f2020 | THE FRACTURED WORLD: ARRIVAL

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THE FRACTURED WORLD: ARRIVAL

rrival for some goes all but unnoticed. It's a sudden shiver, the sensation of being watched... and then nothing at all. Life continues serenely as it always has. The only indication of any change comes with sleep, wrapped in dreams: vague and distant echo imagery of another life, melting away in the morning.

or others, arrival is a sharp jolt. In the space of a single blink, they find themselves in an unfamiliar world, surrounded by the trappings of a life they have not lived. They are replacements, spirits taking possession of bodies belonging to people very much like themselves...

nd for the rest, arrival is a procedure. Routine. Those ported in to the Fractured World wake hazily in the comfortably dim light of the Porter room, laid out on an exam table. Their wounds, if they remember having any, have been healed— and even those who remember their own deaths find themselves miraculously restored. As they regain consciousness, an automatic audio-visual presentation is triggered. Regardless of their backgrounds or physiology, all imPorts 'see' and 'hear' this message as if in their own language:

"Greetings, imPort."

The voice is calm and gently authoritative, almost certainly selected by committee.

"On behalf of the Synod and all imPorts it represents, we welcome you to the planet Earth."

A decidedly non-humanoid robotic arm holds out a palm-sized device and rather insistently demands the new arrival take it. This is the imPort's comm, used for accessing the Porter's database of information, as well as the communications Network— though it won't receive communications from outside the Porter building until carried through one of the many Gates set up in a long, crescent-shaped array on the far side of the room.

As each Gate is approached, information about the faction it leads to flashes up on the comm device's screen. Which will you choose?

THE WHITE TOWER SANCTUM AURORAE KRAKOA HOUSE OF M EMPIRE OF LIGHT EQUALITY BEFORE LAW THE TWIN CITIES OLIN VALE EDEN SEEKERS OF THE NEW DAWN NORTHWESTERN IMPERIUM GREEN PIECE MAD BURNISH LUMINARY

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( Stark is good at stretching seconds. Data travels faster than the human mind has any right to be capable of processing, but he can watch from all corners of the event and still possess the wherewithal to return that quick smirk. To rest an idle hand on Stephen's arm, mindful of that persnickety garment -and if there's anything possessive edging the friendly, flirtatious gesture, well, he's not responsible for other people's impressions of him, now is he? )

Not you, I know. Sorcerers are above petty human emotion. ( Because he'd rather keep pushing off last weekend's offenses, he'll go one further: )

Do you have plans outside of basking in the warmth of my presence?

Edited (it needed more ig!) 2020-09-11 22:13 (UTC)

[Fortunately for Tony, fickle as the Cloak of Levitation can get, it generally only whaps when subtly directed, like when magical relics get used as billionaire idiots' propping up points. That, of course, is something Tony doesn't remember and not because it's so long ago that it's a distant memory--it's just a memory that had not existed for him yet, may never exist at all. One of the many, many tricky things to balance when dealing with Tony.

Then again, the Cloak has thwapped at plenty of other things over the years--tablets, hands, hats. Petty responses to petty irritations, mainly; no-one ever said a Sorcerer Supreme had to be mature all the time, especially when dealing with anyone unwilling to step up a level.

The wandering touch does gain a slow, downward glance and a very subtle tensing in Stephen's jaw, a carefully managed swallow. It's all about the mirco-responses.]

It's the whole elevated state of being thing and realising feelings are pretty much superfluous.

But basking in your warmth makes it sound like you think I'm some kind of lizard.

[His attention returns to Tony's face, irritatingly impassive and unreadable, very much the well-worn mask.]

But my plans? Those haven't changed. I'm here to greet new arrivals and keep an eye out in case I need to run damage control. Real damage control. I'm not hear to smile for the cameras, I'm not here to give The White Tower a shining review, and I'm not here to commend the future vision of the group. I'm sure you're PR team is working overtime to wipe any trace of my scowls off the network as we speak.

( Listening, disagreeing- I was thinking cat, honestly -Stark lets Stephen get through his measured spiel, unable, unwilling, to halt the quirk rising at the corner of his mouth. There are some things one can be certain of in the universe: the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, the earth orbits the sun and, as always, Dr. Strange hates these events almost as much as Stark enjoys them.

