#this is legitimately an ask from nine years ago | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

galaxionart · 1 year ago

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Things to know:

-I am a trans man. Deal with it. 🏳️‍⚧️

-This went from October 31st to three days ago.

-I am still dealing with the effects of withdrawal from HRT so if it’s a bit off-kilter, that’s why.

-This is mainly a post to help me cope with everything that happened. If you act like shit on this post you will be removed and blocked.

-The other reason is I never want another person to go through what I have and speak out if it does or has.

-I have been on HRT for nine years without interruption. So having it gone for even a month has an intense effect.

- I don’t want to name the lab I went to. I’m not proud of what happened and have been to better ones in the area that have been resentful of that location.

-My dad has been helping me with multiple tasks. I’m able to take care of myself however mental illness is still a big problem in my life. He’s willing to help when things become to much. I should have asked for a ride from instead but I didn’t. That’s on me.

-All of this is true. This isn’t a copy pasta or some stunt. People have harassed me on Reddit about this. I have deleted my account and will never be returning.

-I know Reddit is an obvious pool of toxicity. I guess I wasn’t thinking clearly at that time.

So a month ago, I went to a lab for blood work to get my testosterone prescription. The prettiest way to put it is that I had a panic attack which the employees legitimately (they said it to my face) believed I was having a temper tantrum and they kicked me out. Probably because I was trying to get everything done as much as I could before I had the insurance cabbie leave and I’d have no way to get home. I was then informed that no order was ever put in (which was bs and them wanting me to get out as confirmed by my prescriber WAY too late.)

No problem right though right? Just get another order and go to a different area. HA, no. Because I was told the order wasn’t for that lab at any location. So I thought I had to get a new one. I think now is the time to bring up my prescriber: Planned Parenthood.

For the next few weeks I called every number I could for them to get an answer about what was going on. I was never called back or given the answer of “I don’t know what happened then let me look into it.” and wait a week and have to call THEM back.

Finally I was told the order was right and went and got everything done. I swear I cried in my dad’s car after because this was finally over and could finally not feel like my body was finally mine again. I’d been weeks since I had any hormones and the dysphoria became too much to bare.

Planned Parenthood lost the lab results. Why? Oh they were trying to get a MyChart going and they lost nearly all the information they had for me in the system. My HRT prescription? Gone. Any records of my appointments on telehealth or medical information? Gone. I didn’t know that and had to endlessly call AGAIN knowing nothing.

Holy hell did I loose it. It had been a month now and I was angry, depressed, dysphoric to an unhealthy degree. I was ready to give up. If my dad didn’t check on me that I don’t know what would have happened. We had to call a social worker to ever get an employee to not brush everything off or hang up.

THAT was when I was told everything was lost and they wanted me to drive a mile to their “office” to get a blood test there. I said fuck it and took the next appointment in three days. Next day I was told they moved my appointment to the next week. I don’t know why.

The social worker called them again to move it up. And only then was I called by a doctor at Planned Parenthood for the first time. She apologized for everything, that they were changing things and said to come for a walk in blood test that day at their location. After that they would give the five months of Testosterone that they never gave or told me existed.

My dad drove us all the way there and we were stopped at the door locked with an intercom there. We said we were there for a walk in- SORRY BUT MY MANAGER SAYS WE ARE’NT TAKING ANYMORE WALK INS TODAY.

Excuse me?! No. My dad tried to explain we were scheduled to have a walk in lab- NO WE AINT TAKING ANYMORE WALK INS TODAY.

I said with as much gusto as I could manage: WE’RE HERE TO SEE DR._ HEARD OF HER?!

Silence.

GIVE ME A SECOND…OKAY Y’ALL CAN COME IN AN HAVA SEAT.

We walk in and say we’re here for a scheduled walk in visit.

“I know but have a seat.”

Apparently NO YOU DID’NT. But our butts sat in most disheveled, disgusting waiting room I had ever seen. There were even used face masks next to an open jar of condoms. My dad used the restroom and I stood near the desk because I didn’t want to sit back on the gross furniture…until I was told I needed to sit down because standing in the cramped room was an invasion of patient privacy.

Apparently this piss pot was so small that right near the huge front and side desks was the door to every doctor’s office-there were only two. I don’t mean only two we’re working they only had two doctors in the entire place. They had lost over half their doctors since I last came in.

Over half the people there were secretaries. Remember how no was giving me any information or calling me back? What the fuck.

Dad comes back just in time for the front desk woman no.1 to get some private information from said out loud and a bunch of digital signatures on a dinosaur credit card signature taker. Yes they raked my dad for disclosure of information and I’m not going to say how all that played out.

We sat back down. Waited. Waited. And finally the doctor came out! Yeah it was a nurse. Now after all this shit my dad was ready to figure out what the fuck happened to make this so damn difficult and ready to speak to the doctor…he never saw her one time. No matter how many times this man explained what was happening and he wanted to know what went wrong exactly, well, he never found out.

So I go with the, actually quite kind, nurse and sit in a dirty office room. All I can say is that the examination chair in the corner was stained with faded brown…something. And my doctor finally came to see me face to face. The only thing she said was she was the one who’d contacted me, when was my most recent blood test and if I wanted to check my testosterone levels. No apologies or information just a shit eating smile plastered on her face. I said flatly: I’m not doing that to the last question and that smile fell off her face fast. The woman looked like I just told her to go fuck herself and die in a fire.

Bitch left. And the nurse clearly knew something was wrong and tried as hard as possible to try and lift my spirits. I appreciate her doing so though the finger she did the test with was bleeding profusely until hours after getting home.

We left and drove home. I told my dad I saw the doctor. He seemed hopeful until I brought down the mallet of disappointment that she basically explained Jack shit. We shut up, went home and got the meds the next day.

I understand that Planned Parenthood and the companies it works with do a hell of a lot of good. But honestly, this was unacceptable. These buttfucks shouldn’t be employed at PP. No fucking PP should be in that shitty of a condition. I’m taking all the medication I can and I’m going to a professional in January. Even my dad was done with their shit and is willing to let me use plume for $100 a month if anything happens until then. I don’t want that place to ever see me or my money or take anymore of my time and self esteem again. I realize that they need help and if you have a PP that deserves donations please do! But please understand that I can’t support them after this. Not even the companies working with them. The start of all of this was my fault. I get that and I take full responsibility for that. Everything else falls on them. You cannot change my mind. And because I truly don’t care about them anymore:

Go fuck yourselves you selfish lazy greedy assholes. Thanks for making my life hell for a month and never do this to another trans man ever again.

#planned parenthood #lgbtq #transmasc #hrt #vent #harrassment #reblog

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thisiswheremywritinggoes · 2 years ago

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A couple of hours before I read this piece (which is gut-wrenching and infuriating, btw), I was looking at the Google reviews for the public library where I've worked for the past nine years, and I noticed that a couple of months ago, someone gave us a one star review due to the presence of people they perceived to be experiencing homelessness in and outside the library. They made sure to mention that library staff "wasn't doing anything about it."

I would like to ask this anonymous reviewer, what would you have us "do," exactly? What makes the public library any less theirs than it is yours? If you want to talk about behaviors, I'm ready to have that conversation, and I will tell you from (lots and lots and lots of) experience that we are quick to address patron behaviors which are disturbing to other patrons or could cause harm. Staff has received extensive training in this area, plus we have a social work consultant on staff AND a relationship with our local law enforcement's community resource officer who are ready to jump in and help when necessary. But someone's presence, someone having the audacity to merely exist in front of you, where they can be seen living their lives in a way that makes you uncomfortable or angry, does not require any action, and you're a complete piece of shit if you think it does.

Do I want our library to be a welcoming and safe place? Of course I do. This is my life's work! But being out in the world means that sometimes you're going to see things that make you uncomfortable or scared, not because you actually have a legitimate reason to be afraid, but because you have been conditioned to perceive a threat where none exists. It is not my job to act as the custodian of all you perceive so that you are somehow exempt from encountering "the public" at a public library.

The safety net is not large enough to hold everyone. I see this every single day. I am one librarian, but I will do my part to make you feel welcome, to provide you with a comfortable chair, an outlet to charge your phone, a toilet, a granola bar, a shower ticket for the YMCA, a computer to write your manifesto. I will be kind and patient with you, and not assume that since you're struggling, you're a useless piece of shit.

You see a "scary homeless person." I see someone who is struggling to meet their basic needs, to find a safe place to sleep, enough food to eat, relief from chronic pain, freedom from abuse. They come to us because they feel safe here, because this is a place where we will not allow them to be victimized or harmed -- not here, not on our watch.

Jordan Neely needed help. He deserved help, more than the folks on that train deserved to "feel safe" (whatever the fuck that means). To defend the actions of the man who murdered him, and the accomplices who were complicit in his murder by restraining him, is absolutely monstrous.

That's all I have to say.

#jordan neely #public libraries

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thejacksmit · 5 months ago

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First Take: The Garfield Movie - love Mondays. Hate this film.

SYNOPSIS: After Garfield's unexpected reunion with his long-lost father, ragged alley cat Vic, he and his canine friend Odie are forced from their perfectly pampered lives to join Vic on a risky heist.

It wouldn't be a multifilm marathon without at least one film that belongs in the depths of hell - and boy did we have a real doozy this year to join the likes of The Queen's Corgi (which was bad enough to get a Journal episode made about it). Somehow, inexplicably, Sony decided to take on a new Garfield film, made independently of the studio. One which has been in development since 2011. I was three cups of Earl Grey deep when venturing into this 'minefield'... and I am so glad I've made it out in one piece. Thermonuclear rant incoming, so longtime fans of the blog will know what happens next: cue the music.

youtube

Mark Dindal of Chicken Little and The Emperor's New Groove fame has broken free from Disney to direct this and... oooooof. This is a mess. 1 hour 41 minutes of poorly paced, dumb, stupid, poorly executed animation that serves no purpose other than to get kids into cinemas. I am not angry, just very very very very very disappointed. Script wise, it is three credited writers (and likely more ghostwriters) - Paul A. Kaplan, Mark Torgove, and David Reynolds are the fall guys for this trainwreck of a script that has barely any legible plot, a story that goes all over the place, dialogue that is too on the nose ('I do my own stunts... like Tom Cruise'), and to wrap it all up with a cherry on top, the product placement is worse than the Tom and Jerry film I willingly sat through a few years ago - no, it's worse than Haunted Mansion last year - which explains how this got a cinema release. As for the score, John Debney what were you thinking by besmurching Lorne Balfe's arrangement of the Mission Impossible theme and Hans Zimmer's version of the Top Gun theme for the sake of a punchlime? Technically this is an absolute shambles all over the shop.

Then there's the cast. I have no clue how or why Chris Pratt, Samuel L Jackson, Hannah Waddingham, Ving Rhames and Nicholas Hoult took the contract to make this, as the voice acting is soulless, lacks ANY emotion, feels very phoned in, and believe me this says a lot when even SNOOP DOGG has a character in it! Reading up on when the castings were all confirmed, this definitely feels like a film hit hard by the SAG strike (all very rushed to finish recording) but I have to ask Sony - make it make sense. Apparently there is a videogame and a sequel in active development with Alcon Entertainment, which is mental considering it's a 36% on Rotten Tomatoes, and still grossing over $250million at the box office. This is a film that arguably completes a full collection of mediocrity across the 11 years I've done this - just when I thought The Emoji Movie and Nine Lives were the benchmark of terrible movies... this one comes and blows both of them out of the water.

THE VERDICT POST MORTEM

Lord almighty that was bad. An incoherent plot, voice acting with no emotion, a flat, emotionless script, the abomination of some fantastic licensed music... everyone involved should hang their heads in shame. There's bad films, then, there's this. I legitimately felt like being mummified after watching it.

RATING: Minus 5/5

#first takes #Youtube

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heich0e · 2 years ago

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okokok but but consider this - suna as your brother's best friend/ best friend's brother

tags: f!reader, tw age difference, tw size difference (he's a big boy!!), one (1) use of nii-chan in a decidedly suggestive way, suna's a bit of a creep but in like a genuine weirdo way not the pervert way (or is it...)

Ever since high school when he was scouted by Inarizaki, Suna has made two trips back to Aichi prefecture each year to visit his maternal grandparents.

Your brother, his childhood best friend since kindergarten, has always looked forward to his visits home.

You? Not as much.

It's not that you necessarily dislike Suna Rintarou, he's just... your brother's weird friend. Always quiet. Maybe a little irritating when you think about the way he and your brother used to tease you--pulling faces and calling you a baby by virtue of the fact that they happened to be born six years ahead of you. But there was always enough of an age difference between you that the three of you were just never particularly close.

To you he's just some guy who used to make fun of the training wheels on your little pink bicycle.

And to him you're just his friend's kid sister.

"Did I tell you Suna went pro?" Your brother asks as the two of you sit at the low table that serves as the centre point of the living room in your family's home. The kotatsu's quilt has been packed away for the warmer months of the year, and the heater is left off. "He plays in the v-league now for EJP Raijin."

You're sharing a plate of fruit your mother has prepared for you to share in celebration of having both her adult children back under her roof for a few weeks: you, home from college for a portion of your summer break, and your brother home for 9 days on what is doubling as a business trip for his work--though he has no work obligations today if his baggy shorts and faded graphic t-shirt are any indication.

