithms.

‘Fuck the Stones, help Peter.’

“What do you think I’m trying to do, Baby Stark? This has only ever been about Peter. There were other ways to get this done, but only one where Peter got what he deserved…now get your head out of you ass, Kid, and get to work.”

Peter must have picked himself up off the ground, because Tony could hear the kid fighting again, though somewhat less animatedly as before if the sounds of battle were any indication.

It was only when a piece of the space station’s paneling struck the ground several inches to their left that the Old Man jumped and turned to look over his shoulder.

Peter wasn’t keeping them all occupied anymore. He was trying. Valiantly. But it wasn’t working and they were now lobbing discarded pieces of ship at Peter and Tony. They had Three Stones done now, the machine was working on the fourth. They had to hold them at bay a little longer but Tony greatly doubted that Peter was going to be able to keep this up much longer.

“I know.” The faceplate came down, obstructing Tony’s view for a moment before the computerized displays took over.

“What can you tell me about these guys, Friday?”

“Boss, initial readings suggest that they’re composed of densely packed energy contained around a biological nucleus with an electromagnetic epidermis.”

‘What the fuck?’

“Aliens.” The Old Man grunted, “Just when you think you’ve seen it all…” He shook his head, firing up the Repulsors in his gauntlets.

‘Woah, Old Man, wait…’

Before Tony could even finish thinking his warning, the Old Man had fired a shot at the approaching behemoth. It struck but seemed to have no ill effect. Instead, the alien appeared to absorb the energy and midst the flow of surging darkness, a single strip of familiar white light spun through it’s body before it collected in the creature’s hand and shot back at them.

‘Yeah, don’t shoot energy at energy monsters. I’m not an alien expert, but even I know that.’

What was worse, perhaps, was the swirling white energy that began to take shape on the skin of all three monsters. Apparently, it only took a taste for them to duplicate the energy signature of the Arc Reactor and the Repulsors which…was really unfortunate for Peter and Tony.

Fourth gem complete.

Cursing all the while, the Old Man was forced to drop again, diving out of the way of a shot with the Nullifer cradled in his arms as he typed in the algorithm for gem number five.

All around them, energy beams were raining down on them. Peter was barely keeping up a rushed succession of tumbling passes and swings around the room, still valiantly trying to draw their fire. In a desperate effort to keep them away from Tony, Peter had worked his way close to the Heart of the Universe and had experimentally tried to lob a few shots of web fluid at it. The webbing hit the shield and disintegrated with a popping, hissing, burning…but his actions succeeded in drawing the creatures away. At least for a moment.

Fifth gem complete.

One left. Just one. They were in the home stretch…

And the creatures seemed to sense it. They turned again in the direction of Tony and the Nullifer, focusing their attentions and their energy blasts not at Iron Man, but at the Nullifer. Spider-man was only just able to fire off a strand of webbing and pull the machine out of the way of a blast that would have no doubt fried the circuitry and left them well and truly shit out of luck.

Peter paused, Nullifer now in hand, mask vanishing away as he regarded Tony. “Keep ‘em busy for a second.”

“Peter, what are you…”

The kid was wrapping the Nullifer in a layer of webbing.

“What is he…”

‘Farraday cage. He’s making a Farraday cage.’

The Old Man drew up short, watching as the kid exhausted his webbing supply making alternating layers of plastic and conductive webbing a cocoon around the Nullifer. It was genius really, and Tony was offended that the Old Man was surprised by Peter’s ingenuity. The Farraday Cage would protect the Nullifer from the creature’s energy blasts long enough to finish that sixth and final gem…

“That’s going to leave him defenseless.”

‘No shit. We’ve gotta finish this. Fast.’

“One gem left. That’s all we need. One gem…and Igor Novikov.”

What the fuck was up with the Old Man and Igor…Igor Novikov! He remembered now!

Self Consistency Principle. It was a theory in quantum physics that postulated that any form of time travel that resulted in a temporal paradox was impossible. He had suggested that the laws of physics would prevent a time traveler from altering the past in the same way that the laws of physics prevented the average human being from walking through walls. It was similar in vein to the Grandfather Paradox, suggesting that time travel was unlikely because it would be impossible to go back and kill one’s grandfather because then the grandson would not be born and the grandfather would not be killed which would result in the grandson being born and going back in time to murder the grandfather.

Was the Old Man trying to convince him that resistance was futile, that physics itself was going to force Tony to forget Peter…or was he missing the bigger picture here?

Unless…If those theories held any water, than it would suggest that Peter had always come back to 1992. There was never a time when Peter was not an active participant in everything that had transpired since the gala. He had always had this encounter with Tony, and then what?…Tony had forgotten it? Every time? To prevent paradox? At the behest of the Stones. Stones that he had wielded, Stones that were wielding him. Surely, then, Tony had recovered his memories of Peter upon his death…? And yet…as Tony tried to probe the other man’s subconscious, the earliest memories of Peter he could find were of an encounter in the boy’s apartment before the trip to Germany. Nothing in 1992. Very little in 1992 at all, actually. It suggested the drugged out haze that the Old Man had been threatening to use to replace his memories. Could the Stones make him forget Peter so completely that even with a re-introduction to the Stones…the memories were lost? Wouldn’t the Old Man have used the Stones to get those memories back before sending Peter to 1992? Unless they weren’t his memories at all…but how? If he’d never met Peter in 1992 and Peter had always been present in 1992…

Oh.

The equation clicked. He’d solved for X. It all made sense now. He understood. He understood what had happened and what needed to happen. Self Consistency Principle. The solution that physics itself promised.

“Good job, Baby Stark, I knew you had it in you.”

Tony’s thoughts ground to a screeching halt as his voice echoed through the vague tunnel of his perception.

The Old Man.

Fuck.

He did a damn fine impression of Howard Stark when he wanted to.

“Why thanks, Kid. If there’s one person I know how to motivate…it’s myself.”

‘It was all an act? But why?’

“The Stones have to be reconstituted to save the universe, but giving the Stones physical form again also makes the universe vulnerable to their powers. The Stones are sentient. They want to be used. They don’t want to be locked away on places like Vormir. They are always going to find their way back into the hands of those who would wield them…whether for good intentions or bad. That can’t be allowed to happen. Something…someone…has to both heal them and stop them simultaneously.”

Damn, did the Old Man always have to be the hero?

“Even in death, Baby Stark.”

‘Fuck.’

That was going to be a lot to live up to.

“You have it in you, Kid, believe me. You have it in you. Besides, I can’t do this alone. The Stones won’t let me do what needs to be done to make sure the universe is safe.”

The Old Man’s gaze turned pointedly to the Heart of the Universe.

Tony stared, barely comprehending. What did the Heart of the…

Oh.

Oh shit.

He’d known all along that Tony was going to ask for an override. After all, who knew Tony better than the Old Man himself? He knew Tony would ask for an override and he knew that Tony wouldn’t waste it. Because they were going to need it.

Now.

‘All right, Old Man. All right.’

Tony took a deep breath, through his own volition this time as the Old Man was pushed back and Tony was allowed to take control of his own body once more. It felt strange, like being hungover, but he pushed through the headache and the nausea and the discomfort. His gaze sought out Peter who had fallen to his hands and knees on the ground beside his Farraday cage. He looked up, somehow recognizing that Tony was once more in control through nothing but that single look. His gaze was so tired, so hopeful, so sad. He held out his hand to Tony but all Tony could do was shake his head. There was no time for that. The creatures were descending on them now and the last gem was almost complete. There was no time.

It took a monumental effort, but Tony turned away and used what rudimentary knowledge he had of the armor that he’d gleaned from the Old Man’s memories to fire it up and maneuver it clumsily towards the Heart of the Universe. He didn’t worry that the containment field would stop him. He knew better.

It had taken thousands of years for the Celestial Order to realize they couldn’t access the Heart of the Universe. It had taken Tony Stark only thirty seconds to understand why.

The last thing he heard before he dived head first into the wellspring of creation was Peter screaming his name…

* * * *

The sound of the Imperial March jarred Peter and he sat up straight in his bed, looking around his room in confusion as he realized that he was home. Home in 2023. Home where Tony was dead and he’d lost five years and now he’d lost the love of his life, too. It hadn’t been a dream, either. There could be no doubt. So the machine was done, the Stones were safe, the universe would keep on existing all because of the sacrifices he and Tony had made, and no one was ever going to know. No one was ever going to know, and all Peter had to show for it was a broken heart.

Tony was gone.

Mr. Stark was gone.

He’d lost everything…

Even though Peter was angry at May for making him go to school despite the way she’d found him that morning, buried under blankets on his bed, crying and unable to even begin to explain why, he couldn’t really blame her. For all she knew, he was still upset about the Old Man dying. She had no way of knowing about Peter’s Tony, about 1992, about everything he’d experienced and everything he’d lost and he wasn’t sure he was ever going to have the ability to tell anyone else about it. Ever.

“You look like someone kicked your puppy, Parker.” Peter flinched visibly, not even bothering to look up at Michelle as she unceremoniously took the seat beside him on the school stairs. Classes weren’t going to start for another fifteen minutes and as was typical, the student body was taking whatever free moments they had outside of class to socialize. Peter had taken a seat on the steps with his backpack leaning against his legs and had been struggling to keep his composure in the midst of all the normalcy taking place around him. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to break things. He’d given up everything to save this existence and no one was ever going to know or care. He was alone in a way he’d never been alone before, worse even than when no one had known that he was Spider-man. “What’s the matter, Parker? You and TJ stop being pukingly adorable long enough to have some kind of lover’s spat?”

Now Peter was looking up at her like she had three heads. “TJ?” Who the fuck was TJ?

“Yeah TJ.” Michelle pulled a face, reaching out to smack Peter’s forehead with the butt of her palm a couple times. “You remember TJ? Your boyfriend. You never shut up about him and pretty much the only time I don’t see the two of you together being so sweet and adorable that you give me relationship diabetes is when we’re at school. That TJ. You okay, Parker? You get a head injury during that ‘internship’ of yours, last night?”

There was a cold knot of dread settling in his stomach. Maybe despite the Stones’ efforts to keep the future intact, they had managed to miss something…because Peter had most definitely not had a boyfriend when he’d gone to sleep the night before in 2023. Or ever, actually. Not in the present anyway. A part of him wanted to pull out his phone, to check the photos in his camera roll and social media. Whoever this TJ was, if they were as serious as Michelle seemed to think they were, than he’d be able to find some photographic evidence and put a face to the name. At the same time, though, even the idea of having a boyfriend so soon after losing Tony felt like a betrayal. He didn’t remember the guy. He certainly didn’t feel anything at the mention of his name, and he couldn’t bring himself to look the guy up, either. Not yet. Peter had turned off his phone blindly that morning as his alarm sounded and hadn’t bothered to turn it on again since.

TJ was apparently not a student at Midtown, so he could wallow in his grief over losing Tony during the school day and deal with this mysterious boyfriend later. He just didn’t have the energy to do it now. It was taking everything he had just to keep himself together.

If only Ned and Michelle would get the memo.

They brought up TJ several more times over lunch and between classes. Apparently, Ned was just as concerned that something had happened between them as Michelle was, since apparently that could be the only explanation for Peter’s long face and depressive demeanor. Peter just let them believe what they wanted to believe. It was easier than trying to come up with a different excuse.

Ned had declared that they were going to go back to his place after school and work on his latest Lego venture to get Peter’s mind off of ‘the fight’. It was the kind of wonderful thing that Ned always did for Peter. It was why they were best friends. But today…today Peter didn’t want to get his mind off of anything. He wanted to go home and be alone in his room where he could find out if the Baby Monitor Protocol had retained any recordings from his trip to 1992. He wanted to see his Tony’s face. Hear his voice. Something.

Unfortunately, the world itself seemed determined to piss on him today.

