#there are four people above 30 and three of them are in the last four people you recruit

[catariasteele]

Why is this army full of teenagers?

[enchantedbarnes]

Uncle Buck Returns

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Single Aunt!Reader

Summary: Our little menace of a nephew has secured a date for you. Here is part 2 to Uncle Buck.

Word Count: 1401

Masterlist: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven

A/N: what in the actual f👀 is going on 😅 I was expecting maybe 10 or so people to read Uncle Buck. My notifications haven't stopped going off since I posted. Thank you so much everyone that read it and enjoyed it. I hope you also enjoy this little continuation. P.S. GIF replies are my love language so if you enjoy send me your best (or worst 😈) 🫶

As soon as the pair return home and walk through the front door, Benji skips his way in shouting, "MAWWAGE! MAWWAGE IS WHAT BWINGS US TOGEVAH TODAYYYY!" Arms high above him as he rushes through the living room in search of his parents.

"Benji, please don't make me regret letting you watch my favorite movie," you sigh, flopping onto the couch, hands covering your face.

He stops short and looks back at you, "Have you the wing?" He bows and giggles, then turns back around to continue on with his search.

"You're back!" Your sister shouts while she snatches Benji up into her arms, covering the small boy in kisses. "Did you have so much fun with Auntie today? Why are we shouting Princess Bride quotes?" She gasps, "Did you get to meet the dread pirate Roberts??"

Benji looks up at her in confusion, "What? No Mom, we saw Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson! And guess WHAT!"

"Ohhh, what?!"

He whispers into her ear and throws his head back laughing like a tiny evil madman.

"You did what???!" She laughs.

You groan from the couch.

She walks both of them over to you.

"Did I understand him correctly, is there something we should know? Are you betrothed to a super soldier?"

"I'm gonna go throw up," you groan again.

Sweating doesn't even begin to cover it.

Your entire body feels like it's on fire.

You agreed to meet Bucky for a late lunch the following day. You've been sitting on the floor by your closet for what you thought was 30 minutes now, staring into the clothing abyss, spiraling into an internal panic.

You don't go on dates. You keep to yourself. It's comfortable. Living in a combined household with your sister and her small family you're certainly never alone.

What are you even supposed to talk about?

Your current job is nothing super exciting to talk about. You do like to go to concerts and musicals... However you can't really imagine the 106-year-old super soldier going to a pop punk or metal show, nor do you imagine him attending Wicked 3 times. Note to self: do not bring up Rogers the musical. Yikes.

Your sister has already talked you off a ledge 3 times since last night when you got home.

While still wallowing in self pity and loathing, two outfits are scattered by you and you have three more in your arms.

Your sister walks by your open door and backtracks peering in.

"Y/n," she sighs, "just wear the first outfit. You'll look great, I promise." She walks over and grabs the armful of clothes from you, dumping them on the bed and grabbing the first outfit. Your favorite pair of black jeans and a sweater you bought specifically because it was so damn soft.

The doorbell rings and your eyes widen. "He's early?!"

"He's on time, you would have noticed if you weren't staring into space for the last hour."

"WHAT?!"

"Don't worry we'll keep him distracted while you finish getting ready."

"Oh sure, don't worry. That fills me with all the confidence..."

"Benji has already asked him to marry you, what's the worst that could happen now?"

"I don't even want to think about the answer to that. So many possibilities come to mind."

You grab your outfit and start rushing around.

"Can I get you something to drink, Bucky?" Your sister asks while she moves about the room.

Bucky and Benji are seated at the kitchen table, just off from the living room. Benji is across from him with his tiny arms crossed on the table, and a very serious look on his face.

"I'm fine, thanks."

"Ok, I'm sure she'll be down in just a moment. Make yourself at home. Hopefully we will see you around again soon," she smiles, "I'm just gonna go switch the laundry over quickly. Benji," she looks down at him while pointing two fingers at her eyes and then over to him, "behave yourself," she warns while leaving the room.

The table stare down continues.

"Where do you live?" Benji asks.

"In the city," Bucky answers.

"You have a house?" Benji fires back.

"Apartment."

"Own or rent?"

"Rent."

"Where’s your office?"

"I don’t have one."

"How come?"

"I don’t need one."

"Where’s your wife?"

"Don’t have one.."

"Yet," Benji squints with a tiny smirk, "but how come?"

"It's a long story."

"You have kids?"

"No I don’t."

"How come?"

"It's an even longer story."

"Do you prefer dogs or cats?"

"Both are fine."

"Do you have one?"

"I have a cat. Names Alpine."

"Is Steve Rogers really on the moon?"

"What's your record for consecutive questions asked?"

"38."

"He's up there all right." Bucky answers with a nod.

"Your metal arm and regular arm match well with how ginormous your muscles are."

"How nice of you to notice."

"I’m a kid, that’s my job."

Bucky raises a brow, "Why am I getting the 3rd degree here?"

"Just checking in on my investments. If this didn't work I was going to ask our neighbor Frank, but he kind of sucks," Benji shrugs his shoulders.

Before Bucky can question the language and what the 8-year-old said, you walk into the kitchen and quickly look back and forth between the two of them.

"Oh no, how long have you two been alone in here?? What did he say?" You ask Bucky, looking over at Benji quickly after, "What did you say??" Your eyes narrow.

Benji grins and holds your purse up for you. "Have fun storming the castle," he cheekily smiles with that glint in his eyes.

"Benji," you glare down at him.

Bucky clears his throat while standing up from the table. Walking over to you he points to a small bouquet of flowers that were already in a vase waiting on the kitchen table, "Um, these are for you…" he smiles.

"Thank you so much, they're beautiful," your reply is breathless while you look at the arrangement filled with a small mix of your favorites.

"He also gave me this," Benji holds up an RC truck with a Captain America shield painted on the side.

"That was very nice of him, did you say thank you?"

"Duh," he rolled his eyes while grabbing the remote to the car and rolling it out to the living room, "Thanks Future-Uncle Bucky," he grins and chases after it.

"Anyone ever tell you guys he's kind of a strange kid?" Bucky whispers conspiratorially while offering his arm to you.

You throw your head back with a quick laugh. "Oh, you have no idea."

Your date is going better than you expected.

You have managed to not make a complete fool out of yourself so far and both of you seemed to be enjoying your time together.

You have apologized multiple times for Benji's antics.

Bucky laughs, "He reminds me a bit of a young Steve and my sister Rebecca combined. Didn't realize that combo was possible, it's a little terrifying. I hope they have great medical insurance," he jokes.

"His father's a nurse, so we have in-house medical on demand. My sister tried to convince me to go to law school so someone can represent him when he undoubtedly tries to take over the world. Guess I can save some money and time on law school now that we have a super soldier plus a Captain America connection that can potentially stop him before lawyers need to be involved."

"Your sister already welcomed me to the family when she opened the door to let me in," he smirks.

You put your face in your hands, elbows leaning against the table in support.

"Well now you know where her small menace gets it from."

Bucky helps pull your chair out for you as you're both about to leave. As you stand up your purse falls off the back of your chair, spilling some of its contents on the floor when it lands.

Bucky ducks down to help collect your things when something shiny appears next to your chapstick. His eyebrows furrow as he picks both up and holds them up to you.

You let out a slightly strangled cough as you realize what he's holding up to you.

Bucky Barnes was kneeling holding up your peppermint chapstick and your Grandmother's opal ring that was supposed to be safely in your jewelry box at home.

...Benjamin!