Offering a single shrug, closing his fingers now lightly over Stephen's arm, Stark drags his thumb in a slow path up the richly decorated fabric, feeling the firm bicep beneath, suggestion enough until he adds, dry and matter of fact: )

I can think of another reason to wipe them away.

[A few years ago, Stephen could have said with absolute confidence that the famous Stark Charms had not been effective on him and that Tony was as much the irritating, arrogant, know-it-all, entitled jackass that Stephen had briefly experienced amidst the various preparations for and battles against Thanos.

Fortunately or unfortunately, that didn't last and it's probably for the best that he didn't verbalise the ever-lasting state of his resistance to Tony's advances because that sure as hell wouldn't have aged well. It's also, incidentally, one of the reasons he finds Synod season especially fraught.

And given that alcohol-assisted trysts in diplomatic get-togethers aren't really something to discuss outside of that particular instance (what happens at Synod stays at Synod), arguably it's just another elephant in the room. Maybe there's actually a whole herd of pachyderms at this point.

It's sort of maddening how something incredibly small can set off a whole load of chain reactions--feelings, responses, memories. The memories, honestly, are the worst; ones that exist and ones that may yet exist.

Q.E.D, Tony is still a jackass. The lowered tone of Stephen's voice and the narrowing of his eyes is a warning.]

Stark. I'm not playing games here. You know this can't sustain itself.

[My elephant can fight your elephant.]

( Last week, he might have smiled, had something witty and disarming chambered just for this occasion. Of course it will; of course this will all go on, all of it. The Porter will run through the next Synod and the next and after that, the monthly galas will continue, the White Tower will remain with Stark at its head, on and on.

This week... for a moment, the easy cheer is gone. Behind the light in his dark eyes, there's something hollow, something haunted, something trapped. He offers a sniff, tilting his chin up in arrogant defiance. )

Tell me something I don't know, Doctor. ( Stark slides in beside him until they're hip to hip, thigh to thigh, champagne and vetiver, low and soft: )

Enjoy it while it lasts.

[Battles of will are something Stephen is pretty accustomed to at this point, just not in this particular form. It's a question what is going to hold out more.

Stephen's back straightens, a cool glower fixed firmly on Tony's face.]

Enjoy what while it lasts, exactly? [Uh oh. Irritated low-volume outburst. Not good. Abort. Abort. Too late, leaning in to continue with the angry hissing. Damn it all, Stark.] Not all of us are so willing to slap down some glitter on a crack in the foundations and pretend it's not there, or use the reflection of the window as a mirror to paint a smile on when we can see a volcano erupting on the horizon. Especially not when the volcano has your name on it, Chancellor.

[Stephen sucks a breath through his teeth, trying to regather himself and cool down. Not very Sorcerer Supremely to get riled like this. He starts to lean back again.]

You're going to have to face it sooner or later, Tony.

[Well. Technically, no, Tony doesn't have to at all.]

( If anything, Strange's outburst seems to fortify Stark, perhaps because finally, finally someone here is as furious as he feels, and has the willingness, the integrity, to let it fly. He could stand here and bask for hours in his honest anger, mesmerized, time he doesn't have. )

I plan on it. I hope you have a front row seat.

( Truth at last, though he spoils it with irreverence- that's still truthful: )

I'd really prefer to see your o-face right now.

[Something Stephen has kept incredibly close to the chest is the extent to which he's already had a front row seat, at least as far as seeing Tony's end is concerned. He hasn't seen a version of the Tony becoming all the things he wanted to never become though and while he's offering the irritated warnings it's not actually something he wants to see. Or the knock-on effects of it and collateral damage in any direction.]

I'll probably have to fight Apollo for the prime location; I suspect he'll be there long before I will.

And did you just--?

[The slow blink he gives Tony for the latter comment is more like a gesture of counting to ten in his head, though he probably only gets about half-way before his lip curls in an irritated and entirely not even remotely attracted sneer as he shakes his head.]

You are unbelievable. [Followed by a very threatening finger pointing in Tony's face.] And that is not a compliment.

( Automatically: )

Thank you.

( Were they alone at the Synod, that finger would be bitten. Since they aren't, he gives it a vaguely interested glance and finishes off the last of his drink, easing away like the slow uncoiling of a tense spring. )

I've been hitting on you for like, ten... minutes, and you've just now noticed? Whew. You might be more stressed out than I am.