"Yeah, only about eighty times," you say with a roll of your eyes, popping a piece of sliced peach into your mouth. "Why would I care, anyway?"

"I just think it's kinda cool," your brother says excitedly. "Little Rin in the big leagues."

"He's been taller than you since you were nine," you mutter around the piece of fruit stuffed in your cheek.

Your brother curls his lip at you in petty offence, and you respond with a wide, blithe smile.

"He might even be scouted for the national team, y'know," your brother supplies uselessly as you reach for a ruby red strawberry, as though that might be the bit of trivia that sparks your interest. "He'd be going to the olympics."

"The olympics are a frivolous, antiquated spectacle riddled with corruption, that fosters needless overspending, and that continues to platform harmful autocracies as legitimate political powers. The entire institution should have been abolished years ago," you reply, punctuating the sentiment by shoving the entire berry held between your fingers into your mouth.

Your brother blinks at you blankly.

"What the hell are they teaching you at that school of yours?" he asks with an incredulous shake of his head as he pushes himself up from the kotatsu, shuffling off towards the kitchen as he grumbles something about socialism.

"It's called critical thinking, you should try it sometime!" you call after him, but your mouth is still full so you doubt he understands it.

You're left picking around the plate of fruit idly, the warm summer breeze blowing through the open patio doors at the back of your childhood home that lead out onto the covered porch.

The air is heavy with humidity, the kind of atmospheric pressure that harkens an impending storm. The sky has been grey and ominous for the better part of the morning, with the immediate forecast calling for rain. You lean forward with a sigh, resting your cheek against the cool tabletop, wondering when the first drops will fall and the insufferable humidity might finally break.

You let your heavy eyelids flutter shut.

A sharp pain between your eyes is what rouses you from your impromptu nap some time later, though you aren't sure you drifted anywhere past the periphery of consciousness.

You furrow your brow, but the pain is still present. Persistent.

You peel your eyes open, lashes fluttering as you will your bleary gaze to focus, only to see Suna Rintarou standing above you, poking you in the forehead with one long finger.

"You sleep like the dead," he says dryly.

"Oh my GOD!" you yelp, sitting up so abruptly that you actually end up falling back gracelessly onto your ass. You'd been kneeling at the kotatsu, and your legs have fallen asleep, pins and needles prickling through to your feet. "What the HELL, Suna-san!" you bark, cheeks flaring hot as you glower up at him.

"It's actually kind of concerning," he remarks, ignoring your indignation. "Took you like five whole minutes of poking to even crack an eye."

"God, you're so weird," you hiss, rubbing your legs to stimulate blood flow back to your extremities--possibly a little more vigorously than you need to.

"Nice to see you too," he says, expression neutral but eyes alight with a familiar mischief.

"What are you even doing here?" you ask, kneading your thumbs into the plush of your thighs. The hem of your sundress is rumpled from the strange position you'd been napping in, you can't help but notice as you stare down at your lap. You wonder how you'll be able to get the creases out.

"Here to see your brother," the boy above you replies simply, like it should be obvious.

"Well, where is he?" you ask, looking around the room. There's no sign of your brother anywhere, and the house is eerily quiet.

"Not sure, I just got here." Suna shrugs impassively.

"He didn't let you in?" you ask, confused.

"No, I came in through the back," Suna says, nodding towards the open patio doors. You'd forgotten for a moment that Suna hasn't used your family's front door since... well, ever.

"How long were you standing in here watching me sleep?" you ask him sullenly.

"Just long enough to snap this," Suna says, holding up his cellphone were a photo of you slumped against the tabletop lights up the screen.

"Delete that," you order him.

"Don't think I will," he says, clicking the button on the screen to lock the device, the screen going black.

"Suna-san, I swear to fucking god." You force yourself up onto your unsteady legs, taking a step towards him. "Delete it."

"Language," Suna chides you flatly with a click of his tongue, blinking down at you.

Christ, when did he get so.... so...

Big?

He's always been taller than you, but the sheer breadth of him now. The way he towers over you. Looms over you in a way that seems to take up your entire line of sight. It's unexpected and a little off-putting.

But size-difference aside, you're not ready to give up.

"Delete. It," you repeat yourself firmly, reaching for the device he's still holding up in his hand.

You stumble forward on your next step in his direction, your circulation still not quite what it should be, and it sends you toppling straight into the very man you were making every effort to intimidate.

But for all Suna's strength, he's not expecting it, and the two of you end up toppling back across the couch behind him--you resting on top of him and him sprawled on his back.

You pick yourself up slightly, jarred by the sudden fall, using your hands against his firm chest to lift yourself up and look at him.

He's peering down at you when your gazes meet, his dark hair ruffled from the ordeal, his eyes scanning your face.

"Sorry, Suna-san," you say, quiet and embarrassed. You move to push yourself up off his chest, only to notice that his hand is on the small of your back, keeping you there.

"What happened to Rin-nii?" he murmurs, so quietly you almost miss it.

You make a confused, flustered sound.

"Er, well,"--you shift away slightly and this time he lets you go, his hand falling onto the sofa without protest as you rest back on your knees between his parted legs--"we aren't kids anymore."

Suna peers at you, his tongue peeking out from between his lips to swipe across them. Your eyes follow the motion without thinking, flickering up to his when you realize what you've done. Your hands curl in your lap, fisting the material of your rumpled skirt.

"No," he says, and the implication of his words makes something skitter hot and fizzling down your spine, "we aren't, are we?"

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and you feel the way the sound shakes the earth. The sudden shift.

The skies outside the patio doors open, and it begins to pour.

#suna rintarou x reader #suna rintarou x you #suna rintarou #suna x you #suna x reader #hq drabble #hq writing #writing

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presidentbungus · 2 years ago

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I don’t feel like writing something new but I don’t think I ever posted this on tumble so here’s the thanksgiving fic i wrote last year lol. pretend I just wrote it REALLY REALLY fast in the last 10 minutes, capiche? you got it

team fortress generic thanksgiving fanfiction. 1494 words

ao3

Thanksgiving here’s not really like it used to be back home. Dell used to help around with cooking, sure, but he never really found himself in front of the stove for three straight hours as he tried to pull together a feast from, relatively, scraps. One man here eats enough for nine, times nine because there’s eight other guys besides him, and Sniper and Scout are so skinny he’s not sure how they even fit that much food in their stomachs—

Agh. Timer. Engineer stops it and tugs the pan of candied pecans out of the oven—a Thanksgiving tradition that had to be abided by, naturally, even if it used up most of the sugar stores. Demo’s currently at the market in Teufort for more, anyway, plus bread for stuffing and eggs and packs of gravy and about a dozen more sticks of butter and Engineer told him not to but realistically he’s going to come back down with a few crates of beer too, which Dell has prepared for by having a few now since they’ll be very restocked later.

Scout comes over and tries to snatch a nut off the tray and he promptly drops it on the floor and complains about it being hot, to which Engineer says it just came out of the oven and what did I tell you you were supposed to be doing?

Um, Scout replies, sucking on the tip of his thumb. Mashing potatoes I think.

You think? Get on, it’s 4:00 already and we don’t even have the turkey out. Scout gets on. Earlier today he walked into the kitchen and did that little laugh-snort he does when he’s about to smartass up to ya, and he said Engie looked like a housewife in that dumb little apron of his, cookin’ along. And Dell turned around and said ain’t nothin’ wrong with housewives, me or my apron, boy, they’re all important things. And he’d been planning to rope Scout in anyway—important to give him responsibilities, he’s young enough that kinda thing’ll benefit his work ethic later (and also he didn’t want to have to finish the rest of this alone), so he waved at Scout and handed him the spatula and told him to stir up the cranberry sauce while he got to work on the green-bean casserole.

What else has to be made at this point? Cranberry sauce, potatoes, nuts, one bowl of stuffing while he waits on the rest of the bread to get here, that’s all done, and the sweet potato and green bean casseroles, respectively, are working out in the oven. Soldier’s out in the backyard smoking the turkey—smoking probably being a weak word for whatever he’s doing, but that’s why Engineer has another one prepared to go in the oven whenever he hears something explode outside, and Demo’s gonna make a cheesecake, and Heavy’s in the rec room waiting to take the place of Scout and make whatever he said he'd make; soup or something, probably. And Pyro’s also gonna make some kind of baked dessert too, come to think of it (at least given whatever they attempted to communicate to Engineer a few minutes ago)—and last year Medic brought some oddly-shaped pink thing that bled and squelched when you cut into it and nobody asked about that or, in extension, took a bite, so he’s probably not gonna be helping this year.

Scout taps Engineer’s shoulder and says he’s done, and he goes to examine the bowl and it’s actually well-mashed, which is certainly a welcome surprise—Dell wonders if he’s done this before. He thanks Scout, says he doesn’t need anything else for now but keep an ear out, and Scout legitimately breaks out at a full sprint leaving the kitchen and almost throws the bowl onto the floor but Engineer barely manages to save it as Heavy falls in right after him.

Dell says hi. Heavy says hi. Heavy says: what is occasion?

Thanksgiving, I guess. Pilgrims or something. Dell takes off the glove on his gunslinger and dips a metal finger into the mashed potatoes and licks it off and runs it under water, muttering: It doesn’t really matter.

But there is feast?

Heavy asks this question every year, always sounding very worried. Yeah, Engineer always says. You wanted to make stew or something?

Yes. Recipe of family. Sisters say it is very delicious.

A glance at the egg timer by the stove—eleven minutes, around. Enough to get out of the heat and sit down and maybe catch a bit of the Macy’s parade if anyone bothered to record it.

He steps back and rubs his face and smiles. Well, I’ll be back in about ten. The kitchen’s all yours before then.

————

Something about seein’ the spread all neat-like down the table—that’s when it clicks, that’s when it becomes worth it—the whole day and the sweltering heat and his disintegrating knees and all. Especially when Sniper and Spy come and sit down, after everyone else, but it still feels like such a victory when they otherwise wouldn’t come to investigate if the whole base went and burned to the ground.

The food isn’t great, which was mostly expected—what remains of the turkey is charred and nearly wholly inedible (though Soldier insists on pushing a big helping of it on everyone who doesn’t manage to snap up their plates in time), and everything else is mainly a fault of the dirt-cheap ingredients used in the making—Heavy’s soup is delicious as usual, however, and is the first thing to vanish from the table as everyone scrambles to get a few bowls of it before it’s gone.

Things calm down after that. Idle chatter, lots of beers being passed around (Engineer’s prediction about Demo’s grocery shopping habits was wholly correct); Demo disappears into the kitchen for a bit, along with Pyro, and twenty minutes they come out with a cheesecake and brownie tray respectively and everyone cheers. The cheesecake is unfortunately dropped on the floor in the resulting wrestling match between Heavy, Soldier, and Demo (Scout will later say he was a part of it and basically won, though everyone remembers him just kind of standing at the edge of the conflict and looking vaguely afraid), but thankfully Demo is able to guard it well enough that no one stomps on it and the five second rule exists for a reason and a slice is still divvied out to everyone who still has even the slightest trace of an appetite.

It’s just the photo after that—Engie insists, despite a slew of protests. Somethin’ to send home to their families (or hang on the fridge to embarrass everyone for years to come; same difference). Spy makes himself scarce but Soldier has the nose of a bloodhound and he comes back ten minutes later with Spy in tow, looking somewhat ashamed of himself. The whole room smells like sweat and meat and the slightest hint of chocolate, and everyone looks about ready to pass out—and is it really a holiday photo if that’s not the case? Corralling everyone together and getting them to sit still and hold some semblance of civility for at least like five seconds takes another twenty minutes since Demo and Soldier get in a wrestling match every ten seconds and Spy keeps trying to get out of things and Engineer puts Heavy in charge of watching him to make sure he doesn’t cloak and run and nobody ever sees him again. Medic and Sniper sit in the corner and talk quietly. Engineer brings them up as an example of what actual adults act like and then Scout says how he can still feel a bird flapping against his ribcage sometimes and the whole room goes silent and maybe it’s time to get the photo, come to think of it.

Scout is making a face and Soldier’s head is shoved into Demo’s armpit and Spy is gone and Sniper looks like he’s dozing off and Medic has got himself covered in blood again for some goddamn reason and there Engineer is, in the center of it all, grinning as a cyclone hurricane happens behind him. The photo’s terrible, there’s no real doubt about that, and he’s probably gonna have to retake another one at some point where everybody’s not already fed up with each other, but Engineer still finds himself smiling every time he looks at it regardless—this is miles more accurate than the stock preposed all smiles holiday card kinda picture will ever be, anyway. They're kooky idiots, they are, who are incapable of things they probably should be wholly capable of, but at the end of the day they're his kooky idiots and he can't help but feel pride for each and every one of them.