Next: Part 3 Lord of the Pins

@pono-pura-vida @bitchy-bi-trash @random-writer-23 @jvanilly @clintsupremacy @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction

[topguncortez]

Ice comforting gooses sister after his death. Maybe with a touch of people blaming him for the accident

- @topgun-imagines

When We Were Young | | T. Kazansky

Masterlist | Iceman Masterlist

synopsis: Tom Kazansky isn't a man who lives with many regrets. . . but this has to be one of them, and sadly, you get wrapped up right in it.

word count: 2.1k

warnings: character death, tears, depression, angst, probably grammar and spelling errors.

note: maybe possible blurb night?? I don't have to work tonight and I actually feel inspiration:) i also did just hit 5.3k:)))

Ice felt like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

He knew what he did. He knew that he should’ve gotten out of there when Maverick told him. He knew that he didn’t have that shot lined up, but there was just something about Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell that got into his head and made him act reckless. And because of that, Iceman had to hold you up from crashing to the ground as you got the phone call from Carole that your brother was dead.

Ice knew that the two of you had an unbreakable bond. Your mother had passed when she gave birth to you, and your dad was in no shape to take care of you. So, it all fell onto Goose, who was just eight years old at the time. I’ve had always wished to have the type of brother-sister bond that you and Goose had. I’ve hated his siblings and wanted nothing to do with them.

Ice knew the moment that he watched Goose’s early ejection that he gone, but he didn’t have the heart to tell you. He wasn’t even sure if it would’ve been easier to hear it from him or not. Your knees had gone weak and sobs racked your body as you begged Carole to tell you that it wasn’t true. That somehow, someway the Navy had gotten it wrong. That they called and told the wrong Carole Bradshaw that the wrong Nicholas ‘Goose’ Bradshaw was dead.

When Ice decided he had enough of you sobbing uncontrollably on the kitchen he floor, he walked over to you, and gently put a hand on your shoulder.

“Baby, you need to breathe,” Ice said, as he gently pulled the receiver from your hand. Carole had long since hung up and the dial tone “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

He picked you up like you were nothing, carrying you with ease to your shared bed room for the time being. He changed you out of the clothes you were wearing, and slid on one of his Navy PT shirts, that was more of a dress than a shirt on you. He held you tightly against his chest, feeling the wetness from your eyes hit his skin. Ice ran circles up your back until the sobs faded to quiet whimpers.

--- --- ---

“They said it was quick.” Carole’s voice was barely above a whisper as you sat next to her in the day room of the barracks.

It hadn't even been twenty-four hours yet, and she had invited you to come with her to gather Goose's things. Carole wasn't sure that she could keep up a brave face in front of Bradley by herself, but you weren't sure if you were going to be much help either. It had only been about three hours since you had your last cry sesh, and you were feeling that all too familiar burning sensation in your chest again.

"I guess that's good," You muttered, looking over at Bradley who was flipping through the pages of some magazine which you weren't all too sure wasn't a Playboy.

"He was gone before he hit the water," Carole scoffed, "You know he always had a fear of the ocean ever since that trip to-"

"I know."

You didn't mean to cut Carole off, but you couldn't sit here and tell happy stories while your brother's best friend was collecting all of his things to give to his widow.

Hell, it didn't even feel right to call Carole a widow. The woman had barely turned 30.

It was silent for a moment, before Carole spoke up, "How was Ice last night?"

The sound of your boyfriend's callsign from her lips caught your attention, as you looked up from Bradley.

"Why do you ask?"

"He was in the air with Mav and Goose when. . . when it happened."

Now this was news to you.

But then you realized, you hadn't even bothered to see how this was affecting your boyfriend. Goose was the one who introduced the two of you back when he was at the academy. He tried doing the whole "older brother, stay away from my little sister" bit, but it was no use against Tom Kazansky's killer smile and your soft baby cow like brown eyes. Tom "Iceman" Kazansky was smitten from the moment he laid eyes on you and it had been history ever since.

"Did he say something to you?" You quietly asked Carole.

"I. . ." Carole started, and then sighed, "Maverick said something when he came and saw us. He said it was a mistake, that it was a stupid error. That he should've known-"

It was as if he knew they were discussing him, Iceman pulled the door to the day room open, standing in the doorway. He was dressed in his service khakis, ribbon rack and gold plating all perfectly shined. But you weren't looking at his perfectly done dress uniform, no, you were looking at the sad look in his baby blue eyes.

"Tom," Carole greeted, standing up from her chair. If there was one thing about Carole Bradshaw, it was that she was a hugger. It didn't matter if she was literally going through hell, she was going to hug you either way.

"Hi Carole," Ice greeted the woman, giving her a quick squeeze, before releasing her, "You guys been here long?" He was looking right at you, but you weren't sure what to even say to him. It had been a game of Tom Talks and you just look at him for the past couple days.

Carole looked between the two of you, before clearing her throat, "No, not long. Maverick is just gathering Goose's things," She turned to look at Ice again, "You should wait with us," She said softly to him.

Iceman nodded and walked over to where you were sitting with Bradley. The little boy smiled and reached for the man he considered another uncle. Usually, the sight of Iceman and Bradley made your heart do jumping jacks, but right now, it was as if a boa constrictor had found its way around it.

The four of you waited in painful silence, you staring at the silent movie playing on TV, until the door opened again, and Maverick stepped inside. Carole had managed to keep her tears at bay until she saw her husband's best friend.

Maverick, for lack of better words, looked like utter hell. His green eyes were full of sadness and guilt. He looked as though he hadn't slept a wink in days, and was about to collapse on the spot. In his hand, he held a simple copy paper box that had been filled with the rest of Goose's stuff. A Naval Officer had come by the day before and took all the things that rightfully belonged to the Department of the Navy.

"God, he loved flying with you, Maverick," Carole said, her voice cracking. You and Ice stood up, as Carole got out of her chair to greet him. She wrapped her arms around him, giving him a tight hug. You couldn't help the pang in your chest as he handed Carole the box.

"But he would've done it anyway... without you," Carole sighed, "He'd have hated it, but he would've done it." Maverick nodded. Carole gave him one more hug and a kiss on the cheek, before turning around and holding her hand out to Bradley, who ran to his mother in an instant. Her blues eyes looked up at you, and she gave you a sad smile, "We'll wait for you."

All you could do was nod. Leave it to Carole Bradshaw to know that you needed the truth more than anyone in this room. Once the door was shut and Carole was out of earshot, you looked at the two men standing in the room.

"What happened?" You asked.

"Baby, I already told-"

"No," You cut Tom off, and looked over at Maverick, "What happened?"

The brunette man gulped, looking quickly at Ice, before looking at you, "Ice was trying to take a shot on a boogey, but he was taking too long to get missile lock on it. I had the perfect shot lined up, but Ice needed to move out. I kept telling him to take the shot or move, but he wouldn't. And when he finally did, it was too late. We were in his jet wash. I lost control, went into a flat spin. . ." Maverick shook his head and looked at his shoes, "The ejection failed. Goose hit his head on the canopy. Killed him instantly."

Your brown eyes were filled with tears as you turned to look at Tom, whose jaw was clenched tightly, his eyes filled with regret and guilt.

"It was an accident-"

"If that's what you choose to believe," Maverick spat, "I think you were trying to teach me something and you got my best friend killed."

"I had the shot!"

"No you didn't!"

"Maybe, if you hadn't been flying so god damn close and not trying to swoop in and-"

"Oh piss off, Kazansky, you've been waiting for your moment to-

"Enough!" You yelled. Both men looked at you shocked that you had raised your voice. Compared to Goose, you were always the quiet one, sticking to stay in the corner while Goose liked to bet he center of attention.

"Baby, let's go-" Tom reached out to you, but you pushed away from him, "Y/N. . ."

You couldn't say it out loud, you were afraid of your heart would break in your chest. Instead, you shook your head and turned to Maverick.