May had Happy over. Just the thought of seeing them together made Peter shudder. So, instead of hiding in his room, he was forced to take to the rooftops in his suit. He still had no intention of patrolling. He wanted to find some nice, quiet rooftop somewhere and wallow in his own despair.

“Peter, you have an incoming communication from…”

“Karen,” Peter didn’t even care who was trying to flag him down on the radio. He wasn’t in the mood for Avengers business. Not today. “I already met my quota for saving the universe this week. Just…ignore all incoming calls, okay?”

“I think you might want to take this one, Peter.”

“I said, no.” He fell back against the roof with finality, staring up at the sky. “Karen, just…enter silent mode, okay?”

“Okay, Peter.”

Was it possible for an AI to sound sad and rejected, because Karen did. Peter almost felt bad about it. Almost.

He had no idea how long he laid there, crying and replaying every second of the time he’d spent with Tony in his head. He’d put on a playlist of sad songs from Spotify that were currently echoing loudly beneath his mask. It wasn’t as if he needed to worry. If anyone or anything bad was going to bother him, he’d know and the Manhattan skyscraper on which he had taken refuge was high enough to afford him some semblance of privacy.

All Peter wanted to do was relive every kiss, every laugh, everything. He’d lost five years with the modern world, but he’d gained six months in 1992 that were beyond priceless. The happiest time in his young life. Nothing else was ever going to compare…he wanted to be sad and wallow in his grief and take comfort in sad songs and memories and forget that the rest of the world even existed…

Something shook Peter’s shoulder, hard, and he let out a strangled cry of surprise as his eyes snapped open. So much for Spidey Sense!

He let out a much louder scream when he saw what was hovering over him.

Was he officially crazy? Had he made a break with reality?

No.

It was probably just one of the Iron Legion. Pepper must not have turned them offline.

Maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. was using them now. Yeah, yeah. That made sense.

Peter’s scream had been accompanied by his reflexive spring to action. He was now crouched several feet away from the armor while his heart pounded so loudly in his ears that he thought there was a helicopter overhead for a split second. But, no. No. He turned off the music filtering into his mask and slowly rose to his feet.

“Who sent you?”

“Nobody had to send me, Pete. You’re a hard guy to get a hold of, you know that? You had your phone off all day. I was worried about you. Seems like the only way we were going to talk was face to face…” The armor spread it’s hands in front of it in a displaying gesture. “So here I am.”

“Muh…Mr. Stark?”

Was he not dead? Had the future changed that much? Maybe the Stones had really failed and…

The Iron Man mask retreated to reveal a very stern expression. “You did not just Mr. Stark me again!”

Peter let out a strangled cry, half stumbling-half falling across the rooftop with arms extended. His hands found purchase on Tony’s face and he whimpered. “Tony? Are you real? Really real?”

“Course. Sweetheart, I told you I was going to fight for you. You’ve been back all of what, twelve hours? You really gave up on me that damn fast? I’m offended, Pete, really I am.”

“I thought you were dead…”

“Nope, very much alive.”

“I thought you forgot me…”

“I could never forget you, Baby. You’re the only thing in my life worth remem…” His words were cut off by Peter’s lips as he attempted to devour Tony. Hands still braced on the sides of the billionaire’s face, Peter’s mask had dematerialized a moment before he descended on the man. His grip shifted, fingers finding purchase in thick black hair as his tongue licked desperately at Tony’s mouth. The billionaire let out a hungry moan, dragging Peter in as close to him as he could, separating from him only enough to suck in a breath and begin an assault of his own.

“We need to go…I need you…” Peter had never needed anything so much. He hadn’t known it was possible to desire someone with so much intensity. After thinking that he’d lost him, after convincing himself that the man was dead and gone forever…to have him in his arms again was more than Peter had ever thought possible. He was desperate to reclaim Tony both body and soul, to prove to himself that the man was real, flesh and blood, and that he was all Peter’s.

“Your place?” Tony asked breathlessly with a devilish smirk.

“Nope. May’s there…”

“Mine then. Hold on, Hot stuff, I’m not too good at this yet.”

Peter squealed in surprise as the Iron Man suit took off. It dipped dangerously as Peter almost shot a strand of webbing at another skyscraper to prevent a fall to their deaths. Holding onto to Tony for dear life, the teenager could only watch with wide eyes from behind his reconstituted mask as he was flown back to Tony’s place… “Wait, I thought you sold…”

“He did. I bought it back. Can’t have someone else in Stark Tower, that’s…sacrilege.”

“Avengers Tower actually…”

“Yeah, we’ll see…”

Peter giggled, holding his breath as they landed on the Helipad and the Iron Man armor melted away. Peter was quick to shed his suit as well. The moment both armors were gone, Tony had dragged him into another kiss and was leading him back towards the rooftop entry and the Penthouse below.

Clothes were shed in a trail from the door to the bed with pants and underwear being the last to fall somewhere to the side of the Alaskan King. Neither man seemed willing to part from the other for long. Some part of them was in a constant state of contact as kisses and caresses gave way to more purposeful stroking and exploring. After nearly losing each other, both men were anxious to find physical comfort in their reunion.

Fingernails raked over skin.

Teeth nipped at throats and thighs.

Hands curled in and around the most intimate areas of their bodies as passionate cries resounded off the bedroom walls and echoed back to their own hungry ears.

Both men collapsed sometime later after testing the physical limits of their own young endurance. Peter was curled into Tony, holding onto him as if he feared that the man might vanish again the moment he let go.

There was silence for a time, the only sound that of their labored breathing. And then… Peter sat up looking absolutely stricken.

“I…Tony, I have to tell you something…I don’t know how but something we did back there had to have changed something here. I don’t know what or why but I guess…I have a boyfriend now?” Peter was flushed and breathless and embarrassed and hoping that Tony wasn’t going to be angry at this revelation.

“Oh?”

Peter didn’t know if that single word response was a good or a bad sign. Tony was rarely a man of few words, so the teenager was inclined to think it was bad. Very bad.

“I’m going to break up with him.” Peter was quick to add that tidbit, as if he thought that might make it all okay. “Now. I’m going to break up with him now. I just…I have to find his number and I’ll call him and I’ll end it…it’s not really my fault anyway, is it? I wasn’t dating TJ before 1992. I would never choose him over you, ever. I don’t even know what he looks like or who he is…or why I started dating him in the first place but it’s definitely over as soon as I get his number…”

Tony was unnaturally quiet as Peter dangled over the side of the bed to retrieve his jeans and fish the cell out of the pocket. His anxious wait for the phone to boot was rewarded by an unexpected lockscreen. “Oh.” It was an adorable picture of the two of them, Tony and Peter. A selfie in which Tony was kissing Peter’s cheek and Peter was caught in the act of blushing and laughing into the camera. “When did we…how did this even get on here?” Peter tilted the phone for Tony to see, but the billionaire merely shrugged.

“Oh geez.” His notifications were a horror show. “He called me like…God, 72 times since this morning? And 49 texts. Psycho much?”

“He was probably worried about you.”

“Uh, yeah, no. 72 calls and 49 texts in a single day is stalkery, thank you very much. He’s clearly a creep. I’ll just…I’ll go do this in there.” Peter gestured to the bathroom and left the bed, dragging a sheet with him which he tied around his body like a toga and escaped into the bathroom, shutting the tail end of the sheet in the door.

Tony waited patiently, staring at the bathroom door until he heard his phone ringing on the bedside table. He picked it up, thumbed it open, and held it up to his ear as he cleared his throat. “One stalkery, creep, psycho boyfriend at your service, Beautiful.”

There was a garbled sound on the end of the phone and then it went dead and Peter’s head poked out of the bathroom door. “You?”

“Me.”

“You’re…”

“It was the Old Man’s idea of a joke. He knew I’d hate it, the whole TJ thing. Gonna take me years to break people of that habit. I suppose I should have seen it coming…”

Peter crawled back up onto the bed, his phone still clutched tightly in one hand. “I don’t understand.” Now he was looking down, scrolling through his missed messages, staring at photographs on his phone that he didn’t remember taking. So many pictures of the two of them being every bit as adorable as Michelle had suggested. “How?”

“You gonna let me explain how I got here now, Sweetheart?”

Peter nodded, dumbfounded.

For once, the kid didn’t even interrupt as Tony began to explain what it was like to share his body with the Old Man. He explained about Igor Novikov and the struggle he’d had to find the significance, about his own last minute revelation.

“I still don’t get it.” Tony paused and Peter felt stupid even admitting it, but “How could I have always been in 1992? How could Mr. Stark have never known me if I was? How does you being here have anything to do with Igor Novikov?”

Tony smirked, “I’m getting to that, Sweetheart, be patient. Now…you remember what we learned about the Heart of the Universe?”

“That it’s where the Big Bang happened, where the Stones were first made and if they ended up back in it than the universe was going to end.”

“And what did the Celestial Order want to do with it?”

“End war and chaos and make the universe peaceful.”

“How were they going to do that?”

“With the Heart of the Universe.”

“But how?”

Peter paused, cocking his head and considering the question. “I don’t know. I guess…I guess the Heart must be powerful, too. I mean. Well. It was where the Big Bang happened. It was the origin of the singularities so…Maybe it can do things like the Infinity Stones can?”

“It can. I speak from experience.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Oh! I thought I saw you flying into it…”

“Yeah, turns out the Celestial Order was missing something really important to breach that containment field. I realized that if there was danger in the Stones reuniting with the Heart, than the Stones must be able to break that barrier and enter the Heart. I couldn’t use the Stones, but I had the Old Man with me. He’d used them, was used by them, there must have been enough residual energy to breach the containment field…and that was apparently all I needed.”

“What…what did you do with the Heart of the Universe, Tony?”

The billionaire chuckled. “Created a copy of myself. Perfect clone. All the same memories and experiences, everything down to the most minute atom of my existence except that he had no memory of ever meeting you.”

Peter stared at him blankly for several minutes before things began to click. “Igor Novikov! The Stones didn’t have to erase his memory because I was never in it to begin with…I was always in 1992, I was always with you, but I was never with him…the other you…” Peter gasped softly. “With Mr. Stark.”

“Oh, the Stones erased his memory anyway along with Fury and Happy and about a dozen other people. Protocols and all. It’s just…there was nothing to erase in the Old Man’s memory, really. Anyway. He stayed there. 1992. Lived that whole life you told me about. Became the Old Man. Sacrificed his life to save the universe, yadda yadda yadda. Future unchanged. Paradoxes eliminated. Self Consistency Principle proved. And that freed me to come here.”

“But…how?”

“You paying attention, Pete? I was inside the Heart of the Universe…making a magical copy of myself was easy. Making a place for me in the future was even easier.”

“But…using the Stones killed Mr. Stark, how did you not die?”

“Hard to explain. I think…I think it might have ended badly…probably. When you’re there, in the Heart…it’s not like you’re using power. You are the power…one with the universe. You just…think things and they happen. It’s a religious experience. I’m sure if I’d tried to leave on my own that I would have had a hard time of it, but I had the Old Man’s help and the Old Man had already had so much contact with the Stones by this point…I think he had a bit more resistance than the average human…at least now.”

Peter’s eyes widened as he looked away from Tony, worrying the phone in his lap as he sucked in a few deep breaths. “Mr. Stark helped you? To…be here?”

Tony reached out to gently tilt Peter’s chin up and plant a soft kiss on his lips. “That was his plan all along, Baby. From night one in your dreams and the Gala and…yeah. He helped. Turns out he knows us both pretty damn well and we were pretty easy to manipulate. He was always a dozen steps ahead of us.”

Peter looked positively stricken. “I owe him an apology, Tony. I said terrible things to him. I was so angry…and he was helping us all along. Now I can’t tell him…”

“Believe me, Sweetheart, he knows. I had to leave him behind in the Heart of the Universe so he could make sure that no one like Thanos ever had the chance to use those Stones or the Heart ever again, so he could send me out of it, send me here. He’s one with powers of the universe now…”

Peter’s mouth fell open in shock, gaze flicking around the bedroom as if he expected to see some evidence of the Old Man’s omnipresence. “So…Mr. Stark became a god?”