Yeah, not much like back home in the slightest. Engineer wouldn’t really have it any other way

#bungus fics #tf2 #tf2 engineer #tf2 scout #tf2 heavy #everybody else is here too but not enough to tag

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snappleapple · 4 years ago

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soft gogy hc or like watching a movie with him ? <3 ur writing makes me very happy!

i love you, george

george x reader

headcanon

fluff

warning - i don’t remember so cursing?

word count - 1k

a/n: my first ever request! thank you so much <3

i am going to begin this ted talk by saying, the man would not stay awake

has a legit sleeping schedule of a two month old baby

absolutely terrible at multitasking

especially when he is tired

as most of you know, george is not that cuddly of a person

i mean, he enjoys hugs, but he doesn’t need them twenty four seven

and omg, don’t get me started on when you first cuddled

mf was awkward as hell

he would slightly chuckle to relieve the awkward tension in the air but that would legit not work

like he would wrap his arm around your waist, but in an awkward way?

kinda to not make you uncomfortable

now, he’s not as bad, but you two are working on it

also, he would definitely need to be big spoon

just wants to feel masculine

and he is, you can’t tell me otherwise

he also just loves it when you talk so passionately about random things

like you can be rambling about what you saw on tv that day and he would never even deter his attention away from you

one, because he is terrible at multitasking but two, because you’re so precious to him

i have a certain feeling that george is a homebody so, lots of dates at home which consist of movie marathons, minecraft or just keeping him company when he edits his videos

on the special occasions that you both leave the comfort of your own home, you go to quiet cafes and sit in a secluded corner

you would read a book while george works on his computer

every so often, the two of you would match eyes and smile before going back to what you were doing before

if it’s snowing, i guarantee that there is going to be a snowball fight

and it is going to be initiated by you

he would be scared to hurt you, but at the same time want to destroy you

when he’s streaming, you do not even touch that door knob unless you are bringing him snacks

once again, horrible multitasking skills

if you were to come in, he would legitimately slip up because he would give you all of his undivided attention

and fail at whatever he was doing

normally, you would go to bed by yourself but wake up next to george

but omg, one time, you went to bed by yourself once and when you woke up, george was getting into bed with deep dark circles

and you were like, “are you going to bed right now?”

“yes?”

“it’s eight am.”

“yes?”

“george!”

“y/n?”

“did you stay up all night?”

“yes?”

“we have to go to my brother’s birthday today.”

“yes, i’ve reali-“

“in an hour!”

so you had to drive because he was sleeping and once you got to your parent’s house, you took him up to your old room and let him sleep in there

your parents were honestly not surprised

once he woke up, he came down to see you playing with your nephews and a small smile formed on his face

and when your nephews saw him, they were like, “you’re dating georgenotfound?”

and you were like, “i told you like a year ago.”

and they replied with, “we don’t listen to old people.”

and your face was that surprised pikachu face

“i’m only twenty one!”

they ignored you the whole night and played with george instead

but going back to topic, if you are stressed about school work or other things, he would one hundred percent be there to support you because you are his number one priority

if you are shorter than george, congratulations, if you are taller, tough luck dude

this is for my shorties

since george is average for a male, a dwarf compared to his nine other boyfriends, ahem

he likes to tease you

puts his arm over your shoulders and patting your head as if he’s a foot taller

but you let him because let the little man have big dreams

OOH also, since george is colorblind, you basically describe everything for him

and he would just stare at you so lovingly

but most of the time, you would just make fun of him

like asking him what color a flower is or holding out a random piece of clothing and asking if he likes the color on you

but george is a patient man, so he will take those jokes

“george, does this look good on me?”

“uh, yes?”

“uh, no. it’s an orange sweater with blue polka dots.”

“yikes.”

but most of the time this is how your conversations go,

“these flowers are so pretty!”

“you’re pretty.”

“you’re pretty, george.”

“y/n! i’m being serious.”

“george! i’m being serious.”

the both of you have lots of bursts of laugher

and cannot be serious for the life of each other

like please, do not go to a funeral

i’m begging you

one laugh at a funeral and you’re both getting kicked out

they’re like, “please leave.”

and you’re like, “i’m sorry for your loss.”

after throwing george out of the building because of his inconvenient laughter in the middle of the service

dream and sapnap like to make fun of george

because george normally declines their flirtatious advances but when you’re there, he’s like under a spell

like once, you were like, “george, can you please be quiet. i have to wake up early tomorrow for a job interview.”

and george was like, “got it.”

he stayed legit so quiet that night and his chat thought he was dead or depressed as hell

and dream and sapnap were like, “simpwasfound.”

when you yawn, he puts his hand over your mouth

and you are once again the surprised pikachu face

“george!”

“yes?”

acts innocent in situations of trouble

overall, george would be a very soft af boyfriend

like random gifts from time to time

most of the time, its his merch

but the thought is appreciated

and you like to gift him stuffed animals because he hates cute things, squishy things that deter his masculinity

besides you of course <3

#georgenotfound x reader #george x reader #georgenotfound #georgenotfound x you #mcyt x you #mcyt fluff #mcyt x reader #mcyt fanfiction #mcyt headcanons #georgenotfound headcanons

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mourntheantagonist · 4 years ago

Text

#HarringroveApril Day 16: Nostalgia

***

When Billy signed those discharge papers, piled into his dented Camaro and headed west towards the sunset despite the screaming redhead banging on the windows crying “please don’t go!”, with an aching chest both metaphorical and physical, he didn’t think for a second about looking back.

So how he ended up back in the same shithole he turned his back on ten years ago was entirely beyond him.

He had made a life for himself in California. He got his associates degree at the local community college and worked his way up from a nine to five teller position at the local bank all the way to branch manager, making an upper middle class salary. It was easy work. Boring work, unfulfilling work, but easy and worth every penny. He had a couple of friends, mostly coworkers, more so acquaintances than friends. He had a fancy apartment in the city, he went on dates, though they usually ended in one night stands where the other guy snuck out in the dark hours of the morning leaving Billy to sleep in a bed that was just too big for one person. But he was free from all of those forces in his life that always held him back and pinned him down, and each and every one of those forces just reeked of small town America.

He hadn’t heard a peep out of Hawkins since Max had given up on calling around eight years ago, or at least he hoped that she’d given up and something worse hadn’t happened to her. He regretted not answering those calls everyday. The guilt of leaving her behind like that weighed heavy like an anchor, but he did it anyway. Bad decision after bad decision he was surprised he made it to where he had today, and he just wished she’d call again.

But he also wasn’t sure enough of himself that anything would change if she did, and that phone would likely remain on the hook until the ringing stopped and she was left to the sound of his voicemail.

“You’ve reached Billy Hargrove. Leave a message.”

He wasn’t home the day she finally did call, which fortunately took that decision away from him. Her message was tossed in with a mix of telemarketers and employees calling in for days off, it could have easily been dismissed, passed over like every other piece of junk in the system if her voice hadn’t been exactly the same as it was the day he left her.

“Hey Billy, it’s Max. I know you probably don’t give a shit, but Neil died of a heart attack last night…” Billy stopped listening after the words ‘Neil died’ came over the speaker. He had to replay the message to hear the rest because by the time he’d gathered himself it had already ended. “...the funeral is next Saturday in Hawkins. Nobody expects you to come but I thought you should know anyway and that everyone would still like to see you. Call me back at…” Billy wrote the number on the back of a blockbuster receipt and set it flat on the counter quickly with a firm hand and a quick retraction, like it might burn him. Max’s name and a ten digit number below it in a blue ballpoint pen stared back at him and he just drummed his fingers on the counter and bit his lip trying to think everything over.

He looked at it for probably another thirty minutes while the rest of the voicemails cycled through in the background before he decided to make a call of his own. Slowly and shaking, he dialed the phone number and tried to even out his breathing while he waited for the sound of the pick up. He was partially hoping that it never came.

But it did. The click sound was followed by a voice that didn’t belong to Max, but one he still recognized.

“Hello?”

Billy took in a deep breath. “Hi. This is Billy.”

“Wow, I’m surprised you actually called.”

Billy huffed and if it had been ten years earlier he would have already hung up the phone by now.

“Who is this?”

“Lucas Sinclair. I take it you want to talk to Max?”

Billy tensed at the mention of her name, as if that hadn’t been the whole plan in the first place. “Yeah,” he said, a little bit of shakiness to his voice, “could you put her on?”

After a few short moments of silence and a little bit of movement in the background, he heard her.

“Hey Billy.” she sounded… glad… and it made Billy let out a heavy sigh of relief.

“Hey Maxine.”

“It’s Max.” There was that tone, she hadn’t changed at all.

“Yeah, I know.” There was a pause, Billy twirled the phone cord around this index finger to the point it started going pink and then purple while he tried to get the question to leave the tip of his tongue. “So, he’s really dead?” he asked, blunt as ever.

“Yeah. I don’t expect you to want to come for the funeral, but I just thought you should know, and if you need a place to stay you can– hold on one second” Billy could hear muffled bickering and Max yelling ‘Lucas Sinclair’ through clenched teeth and it brought a smile to his face. It reminded him of all those times he’d eavesdrop on her phone calls with him just to piss her off, just to hear her yell at him through their shared wall before she’d chase him around the house. Those were good days. “As I was saying. You can stay here if you need. We have a spare room.”

“Thanks for the offer.”

“I really hope you decide to come.”

“We’ll see.” He was just about to hang the phone back up, but he stopped himself, “Hey Max?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s nice hearing the sound of your voice again.”

Billy wound up taking the week off and driving that same old Camaro, restored back to its former glory, that did the distance twice before, back over to Indiana, to the place he said he’d never go back to, and he really couldn’t figure out the reason why he didn’t just go into work. There was nothing to drive him to go but the weird feeling in his gut that refused to go away until he called in, and a little bit of that pressure was released.

For each freeway exit he came across on the over thousand mile journey he contemplated turning around, getting back on that on-ramp going the other direction and save himself from whatever hell he’d be walking into.

Because that’s what Hawkins was to him. Hell. There were monsters like his father, and then there were real, legitimate monsters as well and Billy wasn’t safe from either of them, well he was safe from one now. He couldn’t imagine why Max decided to stay in the shithole and not get out like he did.

Maybe that’s what makes him the coward.

The welcome to Hawkins sign gave him chills. He remembered seeing that for the first time, following behind the rickety Uhaul pulled by their beat up truck when Billy decided not to follow them into their next turn, and instead got lost on the “scenic route” of Hawkins which really meant “trees, trees, and more trees” when he hit the Quarry’s dead end and nearly went off the cliff into the water below.

At the time he might’ve thought it would have been better if he had.

A lot of things had looked to have changed about the town since the last time he saw it. Places that he remembered being nothing but vast forests now had neighborhoods and restaurant chains and the place that once had a natural canopy was now completely deforested and exposed to the sun.

But the Quarry was exactly the same as he left it.

From the beer cans crushed and scattered, to the sounds of gravel pieces bouncing up and chipping the paint on his car.

The continuities continued to add up when he stepped foot out of the car, pulling on that same old denim jacket he hadn’t worn in years after trading it in for a suit and tie. His boot hit the gravel path just like it always had, with that same stomp that demanded attention, like each time he got out of that car he had to play into the dramatics, put on the mask and play the part he chose for himself. The breeze and the smell, it was all the same as before, as if the industrialization just several blocks north hadn’t had any effects on this little corner of the town where the birds still sang their songs in harmony and the smell of nature was pungent. It felt like no time had passed at all.

But it had been the sound of a rumbling BMW rolling down the crushing gravel that made him feel exactly like he was back in highschool again, the same rotten kid who used fists as forms for problem solving, the kid who as an adult had worked on his impulsivity, standing there, staring up the gentle slope with his fists clenched so tight his fingernails left marks on his palms. All that work, all that progress he thought he’d gone through, thrown straight out the window at just the mere sight of something from his past.

The BMW pulled up beside him, and the quarry apparently wasn’t the only thing that hadn’t changed. Steve still had the same big swooped back hair and that same exact look on his face when they made eye contact through the passenger window, the same exact look he had the day he told him he was leaving, and screamed at him to get out of his hospital room.

That was the last time they spoke.

Steve got out of the car without a word and just leaned against the door, looking him up and down, and Billy didn’t feel like he had any right to say the first word, considering he’d had the last one.

“It’s good to see you Billy.” Steve broke the silence, and it was almost startling, with both the sudden change of volume, and the sound of that voice he’d almost forgotten singing in his head like a song he didn’t remember learning the lyrics to.

“Is it?” Because it felt like it was all just a formality coming out of his mouth.

He wasn’t expecting an answer to that, so he shouldn’t have been surprised when Steve changed the subject. It was oddly refreshing seeing Steve write the script this time, steering the conversation his way.

“Looks like we both kept our old wheels,” he said, slapping the top of his car twice, maybe a little too hard. The sound of a hand against metal echoed through the trees. “though there’s not as many dents from what I remember.”

“I had it restored.”

The majority of Steve’s body was hidden behind the car that separated the two of them, but he could see in the way that his shoulders moved that his hands had found his own hips, doing that same stance of a mother who just caught their kid in the act of something naughty. “Some good memories happened in that car.��

“Some bad ones too. Or do I need to remind you how the dents got there in the first place?” Billy crossed his arms over his chest, as if the thousand pound chunk of metal that served as a barrier wasn’t enough to protect him. Because it felt like Steve could see directly through him with the way his head tilted when Billy threw his words back at him. Because they both knew that it was horseshit. Memories of whatever happened between Steve and the Camaro existed only in the dents that remained and the neck pain that still lingered. He didn’t actually hold any grudge about that, and he never did.