"Take me home?"

The brown haired pilot nodded, putting his arm around your shoulders and ushered you out of the room.

Ice couldn't help the burning sensation of tears that welled up in his throat. He had heard the whispers of his fellow classmates for the past couple days. He knew what they were thinking, but to hear it said out loud, in front of the one person he didn't want knowing about what had happened that fateful day in the air, broke him. Tom knew he was already branded as ice cold, and now he was sure that he would never escape it.

Ice stood in the silent room for a moment, before turning on his heel and going back to work.

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[matan4il]

can we get a. like i dont even know what to call it anymore but can we mention Michel Nisenbaum, an Israeli-Jewish man who was killed on oct. 7th and had his corpse held hostage until really recently. it's ok if you're too busy to do it or if im overstepping a boundary but its just that his story has really been weighting on me recently

Hi Clawdia!

You don't even have to ask me, it's a given I would talk about them, it was just a matter of when. There's so much to say, to share, to debunk, when every aspect of our existence is misunderstood, distorted and/or lied about...

The IDF has returned the bodies of three more hostages who were murdered on Oct 7, and their corpses were kidnapped. The intel which allowed the soldiers to locate and rescue the bodies was uncovered in the last few days.

With your permission, I'll go through the above pic in the order in which we read and write Hebrew, from right to left...

42 years Chanan Yablonka was a father of two. He was last seen in security footage from the Nova music festival, walking through the parking lot, but hasn't replied to his family's calls. They knew that all of the four friends who had been with Chanan in the car in which they tried to flee the scene had been murdered on Oct 7, but no one knew what happened to him. It took 90 days to find the intel which changed his status from "missing" to "kidnapped." IDK if people understand the nightmare that not knowing is for the family. Now they do, and can bring him to his final resting place.

30 years old Mexican-French Orion Hernandes Radu was Shani Louk's boyfriend. They met abroad, and were together for almost a year. He was also the father of a little girl, and a musical producer of parties who worked all over the world. On Oct 7, his dad got a message in Arabic from Hamas, saying that Orion was alive, well, and kidnapped to use him for "political trade." He and Shani went to the Nova music festival together, and the vid of her stripped down, raped, abused body being taken to Gaza, to where people were celebrating in the streets and a boy spat on her still bleeding corpse was the first thing I saw of the massacre on the day itself. Now we know they were both murdered then, kidnapped together, and their bodies were returned to Israel one day apart.

59 years old Michel Nisenbaum was a grandfather, and on Oct 7, at his daughters' request, he went to get his 4.5 years old granddaughter from a military base in the south, where she was spending the day with her dad, an IDF officer. On the way to the base, Michel came across people fleeing the massacre, and as a volunteer paramedic, he helped several of them. When his son-in-law realized terrorists had invaded Israel, he called Michel to tell him not to come, but Hamas terrorists were the ones who answered the phone. One of his daughters said that from the moment she learned about the terrorists replying to her dad's phone, she knew life would never be the same again. At his funeral today, his former wife thanked Michel for the family that they built together, for an extraordinary friendship they had, for the way they learned to deal with everything life had in store for them, and promised him she'll keep guarding all that they had between them.

May their memories be a blessing. </3

The current number of hostages in Gaza is 125, and 39 have been determined to have been killed, which means there are 86 living hostages at most there.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[after-the-end-times]

THE HOPE OF IT ALL

G 💙 750 words 💙 '92 US Election 💙 on AO3

💙❤️💙❤️💙❤️💙❤️💙❤️💙❤️💙

As the 1992 election results started to roll in, The Party were glued to the tv in Steve and Eddie's apartment.

It had been a long time since they'd had a Democrat come this close to winning the Presidency. They all lived for too long under Reagan and then George H W Bush and now they were all watching to see if Bill Clinton could keep Bush from getting a second term.

"Do we really think he's gonna-"

"Shhhh!," Dustin cuts Robin off, "What did I say about jinxing this! No. Predicting!"

Robin mimed zipping her lips closed while she pulled her foot onto the couch. She gave a quick kick that sent him flailing onto the floor.

"Hey! I'm trying to win you an election here and that's how you act! Hmph! And not even a thank you for my effort!"

Robin pointed at her zipped together lips and shrugged faux sadly.

"Ok!," Steve stood up, stopping the inevitable slap fight, "I'm making more popcorn. Who needs another pop?"

Everyone raised their hands as Steve stepped gingerly through and around everyone sprawled on the living room floor. Eddie met his eyes and got up to follow him into the kitchen.

While they hoped it'd be a shut out (Clinton's popularity amongst both Dems and some Republicans was pretty high) they wouldn't know for sure until all the polls closed and the numbers came in.

And until then, they tried not to let the worry gnaw through their stomachs.

They were silent as Steve unwrapped bags of popcorn to put in the microwave and Eddie grabbed cans from the fridge.

Eddie lined the pops up on the bar top between the kitchen and living room and spoke through the opening, "Hey Will, can you hand these out?"

He waited to see Will and El standing to grab them before he turned back to Steve. He stepped up to Steve's back and wrapped his arms around him.

"Don't tell Dustin I said so," he said lowly against Steve's shoulder, "but Clinton's gonna win."

He drags his mouth along Steve's shoulder and mutters into hair, "He's gotta win. We can't do four more years of Bush. Four more years of him not caring about people, our friends, dying."

Steve emptied the last popcorn bag into a bowl and turned in Eddie's arms and hugged him close.

"We're not jinxing," he whispered back, "we're hoping. How can we get change without hope?"

They held each other a few more minutes until Robin came in. She passed the bowls of popcorn across the counter to Lucas and turned back to Steve and Eddie.

She wrapped her arms around herself and stared at the ceiling above their heads, "We're gonna get this. It's gonna happen. And things are gonna get better. They have to. I just can't get this churning dread out of my stomach. Cause what if-"

Before she could put that thought out there, they pulled her into their hug and held her tight. She knew that no matter what happened, they'd have each other, but it was still terrifying. That what-if.

With one last deep breath and hard look between the three, they smoothed their expressions to hide their anxiety and rejoined the kids.

Except. It was finally 8:30 and hope was on the rise. As were the shouts and, yes, predictions getting yelled around the living room.

Because the midwest was going blue. State by state: Michigan, Ohio, and then their new home, Illinois. Blue!

Even southern states were going blue, which none of them could believe. First Georgia and then Tennessee!

Some states were still going to Bush, of course. Big ones like Florida and Texas.

Steve handed $5 over to Eddie when their home state of Indiana stayed red.

But then at 9.30, the tentative hope everyone held tightly to their chests exploded into cheers and whoops when California and Pennsylvania went to Clinton.

"WE WON!", the kids screamed while they jumped up and down.

Steve and Eddie kissed hard and pulled each other into a tight hug.

Robin jumped on top of them from the couch, "I told you! I told you we'd win! Ha!"

The phone on the wall immediately started ringing. Steve pulled away and pushed his way through the wall of bodies to reach it.

Through the space between the kids' heads, Eddie saw Steve answer the phone grinning so hard his eyes did that scrunchy thing he loved so much.

In the instant, he was filled with so much love.

For Steve.

For his friends, here and gone.

For Wayne, who he needed to call if that wasn't him on the phone already.

And even, honestly, surprisingly for all his fellow citizens who came together to bring them this hope and possibility of a better future.

~fin~

[rambleonwaywardson]

Clegan Astronaut AU - Part 3

Masterpost

AU Summary: the boys as modern day NASA astronauts. Taking place in 2025, Bucky is about to head to the moon as mission commander of Artemis III while Buck is back-up commander and CAPCOM at NASA. Established relationship (obnoxiously in love).