“I mean…are you really that shocked? Is it that unbelievable to throw a god complex onto my laundry list of psychological issues, Peter? I mean, really?”

“So he’s not…he’s not Earth’s Greatest Defender anymore…”

“He’s the Universe’s. Yeah.” Tony chuckled.

“Okay. That explains…it explains how you got here and all but…but…why is everybody calling you TJ?”

Tony’s laughter died down as he grimaced. “Oh yeah. That. We both, the Old Man and I, agreed that the truth might be…too much for people. We had to think about the kid…Morgan? His wife…er widow. There would be a lot of explaining, a lot of people questioning the ethics and just…it wouldn’t be good. People would have a hard time understanding where he ended and I began, that we weren’t the same person…I want to be free to be with you without dealing with a bunch of bullshit, and I don’t want everyone to treat me like I’m the second coming of the Old Man, because despite our obvious similarities…we’re two totally different people. So, the Old Man and I concocted a backstory and…ceded it through people’s memories, electronic databases, paperwork where necessary to make everything seem legit…”

“Backstory?”

“Yeah. Backstory. So, I guess I’m now Anthony Edward Stark, II…”

Peter covered his mouth to hold back a laugh. “Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! TJ is Tony Junior!”

“The second.”

“Junior.”

“Do you want to hear this story or not?”

Peter was still giggling, but he waved a hand for Tony to continue. “No no no, yeah, no, I totally want to hear it. I’m sorry…Junior.”

“You’re already making me regret this time travel thing, Peter.”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I really do want to hear it, go on. Please.”

“Yeah, okay. So, Anthony Edward Stark, II was born from one of those one and done quickie Vegas weddings that happen after a night of hard core drug use. Annulled within days. The Old Man wasn’t exactly dad material in those days, obviously, so the kid was raised by his mother and wasn’t too big on dear old dad. Cause you know, they say lies based on truth are easier to sell. Howard was never my biggest fan and my relationship with him was always fucked. So, makes sense to make sure my psychological issues are well founded, right? Anyway, so, the kid and the Old Man were never close. But he did give him boarding school and paid for MIT and all that jazz. I mean, he tried to make amends and step up there towards the teen years, but the kid wasn’t having it.”

Peter grimaced. “Wow, that’s grim. So, what, was I some surrogate son to make up for you being a little brat?”

Tony shrugged. “Probably what people think, but who can say, really since this is all a work of fiction?”

“Anyway, we met at a Stark Industries thing…hit it off…started dating…”

“You realize I have no memory of any of this?”

Tony laughed, “Kid, our meet cute is still the same. Or…as similar as we could swing it. Stark Industries Gala, me trying to seduce you, you doing the Spidey thing, fighting the bad guys, impressing the fuck out of me with your skills and your beauty…”

Peter felt himself blushing, “Well, I mean, I guess that makes sense…”

“Yeah. Well. We started dating and then Thanos happened and you were dusted…”

“You weren’t?” Peter looked a little confused.

“Nope.”

“But if you weren’t dusted…in this backstory of yours, you were sixteen when we started dating…and I came back to you like…five years older and we just…picked up where we left off?”

“Pretty much. I mean, I got to have a little bit of say in this backstory, Peter. The Old Man could stick me with a terrible nickname, more than one actually, but I at least get to seem like an amazing boyfriend who literally waited and pined for you for five fucking years until you came back…”

Peter rolled his eyes, “As if anyone is ever going to believe that.”

“Documented proof, baby. Check the internet. Check the tabloids. TJ Stark was off the market for a full five years because he was waiting for his baby to come back.”

“Michelle is right, we’re disgusting.”

“Shut up, you love it.”

“Oh no, I do. I definitely do, but it’s just…it’s wonderfully gross…I’d be gagging if it was anyone else’s love story.”

“Good thing it’s ours then.”

“Uh huh, good thing.” Peter was back to looking at the photos on his phone again. “One problem with this, though…where does this leave Morgan in the will?”

“Peter…come on. You know that at the time of his death, the Old Man was worth well over 40 billion dollars not including non-liquid assets like stock shares and real estate. You can split 40 billion dollars two ways and still have an obscene amount of wealth. So, Morgan really isn’t losing that much. I mean, she is, but she won’t miss it. Besides, she gains a big brother who will fucking murder anyone who displaces a hair on her adorable little head…”

“Two big brothers. Two of them.” Peter pointed at himself and then Tony. “I want in on revenge killings in Morgan’s name.”

“Done.”

Peter smirked, “What about Ms. Potts, though?”

“She can stay CEO of SI for all I care. That was one job I never wanted and she’s done a pretty fucking incredible job from what I’ve been able to tell. So, yeah, Pep runs the company. I’ll just take over the Old Man’s place in R&D because that’s always where I’ve enjoyed working best anyway. When Morgan grows up she can do whatever she wants. Join me. Join Pep. Take over for Pep. Become a SCUBA diving instructor…follow her bliss. No one to stop her.”

“I suppose that doesn’t seem too bad…”

“Nah, I don’t want to ruin the kid’s life. She’s sweet. I like her…just not interested in parenting her, you know? I’m not ready for that kind of responsibility. Yet. Oh! and of course your Internship with SI is safe. You’ll even still be working with the head of R&D…”

Peter rolled his eyes, “Yeah, I was really worried you weren’t going to want me around…”

“Well, you do have a cause for concern, Beautiful. You’re sexy as fuck but you can be a little distracting…”

“Wait. Wait. Wait. I’m distracting? Me. Who is the one who usually does the distracting? Is it me?”

“About half the time, yes.”

Peter pursed his lips, considering this before nodding. “I mean, half seems accurate.”

“Mhm.”

A pause. “And um…R&D at SI is all you’re going to be taking over for Mr. Stark?”

“You mean am I going to be taking over as Iron Man?”

“Yeah…”

Tony held his hand out for Peter’s phone, opening an app and typing in a quick search before he spun it around. “The Old Man is a fucking bastard…”

“Oh. My. God. They’re not calling you…”

“Ironlad. Yeah. As if TJ and Junior were not degrading enough.”

“Oh my god, this is the greatest day of my life!” Peter flopped onto his side, holding his stomach as he laughed so hard that tears formed in his eyes. “Ironlad! Oh my gosh!”

“It’s not funny. You know how long it’s going to take me to get people to drop the lad in favor of something that doesn’t sound prepubescent?”

“Could be worse. He coulda told you he didn’t want you in the Iron Man armor…”

“Nah, he doesn’t want to leave you or the world without proper back up. He even gave me a few final instructions before we went our separate ways. You want to hear ‘em?”

Peter nodded eagerly, sitting up and leaning forward in anticipation of whatever his mentor’s final pieces of sage advice might entail.

“It’s gonna be hard to move on without Nat and Cap and the Old Man, but we gotta. The world has martyrs now. Heroes who died to save us all. And the world loves a martyr. If the population is ever going to let go of their cynicism towards superheroes and drop things like the Sakovia Accords, it’ll be now. Time to make the world listen to us. Men like Ross don’t want to, but we have to make them hear us. No more blaming the ones who are willing to die to protect this rock of ours. No more pretending that these battles are black and white. No more. They need us, Thanos proved that, and when the shit hits the fan…really hits the fan…we don’t have time to sit around while politicians fight about something they don’t understand. We’re taking the gift that the old guard gave us, and we’re running with it. We don’t have to do this alone. We’ve got Dr. Banner and Barton and Thor. And we have the Old Man…cause if things get bad, really bad, he’ll steer us in the right direction. He’s basically a god now, I have no doubt he’ll find his way back if and when we need him…”

“Yeah, he’s good at that…”

“Listen, Pete, you wanted to be an Avenger…it’s not the team you thought you were joining…but it’s a team that needs you. You want to help me assemble this tribute band, Beautiful? I could use a goody-two shoes with a heart of gold to keep me honest. The Old Man said that was a necessity. Iron Man is always gonna need a boy scout to keep him on the straight and narrow…as long as you don’t have any one-armed skeletons in your closet…”

Peter burst out laughing, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “Spiders don’t have skeletons at all actually…”

“Ugh, that was bad, even for you…”

“Oh, hush, Junior, you liked it.”

“Don’t call me that…”

“Call you what, Ironlad?”

“You’re going to send me running back to 1992…”

“You’d never be able to leave me, don’t think you scare me.”

“Oh, I don’t want to scare you, Beautiful. We got a little while before May misses you, right? Because there are so many other things I want to do to you right now besides scare you…”

Light years away within the ever swirling expanse of the Heart of the Universe, Tony Stark allowed himself to revel in his victory over the Infinity Stones and the knowledge that everyone he loved was, in fact, going to be okay.

Everyone was safe.

Everyone was cared for.

Happy endings were assured.

Everything was as it should be.

At least, for now…

Author’s Note:

First of all, I would like to thank you all for taking this journey with me. Your kind words and encouragement have been a tremendous delight to me through the creation process! Everyone’s theories and observations helped me to make this story more well rounded and complete and for that I owe you all a great debt of gratitude!

I fell in love with these characters and this story through the course of writing it and admit that I am loathe to give them up already. So, if you would be interested in following me into a sequel adventure…I can be very easily persuaded to continue these adventures through at least one more story. (Maybe more, who knows!) If this is something that would interest you, please let me know!

I always love to receive prompts (though, as GeekyMarvel can now attest, sometimes I get very carried away with them…..) And heck, if you have ideas for something involving this incarnation of these two crazy kids and this little corner of the Starkerverse…than fuck yeah, lay ‘em on me!

And finally, for all of you who actually cared enough to read my Author’s Note, a very special treat…

!!!! After the Author’s Note Scene !!!!

“Still nothing?”

A grunt escaped the man’s throat as he leaned back in his chair and brushed a hand through his salt and pepper waves. “It’s always nothing, Mary.”

“Until it’s something.”

The man eyed his wife dubiously but managed a half smile. “You’re right. We keep sending out the distress call and eventually, someday, someone is going to hear it.”

Mary gave his shoulders a squeeze. “We never give up, Richard Parker. Not now, not ever. Nothing is ever impossible…”

“Until we accept that it is.” Richard finished the statement, pulling his wife into an embrace. “Too bad we’ll never see that boyfriend of Stark’s again. I’m sure he’d love to know his words of advice have become your own personal mantra, Mary.”

“So much so that we named our son after him…”

Richard’s expression darkened.

“We’re going to see him again, Richard. Peter. We’re going to see him again.”

“He’s practically an adult now, Mary…We missed so much…”

Mary blinked back her own tears. “I know, Sweetheart, but he’s still got a lot of life ahead of him and so do we. There’s a way out of this, I promise you. There has to be…we just have to have faith, and we have to find it.”

“Yeah, and outsmart an evil, billionaire, playboy despot while we’re at it…”

#starker

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thedarklordmegatron · 5 years

Text

Sliding in at the last minute with my piece for @tsukibeamfics as part of the @ffxvexchange!

Title: Across the Ages Ship: Promptis Prompto: Reunion Rating: T

Also on AO3!

Warnings for implied child abuse and death in the ‘second lives’ portion!

Their first lives ended in tragedy.

Bar the reclamation of Insomnia and the ending of the Starscourge, the future was something they had never really discussed. Not because Noctis hadn’t wanted to, no, on more than one occasion he had tried to start a conversation with him, but his anxiety had gotten the best of him each time and it hadn’t taken much for Prompto to steer him in another direction. He was well aware that once Noctis took on more duties, once he became King, that his own role in the other’s life would be drastically reduced if he was even allowed to remain that was. Not that Noctis or the others had ever done anything to enforce that idea. Far from it. When he’d stupidly mentioned it to Ignis in passing, the trio had taken it upon themselves to make it very clear that no matter what, he was apart of their little family and would remain as such.