Because Steve was right. There had been good memories in that car, some he didn’t remember until seeing him again, some that still played in his mind when he went to sleep at night. Maybe that was the reason he kept it around for so long, that one piece that contained all of those few good times, all of those times with Steve.

“You were always so good at that.”

“What?”

“Deflecting. Pushing people away.”

Billy opened his mouth to defend himself, but there was nothing that came out but his own breath, but Steve filled that silence anyway before Billy would have even had the opportunity to speak.

“You cut your hair.”

It was like he was being interrogated.

“Company policy, they practically had to strap me down and take the clippers to my head themselves.”

Steve actually laughed, and it seemed genuine at least. Billy pulled out the pack of red that he always kept on the seat like it was muscle memory. His hands would only ever stop shaking when he had that little stick between his fingers, and they were only shaking more since Steve got out of that car.

“You still smoke?”

Billy put the cigarette in between his lips and lit up, pausing for a nice drag before bothering to answer Steve. Just letting his eyes fall shut and experience just a short moment of relaxation.

“Some old habits never die”

Steve pursed his lips. Every single one of his mannerisms were exactly the same. This one meant that he wanted to say something that he didn’t know if he should.

“Was I just an old habit too?”

“Steve–”

Steve just kicked the side of his car with his knee, sure to leave a dent of his own. The sound was loud enough that the consistent stream of chirping birds transformed into a cascade of flapping wings as the birds on the trees flew away from the scene. He walked around to the front of his car and the physical object that once created separation was gone, and suddenly Steve was within reach and he couldn’t breathe.

“Glad to know it’s harder to quit nicotine than it was to quit me!”

Billy chucked his lit cigarette at the ground and scuffed it with his heel into the gravel. “Who told you it was easy?!” He had a finger pointed to Steve and had closed their distance a few feet more, less than an arms length apart from each other.

“You left!”

“Because I had to! You know I did!”

“You didn’t have to leave me!” Steve practically screamed that final word, his face was now just inches away from Billy’s and he was nearly foaming at the mouth and from an outsider's perspective, Steve looked about two seconds from either kissing him, or killing him.

He did neither. He took a step back and recollected himself with a dramatic clearing of his throat. “You didn’t even ask me to come with you.”

“And you don’t think I regret that every fucking day of my life?” Billy’s voice broke, trembling throughout the sentence like he was containing a ticking time bomb. “Why are you even here?”

Steve just rolled his eyes at the steer. “Max sent me.”

“Of course she fucking did.”

“She cares about you y’know.” Billy scoffed, because how could she? After all he did to her? He could still hear those palms banging against those windows and her muffled screams for her to stay every time he got into that car. “Why are you here?”

“Did she not tell you the part where my dad died?”

“I know damn well you didn’t come all this way to pay your respects.”

Billy let himself drop to the ground and sit on the rough terrain with his back against his tire, unable to continue standing, his legs were ready to betray him.

“I have no idea why I’m here, okay? I just am.”

Steve nodded his head, and he didn’t say anything, no quip back in his face, he just followed Billy to the ground.

“Are you upset he’s gone?”

Billy let out a groan and tried to rub the growing migraine from his temples.

“I’m feeling a lot of things, but I don’t think ‘upset’ is one of them.” Neither of them said anything after that. They just sat there on the ground and enjoyed the silence together like they used to do. Looking up at the clouds and arguing over what shape they were. There’d be none of that today though, and it had nothing to do with the overcast skies. “You still keep a six pack in your trunk?”

Steve laughed and got up from where he was seated and popped the trunk. He was right. Some old habits never fucking die.

Steve tossed a can over to Billy and sat back down on the gravel, maybe a little closer than he had been before. Billy took a long swig and swallowed the bitter taste down. He hadn’t drank much since he was a teenager, he traded in his Coors for Cola and he doesn’t understand how he used to enjoy the taste of it before.

“Why did you stay in Hawkins?”

Steve dug his heel and pushed a pile of rocks forward, kicking a plume of dust into the air.

“Nobody ever gave me a reason to leave.”

Billy wanted to ask if he would have even come with him had he asked him to. But he opted against it, instead just taking another drink from the can and a genuine “I’m sorry.” passed his lips.

“You know I followed you?”

“What?”

“Yup. Made it all the way to St. Louis before I turned around.”

Billy was just staring at him at this point, unsure if he’d just heard him right. He just sat there with his mouth agape, catching flies and waiting for Steve to say more.

“I knew that you needed to go. I knew that you were hurting and it took me almost ten hours on the open road to realize that you needed time to heal.” Steve’s eyes looked glossy and his cheeks flushed but he kept his smile on. “So I came back home, and I waited here for you to come back. I wanted to make myself easy to find when you needed me.”

“You waited for me?”

Steve inched his hand over to where Billy’s was propping himself up and let his fingers gently trace the back of his hand. Steve’s touch was everything. It made his heart start racing and his palms start sweating and it felt just like 1985 all over again.

Billy took Steve’s hand in his own and entwined their fingers together and Billy let out a long exhale as they did.

“Billy,” Steve said softly, scooting his body just a little bit closer, less than a foot of separation now between the two of them, and he looked Billy in the eyes. Billy had almost gotten entirely lost in those pools of deep brown before Steve had the chance to speak again. But he heard it, loud and clear. “I’m still waiting for you.”

He waited.

Waited ten fucking years.

Billy wasn’t going to make him sit there and wait for a kiss too.

Billy closed the distance at the moment the penny dropped, sinking all of his weight into the kiss in a frantic and uneven pace just like they were eighteen again trying to squeeze both of their bodies into the backseat of the Camaro, refusing for even a second to separate themselves from the one point of contact that sealed them together like glue. The kiss felt just like their first. In the same spot, instead under the stars and the two of them both drunk off their asses, and that time Billy tasted of only blood and liquor.

But it was that same feeling. That desire to never pull away, that fear that it would end and that it would be the last time. He had that fear with everyone of Steve and his kisses, that each one might just be their last.

So he made a point to savor all of them.

They kissed until they physically couldn’t anymore. Out of breath with swollen lips and an inability stop the smiles that peeked through every couple of seconds. They sat there with their foreheads touching and their clasped hands still intact, relishing in the heat that was each other’s breath on their faces. Billy was crying, just streams of tears paired with a smile that Steve gently wiped away with his thumb, the brush of contact making him shiver.

“I missed you so fucking much.”

Steve cradled Billy’s head in his hands and peppered a few short kisses to his lips.

“I missed you too.”

“You think this is why Max invited me here?” Billy asked. “I can’t imagine she’d actually think I would want to come to this thing.”

Steve laughed. “No. She’s not an idiot. She figured you’d want to crash the funeral.”

Billy immediately got up from his place on the ground and held his other hand out for Steve to grab onto. “Well you wanna join me while I go piss on my old man’s grave?”

Steve took his hand without hesitation and let Billy pull him up off the ground.

“It would be my honor.”

Hawkins made a lot of bad memories for Billy, most of which he locked somewhere far away, but the good still remained. Right there in the look on Steve’s face with the way he looked back at him.

And he was happy to make a couple more.

#billy hargrove #harringrove #stranger things #steve harrington #mandi writes tresh #ficlet #harringroveapril #harringrove april

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robininthelabyrinth · 4 years ago

Text

Tedious Joys

- Chapter 1/8 - Ao3 link -

By the time Lao Nie wrote to Lan Qiren under personal cover to ask for his assistance, they hadn’t spoken in nearly seven years.

Oh, they’d spoken – it was rather impossible to avoid speaking, acting sect leader to sect leader. They attended the same discussion conferences, and of course the Lan and Nie sects were close allies, insofar as the Great Sects were anything to each other; their alliance, martial and moral, tended to balance out the riches and clever tricks brought to bear by the Jin and Jiang sects, and of course the Wen sect was large and powerful enough that it didn’t need or want any allies that it couldn’t subject to its dominion. An alliance meant constant contact, checking in, and ideally would call for a good relationship between the leaders of the two sects, which they had once had.

They had once been very close, even.

Lan Qiren had idolized Lao Nie from a young age, admiring his fierceness and his passion for life, his ruthless logic and his practicality and his thoughtful sense of judgment, all the more admirable given that he was from a sect known for being a bunch of hotheads. When Lan Qiren’s older brother – older by nearly ten years, with a middle brother that had died before Lan Qiren’s birth and several miscarriages in between as his parents struggled to provide the sect with the requisite spare – had continuously tried to leave his irritating younger sibling at home when going on night-hunts, Lao Nie had cheerfully interjected himself more than once, volunteering that he would be happy to take him along, and at that point Lan Qiren’s brother, who admired the older man nearly as much as Lan Qiren did, would generally yield, even if he grumbled about it.

Unlike Qingheng-jun, who ought to have been more considerate for his own family, Lao Nie had never minded having to slow down the pace of his hunts in order to accommodate a sickly child, a pedantic one that needed to understand things thoroughly before he was comfortable trying something new. He had often allowed Qingheng-jun to rush ahead and win glory that ought in all fairness to have been his, something Lan Qiren only discovered when he reviewed his history in retrospect.

Lao Nie hadn’t minded how clumsy Lan Qiren was, or how picky he was, refusing to eat even common foods if the texture didn’t appeal to him; he had only laughed at his excessive formality, the harshness of his tone, his tendency to repeat himself or to become caught on little details. He’d indulged him, wasting copious amounts of his time listening to Lan Qiren talk enthusiastically about the Lan sect rules, which he’d fallen in love with at an early age and, when young, rarely missed the chance to bring into any given conversation no matter how irrelevant.

He’d always been very kind to him.

If you had asked Lan Qiren ten years ago, he would have confidently asserted that Lao Nie was one of his dearest friends.

And yet – it had been Lan Qiren, who was short on friends, and not Lao Nie, who had many, that had cut off their relationship. Lan Qiren hadn’t truly spoken to Lao Nie in seven years, limiting their conversations to the subject of sect business and keeping their meetings as short as could be allowed by etiquette, ignoring the way Lao Nie looked at him with sadness and regret in his eyes. Even when Lan Qiren’s anger had finally died down from a raging flame to a simmering anger he suspected would never leave him entirely, he had thought to himself that it was too late, that the fire had burnt everything out, that there were only ashes left behind.

And yet – on the seventh year, apparently apropos of nothing, Lao Nie wrote to him, requesting his presence.

As a friend, he wrote. Come as a friend, or not at all. I have no use for a sect leader.

Lan Qiren struggled with the request, which did not obey any of the unwritten rules he had forced himself to learn on top of the many that were written. He did not know if he was still enough of a friend to Lao Nie to answer such a request.

He did not know himself whether he would go until the moment that he went.

Lao Nie met him at the gateway to the Unclean Realm, relief written in every line of him.

“Thank you,” he said, and Lan Qiren shifted uncomfortably from side to side.

“I didn’t even do anything yet,” he said stiffly, instinctively reaching up to stroke his beard. It was a more acceptable social tic than others that he had been discouraged from employing; losing access to it, however temporarily, had been one of the reasons he had been so upset with Cangse Sanren when she’d shaved it off while he was asleep. She’d tracked him down later to apologize when she’d realized how badly he’d taken it, serious for perhaps the only time he’d known her, and they’d ended up as something almost like friends out of the whole debacle. He hadn’t heard from her in years, either, but that was no breach; it was only that she was busy with her husband and the little child she had once shoved into his arms with that deep, echoing laugh of hers. “Don’t thank me until I’ve determined if I can do anything for you, or will.”

Lao Nie nodded and showed him inside, leading him to his private chambers rather than the sect leader’s study. This suggested that the issue was private, although Lan Qiren supposed he’d already known that, based on the letter.

They sat in silence while Lao Nie personally served the tea, his brow still creased in concern, and Lan Qiren stared at him – too intently, as always – and wondered what private issue could have caused such an upset, and moreover what he could possibly need Lan Qiren for. Lao Nie was a private man, in the custom of his clan and sect; Lan Qiren didn’t know his birthdate or even his age, only the approximates, and many of the details of his life escaped him. It made it difficult to guess what the matter might be, if it were personal and not political.

Although…

“My condolences regarding your second wife,” he said, watching, and Lao Nie jerked his head in a tight nod, acknowledging the loss. Lao Nie’s first wife had been a mysterious figure, appearing and disappearing as suddenly as an unexpected burst of rain on a sunny day – the stories in Qinghe enthusiastically claimed she was a goddess that descended from the heavens to dally with moral race, who’d ended up marrying Lao Nie to legitimize the child he’d unexpectedly planted in her belly, only to be summoned back to the heavens on important duties, although of course it was commonly understood that she was more than likely just some powerful rogue cultivator who had decided after a short interval that being married was not for her. Lan Qiren had never met her, although he had had the fortune to meet Lao Nie’s second wife, who had been much more down-to-earth, an innkeeper’s daughter.

(Lan Qiren had rather liked her the few times they’d met. She was a little self-absorbed, in a harmless sort of way. She liked beautiful things and good food and talking about them, and was happy to carry on entire conversations while he responded only with nods and grunts; to his relief, she had never expected anything more from him. She was very beautiful herself, both delicate and seductive with her fox’s face and long and narrow eyes; some cruel people spread rumors that she was a demon or a yao in disguise, sent to wreak havoc through the seduction of men. She had never tried anything like that on Lan Qiren, unless her attempt at seduction consistent of sharing a plate of snacks and occupying him enough to prevent him from having to listen to the more boring parts of the social parts of certain discussion conference meetings. At any rate, he’d been truly saddened to hear that she had died.)