Author's Note: Uh oh, the chapters are getting longer. Hope y'all will stick with me because I have plans for these boys. Heads up, this chapter does contain some expressions of homophobia. Also there's no new terms that I think need defining here, but I'm thinking of creating a term definition post for those I've already used.

--

‘John Egan and Alex Jefferson to make history as first queer and black representation on the moon’ 

‘Artemis III crew ready for liftoff in one month’

‘So three bachelors and a homosexual walk into a bar, er, a rocket…’

‘NASA targeting November 6  launch’

‘NASA’s diversity campaign’

‘What having a gay man in the space program means for the future of America’

‘NASA press conference gets heated after probing sexuality questions’

‘Biddick goes after reporter to defend fellow astronaut’

–

September 30, 2025

Johnson Space Center, Houston, TX

As NASA’s Artemis Public Affairs Officer, it is Marjorie Spencer’s job to relay information about the Artemis program to the public as well as to coordinate press events between the media and the crew and/or mission control. As Public Affairs Officer, it’s her job to wrangle a bunch of rowdy astronauts and convince them to play nice with the press, even when the press doesn’t play nice with them. With this particular crew, it can, often, be like wrangling a bunch of rambunctious, highly opinionated, and incredibly stubborn teenage boys. Or a bunch of selectively trained dogs whose selective training just happens to be whatever they feel like remembering in the moment.

A lot of people don’t truly appreciate how, as Public Affairs Officer, it is Marge’s job to make these boys – ahem, grown men – look presentable to the public when behind the scenes they are the bane of her existence. In the most loving way possible.

Public Affairs Officer, however, is only one of her jobs.

As Best Friend, her job often includes the emotional damage control that flies high above a PAO’s paygrade. 

As she finishes up welcoming a room full of reporters to Johnson Space Center, she reminds them that this will be the last press conference that the astronauts will take part in before starting their pre-launch quarantine process in just a few weeks. They will have another pre-launch press conference while in quarantine a couple of days before they board the Orion crew capsule, before they strap themselves to the top of NASA’s most powerful rocket ever created.

“Please welcome NASA’s Artemis 3 crew,” Marge says smoothly. “Major John Egan, mission commander. First Lieutenant Curtis Biddick, lunar module pilot. Dr. Robert Rosenthal, crew physician. Alexander Jefferson, mission specialist.”

One by one, the crew members, dressed in their NASA flight suits, walk up onto the small stage at the front and take their seats behind the table, which is emblazoned with the NASA logo. They each have a gold astronaut pin on their flight suit collars, signifying the fact that they have already successfully flown in space. These four men are some of the most qualified people currently in the space program, and they were hand-selected two years ago to fly this mission. Together, they have logged nearly 1,000 hours of training for Artemis 3, including crew module sims, lunar module sims, zero-gravity EVAs in the neutral buoyancy tank, and lunar terrain sims. In five weeks, that training will be put to use for the chance to put the next human footprints on the moon.

At first, the questions are typical, what the crew is prepared for. They’ve been answering similar questions through much of the training process. How does it feel to be going to the moon? What will each of their roles be on the mission? What kind of training have they been doing? Do they feel prepared? What does it mean for each of them to be on this mission? What do they think it means for the general public and for the future of science? For the space program? For Bucky and Curt, how does it feel to be the first men since the 70s to step foot on lunar soil?

The crew answers them all genuinely and professionally. They joke with the reporters, a trait that has made them endearing to much of the public. They wax poetic about flying to the moon and how they’ve all dreamed about it, how they’re honored to be a part of something so grand, what they hope it will symbolize for people all over the world. They say exactly what the reporters, and the public, generally want to hear. 

Until they can’t. Because at some point, no matter what you say, to someone somewhere it will never be right. 

To be honest, Bucky often stops listening to the reporters names and affiliations during these things. So he isn’t sure who asks this question, but he perks up when the man says “This question is for John Egan.” Bucky nods and the man goes on. “This crew has become well-known for being a crew of young bachelors, except for you. You’re getting married in just a couple weeks, correct? To Major Gale Cleven, also a NASA astronaut.”

Bucky nods again. “Yes, that’s correct.” 

“Do you or Major Cleven have any concerns about you going to the moon just days after the big day?”

Bucky smirks. “Well, which big day are you referring to? The wedding or the launch?”

The reporters in the room chuckle quietly. “The wedding,” the man says.

Bucky tries not to roll his eyes. You get married and suddenly it doesn’t matter that both spouses have been professional and highly trained adrenaline junkies for years before this. “Of course, there’s always concerns when it comes to hurling yourself off of a planet,” he replies. “But Gale and I have been through this together, more than once. We know the risks, and we support each other 100%. The only thing that will be different is I’ll have a wedding ring with me.”

As reporters clamor to get the next question, Marge points and a woman stands up, introducing herself. “Major Egan,” she starts. Two in a row. Bucky clenches his jaw, worried he knows where this press conference is about to go. “How do you think coming out as a member of the LGBTQ+ community affected your role within NASA and within the Artemis program?”

Bucky takes a quiet but deep breath. “My sexuality has never been a secret,” he answers. At least, it hasn’t been since high school. And yet the media still aren’t comfortable with words like gay or homosexual or queer or even LGBT. When they do say these words, it’s almost hushed, like it’s something terrible. “It wasn’t a secret when I flew on the ISS two years ago, and it isn’t now. My qualifications and experience, I think, speak for themselves as to why I am on this mission.”

“Do you consider yourself a role model for the queer youth of today?” Someone jumps in.

Bucky hears Curt stifle a laugh beside him, and he almost smiles himself. “I’m not trying to be any sort of role model or anything,” he says honestly. “God knows you could find better than me. But I am an Air Force pilot, I am an astronaut, I am an engineer, and yes, I am also going to marry a man next month. And that man has been the love of my life for over a decade. So if those facts can somehow align to give others the opportunity to dream, to believe in themselves and in a better future, then I’m glad.” He glances over at Marge, who looks a little wary of where things are heading, but she gives him a thumbs up for his answer.

“So this isn’t just a publicity stunt in NASA’s diversity agenda?” another reporter asks. At the same time, someone throws their hand up and says “what kind of message is NASA trying to send by putting you on this mission?” 

The questions and excited mumbling of other reporters jumble into some cacophony of muddled sound, and Bucky bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something out of line. Because as a public figure, anything he says now will be ‘out of line.’

Another reporter stands up, unbidden, before he can even think of an appropriate answer to either of the questions he was able to hear. “For the rest of the crew,” he calls out, before Marge can direct him to take his seat. “How do you feel about having a gay man in the spacecraft with you?”

Bucky can taste blood as he bites down harder. Marge steps up on stage in a hurry, saying something about that being enough questions about Major Egan’s personal life, and any further questions should be directly mission related.

But Curt has already moved to stand up, and Rosie and John simultaneously reach out from either side to push him back down. Alex leans forward at the other end of the table, intent on putting that question to rest with a facial expression that is as close to a glare as can be managed without getting called out for being ‘unfriendly’ by the media. “This crew is like family,” he states with an overwhelmingly exaggerated sense of calm. “John is one of the best pilots NASA has. We are all proud to call him our friend and our commander.”

Marge, now standing firmly next to Alex at the end of the table so she can moderate more directly, nods at him in approval. As she moves to select someone for the next question, though, one of the reporters near the front scoffs and not-so-subtly mumbles something under his breath that leaves Bucky dazed, his ears ringing. Next thing he knows, Curt’s chair is clattering backwards as he shoots to his feet – “What did you say? What the fuck did you say!” Rosie is holding him back from jumping the table with all of his grip strength, and the newsroom is erupting in shouts from the reporters. Questions and insults fly across the room, directed at one another and at Bucky, too. He just sits there quietly, his elbows on the table and his chin resting on his folded hands, letting the words slap him in the face and settle like stones in his chest. He forces himself to stop biting down on his cheek, and watches numbly as security barges into the frenzied crowd to begin escorting reporters out of the room.