Then everything went to shit. Because of course it did.

Between the fall of Insomnia, and bye extension Lucis, there had been little time to discuss anything except how they were going to feed themselves, stay off the Empire’s radar and somehow retake Lucis. Their future together hadn’t exactly been high on the list of priorities.

When Noctis and the others finally came to Gralea for him, freeing him from Ardyn’s little hell-hole, he’d long since decided that should he live through that particularly horrific portion of his life, he’d finally tell Noct just how much he loved him, how he would always be by his side, as his husband/lover or friend, it really didn’t matter; so long as he was there. Between the exhaustion and relief, it’d taken everything he had to just stay awake and keep moving, having a full in-depth conversation about their future together was never going to happen. And as with everything in his life, a curve-ball collided with his face and his whole world was thrown off kilter.

First, Noctis was quite literally absorbed into the Crystal, and Six did that image haunt him for the rest of his admittedly far too short life. Second, the Sun vanished behind a miasma of darkness, most definitely Ardyn’s work, and with it the fauna and flora, bringing about an apocalyptic scenario that no one had thought they could survive. And thirdly, just because the Astrals were the ultimate assholes, when Noctis did finally return, after ten years of hell, they were forced to accept the fact that one last night was all they would have. That come the ‘morning’, Ignis, Gladiolus and himself would have to stand outside of the Citadel and let their King, their brother, go to his death alone.

So really, considering all he’d survived, all he’d accomplished as a hunter and Crownsguard, it shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise when only moments before the sun rose Gladio shouted his name and a claw burst through his chest. Of course, it did. Perish the thought he’d be able to have some form of a happy life.

Then again, what life could he possibly have without Noctis?

On the steps of the Citadel, cradled in the arms of two men he considered his brothers, Prompto Argentum, Crownsguard and best friend to the one-hundred and fourteenth King of Lucis, dies as the sun rises for the first time in a decade.

Their second lives ends in cruelty.

Noctis had known from a very early age that he was not a normal boy. That much had become clear to him when a blue lady with white hair, Shiva his six-year-old mind supplied, appeared to him in his dreams and told him that he was not long for the world, but that he shouldn’t be afraid because this was only the beginning.

Despite her words, he had still gone screaming to his parents in the middle of the night, thrown himself in their arms and sobbed into his mother’s chest. A god may have told him not to be afraid, but he was a child, and as with all children, being told that something scary was waiting for them, something that would take him away from his mama and daddy, was an immensely terrifying thought.

He was eight when her words came true.

“You must never let go of my hand when we’re outside,” His mama had said firmly, kneeling down in front of him and brushing his hair aside “There are mean people out there who would take you away from me and daddy.”

“I won’t mama!” He said with all the confidence of a child who thought they knew everything.

Letting go of his mama’s hand hadn’t been intentional, it was just that he’d seen a cute little kitty that looked like it needed a hug, and before he knew it, he was being swept away in the crowd, his mama’s screams of ‘Noctis!’ forever etched into his memory.

Noctis doesn’t quite know how it happened, but at some point after losing his mama, he’s swept off his feet by a tall man and bundled into the back of a white van. It’s dark, noisy and very scary, so he does as all children do and screams as loudly as he can until someone shuffles around and a little hand grabs his arms and pulls him into a hug. He tries to fight them off but soon realises that the arms belong to a boy the same age as him with the prettiest blue eyes and hair the same colour as his cousin, Luna’s.

They cry quietly together, clinging onto one another in pure desperation, determined to hold onto the only other thing that isn’t as scary as the darkness. Eventually, after what feels like forever, the van stops and the doors are thrown open. The man doesn’t even spare them a second glance as he tears them apart, throwing the other boy to an even bigger and even scarier man before carrying Noctis away himself.

They scream for each other, reaching out in desperation as they’re dragged off in separate directions, but all it does is earn them a beating and no food.

Two years later, curled up in a ball under a tiny scrap of cloth he had claimed as a blanket, Noctis Venitus, formerly Noctis Lucis Caelum dies in his sleep from starvation.

A continent away, a six-year-old blonde boy suffers the same cruel fate.

Their third lives end suddenly.

No one had seen it coming. The group of teenagers had bundled onto the coach that morning, waving goodbye to their parents as they went off on their first skiing adventure, chattering away to themselves and cracking jokes at the expense of their visibly nervous teachers.

The coach doesn’t even make it to the Gralean border.

And so it continues.

It is on their seventy-sixth lives that both boys finally survive past the age of ten.

Their seventy-sixth lives see them reunited.

For two people who have lived through the worst life has to offer, their current lives are rather unremarkable.

Prompto Faustus grows up peacefully in the suburbs of Insomnia with his twin brother, Loqi, and his parents. He has everything a twenty-three-year-old could want. A family who loves him, friends who include him and make sure he enjoys life, financial security, and boy if that isn’t a big one, but he still can’t help but feel as though something is missing, as though a very large piece of the jigsaw that is his life has hidden itself so far under the couch that he can’t quite reach it.

It’s during his first lecture at University that he finds that elusive piece, because there, tucked away in the back corner of the lecture theatre, fast asleep is a face he has seen in his dreams every night since he was twelve.

At first he pauses, considers his options and wonders if maybe it would be too creepy to just casually stroll up to the guy and sit down beside him while he’s sleeping, but then Noctis, and it has to be Noctis, stretches in a way that is so familiar that his feet are moving before his brain catches up with them. He silently slips into the seat beside the sleeping student and rummages through his bag for his book and pens. It’s only when the lecturer starts talking that he wonders why he is even attending a photography lecture anyway, there’s a small part of his brain that tells him this isn’t normal, that this guy wasn’t all that into photography, but who’s he to question someone elses motives when he literally chose his seat because of some random dreams?

The lecturer is midway through explaining how a photographer achieved a certain composition when he moves. There’s no over the top reaction, no sudden scream of ‘Prompto!’ like his subconscious had hoped, which leaves him feeling a little deflated, but he does at least feel the guy’s eyes on him for the rest of the hour.

When it is finally over, he’s almost too scared to look at him. However, he’s lucky in that Noctis decides to make the first move.

“Name’s Noctis,” He says casually, with a smile that makes Prompto’s heart skip a beat “Noctis Lucis Caelum.” Suddenly he remembers, as though he’d finally grabbed that puzzle piece and forced it into place. He remembers easy smiles, late nights gaming and joking at the expense of one another. He remembers pushing a car through the blistering heat, singing trashy pop songs at the top of his lungs along with Noctis and Gladiolus in an attempt to make Ignis laugh. He remembers those warm hugs, the body curled around his during the cold night and lips that pressed kisses along his shoulder blades and neck.

Without warning, Prompto throws himself at the other, not at all concerned with the looks the other students send their way. After all, it’s none of their business that he’s finally found his missing boyfriend in another life nearly three hundred years after their deaths.

Noctis returns the hug with just as much enthusiasm, burying his face into Prompto’s neck and sobbing silently despite the bright smile and laugh on his lips.

There, in Noctis’ arms, it’s hard to understand how he’s survived so long without this man who is quite literally the other half of his soul. The euphoria he feels as they smile at one another following the hug is unlike anything he has ever felt in his life. His heart feels about ready to implode and he wants nothing more than to stand atop the highest point in Lucis and scream his love for Noctis, tell the world everything he was forced to keep a secret in their previous lives. However, considering that isn’t really an option, he’ll gladly accept the kiss Noctis leans in for and the numerous other ones that follow it as they flee the campus hand-in-hand, laughing all the way.

Their seventy-sixth lives are long ones, filled with happiness and love. It is also their last but it is a shared-life well spent.

#Promptis #prompto argentum #Noctis Lucis Caelum #final fantasy xv #final fantasy 15 #ffxv #vex writes #I hope you like it :D!

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alittleoptimistic · 6 years

Text

Shutdown

previous chapter

Summary: Thomas is stuck in his own head. When Thomas is in a car accident, Virgil has to enact a ‘failsafe’ that shuts everything and everyone down but himself. To his shock, Thomas, who is convinced that his sides are characters he has made up, appears inside his mental ‘control room’. And he… can’t leave.

Warnings: ANXIETY, panic, depression (PLEASE PAY MIND TO THESE)

AN: I am the worst, I know. This took way too long, but here it is!

Chapter 3

The ground was warm and wet and sticky and Virgil lay flat against it, unbreathing, unseeing, paralyzed.

And suddenly he gasped. He gasped and choked and gagged on the liquid in his lungs. He was alive.

Sort of. He spit onto the ground and wiped his mouth with a sweaty sleeve.

The thrumming under his skin had receded, and the creature inside him had gone away once more. Either out of exhaustion or boredom. Virgil wasn’t sure which one he preferred. He cautiously sat up, his joints cracking and grumbling.

Black.

In all directions.

Eternal, forever, inky black.

Virgil struggled to his feet and turned in a crooked circle. “Hello?”

Nothing.

Virgil’s heart pounded. He lifted his hands and felt in front of him. A few steps and there was nothing but the sound of his sticky steps as he walked… Until he tripped over something warm. He cursed and tried to catch himself so he wouldn’t fall on top of it. On top of him.

The person groaned, and Virgil recognized his voice immediately. His heart clenched, and he quickly scrambled to figure out how he was laying. “L-logan?”

Another groan and then Logan moved. He muttered quietly and sat up, which sent waves of relief through Virgil. He was okay.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Logan tell me-”

“I’m fine,” Logan snapped. He pushed Virgil’s hands off his shoulders.

Oh... Oh, okay. Virgil sat back on his heels and squinted. He could just barely see an outline of thicker darkness that was Logan.

Logan struggled to his feet. “Well,” he said, upon surveying the scene. “Great.”

That almost would have been funny in another situation. “Yeah...” Virgil scratched the back of his head. What if we’re stuck here forever? “Do you have any idea what this is?”

“If by ‘this’ you mean this dark hole that you have sent us to…”

Virgil clenched his jaw but didn’t argue. Logan… ever the prick. “Where are we?”

“I imagine this is Thomas’s subconscious. Or a form of it.”

“Right.”

Logan huffed and began walking, limping, away. No, no, no. Virgil couldn’t be left here by himself.

Virgil scrambled after him. “Where are you going!”

“Away from you.”

“Okay, ouch. That hurts.”

“I hope it does.”

Wow. So he really was pissed at him. Virgil couldn’t exactly blame him, but… okay but he still wanted to blame him.

“I suppose you have calmed down now.” His tone was light. But Virgil knew him too well. Logan could say whatever he liked, but he just as emotional as the rest of them. And this, pretending he wasn’t, was usually his tactic to avoid particularly unsettling feelings. Which was totally healthy and all that. In short, Logan was boiling.

Course he was. Virgil just inadvertently cast them down into the depths of whatever this place was.

Virgil frowned. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh?” Logan turned and a finger stabbed into his chest. “Please inform me of ‘what it is like’ Virgil. Because to me, it seems that you turn into a Tim Burton cartoon with little to no empathy or morality not to mention impulse control when you’re angry.”

He admitted it sounded horrible when he said it that way. And suddenly Logan’s finger was gone. He was walking away again. “I will figure this out alone if you do not mind.”

No. He did not want to be left alone in here. He wasn’t going to ever find his way back alone. “Logan, please. I’m- I’m sorry.”

“Apologies are sentimental and meaningless!”

Virgil walked quickly in the direction Logan’s voice came from. “I know. I don’t mean to get like that. It’s not my fault I-”

A hand closed around his neck and Virgil suddenly couldn’t speak. He pursed his lip irritably and sensed Logan’s eyes on him. “What on earth do you mean? Of course, it’s you.”

No. It’s inside me, darn it.