Still, Lao Nie had not yet begun to speak.

That meant that the problem was not in relation to that aspect of his life, which in all honesty was a relief. Lan Qiren could not imagine a world in which Lao Nie confided his marital problems in a prematurely old bachelor like him.

Perhaps…

“Your sons?” he asked, and this time Lao Nie flinched, so he’d guessed right. “Ah. The younger one?”

The younger one would be about A-Zhan’s age, surely, or even younger. Little more than a toddler, not yet quite old enough to be taken away from the mother – or nurse, in the case of Lao Nie’s second son – and they were so terribly fragile at that age…

“No,” Lao Nie said, and sighed, a long exhale. “Forgive me, it’s a difficult subject. A-Sang is fine. The issue is with A-Jue.”

Nie Mingjue would now be around eight or nine years old, Lan Qiren thought, or perhaps even older – it was so hard to tell with these secretive Nie, and he only knew enough to make the guess at all because of their former friendship. Most sects were only vaguely aware that there were heirs to the Nie sect, and had certainly never seen hide nor hair of Nie Mingjue, during discussion conferences or otherwise.

He’d been a toddler the last time Lan Qiren had seen him, young and energetic, running around anywhere, but he had something of his father’s kindness – he’d actually listened to Lan Qiren telling him about rules that didn’t apply to him, and even proudly repeated some of them back to his father, much to Lan Qiren’s embarrassment – without having yet grown into his father’s occasional callous ruthlessness.

Perhaps it made a certain amount of sense that Lao Nie would ask for help with his children. Since his life plans had been irrevocably altered, Lan Qiren had taken over teaching at the Cloud Recesses, and to his surprise, was apparently making something of a name for himself.

It hadn’t been intentional: he’d been desperate for something to do with himself that wasn’t just for the sect, so much of his time consumed by the business of sect leadership, and he’d always planned to become a teacher eventually, although he’d always assumed it would be much later in life. He’d volunteered to teach, only to look at the small handful of obedient, well-trained Lan sect disciples that he would be in charge of instructing and quickly realized that such ‘teaching’ wouldn’t occupy his time at all.

Accordingly, he had demanded that the sect elders allow him to accept disciples from other sects as well. The request was highly irregular, but strictly abided by all Lan sect rules on the subject – it was Lan Qiren putting together the proposal, after all – and the elders had granted it with surprisingly little debate. To this day, Lan Qiren wasn’t sure if it was pity for his circumstances or simply an assumption that no outside students would bother attending, but he would not let the approval, once granted, be so easily retracted: he had sent out letters asking for students at once, and to everyone’s surprise but his own they actually came.

(He’d been clever about it, at the start. He’d reached out first to those smaller sects that would not have access to resources even a quarter as good as the Cloud Recesses, asking specifically for those children that seemed troublesome – the ones it took time and attention to teach, the ones who didn’t seem to be getting what they were supposed to learn. The slow, the stupid, the angry, the ones who disappointed their parents most of all. Lan Qiren might not have answers for those children, but at least he could give them his time and attention and he found, for most of them, that was all they wanted.)

Recently, though, they’d started getting more requests to join from the slightly larger subsidiary sects, more people, even murmurs about sending him their sect heirs rather than their burdens – people were saying that his teaching could make a gentleman even out of a waste, which Lan Qiren didn’t really understand. After all, putting aside a few students that were too arrogant to be willing to learn anything, he hadn’t encountered a single one he’d characterize as a waste.

“How can I help A-Jue?” he asked, expecting Lao Nie to finally give in and explain.

But Lao Nie shook his head.

“There’s some background I need to tell you first,” he said. “Without which the problem won’t make much sense. You have one of the finest analytical minds I’ve ever met, Qiren, and a way of thinking that doesn’t match up to conventional wisdom – I’m hoping you can help me where expertise has failed.”

Lan Qiren frowned, embarrassed. “I can try,” he said, already mentally rearranging his plans to account for a longer stay. He disliked sudden changes and had planned out three possible lengths of time for his visit – one short, one medium, one long – so that he would be able to select whichever one would be most appropriate. He hoped that the issue would not require any more time than the longest period he had allotted. “What is the subject?”

“Saber,” Lao Nie said, and smiled at Lan Qiren’s confusion. “My sect’s cultivation style. Let me explain…”

Lao Nie’s explanation was fascinating.

The cultivation style of the Nie sect – and the Nie clan in particular, especially the main branch – was unlike anything Lan Qiren had ever heard before, completely different in both substance and philosophy. It was a rough trade, a difficult road, heartbreaking in its sacrifice, impressive in its results…

It wasn’t the road for everybody, but one couldn’t help but admire those that walked it.

“Doesn’t it get close to demonic cultivation, using resentful energy like that?” he asked at one point, and Lao Nie had explained to him how they had drawn the distinction – using beasts, never humans, and channeling the worst of the effects into their sabers rather than themselves. How much they strived to cultivate morality into their sabers as well as power.

Lan Qiren thought that it was a fine line, but after some thought concluded that they fell on the right side of it, if just barely. The primary dangers of demonic cultivation were in the way it increased the amount of evil in the world, whether through the inevitable madness and violent rampages of its wielders or through the simple side effects of using other people’s corpses as your playthings, increasing their own resentment, breaking the hearts of their loved ones, and causing their ancestors to curse you; that sort of vile conduct was an offense to the Heavens. The Nie sect’s cultivation avoided that, and if through their sabers they added a little bit of evil to the world then it could not be denied that they took much, much more of it out.

“I think I understand now,” he said, brushing his fingers along his beard. “But…why tell me? Isn’t it one of your clan secrets?”

“It is,” Lao Nie agreed. “As a general principle, we do not tell outsiders unless we must.”

The Nie sect preferred principles over rules, which Lan Qiren begrudgingly accepted even if he himself preferred having rules, clear and precise and equal even if they sometimes weren’t quite fair. But situation-dependent or not, the Nie held to those principles just as tightly as any Lan did to their sect rules, and that was worthy of respect.

“So you felt that you must,” Lan Qiren observed. “But why? And what does it have to do with A-Jue? Is he not taking to your sect’s teachings…?”

“I would almost prefer that,” Lao Nie said, and rubbed his eyes. “We’ve always had those that didn’t follow our ways – those that refused to train the saber, or refused to cultivate a spirit despite all their training. No. It’s actually…A-Jue’s very good.”

Lan Qiren had been a teacher for seven years. He was accustomed to parents who needed to praise their child before getting to the point, though he wouldn’t have expected it of Lao Nie. He waited.

“He’s too good,” Lao Nie said, and abruptly covered his face with his hands. “He’s already cultivated a spirit in Baxia.”

Lan Qiren’s whole body jerked. “Lao Nie!” he exclaimed. “You’ve already given him a saber? He’s too young!”

Under the age of ten, Nie Mingjue should still be building his strength, shaping the muscles that would serve him in the future; he should be wielding only a practice saber made of wood, heavy and slow as he etched the forms of his sect style into his bones. Even if he was a true prodigy, a once-in-a-generation genius, he should at most bear a weapon of dulled steel, and never an actual spiritual weapon, much less the one that would be the companion of his future life.

“He took it himself,” Lao Nie said. “A little over a year ago – we had a surprise attack, right in the middle of the summer hunts. Supposedly bandits, but actually mercenaries, supported by traitors from the inside; they had a map to lead them straight inside our home, and attacked at the moment when most of us were gone. When everyone else ran for cover, A-Jue went to the armory and picked up a saber, freshly forged, and he took his first blood the same day. What was I supposed to do? Take it away from him?”

Lan Qiren felt a stab of sympathy for Lao Nie’s impossible dilemma.

Taking the saber away just when A-Jue had started bonding with it, right after he’d shed blood with it for the first time – yes, that would have been far worse. It might have crippled his confidence, introduced hesitation that would damage his cultivation forever, hinder his future growth…

“And he already developed a saber spirit?” he said instead. “Within a year?”

That wasn’t genius. That was insane.

“I know,” Lao Nie said. “The faster we cultivate, the sooner we die, but how am I supposed to say that to a child? And there’s how fast he’s picked up our cultivation style, how fast he’s going – what if he introduces some flaw into it and it sinks in before anyone notices? Even a minor disruption to his qi, at this age –”

Lan Qiren scowled. “Stop panicking,” he ordered. “That won’t help anyone at all, least of all him.”

Unexpectedly, Lao Nie smiled at him, although the smile was full of regret.

“It’s easy to say and hard to do,” he said. “Don’t you know I always lose my head when it comes to love?”

Lan Qiren knew.

Lao Nie had always been reckless in matters of the heart, as seen by his decision to marry some stranger for his first wife and a nobody for his second, and to thereafter refuse a third, more sensible arrangement with some sect leader’s daughter or sister that could care for the children as a mother while acting as a useful political tool, even if no other children were forthcoming. Even though his life had been beset with later tragedy, he had been happy with his wives – happy and in love, and unwilling to trade a single moment with them for anything.

Lan Qiren knew this. He even understood it.

He just had trouble excusing it.

Lao Nie had been friend to Lan Qiren’s brother long before he’d been friend to him, and so when Qingheng-jun had fallen in love in that sudden, shocking, irrevocable manner that the Lan sect had, Lao Nie had been the first to support him in it, delighted to think that his friend would find the same happiness he had himself found. He’d encouraged him not to be shy in presenting his courtship, in presenting himself as a possible match; he’d reassured him that some disinterest to begin with was reasonable, given that they were still strangers, and advised him to enjoy the feeling of falling in love, to be reckless and bold and daring with it…and he did it all in writing, from a distance.

Lao Nie had been occupied at the time with issues in his own sect – probably the scandals relating to his first wife, in retrospect, though of course he said nothing of it back then – and had unwisely trusted in Qingheng-jun’s description of the events, rather than seeing the circumstances for himself. It was understandable that he would not comprehend how fiercely his friend’s heart had been gripped by love, or how truly disinterested He Kexin was in her ardent suitor, not when Qingheng-jun described her resistance as mere coquetry. It was impossible for Lao Nie to have predicted that his well-meant advice that love was worth anything, even defiance of sect rules and the counsels of the elders, would be interpreted in such a terrible way.

Still less, of course, could he have predicted what happened next, the tragedy of He Kexin and the friend that deceived her, that tried to use her and Qingheng-jun through her through false rumors and twisted stories, and in so doing underestimated how unbridled He Kexin could be when pressed. It was all part and parcel of the same underlying calamity: if Qingheng-jun had not been so persistent in his courtship, He Kexin wouldn’t have had such a bad impression of the Lan sect; if she hadn’t had such a bad impression of the Lan sect, she might not have been so ready to believe her friend’s lies about their teacher’s conduct, to allow herself to be indirectly used to manipulate Qingheng-jun’s love-madness to the advantage of another sect; if He Kexin had been a little less arrogant or a little less blindly trusting or had bothered to ask a single question before taking upon herself the duty of executioner as well as judge, if she’d only held back her sword and not gone so far as to kill a man over baseless rumor – if only – if only – if, if, if –

If Qingheng-jun had not decided that his love mattered more to him than his sect.

There was no way Lao Nie could have known what would happen.

It was understandable.

One might even say that it was forgivable, except Lan Qiren had not yet gotten around to forgiving him.

Lan Qiren had dreamed of travel, not teaching; he’d wanted to play music in all the forgotten places, to learn all the things that could not be simply deduced from inside the safety of the Cloud Recesses. He’d wanted to help people, to use that vast store of knowledge that seemed irrevocably stuck in his brain to solve problems and suggest solutions. But the Lan sect needed a leader, and with Qingheng-jun in permanent seclusion, disinterested in sect matters, choosing instead to obsess endlessly over his broken heart…

The duty had fallen to Lan Qiren instead.

(He Kexin had eventually grown rather fond of her husband, even if love wasn’t the word for it. Lan Qiren didn’t know if she was simply salvaging what she could out of an unsalvageable situation or if she just enjoyed the exercise, but he had two nephews now, to raise as if they were his own. Because that was just what he needed, another chain binding him to his home, another duty that shouldn’t have been his – he loved his nephews more than anything, so he couldn’t be angry at them, couldn’t blame them for being born, and so he had to be angry at everyone else instead.)

Lan Qiren lowered his head and pursed his lips. He knew Lao Nie wanted his forgiveness. He even knew, according to the sect rules he valued so highly, that he should grant it. Seven years was surely long enough to pay for any innocent mistake, wasn’t it?

Come as a friend, or not at all.

That was the invitation Lao Nie had extended, and Lan Qiren had come. That was very nearly a decision, if he wanted it to be.

“Let me see him,” Lan Qiren proposed, and Lao Nie’s smile warmed at once.

#mdzs #lan qiren #sect leader nie #my fic #my fics #tedious joys #LQR and the power of research

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falcor-thee-luck-dragon · 4 years ago

Text

Love Cuts Deep

Chapter 13- Avengers. Assemble

Summary: With the new Infinity Gauntlet finally put together, things are about to get more chaotic then you could have ever realized. But in the aftermath, there is a joy within the sadness.