When Rosie finally releases his grip, Curt grabs his chair and sits back down with an angry grunt, shaking his head. “Stupid fucks,” he mutters. Marge ends the press conference after that.

As the room is cleared, the crew is shuffled out of the newsroom and into Marge’s office down the hall. She sighs and puts her head in her hand, pacing the room, her heels clacking methodically on the tile. The men stand quietly in a line, looking anywhere but at each other. Finally, Marge takes a deep breath and looks them each in the eye. “Well,” she says. “That could have been… well. That was bad. Okay, that was bad.” She looks at Bucky. “You did great, John. Thank you for how you handled that. I’m so sorry. We’ll figure out a way to handle this better for your pre-launch press conference.”

Bucky just nods. “Yeah,” he says distantly. “Yeah, no big deal.”

If we’re lucky the fag will die up there.

“It’s a big fucking deal,” Curt mutters angrily. They’re used to this kind of thing by now; between John, a gay man, and Alex, a black man, the crew has become overwhelmingly and depressingly aware that the world has not yet changed quite enough to escape derision over difference being normal, over people existing outside the boxes that society has designed. They deal with it, they move on, they do their job. But today was more… well, it was just more than usual. Like the closer they get to launch, the more the media is concerned about all the wrong things. And the more comfortable they are with voicing it. 

“It’s fine,” Bucky insists. “Nothing that I haven’t heard before, really.” He can hear it in his own voice, though: He isn’t sure how much he believes himself.

If we’re lucky…

Rosie pats him on the shoulder. “Like Alex said, we’re family. We’ve got your back, and we won’t tolerate this shit.” Bucky tries to give a little half smile. 

…the fag will die up there. 

Marge nods and checks their schedule on her tablet. “Let’s, um, let’s all take a breather, okay? We don’t have any major press engagements until right before launch.” She looks up at them, and she fights a frown when she sees the varying states of anger, frustration, and dejection on their faces. She knows it’s not her fault, but it’s her job to coordinate and moderate these events. She tries to smile reassuringly instead. “I’ll work with each of you on your own interviews and media appearances over the next few weeks, but I need you boys to focus on the mission. I’ll take care of addressing how this conference ended, and I’ll work with public relations to make sure we can avoid things getting out of hand in the future.” She knows she has a strongly worded email from the director of the human spaceflight program – or possibly even an impromptu meeting – coming her way any minute. She has to work out how to tidy up this mess, but it can’t be her priority at the moment.

She hugs Alex, Rosie, and Curt as they exit her office. Then she looks at Bucky, who has barely moved at all. “Hey,” she says, putting a hand on his shoulder. 

He glances up at her before looking back at his shoes. “Hey.”

“You okay?”

Bucky shrugs, but doesn’t answer for a long, long moment. “I should be,” he finally sighs. “I’m used to it, really. It’s been the same since my astronaut candidacy was announced. Hell, it’s been the same my whole life.” He scoffs. “I don’t know. It just feels… worse somehow, this time.”

He looks up at Marge again, and Marge feels her chest tighten at the tired sadness in his eyes. Even the toughest men she knows have never been bullet proof. She pulls him into her arms and lets him hold on for as long as he needs as he tries to keep himself together. 

If we’re lucky…

“You’re one of our best,” she tells him quietly as she rubs his back. “Anyone who says otherwise is wrong.”

“I know,” Bucky says, but his voice chokes on the words. “I…” He holds onto her tighter, and he can’t bring himself to say anything else. 

If we’re lucky…

When he lets go, Marge squeezes his arm. Her assistant knocks on the door then, here to tell her that Neil Harding, the director of the human spaceflight program, wants to see her in his office. She thanks the woman and takes a deep breath. “Okay,” she tells Bucky. “I’m going to work on cleaning up this mess. But once I do, I’ll meet you at yours for some good old fashioned damage control.” Damage control meaning drinks, snacks, and general mayhem. Bucky kisses her on the cheek, thanks her, and watches her strut out of the room, off to fulfill her third role: certified badass.

–

Just minutes after Marge leaves Neil Harding’s office, Gale finds himself outside the very same door, wondering why he’s been summoned out of the blue in the middle of his work day. He’s greeted by a woman who he hasn’t seen in years, looking as prim and proper as ever even in her European Space Agency flight suit.

“Sandra?” He asks. 

She turns around and smiles politely at him, that charming and yet almost disarming way she always does. “Gale! Wow, it’s been some time hasn’t it?”

Gale nods, but eyes her carefully in confusion. “Sure has. Nice to see you again.”

Sandra looks unphased though, exactly as he would expect her to. This woman could be faced with a dead body or three or ten – and probably has been – and wouldn’t bat an eye. She is, perhaps, the strongest woman Gale knows, and NASA really is full of strong women. “How are you?” she asks. “And how’s John? Or, Bucky I believe is what people call him around here. You Americans and your funny nicknames.”

“Good, good,” Gale says. “He’s going up on Artemis 3 in November.”

Sandra puts a hand on his shoulder and almost looks… sad? “Oh I know. It’s all the buzz, isn’t it?”

Gale arches an eyebrow, not quite sure what she’s getting at. Before he can say anything, though, the door to Neil’s office opens and the man himself is ushering them inside. 

“Gale! Sandra! We have a lot to cover so get on in here.”

–

When Marge finally lets herself into Buck and Bucky’s home with a spare key, armed with ice cream and alcohol, she stops short as she walks into the living room. She leans against the doorframe, one hand on her hip and the other holding the groceries. It’s only 4pm and Bucky, who went home early after the whole fiasco with the media, is slouched down low in the middle of the couch, bundled in an old Yankees sweatshirt with Pepper curled up at his side, her head in his lap. The news is on, a clip from their press conference earlier. A reporter is talking in depth about the incident, and the entire “controversy” over NASA’s “agenda.” As he watches, he doom-scrolls on his phone, and Marge knows he’s digging himself into a deep, deep hole filled with social media comments. His eyes are red, but his face is dry.

“John,” Marge says. He looks up at her and smiles weakly. She motions towards the TV, where the reporter is now reading an official statement from NASA, saying that the organization supports Major John Egan and the entirety of the Artemis 3 crew 100%; that the crew was selected based on merit and capability; that each member has been extensively trained and has shown that they are highly qualified and prepared for a lunar mission; and that NASA stands by all of their astronauts and employees, regardless of identity, and will not tolerate attacks of any kind such as those that occurred today. 

Bucky watches the report blankly before shifting his eyes over to Marge. She sighs before walking over to the coffee table, where she sets down the bag of groceries and picks up the remote. The TV clicks off. “Enough of that,” she says. When she collapses down next to Bucky and Pepper on the couch, she peeks over at his phone. Social media comments, sure enough. Supportive and detrimental both. She plucks the phone from his hand and turns it off, placing it face down on the coffee table. “And enough of that.”

John just stares at it on the tabletop, idly stroking Pepper’s ears. He won’t look at Marge, so she reaches over across Pepper and places a hand on his shoulder. “John, look at me.”

He does, and he takes a deep, shaky breath. He opens his mouth to speak but closes it again, biting down on the inside of his lip. Pepper licks his hand. He takes another breath and looks Marge right in the eye. “There’s death threats,” he says. When Marge just frowns, he rubs a hand over his face. “For me. And for Gale. Not many, thank God, but they’re there. I read them.” 