But the invisible hand tightened, and Virgil said nothing.

After a moment of waiting for Virgil to respond, Logan huffed and continued walking. “What I would like to know is why you believe it is acceptable behavior. You do not see the rest of us going into fits of rage.”

Virgil rolled his eyes and followed grumbling, “It wasn’t a ‘fit of rage’.”

“You grow several feet and become a skeletal, large-eyed creature with glowing purple eyes and two voices. That is quite a fit of rage.”

He couldn’t really argue. Especially because It quietly placed its hand on his shoulder again. A warning. Virgil swallowed. Okay fine. He wasn’t allowed to talk about it. Even if it was not been so dark in here, Logan would not have seen it. No one ever did.

“What do you want me to say, Logan?”

“I don’t know!”

“Well, what am I supposed to do then!”

“Stop asking me questions!”

And suddenly… Logan was gone.

Virgil’s stomach dropped. Ohnoohnoohno… “Logan!”

No answer.

He tried again, louder. But the darkness ate up his voice. “This isn’t funny, Lo! Please don’t leave me here!”

But he’d deserve it if he did.

Yes.

He deserved that and more.

When they were younger, Virgil had been worse. Much worse than he was now. On top of being a general, catastrophic mess that only occasionally made it outside of his bedroom to the controls and back, his ‘little resident’ had been much stronger and spent days rather than minutes in complete control. It blackened the room, and it sent sickly black threads down the halls. It would quietly put Patton to sleep and lock Roman in his room, and take the control board all to himself.

At the time, Logan had been persistent, desperate to stay on the board and It had… not taken kindly to that persistence. It tried locking Logan in his room, tried gagging him like Patton, tried distracting him. None of it worked. Logan was too clever. He worked his way free back to the board each and every time.

So it was only fitting that Logan would be the one to leave Virgil here. After all, it was a place like this that it sent Logan to all those years ago.

He could still picture Logan’s face in his mind perfectly. He’d been terrified and for once it showed on his face. Virgil had been screaming and screaming and banging against the walls of his own body, but It was on fire and it wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

“Time to sleep, logic,” it said with both its own voice and Virgil’s.

“P-Please,” Logan begged. He clung to his arm, several heads shorter than Virgil. “Brother, please.”

Virgil’s soul tore in two and screamed again, and his fingers twitched, just enough to loosen its hold on Logan.

But the hole was already open and it quickly pulled back so that Virgil couldn’t stop it, and Logan fell from their grasp. Down, down, down through the darkness.

A rush of fury slammed through Virgil’s mind. This wasn’t fair! This wasn’t right! He screamed and clawed and bit and suddenly, something broke.

All at once, Virgil was sprawled on the floor, breathless and exhausted and broken but… he could move. He could move his own body. Nearly sobbing in relief, Virgil scrambled to the hole in the floor It had somehow created and shouted down the hole. He screamed for Logan, but even as he did, the hole grew smaller and soon completely disappeared.

He’d panicked. He’d panicked and trashed the entire control room. He shouted as many obscene words as he could think off at the monster that dared take advantage of him like this. It dared hurt his friends. His brothers. And as he screamed he tore apart the walls and flew through hallways and dashed down doors, searching for the rest of them. It was a display of telekinesis he had yet to demonstrate once more. But at the time, he’d hardly registered it. He needed his family and he needed them now.

He found Patton and Roman relatively quickly, and he had been both crushed and elated by their mixed expressions of fear and relief. Fear that he had returned. Relief that he did not look as he had before.

Finding Logan had taken more time.

Much more time.

In fact, Patton had maned the control board for ages as he and Roman dove again and again into Thomas’s subconscious to retrieve him.

In Patton and Roman’s defense, neither of them asked questions about his sudden change of heart or questioned his motives. They were good at reading people, he supposed. And he had been anything but alright with that he had just done when he came to release them. They knew he had screwed up and that he knew that. He couldn’t tell them why he had done it (it wouldn’t let him even if it was stuck inside him for now) but they were grateful either way.

But… none of them ever trusted him the same. Even Patton took months to stop flinching at any casual touches and much longer before he would hug him again. Roman was always cold.

They found Logan eventually.

And when he returned, he did not speak of the place he had been. Not once. In fact, he often acted as if it had never happened.

But he hated Virgil from that day forward and there was nothing Virgil could do about that. It had been well over a decade ago, and It only made occasional appearances, but profuse apologies afterward could not exactly erase anything it made him do.

The whole situation sucked. It sucked and that was just it.

Virgil hugged his arms to himself and pushed away from the memories. Okay. Maybe this was his punishment. This was what he deserved. Maybe if he stayed here long enough he would just get absorbed or something. He’d get pulled into Thomas’s subconscious and not have to deal with any of this. He wouldn’t keep screwing up if he was reduced to base functions. Buttons and chemicals.

That sounded super scary but…

A chill ran up his back, and Virgil froze.

Of course, it was too good to be true to think he could enjoy his nothingness alone. No, the thing had to be here too.

It had a hand made of bone, and it gently wrapped its fingers around the back of Virgil’s neck. I think we get out of here, yes.

“Not with you, dirtface,” Virgil spit, pulling away. He clamped down on the lid of the mental box he kept it in, and the hand retreated.

“Logan!” he shouted again. “Logan, please come back!” No! Wait, no that was a horrible idea. “Never mind!” he screamed, even though he knew Logan wouldn’t hear him. Logan must have figured a way out. Like last time. After all, it was Logan who found his way home before. He could do it again. “Lock the door! And I’m not joking! This isn’t even sarcasm!” A weak laugh escaped him. “For once, you freaking nerd!”

No one came. Which… was expected. Instead, It rattled on the box in its cage and Virgil hissed in pain. He gasped and crouched on the floor. “Don’t,” he managed to gritted teeth. “Leave me alone,”

I think… no.

The box cracked open and the doors rattled, and Virgil curled tighter. Maybe if he figured out how to just disappear around now he could stop this?

Logan would figure out how to get Thomas back. Yeah. It would… all be good.

They didn’t need him. Logan knew what he was doing. He always knew what he was going.

Unlike you, obviously.

Why was it that he had the resident demonic monster?

Said demonic monster sniffed at him, almost offended. Excuse you, I am a beautiful disaster.

“Screw it,” Virgil growled. He forced himself to his feet shakily and extended his hands to the sky (or whatever the heck it was above him) “Okay! Great and mighty psyche! Absorb me or whatever! Do your juice! Eat me up! I’m freaking done!” His voice and resolve cracked on the last sentence and he swallowed thickly. “...Please.”

Nothing.

Except for the chuckling demon behind his ear. No one hears you. Just me. Me and you, buddy. Two and one packages forever, yeah?

Virgil’s hands dropped to his sides, and the box burst open.

He didn’t have a chance to reply. Because, all at once, he was the one in the box, watching through his own eyes as he felt his body grow taller and thinner. Purple light shined into the darkness and revealed nothing. It chuckled and flexed Virgil’s hand. “Two times in one day, Anx? Gosh, it’s like you’re finally weak enough again. Getting weaker too. It’s… well, I mean, honestly, it’s wonderful.”

Virgil’s heart thudded in his throat. It was going to find a way out of here. And this time it wasn’t going to keep any of the sides around. It would put them all in here and throw away the key, and as soon as it figured out how to get rid of Virgil, it would do that as well.

“That sums it up nicely,” It said. “So… I guess there’s no point in monologuing or whatever villains are supposed to do. Let’s just get to it!”

It raised a hand and its finger lit with purple lightning. Slowly, it cut a line of purple light down the darkness in front of them. Satisfied, It stepped back and watched as the hole grew wider.

That would not take it back to the control room. No, It didn’t know the way and it would take awhile to find its way through the layers, but it would do it. Eventually. Just as Logan had.

Virgil gave another shove but It didn’t even respond. Despair racked claws down Virgil’s throat, and if he could, he would have cried. It closed the box tighter around Virgil and stepped through the hoop of light into an equally dark room. One layer closer to Virgil’s brothers. One layer closer to Thomas.

“Don’t move, Dracula,” said a voice.

Shock rippled down Virgil’s spine, and It spun around to face the voice, equally shocked.

And there in the darkness was a red hoop, forced open by a pair of hands. Crouched beneath those hands was a familiar form.

Forms, rather.

“Thomas!” Roman shrieked. But Thomas pushed past him into the room. Inside the hoop, both Patton and Logan were babbling and trying to get to Thomas, but the hoop was growing smaller and smaller by the second. “GET BACK HERE!”

Thomas ignored him and Virgil’s brain screamed. Every atom in him was demanded that he get Thomas away from this.

But he couldn’t.

Instead, he stood there as Thomas walked up to him, something unreadable in his eyes. “Get out of him,” Thomas hissed.

It blinked, shocked again. Thomas knew. How the heck did he know?

“Come to play with the big boys, Tommy?”

“I said, get out of him!” And then Thomas did something completely unexpected. Maybe it was because his sense of self-preservation was currently a prisoner, but Thomas rushed forward, and before anyone could react, slammed his hands into Its chest.

And shoved it back. Out and behind Virgil.

Virgil fell forward, right into his arms and Thomas caught him clumsily. Thomas’s face suddenly went white. “Oh… oh my gosh, I just…”

“The hoop…”

Roman was struggling to hold it open. He had a foot on the bottom and both hands shook as he held it. “I DON’T HAVE ALL FREAKING DAY, BOYS.”

There was a great cold swirling in the darkness that Virgil knew had been the creature inside him before now. He grabbed Thomas’s arm and scrambled toward the hoop. “Run!”

They ran. Closer and closer.

And jumped through the hoop.

The moment they were through, hands were all over them. Their voices wound together and folded in a jangling mess Virgil didn’t even bother trying to untangle, he stayed there, flopped on the floor until someone shook his shoulder. He lifted his head and noted that they were back in the control room.

Thomas. Thomas’s warmth spread from his fingertips and whatever cold still lingered, it fled from Virgil. He wanted to cry. Wasn’t that just embarrassing?

Instead, he managed a gulp. “T-thank you.”

“I don’t understand,” Roman interjected. “What the heckity heck just happened?”

Virgil blinked tiredly at the other sides. If it wasn’t for Thomas’s hand on his shoulder, he wouldn’t even be sitting up. He was so tired. But… it was a good tired. A sort of tired he had not felt in a very long time.

His eyes landed on Logan, who had That Look on his face. He got it. He finally freaking got it. He was staring at Virgil with this mix of confusion and horror and pain.

Virgil didn’t care about anything else. Logan understood. That was all he needed. He’d… he’d never thought he would.

“That wasn’t Virgil,” Logan said. His voice was very quiet, but everyone fell silent immediately.

Virgil choked.

“What do you mean?”

“He means, that was clearly not Virgil,” Thomas supplied. His hand tightened on his shoulder. He almost sounded… angry. “That thing, couldn’t you see it? It was puppeteering him. Like he was a freaking suit! And none of you noticed!”

The sides said nothing. He watched each oh no moment as it finally dawned on Patton and Roman. Guilt. Relief. More guilt.

“Thank god,” Patton breathed. “I thought… I hoped…”

Virgil tried a weak smile. “S’k…” he slurred.

Thomas pursed his lips. “No. It’s not.”

But Virgil couldn’t stay awake any longer. His head dropped to his chest and the world tunneled.

And despite all that, Virgil was happier than he had been in years.