Warning: fighting, some blood, angst, fluff, bucky returns!

Masterlist

With no time to waste, Tony’s robotic tech ever so carefully placed the Infinity Stones onto a new gauntlet specially crafted by the man himself. With the utmost precision, he designed the piece in the familiar likeness of the Ironman suit, specifically taking into account the hand area. All in all, it looks just like that blasted Infinity Gauntlet that’s caused yourself and the universe so much pain.

But you known this is different, this is necessary above all else and must happen or you’ll face the dreary facts of never seeing Bucky ever again. No one still left behind in the aftermath like yourself will ever see their loved ones again, and Natasha’s death would all be for nothing. This is it.

You stand around Rocket with the rest of your friends, everyone suited up for the inevitable unknown while he carefully finishes up a few lasting touches on the metalwork with the aid of Tony to keep it steady.

“All right, the glove’s ready.” Affirms Rocket with a confident nod as everyone stands around him waiting expectantly, “Question is, who’s gonna snap their freakin’ fingers?”

The room keeps to a heavy silence before Thor immediately makes hastily overconfident steps forward, “I’ll do it.” States the bearded god of thunder, no surprise to you, like he’s even in the right headspace to take on such a task. Especially looking like he just walked out of a homeless shelter.

Thor quickly earns a puzzled look from Tony. “Excuse me?” Asserts Stark with a raised brow as just about everyone else gives Thor a similar look of bewilderment.

Thor waves him off with a casual swing of his thick paw, “It’s okay.” Calmly dismisses Thor as he walks in closer to the perched gauntlet, eyes set for the powerful object within arms reach. Tony, Steve, and Clint immediately raise their arms to hold him back for the time being as your eyes widen at his go-getter attitude for something so seriously dangerous. He would fucking die.

“Stop, stop. Slow down.” Advises Tony while Steve steps between the gauntlet and an eager Thor. Blue eyes set and steady though a friendly softness flashes through them knowing the true reasons why Thor wants to do this above all the others, “Thor. Just wait. We haven’t decided who’s gonna put that on yet.” Implores Steve while Thor blinks, clearly not satisfied with this answer.

“I’m sorry. What, we’re all just sitting around waiting for the right opportunity?” Laughs off the large Asgardian as his eyes trail around the room to the unclear hesitant faces of you all.

“We should at least discuss it.” Interjects Scott as Thor turns to face him before looking to all of you again.

Thor finds Steve’s conflicted gaze of uncertainty, “Look, sitting here staring at that thing is not gonna bring everybody back.....I’m the strongest Avenger, okay? So, this responsibility falls upon me...”

Tony sets a friendly hand on his chest, “Normally you’re right...”

“It’s my duty.” Interrupts Thor, more heatedly this time as Tony slowly draws him away from the gauntlet. Doing his best to sway Thor’s mind, “It’s not about that...” Begins Tony as Thor interjects. “It’s not that...” Rambles Thor as you frown, eyes set on the glowing Infinity Stones as they rest comfortably atop the Vibranium laced metalwork.

“Sheeesh stop it!” Whines the agitated god of thunder, “Just let me....Just let me do it.” Whispers Thor in defeat, face falling with remorse as he focuses on Tony, “Just let me do something good. Something right...”

Tony lets out a disheartened sigh, “Look, it’s not just the fact that glove his channeling enough energy to light up a continent. I’m telling you. You’re in no condition.” Sincerely adds Tony, trying his absolute best to sway Thor from doing this to himself.

“What do you think is coursing through my veins right now?” Asks Thor with a reasonable bout of self confidence while Rodney throws a sarcastic. “Cheez Whiz?” In reply. Thor clenches his fist, pointing a threatening finger to him but ignores the verbal blow.

Eyes set on Tony as the god smiles, “Lightening.”

Tony doubtfully nods, “Yeah.”

“Lightening.” Says Thor again, like that’s going to hold all the answers and save everyone from oblivion.

Taking an anxious breath, you’ve already made your decision as you take a step forward, “Lightning won’t help you this time, Thor. You couldn’t take it.” He sends you a defeated look, eyes falling to the floor as the others gain your attention. Frowning, your eyes study the glowing colors of the new Infinity Gauntlet as you nervously swallow, “I’ll do it.”

“Y/N...” Begins Steve like a concerned father while his blue eyes grow with apprehensive doubt, he opens his mouth to speak more on the matter but you cut him off with a stern look, “My body can regenerate its genetic makeup, essentially I should heal from anything it does to me, it won’t kill me Stev...”

“We don’t know that,” Interjects a worried Bruce as he walks in closer to your little group, “It’s gotta be me, we saw what those stones did to Thanos. They almost killed him, these are the Infinity Stones we’re talking about. None of you could survive.” Explains Bruce honestly as he finds your troubled gaze, “Even you, Y/N.”

Your brows furrow in thought while you let a depleted sigh escape your lips, “How do we know you will?”

“We don’t.” Begrudgingly admits Banner, “But the radiation’s mostly gamma. It’s like...” He stares solemnly down at the beacon of destructive hope for a small moment, its shimmering colors glowing with a dangerous beauty, “..I was made for this.”

“Then it’s settled then.” Declares Tony with a confident nod, “We do this today. Everyone suit up, we have no idea how this is going to go.” And with that does the room quickly file out, your small team of nine hastily on the move to prepare yourselves for the impending future still held in mystery and a growing hope.

Soon, you and the rest of the Avengers nervously watch as Bruce picks up the metal gauntlet while Tony sends him a concerned brotherly look. “Good to go, yeah?” Wonders Tony as he stands a couple feet away for safety reasons like everyone else. Bruce gives the stones a last fleeting glance before raising his eyes up to meet him, “Let’s do it.”

“Okay, remember, everyone Thanos snapped away five years ago you’re just bringing them back to now, today. Don’t change anything from the last five years.” Warns Tony as Bruce nods. “Got it.”

Everyone takes a cautious step backwards, making sure to shield themselves from whatever’s about to happen next with either their actual suits or in Steve’s case his legitimate shield. All you got on is your usual dark attire that’s armored comfortably in the areas needed. That and your uncanny but evidently helpful ability to heal yourself instantly. Which may either become unneeded, or hold true to its helpful wonder if things go south for whatever reason.

Tony quickly has Friday adorn the protective barriers around the buildings interior so whatever happens inside, stays inside. A moment later Banner puts the gauntlet on with a hesitant grimace, the metal grows as it adjusts to his hand, immediately the power of the stones glows bright. The raw energy crawling wickedly up his arm as Bruce falls to his one knee in pain. Loud grunts of strained discomfort emitting from the half-hulks throat. Shit that looks painful.

“Take it off! Take it off!” Worries Thor as Steve throws up a cautious hand. “No, wait. Bruce, are you okay?” Banner groans in agony as Tony adds, “Talk to me, Banner.” More pained moans are heard before Bruce is finally able to give a reassuring nod, well, at least the best one he can manage.

“I’m okay.” He mutters through clenched teeth, sending a small spark of relief through everyone as he forces his fingers to reach one another. Yelling like a charging warrior through the pain of battle, Bruce forces his stiffened digits into submission, snapping his fingers through the gauntlet with all the strength he has left before a blinding bright light emits forth in an instant. Cascading the small lab into an almost heavenly glow, you can’t see anything it’s so obnoxiously bright.

When the light fades a swift moment later, you’re able to witness the aftermath of a brave Bruce Banner who’s currently semi-unconscious on the floor, metal appendage laying a couple feet away from him as Steve races to Banners side, “Bruce!” Panics Steve.

“Don’t move him.” Warns Tony as he sprays some type of healing particles onto the ashen green of Bruce’s right arm to increase the natural healing process from the stones hefty damage. “Did it work?” Wonders a drowsy Banner while he blinks back the blurry fuzz of the gauntlet's intense power.

Thor smiles brightly, “We’re not sure. It’s okay...just relax, it’s alright you did it.” Both him and Steve give Bruce some more encouraging words of praise as you take a step back from the scene to release a breath you didn’t know you had.

Holy shit, you think, heart slowing down from the adrenaline rush of it all. Trying to take in everything's that’s just happened, you ignore as Scott wanders away to the giant opening windows as your ears prick to the sound of Clint’s phone ringing on the nearby metal table. You watch curiously as he slowly walks over to it before picking it up and answering with a teary eyed grin from witnessing the picture of his beloved significant other. The sound of his confused wife reaching your ears in an instant and your heart immediately swells with joy.

Bucky!

Suddenly a dark shadow bestows itself upon the compounds opened sunroof, you quickly twist on your heel to face the others who are looking up at a dark shape with an equally as baffled expression. A second later your world turns to darkness.

Then nothing.

——

Someone’s shaking your shoulders. God that’s annoying.

But you can’t see or hear anything, can’t even feel your own body but the stuffy thick air that flows forcibly into your healing lungs. Slowly, your senses of touch and perception come back to life, vision deciding to wake up from the blurry void next and with that so does your hearing, “Y/N! Wake up! Come on, wake the fuck up!” Shouts the annoying voice of.....Clint. While his dirt smudged face flashes with uncertain panic. The fuck does he want? And where the hell are you?

Coming to, you suck in a needed breath before he quickly sits you up against a rock, a dull throbbing making itself known from the right side of your forehead that feels oddly wet. Ignoring his concerned gaze, you press a hand to it only to find your fingers coated in blood, “Clint, what the fuck just happened? And where the hell are we?” You grumble before taking a good look around you, finding nothing but rocks and ruble. “This looks like a sewer system, goddammit my suits ripped.” You complain, still a tad bit disoriented from the head trauma that’s still healing while you eye up the nasty blooded gash on your left thigh.

Clint huffs in frustration before taking a calculated look around at your minimal surroundings of rock and red warning lights as he takes a step forward, boot quickly smashing into something hard as he looks down to find the fucking gauntlet of all things right by his feet as something oddly familiar sounds in your sensitive ears. Oh, shit. Jumping to your feet, you turn your head to the cavernous tunnel on the right, night vision giving you the perfect view of... “Space dogs. Fucking space dogs!” You fearfully whisper yell as he sends you a perplexed look.

“Ugh what?” Mutters Clint as you throw him a look of pure panic, understanding something is most definably wrong if you of all people are scared shitless, he quickly sends a lighted arrow past your head before catching a glimpse of exactly what you were warning him about. Thanos’ army of monstrous bastards from space. This is your nightmare all over again.

“Shit.” Mumbles an alarmed Clint as he tugs on your arm before the two of you book it in the other direction, screams of fury and death sounding from the beasts pursuing you. For a good twenty yards do the both of you run until by some wondrous act of the universe are you able to climb your way to a higher level where the creatures can’t get to either of you. Clint shooting a skilled blow to the creatures brave enough to pursue you further, killing them quickly enough so you both have a moment to rest. And inhale much needed oxygen from the swift sprinting session you just unwillingly endured.

Laying on the metal floor next to a worn out Clint, your breaths are heavy and labored when Nebula randomly walks out of nowhere like she owns the place, glad to just see a familiar face you pay her no mind when she leans down and quickly retrieves the gauntlet from Clint before raising her hand to her ear and speaking, “Father...I have the stones.”

Uh, what? Oh wait! Your eyes widen in fear as you swiftly jump to your feet, Adamantium claws protruding out of your fists as you prepare yourself for a fight to the death over that damned gauntlet when without warning she sends a swift blast straight through your chest. Shit, you can barely breath.

You gasp, falling to the metal earth as she’s immediately confronted by some green chick and another Nebula, though you’re too frazzled and in pain to listen to their arguing. A couple long moments later the traitor Nebula is shot, falling to the ground right next to you as your lung muscle and bones fuse back together again. Body at long last letting you take in a proper breath. Dammit she got you old western style too.

Clint’s at your side in an instant, “Jesus Y/N, you okay? That looked bad.”

Grumbling in annoyance for the misadventure you’ve just found yourself in, he kindly helps pull you to your feet, “I’ve had better days Clint, I’ve really had better days.” You deadpan as he chuckles before the both of you follow Nebula and the green woman out and into the clearing of the destroyed Avenger’s Facility.

Once foggy ashen sunlight hits your dirt smudged blood spattered face, a pearl white pegasus flies above you and Clint, “The hell?” Mumbles Barton as the two of you start jogging into the destroyed landscape of the desolated Avengers base that’s currently in the midst of a chaotic battle between Thanos’ army and the Avengers, and clearly a lot more then just your lost friends. God today just keeps getting worse, not to mention weirder.

“Come on, this way.” Shouts Clint as you two begin making your way through the mess, both on a mission to protect this stupid gauntlet and try not to get yourselves killed in the process. Though soon some type of giant lumbering beast starts trailing you two as Clint calls in to anyone listening, “What do you want us to do with this damn thing?” You can’t hear what they’re all saying due to the fact that your earpiece is broken, but quickly enough Clint glances at you.

“Y/N! We gotta find Scott and that ugly brown van of his, it’s got the time machine portal in it so we can get these stones away from here!” Shouts Barton as he jumps over a protruding piece of shrapnel before one of Thanos’ loyal creatures jumps near, throwing him to the side as you launch yourself onto the beast. Digging your shimmering talons deep into its neck as it screams in agony, dying a second later.