“Oh honey,” Marge says sadly. She gets up to switch to his other side, so she can wrap her arms around him properly. He lets himself settle into the embrace and closes his eyes, letting his most trusted friend ground him on one side and his dog on the other. 

“Thank you for issuing that statement,” he mumbles. 

Marge lays her head on top of his. “Harding wants to talk to you tomorrow, and he wanted me to tell you that the human space flight program fully supports you and always has. I think he wanted to give you some space today. Once you’re up for it, we’ll bring the whole crew in to discuss how to handle this in the future.” Bucky gives a small nod of acknowledgement. “You know it’s not really about you, right?” Marge asks. “Those things that people are saying. It’s entirely about them. None of them know you, and no one can, in any meaningful way, deny that you belong on this mission. This is about their own problems and their own prejudices. You,” she squeezes him harder, “have done everything right.”

Bucky is silent for a long time, until finally he says, “I don’t really want to talk about it right now.”

“Alright,” Marge says easily. She leans away and looks at him, grinning. “Time for some damage control.”

–

By 6:30pm, Gale can’t get the door of their house open fast enough. He hasn’t heard from Bucky all day and needs to tell him about the meeting with Harding. When he gets inside, though, he’s greeted by loud music pumping through their stereo speakers. As he walks into the living room, he takes in the sight of half empty cocktail glasses and beer bottles, open ice cream cartons and abandoned spoons, a bag of chips and a plate of fruit, and the throw pillows strewn all over the floor. He pauses in his tracks, staring at the carnage as his excitement drains rapidly from his body. 

Damage Control. 

Fuck. 

Pepper runs out of the kitchen to greet him, tail wagging so hard her whole body goes with it. Gale tilts his head and smiles at her. Throwing his keys on the coffee table next to Bucky’s abandoned phone, he crouches down and scratches under Pepper’s collar. “What happened, Pep?” He asks her. 

She just bumps his hand with her wet nose and spins around once before trotting off back to the kitchen. He follows her tentatively and peeks through the kitchen doorway, where Bucky is sitting on the counter while Marge stands, leaning back against the center island across from him. There’s flour and dirty cooking utensils everywhere, and it smells like tomato sauce. 

Marge looks down at Pep and then up at Gale. “Hey there,” she says. 

They’ve been laughing and singing and dancing all evening, but when Bucky looks up and sees the hesitant half smile on Gale’s face, the furrow in his brow, he knows Gale has already figured out that something is wrong anyways. The smile falls from Bucky’s face at the same time it falls from Gale’s. “Buck,” he says, but it barely pushes past his throat as a whisper. 

“What’s wrong?” Gale asks. He looks from Bucky to Marge and back. “John?”

Bucky shrugs and averts his eyes, watching Pepper instead as she flops down dramatically on the tile floor. “I’m fine,” he says. 

“Come on, John,” Gale sighs. But Bucky won’t look at him, so Gale looks at Marge instead. 

She brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Some things were said at the press conference today,” she supplies. “We had to end it early, with security pulling some reporters from the room.”

Gale frowns. “What kind of things?”

“Mostly about John’s sexuality. And your relationship. They were pretty innocent at first, but-“

“If we’re lucky the fag will die up there,” Bucky bites out. Gale feels frozen in place. He blinks, shoves his hands in his pockets, takes them out again. “There’s been worse online,” Bucky adds. 

“John,” Gale says quietly. He steps forward, one hand outstretched, but he stops short when Bucky crosses his arms protectively over his chest. 

“It’s not a big deal,” Bucky says, ducking his head. They both know that’s not true. ‘Damage Control’ isn’t for things that aren’t a big deal. Bucky shrugs. “At least, it shouldn’t be a big deal. Hey, I’m used to it right? I just gotta keep on going.” He laughs bitterly, but when he looks up at Gale, the hurt on the other man’s face squeezes his chest all funny and he looks away again. Then there’s a warm arm around his back, a hand on the back of his head. He feels Gale standing in front of him, and he lets his head fall forward to rest against his. Slowly, he lifts his arms to wrap around his fiancé, and he grips the fabric of his shirt in white-knuckled, shaking hands. 

After a couple of long, silent minutes, nothing but their careful breathing passing in the air between them, Bucky takes a deep breath. “Wow, way to put a damper on this little party, huh? Let’s uh, let’s go back to the part where I don’t have to think about this tonight.”

They both know they’ll have to talk about this later, but Gale nods and lets go. Bucky grabs tightly to his hand, though, wanting a tether to stop this feeling of drifting away. 

Marge motions for them to go back out to the living room. “Pizza in the oven. I’ll bring it out in a minute.”

When she does eventually follow them into the living room, carrying a tray of pizza, she walks in on them dancing in the middle of the room to “Can’t Help Falling in Love” by Elvis as it plays over the speakers. Bucky smoothly twirls Gale around before pulling him close again, and Marge is, not for the first time, in awe of the pure adoration that passes between the two of them. “Shouldn’t you save your first dance song for your actual wedding night?” she asks as she sets the pizza on the coffee table next to Bucky’s phone, still upside down, and Gale’s keys. 

They slow to a stop and look at her. Bucky shrugs. “Gotta practice so I don’t trip over myself and embarrass my bride.” 

Gale blushes and half-heartedly mumbles “stop calling me that.” 

Bucky grins. “What? My bride?” He gently pulls Gale down onto the couch with him, wrapping an arm around his waist and kissing him on the temple. “But I love the way it makes you blush.”

Marge gags dramatically and tells them to eat their pizza. 

As they’re polishing it off, even giving Pepper her own little piece, Gale licks his fingers and says nonchalantly, “I have some news.”

When he doesn’t go on, Marge rolls her eyes. “Care to share with the class?”

Gale is quiet for a second, but then a grin spreads across his face as he looks at both of them. “I’m going to the moon earlier than we thought. Artemis 4.”

Bucky jumps up so fast he bangs a knee hard on the table and Marge has to lunge forward to keep the pizza tray from falling to the floor. Pepper jumps up in alarm as Bucky spins to face Gale, ignoring the pain shooting through his leg. “You’ve been home for-“ he checks the clock on the wall. “An hour! And you didn’t say anything until NOW?”

Gale shrugs sheepishly. “There were more important things-“

“No!” Bucky cries. “No… Wait. How in hell did you get yourself onto the A4 roster?”

Artemis 4 is planned to launch in just over a year. Crew selection had been made months ago. Gale rubs the back of his neck. “Well, the two ESA astronauts that were supposed to go got bumped cause of health concerns. ESA was able to put in one other astronaut, but NASA wanted a more experienced pilot in the lander. Harding called me in today.”

“Gale, that’s amazing!” Marge says, crawling across the couch to hug him tight. “Oh my god, this is so amazing. Congratulations!” She’s in part already thinking about the press coordination and social media posting that this necessitates, but holy shit that can wait for now.

When she pulls away, Bucky reaches down and wraps his arms around Gale’s middle, pulling him up from the couch and spinning him around. Then he kisses him hard and spins him again, Gale laughing as he yells for Bucky to set him down. “What!” Bucky exclaims. “You gotta get used to being helpless in the air again, you’re going to the moon!”

Gale rolls his eyes as Bucky sets him down. “Who did ESA toss into the thick of it?” Bucky asks. 

“Sandra Westgate.” Gale raises an eyebrow as he says this, watching for Bucky’s reaction. 

It’s Marge, though, that jumps in as Bucky tries to process that. “No way, Croz’s old flame?”

“Yep.”

Bucky shakes his head, trying not to laugh. Harry Crosby, Houston’s best flight dynamics officer, had spent a hot summer a few years back – before he and his now-wife Jean got back together after a bit of a break – gallivanting about town with Sandra Westgate. She’s top class, one of the best astronauts in the European Space Agency. Gale is lucky to be flying with her, really. But damn. “Does… does Croz know?” 