Next Chapter

Taglist under the cut

Taglist: @Justanotherpurplebutterfly @prplzorua @michealawithana @istolelittleredshoodie @pumakittycat @tree4life25 @sunshine-goblin @anxious-but-whatever @poisonlyra @sanspie122 @itcouldbegay @thilb0burrit0 @cinquefoilelove @demonickittykat @istolelittleredshoodie @annimooz @pumakittycat @just-fic-me-up @lynlinked @tripleaaaqueer @all-the-fand0mz @nerd-in-space @five-hour-anxiety @emphoenixcat @annimooz @sea-blue-child @citygjrl @poisonlyra @datonerougecookeh @amazable01 @ana-logical @hanramz-the-fander @heracaine @sanspie122 @extreme-doodles @nose-to-meet-you @tomboyishjapan @asexual-trashbag @andy-the-anon @neon-ing @redundant-statements-for-400 @countessmissyshort @nerdgirl78 @imsotrancy2 @thestoryoferissur @soiguessthisismyusername @anotheranimeaddict @enchantingdefendorperson @thestoryoferissur @andulplex @pailettehazel

everything: @sanders-trash-4ever @istolelittleredshoodie @redundant-statements-for-400 @lilbeanblr

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blinder-secrets · 6 years

Note

What if I can’t come up with anything original to write? Is it still worth writing?

Of course it is!!!

The thing is, there’s nothing original anymore, so you shouldn’t even bother yourself with trying to achieve that. Every story, every set-up, every trope… it’s all been done before. Everything. Sure, you might occasionally strike an idea that has only been done say…. 12,000 times, meaning to your audience it seems 100% original - but it is what it is. We don’t write in a vacuum, even our “original” ideas will be a subconscious combination of similar things we’ve experienced before.

And I’m not saying you shouldn’t try to be creative; ideas that have been done before can always be refreshed and re-approached. Think about Romeo and Juliet for a minute. Basic idea: two lovers from opposing families. Done time and time again, eg. Westside story, Highschool Musical, Grease, Warm Bodies. All of them exist and all of them are enjoyed and loved, and no one cares that the structure of the plot is an exact copy. I mean, that‘s a very obnoxious example cause they’re literally rewritings of the originary text, BUT my point still stands. Ideas will be done over and over again - it doesn’t diminish peoples enjoyment of them. And tbh, people like tropes and cliches (to an extent) for a reason, cause they like knowing what to expect. It’s juicy (sometimes).

It’s very cliche but things are absolutely worth writing because its YOU writing them. That’s all it needs to be worthwhile. Yeah, maybe your plot isn’t original, but it’s still yours. No one will write it exactly how you write it. You cannot experience the world in the exact same way someone else experiences it, so naturally your writing of the world, of relationships, of atmospheres, will be interesting and different enough for the readers to engage. And if you enjoy what you’re producing - someone else will too! It really is that simple.

If we worried too much about creating 100% original concepts, there’d be no new books, no new films, no new stories at all. The entire creative world would just cease to exist.

When you’ve got an idea, write it. If, when you’re writing it you’re thinking, hmmm this feels exactly like a story I read the other week, change something. Make it an unhappy ending. Make the main character a pyromaniac. Make the love-interest a hate-interest (lol). Everything you write, and I mean e v e r y t h i n g, will have existed before - on some level or another. It’s all about mixing the pre-existing ideas and mushing them all up until you have something enjoyable (and most the time that mushing is done in your head without you even realising).

I mean, even if you somehow find an idea, a storyline, that’s NEVER EVER been heard of. Can you claim it to be original? Because you will have been inspired by hundreds of things without even realising, and those things leave their little marks on your subconscious - and therefore on your writing. Every second we exist we’re absorbing details from the world around us, so any story we create is a product of that. But that’s getting very theoretical.

TDLR: The goal when writing shouldn’t be to create something original; it should be to create something engaging, something emotional, something thought provoking. Originality is a myth and no-one can ever claim it - if they do they’re lying.

Hope this soothes you!! Write write write!!!

#writing tips

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angiejoywrites · 3 years

Text

my social media experiment

Welp, here we are. I’ve been on a journey the last few weeks, one that has held significant meaning to me, and I’d like to share it with you. This is a conversation I feel needs to be had, has not been had often enough, and is worth our time and critical thinking. I’m calling it my social (media) experiment, because, though it has been about social media, on a very obvious and practical level, it has been about so many other things at the same time. I desire all of life to grow and shape me, pulling and gleaning out of each experience that which it has to offer. This has been an intentional abstinence, therefore I’m thinking intentionally about its implications. So often in life, we do things by rote or habit, simply because we’ve gotten used to doing them, without much forethought or ongoing thought about whether we want something as part of our Iives, and frankly, whether it is doing us any good.

This is the season of Lent, a time when many people abstain from or add something to their routine in an effort to connect more fully with God, as a way to reflect on and participate, in some small way, the death of Jesus by the cross. We want to know, in some deeper sense, what it means that God gave His life for us, recognizing there was a significant sacrifice being given through Jesus’ life and death. Lent has been the season leading up to Easter that Christians have, for centuries old, turned and quieted their hearts to the divine.

This year during this season, I’ve sought this end, in part, by turning off the social media. I use Facebook the most, but my other socials I’ve turned off as well. I’ve checked it a handful of times throughout Lent, about once a week. I would say I’ve used social medial pretty consistently for many years now, with no significant breaks in use. First off, let me just say, there is nothing particularly heroic or noteworthy about this action. I fully realize this there are much bigger “fish to fry” in our world and whether or not I’m using social media doesn’t matter to anyone else as much as it does to me. But I want to share what I’ve learned throughout this process and what I feel is worth our examination. Social media has become so ubiquitous in our culture, we can scarcely imagine our lives without it. Something that ingrained is worthy of some consideration, in my view. Much could be said, from a number of perspectives. My aim here is for us to THINK. To think maybe just a little bit more critically about how we use these tools. I’m processing as I write, and speaking to myself as much as anyone else. I’ve thought about many of these ideas before, but having had this concerted period of time to unplug, it’s brought much of it to a head for me, and solicited realizations I knew to be true.

I intend for this to a conversation; ongoing, nuanced, multi-faceted. I am not attempting to explore this topic from every angle and perspective; that could be an entire book. This is just a beginning point, and hopefully a point of reflection for you as well. As I’ve heard said before, take what serves you. Leave the rest.

So, some initial reflections.

It’s hard to believe, I know, but this entire time, the world kept moving. The earth kept spinning, the days turned into weeks, and nothing fell apart because I wasn’t online. People continued to lead their lives and so did I. Social media has instilled many false beliefs in us, one of which is that we will miss something monumental if we aren’t online constantly. That whole FOMO (fear of missing out) business. Do I really need to know where you went to dinner tonight? Do you care about what I did today? No, not really. Maybe if you’re my mother, but if you’re anyone else, you don’t care. You may like me, or not. We have some level of connection, or knew each other at some point in this life, or whatever the case may be. But chances are, very few people on your social media friend list are people you interact with in real time, face-to-face, on a regular basis. Somehow we just used to have friends and family, some near and some far. And those we were closest to, we found ways to connect with in meaningful ways.

I truly do believe social media has lied to us. It’s all supposed to be about connection, right? But we believe the falsehood that we are more connected, better connected, more apprised of life and the world at large through these mediums. It’s told us we can discover something meaningful and lasting through a screen and a photo. We’ve gotten so used to thinking it’s better to share our lives on this bigger scale, for more people to see and absorb. But why? Is it truly a better way, than, say, sitting across from someone in honest conversation? True connection engenders a sense of being seen, known and loved for who we are, in this place and time. Real relationships with people who love us and who we love remind us that we are valuable and worthy of attention, simply because we are. Does social media give us this? It cannot. It’s a counterfeit of authentic connection. We seek to belong, but then it only tells us our worth is somehow tied up with how well we are liked on social media.

Online life is strictly two-dimensional; it cannot, by its nature, be three-dimensional. Flesh and blood, human beings in our path, across our table, have depth and complexity, nuance and breadth. Emotions. Faces. Smiles. An online presence allows us to be only who we want to portray, leaving out the difficult or messy parts of us, if we so choose. We can spend inordinate amounts of time perfecting our persona, showcasing a certain angle or view of ourselves that others might admire or, dare I say, even want to emulate? Maybe we truly desire to share our lives with others; the issue here, though, becomes the overwhelming tendency for comparison, inadequacy, jealousy, and self-doubt to fix us in a stranglehold with this mess. Unconsciously, we see other people’s lives, perfect or not, and are convinced we are not measuring up to some invisible standard. It’s a lie. It tells us that we are going to lose out in some way if we are not constantly engaged. It tells us that we aren’t enough, in all the ways one can be “enough.” Plenty of research has been and continues to be done on the mental health effects of social media. Anxiety, depression, inadequacy, bullying, suicidal thoughts are all correlated and connected to the use of these platforms, because they present life as a caricature. Real life people get all out of sorts and mixed up in their heads because they are trying to do the impossible, confused about reality and their own adequacy in the face of all the stimulation and veneer of what they are seeing.

Here’s the piece that makes me a little crazy when I stop and think about it. It’s what is always under the surface, what we know at our gut levels, but no one wants to say. Social media tells us quantity is more important than quality. This junk is ADDICTING. They’ve studied this stuff (you know, those researcher people) and our phones and news feeds have the same effect on our brains as any other short-term gratification does. Our brains are instantly sated by seeing new information, and the more we get that tiny “high,” the more we want it again, more often, on repeat, until we think we need it constantly. New stimuli, again and again, and we have rewired our brains to expect our fix on the regular. Yes, this sounds like what a drug does, and in fact, it is the same process. Who do we use the term user for? A user of technology, and drug users. (Watch the documentary The Social Dilemma to really mess with your thinking about this stuff). Here’s the problem. We might say we are using technology, or using social media. But if we can be honest, it is using us. We are under its thumb. The computer knows what you like, who you like and who you don’t, what you spend your time looking for, and how to get you to keep coming back.

The thing is, I don’t want anything or anyone else to control and manage who I am, what I do, and how I spend my time. In effect, we’ve given ourselves over to our devices, especially social media, and basically willingly. It’s been such a subconscious process, we don’t even know how we got here. Like the frog sitting in the pot with ever increasingly hot water, we’ve adopted these practices as they’ve come about over the years, and as each new technology comes along, we simply adapt a little further down the line, hardly giving it a second thought. Part of what’s happened, and another way our brains have changed through all of this use, is that when we are bored, or without a specific task in a given moment, we have come to need instantaneous distraction and stimulation. Again, this is our addicted brains telling us we need input at all times. If it’s not simple distraction, we think we need entertainment, or to stay “caught up” with the larger worlds. This is to our detriment; because of all this, we’ve lost capacity for stillness, quiet, conflict, creativity, imagination, and growth. We stagnate and atrophy in our physical worlds, in our ability to develop deep, true connections, in our ability to seek out and develop new skills and talents. If we don’t know how to sit with ten minutes of idle time without being distracted and entertained, how can we let our minds go to new places, dream new dreams, hope new hopes? How can we find time to come together with others in understanding, collaboration, seeking to know one another better? Are we even seeking new physical relationships when we think we are so connected online? How do we enjoy the natural world and truly see the physical people around us when our minds are so caught up in not missing out on something online, in comparing ourselves to others, in grasping for a false sense of connection in is inherently superficial and fake?

And then, there is the very real and obvious issue of time itself. The amount of time we are spending on our devices, especially social media, is pretty staggering. You can google this one. In a very practical sense, we are literally giving away our time to our devices. Our one commodity we can never get back is time. We throw it away, like there is always more tomorrow. This is it, man. Your one beautiful life. The thing is, you really do have choice in this matter. No one is telling you how to spend your days but you. You can be intentional, about all your decisions, about all your moments. This includes how much time we spend on a device, of any kind, for any purpose. Think about it. Don’t just passively consume, inhaling all of this without counting the cost. What do you really want? What is important and matters most to you?

These are the kinds of questions that come to mind when thinking about this issue.

Does the good outweigh the bad? Of course, there are positive and negative elements of most things in this world. For this, is it worth it? For you as an individual, and for our larger society? We’ve all seen atrocious ways social media has been used for lots of evil, and caused lots of harm; I’m just not convinced that has no bearing.