“Give me that fucker, I can see the van from here.” You urgently exclaim as he hands it over to you without a second thought, too exhausted to run any longer. With the stones in your possession now, you book it on swift legs across the demolished battlefield as monsters of all kinds pursue you.

You’re luckily able to slash a few while dodging heated blows in an attempt to stall your progression, although unknowingly to you while you’re sprinting like a bat out of hell, mumbling a distressed chorus of “Fuck off, Fuck off, Fuck off..” to no one in particular. Bucky’s gaze is able to track your panicked form as it races across the destroyed landscape, Infinity gauntlet in hand. So that’s what you’re doing, thinks Bucky with relief, glad to know you’re okay. Well, for the most part.

Slipping from his curious view, you make it a good ten yards before a lumbering beast knocks you from your stable legs and onto the ground just as T’Challa ends its ugly life. Body hurting all over, you finally give up the gauntlet into the arms of the Black Panther, “I got it Y/N, you’ve done well.” Praises the king of Wakanda as you give him a weak thumbs up in reply, too damn winded to really answer with anything fully comprehensible.

God it’s a good thing you heal quickly cause shit, your everything hurts.

When will this shit end! Huffing in irritation, you swiftly pull yourself up before joining the Avenging masses into the storm of chaos. You slay monster and beast of all kinds before Proxima of all beings throws her spear at your head, just narrowly putting a full damper on your already hectic day as you dodge left.

“Didn’t I kill you already?” You growl in irritation as she begins hand to hand combat with you, more so claws to sword then anything else. For the next minute do you two hash it out on the battlefield, Thanos and other brave Avengers doing what they can to fight the Infinity Stones off of him as you slice up her face in a moment of valuable weakness.

Unfortunately she’s able to kick you into the cement, raising her shimmering blood coated weapon before thrusting it downwards straight for your naked jugular when suddenly it turns to dust against your exposed skin. Eyes wide in bewilderment as you breath in heavy breaths, you’re pleasantly surprised when the bitch disappears completely, nothing left but ashes floating on the breeze.

Wiping some fresh blood from your nose, you slowly stand on sore legs, eyes quickly scanning the surrounding area only to find all of Thanos’ army turning to dust as well. A relieved smile falls upon your chapped lips, though quickly enough your heart sinks when you wander over to Steve and Thor as they watch Pepper say her last goodbyes to a dying Tony Stark. So he was the one who did it, he killed Thanos for good. And this is the price that must be payed.

Your chest rises and falls with labored breaths from battling the enemy as his reactor core flickers, white light slowly going out soon after. You frown deeply as Pepper sobs by her husbands side as you notice the others beginning to slowly gather around behind you, and the ones nearest to him. Peter, Rodney, Steve, and Thor.

The dismal scene breaks your heart to watch so instead do you drop your gaze to the ground where you study the ripped fabric of your pants and the dried blood that coats it. You can’t believe after all this shit and time spent tirelessly in pursuit of those fucking stones has the deed been done at last. Two friends lost in the taxing journey to save the world from a deepening pit of confusion and despair, but it’s done, and Thanos will never hurt anyone ever again.

You’re so tired you could probably curl up and fall asleep on the rocks below, but yet your body shakes with adrenaline that keeps you from submitting to the earth for a long rest.. “Y/N?” You freeze, going still as a statue when your ears fully register the voice it belongs to. You’d recognize that voice anywhere.

Blinking hard, you turn around, your eyes slowly trailing up to meet the beautiful blues of the one and only, James Buchanan Barnes. Your breath catches in your throat, it truly feels like your whole world has just stopped and reset itself. Tears immediately prick at the corners of your eyes from the intense feelings of being overwhelmed from battle and by him, he looks exactly the same as when he left you five whole years ago. Long dark hair falling to his broad shoulders, metal arm apparent as it shows itself freely in the cloudy sunlight.

His eyes of stormy ocean studies your awestruck expression, handsome face softening as he takes a cautious step forward, “Y/N.” Mutters Bucky as your lip begins to quiver, so many emotions rushing through you like a giant waterfall, a couple stray tears draw clean marks down the sides of your dirt smudged face as your heartbeat begins to race.

You feel like hyperventilating right now but are to astounded to completely lose your shit, instead do you let him silently walk the rest of the way to you before gently placing his hands against your tear stained cheeks. He hands you a handsome grin of pure love and adoration as you place your shaking hands against his forearms. So incredibly awestruck that he’s actually with you right now in the flesh for you to form a coherent sentence.

You swallow, eyes furrowed as they wander all over his beautifully dirty face, “Please tell me this isn’t some sick dream.” You whisper, voice raspy while you try and keep your inhales as less erratic as possible. “Oh God I hope this isn’t another dream.”

Bucky chuckles a sweet tune of joy before engulfing you into a ginormous Bucky bear hug, he gently wraps his strong arms around your tired vessel with ease, burying his head in the crook of your neck as tears flow freely out of you now. Shaky hands holding him as close and humanly possible while you breath him in for all he’s worth. Your Bucky, finally in your arms at last.

You can’t believe it, after everything you’ve endured, after a thousand nights spent alone and days lasting for too many hours to count. He’s holding you like his whole life depends on it, every single muscle and fiber of his entire being wills himself to hold you in his arms like nothing and no one else matters.

Because right now, in the midst of a desolated battlefield, you can finally feel at peace with the man you have never stopped loving for even a single second. The man you will swear on your life to never leave his side ever again if you can help it. Your sweet James Buchanan Barnes. Your beloved Bucky.

You can feel as a feather light kiss brushes past your hairline before he slowly pulls away, metal and flesh hands still holding yours as his blue eyes soften, “This isn’t a dream.” Chuckles Bucky as he studies your teary eyed face, a growing confusion clear on his puzzled features, “Why would this be a dream Y/N? I mean, well I’m not sure where we are actually or how I got here or why your hair looks different now....and uh...clothing too?” His brows furrow as he trails his gaze all over you, clearly unaware of the time differences between you both and what troublesome lengths it’s taken to see him again.

He doesn’t know. Biting your bottom lip anxiously, you blink with saddened eyes before resting a hand on his metal shoulder for a bit of self comfort, “How long until you came through those portals?”

Blue irises flicker to the ground in puzzlement before finding yours once again, “Uh, I think it was about five minutes actually....it’s, it’s weird. I remember seeing you by Steve and then, I don’t remember anything else until it felt like I blinked and suddenly these huge portals were appearing in Wakanda. And you weren’t with me. I don’t know what happened....I’m not sure why you look a little different now either?”

Smiling at his adorable confusion, you trail a hand up to drag it through his messy dark locks, “You weren’t gone for five minutes Bucky, you were gone for five years.”

His lips part likes he’s about to speak though nothing comes out, handsome face slowly falling into a frown while he gently touches the side of your bloodied cheek, “What?” Whispers Bucky in astonishment, “Five...five years? Five whole years? That’s why....that’s how....how you, Jesus Y/N...”

“You have no idea how much I missed you James....how much I, I...” Your throat feels like it’s tightening as you lip quivers, voice unable to produce any sounds but your labored breaths. You feel like bawling.

Bucky takes this like the dutiful lover that he is, pulling you flush against him once more as he gently squeezes you close, face pressed into your neck as he mumbles out a soft but meaningful, “I love you Y/N.” That causes you to almost crush him in your loving embrace.

“I love you too, so fucking much.”

——

Standing on the grassy edge of the Starks riverside house somewhere in upstate New York, dressed in your usual dark attire. Though for this instance, it’s a rather dismal affair that truly represents the black clothing adorning your body with more purpose this time. But you don’t feel as terrible as you thought you would have.

A soft late summer breeze blows your hair back as you keep your hands deep in your jacket pockets while you let yourself enjoy the beautiful view of the water shimmering in the sunlight. It truly couldn’t have been a nicer day for such a day filled with melancholy for the loss of Tony. In fact, when you arrived for the funeral today, you could barely look at Morgan without feeling the urge to shed a few tears.

She’s surprised you though, her little heart is stronger then you’d realized, she’s clearly filled with confused grief for the sudden loss of her father. But she’s admittedly able to handle the dreary situation better then you’d expected, though it is true we all grieve in our own way and in our own time. Luckily she has a plethora of friendly people by her side, plus your cat Silver who you let her adopt considering you’re technically homeless.

Soon the familiar sound of footsteps walking across the grass alerts you to a new presence approaching you nearby, you could smell his scent a mile away. The blue eyed man in question, stops by your side, eyes trailing over you while you keep a steady gaze on the water. “Y/N.” Your name on his tongue, spoken so gently as he forms your letters into a term of simple greeting.

A smile immediately tugs at the corner of your lips when he literally says anything now, you turn to face him as you raise a brow, imitating his tone, “Bucky.” You practically tease.

He flashes a quick grin before shrugging, eyes glancing up to the house before finding your undivided attention once more, “They made sloppy joes if you want one. They’re not too bad actually, I had one so....yeah.”

“I’ll take your word for it, but uh...I’m okay thanks.” You add, gaze set back onto the water beyond as you let out an admittedly tired sigh, “I’m just, I don’t even know.....whatever, I’m okay.” You mutter while giving a weak shrug, a frown crossing your features as your mind wanders to your lost friends and the reason why you’re even at this funeral. It’s been a long fucking road to peace, if this even is peace.

Bucky, noticing your disheartened expression, gently nudges your arm, “Hey, you know you can talk to me.” Assures your sweet lover, eyes softening as he gently tugs at your sleeve, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Making a sour face at the water, you avoid his gaze while your heart swirls with a conflicted sadness, “No. Not really.” You freely admit, “Both of them, I never got a chance to say goodbye. I wish I could have, I really do Buck.” Biting your lip to hold back the tears, Bucky wraps a comforting arm around you, knowing how much this all pains you since he’s been back and was filled in on everything that’s happened.

You don’t even hesitate to relax into the warm embrace as you throw an arm around his waist to bring him in even closer to you now, “Truth be told Y/N, I never got a chance to tell Tony how sorry I am for what I did to his parents. If there was onl...”

“He forgave you, Buck.” He shares a puzzled look with you.

“He did?” Whispers Bucky in confusion though a slight hopeful relief laces his words.

You nod, “Tony...we had a long conversation about that when I was visiting once for some birthday party, it was a difficult subject. But after everything we talked about, he forgave you for what you did. Of course we had no way of knowing this was all going to happen but uh, I just want you to know that. And so did he even if you weren’t there to hear it. Guess it was the thought that counts.”

“oh.” Mutters Bucky in clear astonishment as he keeps silent for a long moment, truly processing the solid fact that Tony Stark actually forgave him for such horrendous crimes committed against his closest family members. Bucky lets out a heavy breath of relief, giving you a small squeeze before speaking, “That’s, that’s good. Yeah, alright um...” His eyes flicker to the side as he pauses for a brief moment, “..you, you want anything up there?”

Chuckling, you roll your eyes at him, “What? Let me guess? You’re still hungry and don’t want to eat alone?”

Bucky keeps silent for a brief but telling moment as he mumbles out a soft, “Yeah.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

He nervously laughs before gently squeezing your shoulder, “Or we don’t have to, it’s fine I was just wondering...”

“Buck.” You throw him a humored glance as he smiles before you lose your grip on his torso, “Come on hot stuff let’s get you a sandwich.” He grins as you start backing up towards the house filled with multiple guests of all kinds still socializing amongst one another.

“Y/N I could go myself if I wanted to.” Says Bucky as he wanders across the grass by your side, “I could....but yeah, I’d rather have you with me.”

You snicker quietly as his stubbled cheeks redden in slight embarrassment, “Well Mr. Barnes, if you must know, I don’t plan on letting you do anything alone for a long time so get used to my company.”

“Sounds good to me.” Smiles Bucky as he gently nudges your shoulder, “But seriously you gotta try these sandwiches they’re really good.”

“Buck, I don’t doubt it.”

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#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #Bucky barnes x reader #the winter soldier x y/n #the winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier x you #marvel imagine #marvel x y/n #marvel x reader #marvel x you #fanfiction #fanfic #bucky fanfic #avengers insert #the avengers imagine #avengers x fem!reader #avengers x reader #avengers x you

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kybee1497 · 4 years ago

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Hi kiwi! (Ily) For the ask thing;

How would you combine fake dating and sick/injured fic for willex please!

Hi Gracie!! Ily you’re the best! My brain is a big dumb dumb so this is what I got

Also editing to add that I forgot to credit @a-tomb-with-a-view for the boys nicknames. That’s 100% a her thing and I used them without thinking about it, so thank you meg ily.

So Alex’s parents have been on his ass about him settling down with a nice, Christian girl™️. Starting a family, getting a job somewhere respectable like the family firm. The whole nine yards.

Alex doesn’t want to be a lawyer, he’s double majoring in literature and history and he’s killing it. Well, he’s not sleeping and he pretty much runs on caffeine and anxiety but he has a 4.0 so, killing it.

The thing is his parents have their blinders on when it comes to who he really is. They’ve seen him reading for class and he’s gone on rants of pride and prejudice on the phone with his mom and all she said was “that’s nice honey, how are your pre-law classes going? Making any good connections? Of course you’ll work for the family firm but connections can get you a long way in this world.”