Gale nods, chuckling. “Yeah, he knows. Saw him gaping at her like a fish as I showed her around this afternoon. They’ve both moved on, but…”

“Awkward,” Marge cringes. 

“She’ll be sticking around Houston for the next year, starting in a couple weeks,” Gale explains. “To train with us.”

“Plenty of time to un-move on,” Bucky muses. 

Marge throws a pillow at him, but he dodges it and watches as it crashes into a fake plant in the corner of the room. “Don’t say that!” Marge reprimands. “Croz and Jean are very happy together you ass.”

Bucky shrugs. “Sorry.” He looks at Gale, who is still standing facing him. “Now don’t you go getting any ideas either. Sandra’s a strong and lovely woman.”

Gale cups the back of Bucky’s neck and kisses him softly. “I would never,” he whispers, before he falls back onto the couch. Bucky collapses next to him, grabbing Gale’s hand again so he can fiddle with his fingers. 

They look at each other, and Bucky presses his lips to Gale’s knuckles. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I’m proud of you, too.”

Marge takes one last bite of pizza. “It’s sickening how in love you two are.”

Gale smiles shyly. “Always have been.”

Bucky smiles back at him, but too many thoughts are swirling around in his head, and he feels the words choke and fizzle on his tongue.

…

Part 4

[blueiscoool]

Why are Hundreds of Climbers Heading into the ‘Death Zone’ on Mt Everest This Spring?

Thick murky clouds fill the sky, with freezing winds carrying snow faster than 100 miles per hour. With a frigid –30 degrees Fahrenheit temperature, life-threatening snowstorms and avalanches are frequent.

And these are typical conditions on the world’s highest mountain: Mount Everest.

The behemoth towers 29,032 feet (8,849 meters) between Nepal and Tibet in the Himalayas, with its peak surpassing most clouds in the sky.

An attempt to climb Everest requires months, sometimes years, of training and conditioning – even then, reaching the summit is far from guaranteed. In fact, more than 300 people are known to have died on the mountain.

And yet the mountain still draws hundreds of climbers who are determined to reach its peak every spring. Here’s what it takes to make the climb and what has motivated some climbers to summit the world’s highest peak.

‘I thought I was in pretty good shape’

Dr. Jacob Weasel, a trauma surgeon, successfully summited Everest last May after conditioning for nearly a year.

“I would put on a 50-pound backpack and do two hours on a stair stepper with no problem,” Weasel said. “So, I thought that I was in pretty good shape.” However, the surgeon said he was humbled after discovering that his fitness was no match for the lofty athleticism required by the mountain.

“I would take five steps and have to take 30 seconds to a minute to catch my breath,” Weasel recalled of his struggle with the lack of oxygen available while ascending Everest.

Climbers aiming for the summit usually practice an acclimatizing rotation to adjust their lungs to the thinning oxygen levels once they arrive on the mountain. This process involves mountaineers traveling upward to one of the four designated camps on Everest and spending one to four days there before traveling back down.

This routine is repeated at least two times to allow the body to adapt to declining oxygen levels. It increases a climber’s chances of survival and summiting.

“If you took somebody and just plopped them up at the high camp on Everest, not even on the (top), they would probably go into a coma within 10 to 15 minutes,” Weasel said.

“And they would be dead within an hour because their body is not adjusted to that low of oxygen levels.”

While Weasel has successfully summited dozens of mountains, including Kilimanjaro (19,341 ft), Chimborazo (20, 549 ft), Cotopaxi (19,347 ft), and most recently Aconcagua (22,837 ft) in January, he said none of them compares to the high-altitude of Mount Everest.

“Because no matter how well you are trained, once you get to the limits of what the human body can take, it’s just difficult,” he continued.

At its highest altitude, Everest is nearly incapable of sustaining human life and most mountaineers use supplementary oxygen above 23,000 feet. The lack of oxygen poses one of greatest threats to climbers who attempt to summit, with levels dropping to less than 40% when they reach the Everest “death zone.”

Tents of mountaineers are pictured at Everest base camp in the Mount Everest region of Solukhumbu district on April 18, 2024.

‘It’s difficult to survive up there’

The first target for mountaineers is Everest base camp at approximately 17,000 feet, which takes climbers about two weeks. Then they ascend to the three remaining camps stationed along the mountain.

Camp four, the final one before the summit, sits along the edge of the death zone at 26,000 feet, exposing climbers to an extremely thin layer of air, subzero temperatures, and high winds powerful enough to blow a person off the mountain.

“It’s difficult to survive up there,” Weasel said. He recalls passing bodies of climbers who died on the mountain – which isn’t uncommon. The bodies of the fallen mountaineers are well-preserved, exhibiting little to no decay due to the intense cold temperatures.

“I am probably more familiar with death and the loss of life than most people,” the surgeon said. “For me it was just a reminder of the gravity of the situation and the fragility of what life is… even more so motivation for appreciating the opportunity.”

High-altitude cerebral edema (HACE) is one of the most common illnesses climbers face while attempting to summit. “Your brain is starved of oxygen,” Weasel said.

HACE results in the brain swelling during its attempt to regain stable oxygen levels, causing drowsiness, trouble speaking and thinking. This confusion is often accompanied by blurred vision and sporadic episodes of delusion.

“I had auditory hallucinations where I was hearing voices [of friends] that I thought were coming from behind me,” Weasel recalled. “And I had visual hallucinations,” he added. “I was seeing the faces of my children and my wife coming out of the rocks.”

Weasel recalled crossing paths with a friend, Orianne Aymard, who was trapped on the mountain due to an injury. “I remember staring at her for like five minutes and just saying, ‘I’m so sorry,’” Weasel said.

“I’ve spent over a decade of my life training to help people as a surgeon, and being in a position where there’s somebody who requires your help and you are unable to offer any assistance… that feeling of helplessness was tough to deal with,” Weasel said.

Aymard survived. She was rescued and suffered from several broken bones in her foot, in addition to severe frostbite on her hands. Despite all her injuries, Aymard is considered one of the lucky ones.

Mountaineers climbing during their ascend to summit Mount Everest on May 7, 2021.

‘Their bodies will get frozen into the mountain’

Everest has long been a tomb for climbers who have succumbed to harsh conditions or accidents on its slopes.

When a loved one or fellow climber is severely injured or dies on the mountain, it’s routine to leave them behind if you’re unable to save them, according to Alan Arnette, a mountaineer coach who summited Everest in 2014.

“What most teams do out of respect for that climber, they will move the body out of sight,” he said. And that’s only if they can.

“Sometimes that’s just not practical because of the bad weather, or because their bodies will get frozen into the mountain,” Arnette said. “So, it’s very difficult to move them.”

Seeing a corpse on Everest is comparable to seeing a horrible car accident, according to the mountain coach. “You don’t turn around and go home,” Arnette said. “You respectfully slow down… or say a prayer for that person, and then you continue.”

It’s been 10 years since the single deadliest accident on the world’s highest mountain, after an avalanche killed 12 Sherpa guides. And 2023 was recorded as the deadliest year on Everest, with 18 fatalities on the mountain – including five people that are still unaccounted for.

The process of recovering bodies is extensive, sometimes impossible. Helicopter rescues and search missions are challenging due to the high altitude and frequently treacherous conditions, resulting in some rescuers dying in their attempt to save others.

Mountaineers as they climb during their ascend to summit Mount Everest on May 12, 2021.

‘Watching the sunrise from 29,000 feet’

The 3,000 feet climb from camp four to the summit can take anywhere from 14 to 18 hours. Therefore, mountaineers typically leave the camp at night.