Internally, is it doing us any good, in the short and long-terms? Is it life-giving? How do you feel emotionally after being on social media? Peaceful, anxious, happy, stressed? I believe all our decisions should be filtered through this lens. What is accomplished by me doing this action, participating in this activity? The practices of my life - are they helping me become the person I want to be? And who is that? Are we becoming kinder, more empathetic and compassionate? How does using social media, and all that we see and consume there, affect the person I am today and that I want to keep becoming?

I just can’t shake the feeling we’ve been duped. Lots of forces are involved that don’t give a rip about you or me, or anyone else. They mostly care about money; we know this if we’re honest. Maybe we could just take back our lives. Instead of watching other people live their lives, just go live yours. Maybe stop worrying so much about what is happening on the other side of a computer screen, and get outside of yourself. Have coffee with a friend. Invite someone new or old to dinner. Invest in real relationships in your real world. Find a new way to get out of your comfort zone and interact with people different than you. Serve someone in a new way. These are the things that really change us.

Take back your time and your space. Just say NO. It really is up to you. It has to be, or it’s no longer your life.

This season has been really refreshing for me. I’ve read more, thought more, explored more. I’ve had pockets of time to dream and consider what might be, where I want to go in my life. I’ve gotten outside every chance I’ve gotten and just breathed in the fresh air. I think our eyes are tired. Tired of looking at a tiny rectangle. Tired of us looking down instead of up and out. Let’s open our eyes. Look at the world and the people around you. Life has more to offer us. It is more simple and pure than we often make it. It’s more beautiful and joyful than we allow it to be. The world is complex and messy, unspeakably lovely and unbelievably fractured. But it is real, and it is true. And we are alive. Today, in this moment. Let’s go live in it.

#social media #thisisyourlife

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gurguliare · 6 years

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pls...if you so desire, write kurapika's feelings about committing violent acts

Of course his dreams pretended that his family was alive. He would fall asleep in a new place or in a place he hadn’t visited in some time, a safe house maybe, and then? His mother would shake him awake as roughly as she ever had (not knowing her own strength, she claimed). She’d look at him askance—what have you done to yourself!—and begin to smile. His mother had no sense of humor when she fought and a good one after winning. In the dream his eyes were red and that was why she laughed, although before when his eyes turned red she was always concerned, even if it happened for no reason. But that had to why she was laughing, because otherwise it would have been because he had thought she was dead; and if he had made such a mistake he couldn’t bear for her to know. His face was hot around his eyes and out to his hairline; his hair prickled like he could feel it growing.

She dragged him out to the garden, where spring was at its height. There his father hung laundry, and Grandfather sat listening to him discourse on the planting, bemused, as even the elders occasionally were, by how slowly and meaningfully his father could talk about nothing. And Pairo was there, running his fingers between the morning-dried linens; when no one was looking pulling a sheet over his head. From inside that cowl he stared straight at Kurapika—he saw better in low light—and mouthed, Why are you still here?

Because he had been supposed to go away, to the outer world. But only he and Pairo knew that.

All throughout Kurapika felt his mother’s hand in his, tightening proudly. In the end he woke up clutching both hands together, so tightly his pulse seemed to swell through the bone. He should have let go then. But he forgot, and kept his palms together, emptying out the memory of the gesture, and leaving just his painful, thoughtless grip.

And then sometimes it was one person who survived: it was his father, in a harness that strangely restricted his movements, what Kurapika finally understood was a spider’s web. It was his mother, blinded but alive, begging and then ordering him severely to return her eyes. Sometimes Sheila led him to their secret cave, where she had hidden the whole clan when the spiders came, remembering how he and Pairo had helped her, and wanting to return the favor—although she herself was a spider, she had defected, the dream explained—and he would go there in dread, knowing somehow they were dead, and she was lying, and they were dead, and there in the cavern they were, tired and frightened, and Grandfather took him by the hand and said, the book saved us, which was wrong. It was so wrong that that should be true, what he had hoped for—then he wanted to cry, when he woke up, he was that ashamed to have been taken in.

He wasn’t prepared to have dreams in which Uvogin, too, was alive—unconditionally returned. His enemy appeared first in the good dreams of home, with the other dead. Uvogin stopped him on the path to school. Uvogin towered over him, because he was home again and a child, but that didn’t prevent the brute from tossing him around like a doll. Kurapika would scramble, dodge, roll, but it was pointless, marking time until Uvogin’s fist caught up; it felt literally like he was dancing, counting dully in his head, until big fingers pinched his leg and flung him into the air.

“Is there something you can do to stop me dreaming?” he asked Senritsu, once, on stakeout. She paused in the act of transferring a handful of french fries to her open mouth—she liked to bite into five or six at a time, a habit totally unknowable to Kurapika—and he had enough time to reevaluate that he added, “Or give me only pleasant dreams. I understand that dreaming has health benefits.”

She hesitated longer, and, with a sigh, eased the fries back into the cup. “Have you been having nightmares?”

“Why, do I not look tired?”

“Oh, you do. —Oh!” She rolled her eyes and helped herself to a fry after all, in lieu of any apology; after a second, he let himself smile. “But… your heart… lately, when you sleep, it’s sounded happy. All afternoon, I remember, it was going like a drum.”

They had napped in a motel room before setting up camp outside the significantly more luxurious hotel where his targets, at some point tonight, would materialize for the sale. Although probably she could hear and interpret his heart from the far side of the Nostrade mansion. “So I was excited,” he said. “That doesn’t mean I was happy.”

Senritsu, sobering, said, “Doesn’t it? You like when you lose control. It’s a comfort to know you can. It proves that what happened, happened.”

“In a dream, whatever happens didn’t happen,” Kurapika pointed out.

“That’s not always true. Don’t you ever have dreams that use your memories?”

“Yes. They’re inaccurate.”

Senritsu shrugged and started to crank her seat back. “I didn’t mean that, anyway. You were happy. Like a great burden had been lifted from your shoulders, and your heart was as light as the rest of you. I said a drum, but what I mean is—an open sound.” She held up her fingers in a diamond, and jerked them apart. “Boom boom boom boom.” Then she did her usual conductor’s twirl, which he found comforting, since it at least simulated professional expertise. Unlike boom boom boom.

“There!” said Senritsu, sitting up straight (and getting tangled in her seatbelt). “By the pool. No—he’s getting into the hot tub.”

Kurapika, already out of the car, didn’t stop to ask her what a hot tub’s aural signature was. But he thought about it, while restraining the seller, and then waiting for and tying up the would-be buyer, and commencing negotiations.

In the end he came away with an address and verification of one of the photographs he had purchasedonline. Senritsu used her Nen ability to calm both distressed parties, and from the parking lot, Kurapika called the hotel to alert them, anonymously, to possible intruders. On the drive out of the city, Senritsu said, “Yes, I think I could guarantee you a good dream.”

Kurapika had still been wondering vaguely about the hot tub. It took him a moment to recall the substance of their earlier conversation.

“But,” she said, adjusting her neck rest, “it’s more complicated than that. The music that I play to curb your rage is essentially a constructed environment, tailored to… well, it’s an interesting question, isn’t it? I’m not a Manipulator. I can’t force you to see anything. When I extend my aura to you, it responds to your goals as well as mine. So your mind converts a sense of strength and control into an image… in your case, I remember, we were in a forest.

“That’s the image your conscious mind associates with calm. If, however, I projected my aura with the embedded command, ‘be happy,’ and your subconscious absorbed that into the dream, who knows what would occur?”

“I see,” lied Kurapika. “It doesn’t sound like such a good idea, in that case. Forget I mentioned it.”

Senritsu hummed. “Very well.”

“…‘But’?”

“But it’s an interesting application. It had never occurred to me to try to soothe someone already asleep.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “Also, it would be a way for you to confirm what I’ve already told you: if I’m right, your dreams under the influence of this technique will be similar to those you’ve been experiencing on your own. It wouldn’t take long. When we stop for the night…?”

“You mean ‘for the day,’” said Kurapika, nodding vaguely at the grey line of dawn.

So in the end he lay down, at the safe house, on a futon slightly younger than he was, and Senritsu unpacked her flute. By now the light was strong, though it still cut almost horizontally—overhead, in fact, for someone flat on the low bed. But it unrolled a stripe of yellow against her cheek, her chin in the shade even weaker than usual: he had a fleeting, distant intuition as to how much he valued her, but it was like evaluating the relationship between two strangers, and what he really felt was impatience, mirrored in her sleepy eyes. She lifted the flute at some distance from her head, as if offering it to someone else, and then brought it to her lips and began to play.

He fell asleep almost immediately, though he had been afraid that, between excitement and disappointment, he would be too keyed-up to rest at all. Nothing was as bitter to him as failing to sleep; an hour of his life lost for every second of strength was bad, but how much worse—an hour lost every hour? And although he, perforce, found Senritsu’s music calming, he had always thought that part of that effect was because it demanded complete attention: whether because of her talent, or the magnetism of her aura, he wanted to map the sound as he heard it—it was around the edges of that compulsion that the meadow, the forest, bloomed up. But how to fall asleep while paying attention?

However he did it, it was easy: one moment awake, worrying about whether he would sleep, and then slipping successively downward, it seemed—it never went dark, he never wasn’t watching, but suddenly he rose, without weight, feeling unusually as if leaving his body behind—not forever, but in bursts, his will plunging ahead and dream-body following—he was at the door. He fully expected, on the other side, a meadow. In his heart he had believed that the calm afforded him in that space was happiness, of the kind Senritsu offered: he remembered his gratitude, the first time she showed her power, and kept him from killing Uvogin too soon.

He opened the door. It was night. The moon glowed red over the canyon.

From across his knuckles, the chain jerked. Uvogin struggled and roared, but was punctilious enough about testing Kurapika’s creation—a better assurance of quality than Kurapika could have asked for. And now, because this was the promised happy dream, he felt each lurch with a shudder of terror, waiting for the scene to change. He remembered all of his waking life and—he believed—all his dreams, he had “access” to a whole world, and a world he controlled: he remembered choices, one after another, as freely made and desperate in life as in his dreams. Because nothing compared to the urgency of his dreams, so that was the standard to measure by. Here.

He walked closer. Uvogin’s bared teeth were enormous, but otherwise, he had a human face, for all the fur and spittle. Happiness? He wasn’t happy. Satisfied, vigilant, growing nauseous—but Uvogin wouldn’t talk. Maybe in this dream the man would answer.

He shot the Judgment Chain into Uvogin’s heart. Uvogin screamed, and the chains snapped.

Kurapika flung himself to the ground. Stupid: it was a child’s instinct, hearing thunder. Uvogin ran forward, silent, and Kurapika clapped his hands over his ears. The blade of the chain was still in Uvogin’s chest and the broken length of chain trailed down; just as they both noticed, Uvogin tripped.

It took him a long time to fall, and his landing did shake the ground. Then he lay still. There were dust clouds. Kurapika didn’t try to get up. I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, he thought, still nauseous, and heavy with horror at his own futile relief: as without sound Uvogin raised his head up, and looked back.

#Anonymous #no one expects the fannish inquisition #hxh #not... the world's most nuanced meta on this subject

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redditnosleep · 7 years

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I’m Listening

by Cymoril_Melnibone

“A good listener” was the most enduring phrase on my school report cards. I was quiet, punctual and obedient. Many of the teachers largely forgot about my presence in the classroom, since I caused no trouble. It’s ironic, that this recurring summation of my character missed something. Certainly I was a good listener, but only because that allowed me to be a much better observer; specifically of other people, and mostly without them even noticing. If anyone had bothered to ask, I could have listed every habit of Kari Pearson, the girl who sat two desks away, or provided a comprehensive psychological profile of my teacher, Mrs Rawlins – although that would have been very much from a child’s perspective. After I left highschool, I started studying to become a psychologist. I must confess, my choice of study was an exercise in academic curiosity right from the start, rather than being born of any great desire to help people. You can’t observe humankind as keenly as I already had without realising how nasty and self-absorbed most of us are. I wasn’t sure that any amount of analysis was going to solve that problem. But as I honed my skills of observation to a wicked edge, I noticed him.