Oh, I noticed what you were doing. The idea you're anything even remotely close to subtle is a joke. It's about how even when it comes to being an audaciously inappropriate ass in order to avoid talking about something else, you have to outdo yourself.

[Stephen shakes his head, his free hand reaching up to press the pad of his forefinger and thumb against each of his eyes.]

You can't fuck your way out of all your problems, Tony.

Can't I.

( Rhetorical, because he'll try it, don't tempt him, but mostly because he knows how very true it is. Kavinsky had pegged his unhappiness early in the evening, but even he didn't know how deep the issue went, the knowledge he's still processing, searching for further distraction from. There are ample decisions to be made in a small window of time, those that affect not just his own fate, but so many others. Killing Stark will clear a path to the throne for his wife, but there is more at stake than his own life as they rush headlong, unceasingly toward the Synod, putting the Porter itself at risk.

Really, if anything, that's the worst. Why wait until such a delicate moment? How long has this been planned for? How had he missed seeing it? )

Look, Doctor. ( He won't cross his arms, but it's a near thing, and for all his devil may care attitude, unease is too close to the surface, not at all a common sight on his features. )

I'd rather not be here anymore, and I'd like one hour of your time that has nothing to do with peacocks, congratulatory speeches, or artfully crafted photo ops.

[Before being pulled unceremoniously into this version of the world, Stephen arguably didn't know Tony very well. And also knows him fourteen and a half million times too well. Not just him, of course, but he became the converging point, the pin-end of a wide-ended spear.

Over the ten years, yes, Stephen has gotten to know parts of this Tony too--an earlier incarnation of him. The Tony that existed before Ultron and Sokovia, before the schism through the Avengers, before Peter Parker, and before Thanos. A different man than Stephen first met, Bruce Banner in tow and shaken with trauma and grief. And this Tony became High Chancellor Stark, a different version of the man Stephen remembers fighting beside in millions of different possible scenarios, a man with different visions and means and motives and will.

And then occasionally, like right now, some glimmer of Tony Stark that isn't an entirely manufactured walking PR stun flickers through. And even in its briefest flash, in even the barest amount, it's still the most personally dangerous version of Tony Stark that Stephen has ever met.

Stoic as he is, resistant as he is, that request makes Stephen draw in a full-lunged breath as he tilts his head back and closes his eyes. Then sighs.]

A whole hour, huh? Pretty precious commodity, some would say. [Whose hour is the more precious--his or Tony's--he doesn't confirm. Instead, his shoulders sag and his head cants slightly to the side, accepting defeat.]

Where would you want to spend it?

( Stephen, for all his stolid charms and acerbic wit, has something else intrinsic to his very person, a quality, an association that Stark has found unshakeable:

He's Home. Home-home, not the opulence of the Chancellor's mansion, the frenetic neon of White City, but the world both men left behind. Everything changes, nothing is certain, and he is not maudlin or nostalgic by any means, but Stephen, to him, carries with him all the memory of a life, a time, a place that is long gone now, as invisible dust on the hem of his cloak. Ten years on, Stark can't shake the impression, just as he can't shake the inexorable pull that will always draw him back into the sorcerer's orbit.

The High Chancellor inelegantly shoves his hands into the pockets of his austere coat and rocks back lightly on his heels, pleased for his victory, and muses aloud: )

I got a place in mind, but I am open to suggestions.

Edited 2020-09-19 15:58 (UTC)

[Time, as a concept, has long since broken down and taken not only a different shape but a different form for Stephen. It's not even the belief that it's a matter of 'wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff,' it's something else entirely to Stephen.

Even without the Time Stone in his possession any more, the experience of having it at all is enough. There's no way for him to know for sure what The Ancient One did with the stone before him, but enduring a small eternity of his own death on repeat, the million outcomes of Thanos, and the loops he granted himself in order to enhance his abilities, that has left a mark on Strange.

It's why this world doesn't feel all that distant and alien to home, why ten years difference doesn't land for him in the way it might for others.

It's why the way Tony shoves his hands in his pants like that looks, to Stephen's eye, more like interrupting Tony in his workout gear and rambling about his dream to Pepper than he does a dangerous dystopian architect. It's what makes it worse.