He’s literally talked about his best friend Willie for years, they’ve met Willie. He’s told them he’s gay. He’s worn a rainbow bracelet every day since he was 16. And they still ask him if he’s met any nice girls yet. At this point he’s not sure if they legitimately don’t listen to him or if they’re purposely ignore what he says.

So a few months ago he finally got fed up and started referring to willie as his boyfriend. He told willie first of course.

Willie just smirked, “whatever you wanna call it hotdog.”

And so they’d been ‘boyfriends’ for almost 4 months now and not a lot had changed. They just held hands and cuddled more often than they used to in public.

Not that it made much of a difference. His parents still referred to him as “Alex’s friend William, he wants to be a professional skateboarder, did you hear?”

Anyways, nothing much had changed and he wasn’t really sure why he was bothering but he kind of liked being Willie’s fake boyfriend and he liked the excuse to cuddle up whenever he felt like it. Sue him, it was nice okay?

But then one morning when Alex was just getting out of his 17th century literature class, it started at an ungodly 8:30 am, he got a call from an unknown number.

“Hi, is this Alexander Mercer?”

“Yes?”

“Hi, this is Cristina at St. Mary’s Emergency. We’re calling about a patient here, William Covington, he put you down as his emergency contact.”

Alex felt his heart stop, “oh my god! What happened?”

“Oh, I’m sorry to worry you, he’s totally fine. He fell skateboarding earlier this morning and he has a concussion so he can’t drive himself home. He’ll need to be picked up. He’s being discharged now and should be ready in about an hour. Does that work for you?”

“Um, yeah. That works, I can be there in an hour. Thank you for letting me know.”

“Of course, and you are Mr. Covington’s husband correct? You’ll need to sign the forms when you arrive and only family can sign him out.”

Alex choked on his own spit. Mind blanking for a few seconds. Husband?!? He knew they were fake dating, but husband was a whole different ball game. Did willie think they were fake married? We’re they real married? Alex thinks he would have remembered marrying Willie. He would have right?? Then again they did go to Nevada State which was only 25 minutes outside of Vegas and they went often enough.

Dear god had they gotten married?

“Alexander?”

“My apologies, yes he’s my husband. I can be there in an hour. Is there anything I need to bring?”

“Just your ID and you should be all good.”

“Thank you so much!”

Alex hung up the phone in a daze, slipping it into his pocket and heading towards his car.

Slipping into the drivers seat he pulled his phone out, texting his boys.

Alexa: Are Willie and I married?????

Bobert: are you fucking kidding me?

Lucy: ahahahahahahahaha

Reggalina: ??????

Alexa: that’s not an answer you guys!!

Lucy: how do you not know?

Reggalina: ^^^

Bobert: I need a fucking drink

Alexa: either way I’m picking him up from the hospital in an hour

Lucy: wait what??

Alexa: yeah he apparently has a concussion and as his husband I can sign him out. He’s just fudging the truth right? So he can leave?

Bobert: Jesus fucking Christ

Alexa: I still don’t know what that means!!

His boys went radio silent after that. The fuckers, he supposes he can just ask willie in an hour, even though that will be embarrassing as hell.

~~~~~

So it turns out they were actually married, they had been for a year. Alex had drunkenly proposed one night in Vegas. With a PowerPoint as evidence

They were already best friends. It would be easier to get an apartment after college as a married couple

The health insurance

It would finally make Alex’s parents lay off on the nice, Christian girl fantasy

It would be a big fuck you to willies uncle Caleb who was all about the drama and show and who had been planning to plan willies wedding since he was in high school, Caleb would be performing of course and all of The Who’s who of society would be in attendance. A drunken wedding in Vegas at a cheap chapel with a singing Elvis impersonator would really grind calebs gears

They were bro’s

It was a very convincing power point and willie had been thrilled to become Mr. William Mercer (another way to piss of Uncle Caleb)

They’d been husbands for a year already, hence willies smirk when Alex had asked to be fake boyfriends, seemed like a step down from husbands but okay.

They’d decided that if they were already married and bro’s and all that, they may as well try out making it real. So now alex got cuddles whenever he wanted, even if they weren’t out in public. He got to kiss willies dimples, and sleep wrapped in willies arms.

It was the best hospital call he’d ever recieved.

#jatp #julie and the himbos #julie and the phantoms #alex mercer #Willie jatp #willex #willex fic #jatp fic #ask games

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ausetkmt · 2 years ago

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Chaos on Twitter Leads a Group of Journalists to Start an Alternative

Nov. 21, 2022Updated 8:50 p.m. ET

It’s one thing to hope for a better community online, and another, very different one, to build it. Just ask the users and administrators of journa.host, which was started by journalists concerned over the direction of Twitter.

“Come on in, the water’s confusing but fine — and more swimmable,” the journalist Virginia Heffernan wrote on journa.host on Nov. 6.

On Nov. 7 the MSNBC host Mehdi Hasan posted: “I feel like a new kid in a new school.”

The network is the brainchild of Adam Davidson, a journalist who helped found “Planet Money” and has worked at The New York Times and The New Yorker. He said the jump from Twitter to the new site reminded him of his family’s move to Vermont from New York City, a few years ago.

Journa.host is part of Mastodon, a vast network of thousands of servers that look and function much like Twitter. Over the past three weeks, hundreds of thousands of people, seeking an alternative to Twitter as Elon Musk took over, have signed up for Mastodon, according to Eugen Rochko, who created the software in 2016. Many of them are journalists.

But because so much news happens on Twitter — and because Twitter itself is such a news story — the social network symbolized by a tiny bird casts a very large shadow over the social network named after a giant prehistoric beast.

Shortly after Mr. Musk bought Twitter, he offered up the blue check mark verification to anyone willing to pay $8 a month. (The rollout has since been put on pause.) To Mr. Davidson, this was a crisis for journalists. If anyone could pass themselves off as, say, Adam Davidson, who could trust that Adam Davidson was Adam Davidson?

“It felt scary to imagine a world where false verification would reign,” Mr. Davidson said.

Indeed, a wave of verified impostors followed Mr. Musk’s decision, including a fake LeBron James account that tweeted a trade request and a fake Eli Lilly account that claimed the drugmaker would be providing insulin to the public for free.

On Nov. 4, Mr. Davidson started journa.host. To join, applicants have to prove that they are journalists, through a working professional email account, say, or recent clips.

The network currently has almost 2,000 members, and they include the hyperlocal and the national, weathermen and sports reporters. Jelani Cobb, the dean of Columbia Journalism School, is a member, as is Kasie Hunt, the CNN anchor.; some journalists from The Times are also members.

To manage the flood of applicants, Mr. Davidson has been joined by a part-time volunteer staff of nine journalists, who verify new members; Mr. Davidson said that a few applicants had been rejected because they work in public relations. Journa.host received $12,000 in funding from the Craig Newmark Graduate School of Journalism at CUNY’s Tow-Knight Center, which has been used so far to pay server and domain registration fees.”

For the many journalists who use Twitter, it serves several roles: assignment editor, ombudsperson, sourcing tool, clubhouse, hype machine, pillory, legitimizer.

Journa.host bills itself as “a reliable home for journalists,” and it has greater ambitions than just verifying journalists’ identities, though its rollout has not been without bumps.

Mr. Musk’s early run at Twitter has been chaotic, as he has slashed thousands of jobs and reinstated banned accounts. Many journalists have publicly criticized these and other moves, often on Twitter itself, and some have started, or joined, conversations about Twitter alternatives.

“The period in which Twitter served as a clubhouse for journalists was valuable for journalism as a profession,” said Steven I. Weiss, an investigative journalist who is one of the moderators of journa.host.

Mastodon is an idiosyncratic place, a so-called federation of nearly 8,000 servers, many with their own community norms. Users pick a server — such as journa.host — and can interact with other users throughout Mastodon, with exceptions. If this all sounds complicated, that’s because it is; links to guides and F.A.Q.s about the service are frequently “boosted” (similar to a retweet).

Journa.host users are figuring out almost everything about Mastodon on the fly, including, for starters, what to call Twitter. For many, it’s “the bird site.” For others, it’s “the bird app” or “the Bad Place.” For years, the Mastodon equivalent of “tweets” were “toots,” as from a trunk. On Nov. 14, as part of a software update, the service replaced “toot” with “publish.”

Using journa.host feels a little like crossing the border to a kinder, more rule-bound, less dynamic country. Susanne Althoff, a user and former magazine editor, compared journa.host to zine culture.

“The conversation is still very much a low murmur,” Mr. Weiss said.

Many journa.host members use the service no differently than they use Twitter, sometimes posting the same text simultaneously to each platform.

Indeed, at times, journa.host looks a lot like Twitter, just without all the non-journalists and most of the nastiness.

Frequent topics on journa.host include the deficiencies of Twitter (hate-filled, attention-addled, ruled by an impulsive billionaire), the deficiencies of Mastodon (hard to use, lacking a quote-retweet function, boring), and journalists’ ambivalence about the transition.

“I am having a hard time letting go of the birdsite but I was raised by an alcoholic so I understand what a trauma bond is,” the political journalist Ana Marie Cox wrote on journa.host on Nov. 20.

Mr. Davidson said that he had become concerned in recent years about what he called the “extreme emotional engagement” encouraged by Twitter. The slower pace and calmer rhythms of Mastodon have made him appreciate how a platform’s algorithms and options for, say, retweeting, shape the way its users interact, he said.

“I’m not sure the versions of me on these different platforms would like each other,” he said.

And some of the relative calm Mr. Davidson sees may also be a function of journa.host’s narrow user base. It’s a server just for journalists — or more accurately, the people the administrators of journa.host deem to be journalists. That has led to accusations (on Twitter, where else?) that the server is an attempt by the moderators to “gatekeep their peers.”

In response, Mr. Weiss said that being denied entry to journa.host doesn’t currently prevent access to journa.host content, which users of many other Mastodon servers can see.

Regardless, any attempt to turn journa.host into a walled garden, free from the issues of Twitter, is probably doomed to fail: The conflicts that have at times inflamed Twitter have already caused problems for Mr. Davidson and his team.

On Nov. 18, the journalist Mike Pesca, who hosts the popular news podcast “The Gist,” posted a link to a Times story about health concerns associated with the puberty-blocking drugs sometimes prescribed to transgender youths, writing, “This seemed like careful, thorough reporting.”

In response, Parker Molloy, a journalist who writes the Substack newsletter “The Present Age,” accused Mr. Pesca of anti-trans bigotry, and then posted angrily at Mr. Davidson for not removing the post.

“@adamdavidson’s decision not to take action on anti-trans content isn’t inspiring confidence and I totally understand why other places are doing instance-level blocking,” she wrote on journa.host. (Instance-level blocking refers to the ability, on Mastodon, for one server to block content from another.)

Zach Everson, one of the journa.host administrators, responded that he agreed with Ms. Molloy, then added, “Banning someone for posting a link to an NYT article sets a precedent that we really need to work through.”

On Saturday, journa.host suspended Mr. Pesca, who was informed via a text message from Mr. Davidson, a longtime friend. (The two are currently writing an exchange of letters hosted on Substack, about the nature of cancel culture.) According to Mr. Pesca, Mr. Davidson told him he had been suspended for referring to Ms. Molloy as an “activist,” which was dismissive. The suspension “seemed arbitrary and ad hoc,” Mr. Pesca said in an interview; Ms. Molloy didn’t respond to a message seeking comment.

“We want to be a place for passionate engaged discussion,” said Mr. Davidson, who recused himself from the decision because of his relationship with Mr. Pesca. “But we don’t want to be a place where people insult each other.”

Also on Saturday, Ms. Molloy appeared on a different Mastodon server, and announced that she, too, had been suspended from journa.host for her posts.

“Did it break their rules over there? Yes, so they were certainly in their rights to suspend me from there,” she wrote. And then, in a subsequent post she wrote, “I mostly just want to be left alone.” (Later, Ms. Molloy posted an apology to Mr. Pesca.)

The staff will have to confront issues that will be familiar to anyone who has used Twitter, including bots.

“So far no Nazis in my Mastodon feed,” Bill Grueskin, a Columbia Journalism School professor, wrote in a post on journa.host on Monday, referring to the widely held perception that Mr. Musk has relaxed restrictions against hate speech. “But these ladies have shown up.”

Mr. Grueskin attached a picture of a young woman who said her name was Emma, from another Mastodon server, who had tagged him in a post. She appeared to be a bot.

“Your pictures look so elegant,” it read. “I love meeting new people and learning by sharing with each other, I think it’s good for improving yourself too.”

For the volunteers who run journa.host, it has all been a brutal introduction to the no-easy-answers world of content moderation, one that might have engendered, if not exactly empathy, a better understanding of the challenges that big social media platforms face.

According to Kelly McBride, senior vice president and chair of the Craig Newmark Center for Ethics and Leadership at the nonprofit Poynter Institute, Poynter is in talks with the journa.host team about bringing the social network under its umbrella. For the overworked administrators of the server, it would come as a relief.

“We don’t have the time to be doing this,” Mr. Weiss said.

#From Twitter to Mastodon: What Happens When Journalists Flock Platforms #twitter

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