If you’ve ever tried not to be noticed, you’ll know how difficult it is. You try to quiet your breathing, stop fidgeting, and keep your eyes down, so that nobody around you has that prickly feeling of being watched. But where most people go wrong is by trying to hide, rather than simply staying unnoticed – and these are very different things. Hiding is active, not passive, and best done behind or beneath something, where only sound or movement will really give you away. The key to not being noticed is to be so ordinary that other people’s minds skip right over you. I describe my jacket as not quite grey. Perhaps it’s faintly brown, or perhaps it’s vaguely blue; in different lights, it seems to shift, to reflect the surroundings. The cut is somewhere between blazer and business, but truly neither. With it goes a blouse that is a lighter grey, with a hint of cream – but not pale enough to draw the eye. My knee-length skirt is the same colour as the jacket, and my shoes are flat and serviceable. This nondescript ensemble, combined with shoulder-length brown hair, glasses with gunmetal frames and a naturally forgettable face, allowed me to feel that I had mastered the art of blending in. I bought coffee every day at the same café, and the barista always asked for my name. My doctor had to remind himself who I was whenever I visited, flipping through my short file. Other students barely registered my presence, and I didn’t have any friends – but that suited me fine. I knew everything about my peers already, picking up the nuances of their personalities when they thought they were unobserved. And that left me with little desire to become closer to any of them. In an odd way, I felt I was more connected to humanity than anyone else around me, almost overloaded with the sheer amount of social and emotional information that saturated the air. I wondered sometimes if this was how a telepath would feel – except instead of social cues, it would be direct thoughts, constantly bombarding you, with no ability to shut them out. Indeed, if I observed someone long enough, I could even begin to predict their behaviour, even their speech patterns to a point where I could mouth their responses to myself, with enough accuracy that it would probably scare people. So I kept that to myself. Sometimes I sought out more isolated places, but there are few of those within the churn of an overcrowded city. Mostly I found solace in my invisibility.

As I said, not being noticed is an artform of carefully curated banality, of doing things so predictably ordinary that other people simply don’t register you. People are bad at remaining unobserved because at the most primitive level they want to be noticed. The ego, whether large or small, needs attention from fellow primates – it’s so instinctive that you’re not even aware of it. You want to make a mark on the world. You want to leave it changed for everyone else, simply because you exist. Our monkey brains are constantly screaming ‘I was here’ into the void. When you sit in a café, nursing your chai-spiced-whatever or your double-cream something, you hope that you’re drinking it in a way that makes you look cool to the redhead near the counter. You chose that particular beverage only because you think it’s a little bit unique. And that might make you special somehow; maybe just a little bit better than the other people around you. Your shoes are red – you’ve forgotten you’re wearing them – but you didn’t choose them because they are comfortable or durable. You chose them because you think they look good, that they make a statement, they complement and/or enhance some other feature or item of clothing. I digress, but my point is this: everyone wants to be noticed a little bit. Everyone wants to be remembered. So when I noticed the man, it was during one of those very rare moments when his absorbed humanity betrayed him. It must have only been for an instant, and not really long enough to register anywhere but in my subconscious. I left the café, still processing everything I had seen, mentally making notes as I always did. When I got home I liked to catalogue things digitally, to type up my thoughts about people, to assist me in my analysis of humankind. My fingers faltered on the keyboard as I almost remembered something, then instantly lost the thread. Reading back, I followed the chain, then my mind stumbled for an instant, as though there was a tiny gap in the train of thought – like a half-remembered smell or colour from childhood. Concentrating, I forced a more detailed replay; remembering the chatter as I observed the café – two teenage boys talking excitedly about a computer game, one clearly lying about his exploits, the other doubting him but not wanting to challenge his friend, and then… In my mind’s eye, I saw it. It was the silhouette of a man, sitting at one of the tables, but colourless and two dimensional. He wore a hat and a suit jacket, but I could discern no other details. A flat man, so non-existent, so unnoticeable that even my carefully trained senses couldn’t register him completely. A frisson of excitement tinged with fear thrilled up my spine. I had to find out who he was. What he was.

I watched and I waited, surreptitiously scanning the café while remaining as banal and uninteresting as I could. I went back day after day, hoping to see him again, to catch a glimpse of the flat man. As weeks rolled past and I couldn’t find him, I began to doubt myself. Perhaps it was an anomalous memory, some minor glitch in my brain? No, I knew I had seen something. Other possibilities presented themselves as I aimlessly scanned a newspaper, turning the pages at just the right speed and volume to draw neither positive nor negative attention. What if he had noticed me noticing him? After all, he was clearly much, much better at this than I was. Perhaps he had simply stopped coming to the café – had decided to move on rather than risk discovery. And if he was gone, if he had moved on, I would probably never see him again in my life. Nobody that good at hiding in plain sight could be chanced upon randomly. Or was he so good at being socially invisible that he was here, right now, but even I couldn’t detect him? And then it hit me, with such obviousness and clarity that I almost laughed. No matter how good he was at hiding from human eyes, surely the man couldn’t escape cameras. My phone was on the table, an essential tool for blending in. Neither a new model nor an old one, it had the default sounds, the default screens and the default apps. I didn’t take photos often and I fumbled with the settings until I found the panorama shot. Lifting the phone, I dragged it through the air, getting as much of the café in the shot as possible. Predictably, a couple of people felt the gaze of lens pass over them; postures changed, faces subconsciously rearranged themselves. But they were not noticing me. They were noticing themselves being noticed, immortalised. I closed the camera app and left the café. If the flat man was there, surely I would have caught him. Back at home, I pulled the image up on my laptop. The details of the café were crisp and bright, humans caught like statues mid-mouthful or halfway through the bathroom door, those few faces turned towards the camera. It was a large, metropolitan café, often boasting fifty customers at a time, so looking through the image was like trying to solve one of those ‘Where’s Wally’ posters on the roof of your dentist’s office. But this Wally was one you had never seen before. I knew all the regulars, so I quickly discounted them, moving on to the people who were new or infrequent customers. Each was ordinary in their specialness, none of them betraying any hint they might be my flat man. As I pored over every pixel, growing increasingly frustrated, I realised that this was less a Wally picture than one of those Magic Eye images that were so popular in the 90s. Scrolling around, I let my mind unfocus, not seeing the individual shapes as people and faces, but rather perceiving them as just colours and edges, a generalised mass disconnected from their humanity. And there he was. It wasn’t like those sci-fi movies with poorly done CGI, where the person is ‘invisible’ but the digital distortion betrays them. It was more like very skilled body-art, the subject painted to so perfectly resemble a tree or a supermarket shelf that’s it’s invisible unless you know what you’re looking at. He blended so perfectly, so unobtrusively, that it defied nature. My nape prickled. Worst of all, he had been sitting right behind me. And I hadn’t had the faintest idea he was there.

“I know you’re behind me,” I said quietly, my voice pitched within that range that’s hard to hear in a busy place unless you’re right next to someone, “And I want to talk to you.” I didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary, but when I next blinked, he was there, sitting across from me in the booth. Even knowing he was there, my eyes still slid right off him, as though he were made of perceptual Teflon. His hat and suit might have been grey, or they might have been tan – even the memories seem slippery, elusive. His features were a nothing; two eyes, a nose and a mouth, and a suggestion of stubble, but all so ordinary that they refused to imprint as a definitive face in my mind. He didn’t speak at first, he just smiled, his teeth neither straight nor crooked. “Come with me,” he said, his voice barely crossing the space between us, unheard by anyone else. He didn’t seem to walk so much as slide. It was so hard to keep track of him, even when aware of his presence. There was an impression that he walked, but I couldn’t tell you if his legs actually moved, how fast or slow, how tall he was, his build, nothing. My eyes began to water as I followed him out into the street; if I blinked, I’d lose him. As people closed around us, he wavered and slipped out of existence, only reappearing when I focused so hard it made my temples ache. My headache grew as I followed him down one street, then another. I would swear his clothing changed several times, merging seamlessly with the feel of each suburb; always so perfectly ordinary for the particular surroundings that he was practically a piece of the architecture. With every ounce of my keen powers of observation concentrated on tracking him, I realised I was suddenly lost, in an utterly unfamiliar part of the city. Which was impossible, because we’d walked less than two blocks from the café. The man still moved ahead, between two buildings. I hurried to catch him, stepping around the corner. And in an instant, I was no longer in the bustling, overcrowded city. I stood in a forest of towering trees, echoing with eerie birdsong not heard for a hundred years or more.

He did not blend here. Unnatural in the green paradise, the man stood out starkly, his pale features, city coat and hat completely wrong in the rustling woodland. “Where are we?” I asked, spinning to see only gargantuan tree trunks in every direction, a distant glimpse of bright sky through the dense canopy of leaves far above us. “A sanctuary. One I created.” “How did we get here? How far did we travel?” “We didn’t. This place has been here for fifty years, right inside the city.” I stared at him, bemused. “How?” He smiled that ordinary smile again, bowing his head slightly, “People simply don’t notice it, just as they don’t notice me. It bends their thoughts away, makes their feet take them in another direction. Somewhere that is less boring, where they will be seen and remembered. Somewhere that will cater to their ego and their desires.” “It’s beautiful – breathtaking even – but why is it here?” “To preserve the best of your world.” And as he spoke those words, the mantle of his carefully practised humanity slipped away. The being in front of me had skin as as grey as its previous persona, so matte and uniform that the light didn’t bounce off it quite right. There were too many forelimbs, with too many joints. Where there should have been legs, a mass of red, fungus-like fronds undulated obscenely, churning the leaf-mould. I smelled the ancient and the new, all at once. “There are many worlds like yours,” it warbled, as I stumbled blindly away, through the trees, “too many to count.” A red mouth followed me, massive as a sea-cave and bristling scarlet, coral-like structures, as the thing flowed effortlessly over the forest floor. “Most of them we don’t reach in time. An indigenous species can destroy so much in such a short span of ages. Once consciousness develops, it seems to be only a matter of time.” I vaulted a stream, the water so clear it was almost invisible. Stumbling and scrambling desperately up the opposite bank, my grey skirt was splattered with moss and mud. Those oblivion-grey arms reached for me, their star-shaped fingers filled with tiny red suckers. “And your species is especially bad.” As the alien hands closed around my wrists and ankles, lifting me effortlessly into the air, I whimpered – a pathetic, selfish sound. “I’m not going to kill you,” the nightmarish mouth said. “Then what do you want from me?” “I want to offer you a job.”

The café is quiet, and a man sits across from me in a neat grey suit, not quite fashionable, but not quite out of date. He can’t see me; he doesn’t even register I’m there. He’s too caught up in the feedback loop his cellphone has trapped him in, yearning for little red or orange icons to scratch the constant itch in the reward centre of his brain. As the world shrinks, humanity slowly caged by the growing ecological sanctuaries until only a single city is left, nobody will notice. Like flies caught in an elaborately spun web of alien technology and psychological trickery, insects don’t realise when they’ve been ensnared until it’s far too late. Your selfish egos will remain completely fulfilled, and the walls of the zoo will be invisible. But there are other places that need our services when we are done here – too many, in fact. Most of you won’t even notice the title of this story, caught up in your scrolling and need for self-fulfilment. Fewer still will read it, and of those that do, most will forget about it in a day, or a week. But a handful of people – maybe only one or two, will remember it forever. And to you few; when you feel your eyes slide off something when you’re sitting in a café, paying attention not to yourself, but to the others around you, say something. I’ll be listening.

#creepy #horror story #author: Cymoril_Melnibone

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