The smallest favour is Tony's celebratory gesture could definitely be much louder and more obnoxious than what he puts on display.

Draining the remainder of his flute, the glass then sort of vanishes from Stephen's grasp, because fuckin' magic, that's why. ]

It's your hour, Stark. [The slow blink he offers is the only indicator that he perhaps doesn't mean that.] But you get sign-off on plenty already.

[A flicker of swirling sparks in Tony's peripheral vision is only there for the barest of seconds before Stephen advances, driving Tony back through a doorway that hadn't been there before.]

Edited 2020-09-19 18:07 (UTC)

( In turn, a gift: Stephen is treated to Stark's honest, unfiltered expression of surprise, as he stumbles backward through the portal. The unexpected rarely is around Stark; he prides himself on knowing everything, and he's managed, besides that. The High Chancellor's life is scheduled down to the minute in times like these, and there are all the obstacles his staff throw in the way of others- and themselves -to ensure his perpetual state of calm existence.

No one else would dare, but then he wouldn't be Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme, would he?

Stark catches himself on the other side, with all the dignity of a cat that's just fallen off a table and surely meant to, tugging his immaculately pressed coat straight with a dry, )

I'll allow that. ( Moving on, ) Where are we?

[Stephen lost the interest in what other people thought of him long ago, least of all what anyone would think of him shoving the High Chancellor around. Sure, it could trigger a security alert, but Tony's a big boy and he can manage the activation of his own missing person siren.

The way the location would ping on any fancy-ass GPS tracking is... weird. Multiple places at once all over different places in The White City, like a massive glitch jumping around making it pretty impossible to track. Paranormal magic bullshit.

Tony's initial comment brings a brief flash of what would read as annoyance on Stephen's face, a reminder of what Tony 'allowed' in the New York Sanctum, leaning his entire jackass self against priceless magical artifacts which had earned him a suitable cape-slap.]

It doesn't matter where we are.

[It's a large, but humble room--it's a bedroom with a bed with a dark-wood frame, several piles of old, thickly bound books on the floor, a shattered wrist watch on a desk, and a few odd items that don't make sense at a glance, probably more magical bullshit. Somehow, it's both very much lived in and not at the same time.

And Stephen still isn't much interested in giving Tony much in the way of breathing room, only pausing in his step once he's fully through the sharply closing portal at his back and eye to eye with Tony.]

We're on your clock now; better make it count.

( Pending alarms go quiet, red flags to green in the network, the benefit of his power even in this strange, other-other place. Yeah. Paranormal magic bullshit, all right. Stark takes enough of the room in to assess the obvious elements, then he's back to meeting Stephen's gaze. The insouciance he'd worn as a suit of armor is gone, replaced by a kind of intense relief, limned sharply across his features under the brief glow of that closing portal. )

Fair enough.

( Not a violent person by nature, Stark is nonetheless direct with his wants as he closes the distance between them, having little qualms about pulling Stephen in by the lapels of his suit as well, for a kiss that's all openly hot desire. )

[Stony-faced as Stephen prefers to present these days, especially around particular people, stepping into the role of Sorcerer Supreme didn't involve giving up his humanity. Stephen is still very much a man of passion beneath the poker face, still grappling with his vices, his anger, his hypocrisies.

Fortunately or otherwise, encounters with Tony tend to help bring that awareness to the surface with at least a few misdirected feelings alongside others that are very much all about Tony.

It means the kiss it searing from the moment of contact. Stephen doesn't yield into the kiss so much as he matches and meets it, ups the crackle of energy now the walls are able to come down as he snaps one hand up to grasp and press against Tony's collar bone--not quite a throat grab--to walk and shove him back against the nearest available wall.]

( Stark hums a note of pleasure against Stephen's mouth, particularly for the rude manhandling- expected, wanted. His back collides with the wall and he gasps, just in reflex, here for the press of those long fingers so near his throat, and Stephen himself against him, tall and lean and all but crackling with heat. Last year's Synod feels so far away; this one, too soon.

Not about to waste a moment like this, Stark lets one palm fall flat to Stephen's chest and slide upward, working his fingers up the nape of his neck, to fist tightly in his dark hair. )

Edited 2020-09-20 07:39 (UTC)

[With contact made, Stephen doesn't stop himself from dragging his tongue and teeth across Tony's lips, body pushing up flush against the other man's fueled by suspended want and bad decisions.

A hiss presses through Stephen's teeth, pouring warmly across Tony's mouth along with a tightening of muscles in Stephen's stomach and shoulders, heat jolting through his body generated from Tony's grasping fingers through his hair. It's a good thing Stephen doesn't have much use for shame otherwise he'd be feeling a fairly healthy dose of it right now. Which he of course covers well by just deepening the already somewhat frantic kiss as his fingers give a faint impression of a squeeze across Tony's throat, nothing too harsh or drastic, not trying to choke or cut off air, just provide a sense of the pressure of his touch.]

( Just the presence of fingers at his throat is enough to get his blood pumping, but then Stephen has to go and squeeze. This time, Stark's resultant gasp ends in an equal assault of teeth: the dip of his chin and the sideways tug of Stephen's hair, biting a line down his neck, and breathing him in against the collar of that ridiculous cloak. )

[Stephen really does prefer, as much as humanly and physically possible, to remain as stony-faced as possible, especially when it comes to virtually any encounter with the High Chancellor. With that in mind, Stephen feels a flare of irritation at himself as first he gives out a short but very distinct inward hiss as his head if pulled to the side, followed by a very clear ah--! as the heat of Tony's mouth and teeth fall upon his neck.

The double-edged sword of dealing with Stark in a sexual context is his particular application of attention to detail. On the positive side, Tony knows what his partner likes. On the irritating side, Tony knows what his partner likes.

So the attack on Stephen's throat combined with the fingers through his hair makes his resolve falter, his eyes reluctantly falling closed as warmth and colour trickle up up the back of his neck and his lips fall open with a few hitching, heavy breaths.

Stephen's not one to yield too easily though, his hands moving down swiftly to grasp the waistband of Tony's no-doubt-eye-wateringly-expensive suit pants to pull their hips close along with an unbashed forward roll as Stephen opens his eyes to peer over his sharp cheekbones.]

You gonna send me a bill for damages if a button or two go flying, or is this thing insured?

( Conversely, Stark lives for the moment he can squeeze beneath Stephen's carefully crafted stone bodhisattva bullshit, and put both hands on the passionate, flesh and blood man beneath. He counts on the pushback, the returning salvo; it's no fun if your aridly sarcastic wizard frenemy-with-benefits submits from the outset, Stark has a fire to stoke, and he'll pour on the gas without a second's hesitation.

The worst thought, when he actually thinks it, isn't that Stephen will deny him. It's that he, too, might one day disappear.

Stark's hitching laugh into Stephen's collarbone is brief, rough around the edges for the answering roll of pleasurable heat up his spine, right from his groin. He lets Stephen's hair go to slide his hands beneath his cloak- shoo -and mouths at the pulse point on his throat. )

Fuck 'em.

[The collar points of the cloak jerk up in a gesture that looks really quite affronted for something without a face. It seems to hesitate for a moment, though with no objection from Stephen it slips from his shoulders, slinking away like a shadow.

Stephen gives the retreating garment a bit of a dirty look--traitor--but it's a fleeting distraction as Tony gives what's as close to an all clear as he can give. It's almost tempting to cause the damn suit damage on principle, but in essence Stephen merely offers a snort.]

Apt.

[The yank that Stephen gives Tony's belt next leans on the rougher side as he drags his lips the other man's jaw and up toward his ear, lingering on the way up to press his teeth into the flesh where Tony's neck and jaw meet with a low, shaky sigh.]

You have a lot of gall, Stark. There aren't many people who would dare tell my clothing to make themselves scarce. I ought to send your sorry ass back to that party before you can do more damage.

( His exhalation is as sharp as Stephen's bite, a pleasurable note he won't quell or hide. In these moments, at least, they can be honest with one another. Biting back a smirk, he turns his cheek against Stephen's, and broadly licks his ear. )

Your dirty talk could use a little work, Doctor.

( Also, shut the hell up, because Stark tips his head back to kiss him again, working swiftly at the fastenings of his formalwear. )

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THE FRACTURED WORLD: ARRIVAL

stop flexing, stark

Arguably, some would say he's incapable of doing anything but! >:T

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cw just for upcoming nsfw!

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