“That entire night was cold,” Weasel recalled. “It’s dark, it’s windy.” But it was proven to be worth it in the morning, he said.

“Watching the sunrise from 29,000 feet and having that pyramid of Everest’s shadow projected onto the valley below you…,” Weasel said. “It was probably one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen in my life,” he continued.

“It’s weird standing up there and knowing that everything else on the planet is below where you’re standing.”

The size of the mountain is humbling, the surgeon said. “I’ve never felt so small,” he recalled. “That mixture of humility and connectedness with something bigger than yourself is the proper place from which we ought to approach our existence on this planet.”

Like Weasel, Arnette summited at sunrise, and experienced this same feeling of “smallness.” At the top there were “more mountains than you can count,” Arnette remembered. “It was a sense of enormous gratitude and at the same time I knew I had to get back down.”

After about 20 minutes to an hour, climbers typically start to descend back to the base of the mountain.

Jacob Weasel.

‘Bigger than yourself’

Before leaving for Nepal, Weasel was gifted an eagle’s feather as a beacon for his Native American heritage.

He was determined to plant the feather on top of Everest “as a symbol of our people and what we’ve endured for the past several hundred years,” Weasel said. “Showing that our spirit is not broken, but we’re able to rise above the things that have happened to us,” he added.

“I remember planting that eagle’s feather on the top of the world and the feeling of real privilege that I felt in representing our people.” And this is why he decided to summit Everest, to be an example that anything is possible for young Native children and his tribe.

“Knowing what it’s like up there, for me personally, the only real justification for going and putting your life, and other lives, at risk is if you’re climbing for a reason that is much bigger than you,” said Weasel.

Arnette attempted to climb Everest three times before he successfully summited.

“My first three tries, I wasn’t clear on my why,” Arnette said. When his mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, he looked at his purpose for climbing differently.

“I wanted to do it to raise money for Alzheimer’s and honor my mother,” Arnette said.

There are approximately 300 people that have been issued a permit from the Nepal government to climb the mountain this year, according to Arnette. And he said the number is down from previous years.

“I think one of the reasons is because we had the 18 deaths last year, and people realize that Mount Everest is a dangerous mountain.”

However, he doesn’t believe that should deter climbers from attempting to summit. “I’m a big believer that when you go climb these mountains that you come home a better version of yourself,” Arnette said.

“Everest has become too commercialized with ‘you’re stepping over dead bodies’ and ‘it’s littered with trash,’” the mountain coach said. “The reality is that it is a very small degree all of that, but there’s a lot of joy that people get out of doing it,” he continued.

“And that’s the reason that we climb mountains.”

By Kara Nelson.

[good-old-gossip]

Israeli army’s destruction of more schools, health centres in Gaza is additional manifestation of genocide

Palestinian Territory - As part of its genocide against Palestinians in the Gaza Strip, the Israeli army hasintentionally destroyed schools and medical facilities during its ground invasion of Gaza City’s southern Al-Zaytoun neighbourhood and Jabalia in Strip’s north.

Seven days after the start of its latest ground incursionin the area, Israeli forces withdrew from Gaza City’sAl-Zaytoun neighbourhood. The Wednesday 15 May withdrawal revealed the destruction of three schools—Ain Jalut, Atta Al-Shawa, and Hassan Al-Nakhalah—as well as the Zaytoun Medical Clinic, which had provided healthcare to the neighbourhood’s roughly80,000 residents.

The Israeli army launched, last Thursday, its third military operation in the Zaytoun neighbourhood since the start of its aggression on the Gaza Strip. The most recent operation included heavy air and artillery raids, a ground incursion with military vehicles, and the destruction of more residential buildings, turning the neighbourhood into a pile of rubble and forcing hundreds of families to evacuate.

Israeli warplanes struck the four-storey Al-Sabra Clinic building at 4:30 am on Wednesday. The clinic, run by UNRWA, is located in the southern Gaza Cityneighbourhood of Al-Sabra and was housing approximately 50 displaced people, including women, children, and people with injuries. The explosion caused additional deaths and injuries, with survivorsbeing pulled out from under the debris.

Prior to the deadly attack, Israeli forces initially brokethrough the clinic’s outer wall, but then left without asking the individuals inside to leave—giving those sheltering inside a false sense of security. Two days later, Israeli forces betrayed them by bombing the clinic with military aircraft, giving no prior notice. 

Forty-three-year-old Safiya Rushdi Arhaim told the Euro-Med Monitor team that she and her family had been displaced from the neighbourhood of Al-Zaytoun to Al-Sabra Clinic. They were surprised when, at dawn on Wednesday, F-16 warplanes flew overhead several times before ultimately launching four missiles at thebuilding’s four floors, destroying all of them and killing, harming, or traumatising everyone inside.

Arhaim said that both her son Suleiman, 24, and her husband Tayseer Suleiman Arhaim, 47, were injured during the attack, marking the family’s second set of injuries in a short period of time. She stated that she and the rest of the displaced felt relatively safe in the clinic, especially after the Israeli forces broke into the area and destroyed its outer wall with bulldozers butdid not ask those inside to leave. Instead, Israeli forcesdelivered messages to them over the phone as they approached the Zaytoun neighbourhood, but these messages did not warn them of imminent violence, so they stayed until the planes arrived and destroyed the clinic above their heads. While several families were killed and severely injured, she and her own family members survived the attack. 

Over the past few days, Israeli forces have bombed oropened fire on six UNRWA schools in Jabalia, in the northern Gaza Strip, which houses thousands of displaced families. The Israeli military forced thesedisplaced people to evacuate anew, arresting and killing a number of them in the process. Currently, it is unknown if the area’s schools are entirely destroyed or if the bombing caused only partial destruction.

These schools join the hundreds that Israeli forces have already destroyed, either fully or partially, since 7 October 2023. The schools have been destroyed by bombings, artillery shells, demolition, or bulldozing.

In its genocidal war, ongoing since 7 October, Israel has completely or partially destroyed 80% of the Gaza Strip’s schools. In a joint statement released on 18 April 2024, UN experts described this as “scholasticide” and the deprivation of another generation of Palestinians of their academic future.

A study published in The New York Times supports theaforementioned figures. According to the report, over 200 schools in the Gaza Strip have been directly targeted by Israeli artillery, bombs, or missiles.

Even the UNRWA-run schools, which have become shelters for hundreds of thousands of civilians who areforcibly displaced, have been and continue to be the target of intense Israeli attacks, some of which occur frequently and others which occur irregularly, even in areas that Israel has declared to be “safe”.

As part of its military assault on the Gaza Strip, ongoing for nearly eight months, the Israeli army hasworked methodically to militarise civilian objects, turning places like hospitals, schools, and other educational institutions into military bases, in clear violation of international law and the conventions on war.

The Israeli army has turned many schools into military bases and detention facilities during its field invasion of most of the Gaza Strip. One such facility is the Salah al-Din Preparatory School in Gaza City, which was turned into a detention and investigation centre for hundreds of people last February.

As it did several months ago with Al-Israa University, in the south of Gaza City, the Israeli army has continued to frequently demolish and blow up civilian buildings after first turning them into military headquarters. All of this is done without respect for the principles of international humanitarian law, such as discrimination, proportionality, and military necessity.

Up until mid-April 2024, the Israeli military attack on the Gaza Strip is thought to have killed over 6,500 students, 756 teachers, and to have injured thousands more members of both groups. The death toll is expected to rise daily, and over 625,000 students are still believed to have been denied their right to an education over the course of an entire academic year.

The head of the UN Human Rights Office in the Occupied Palestinian Territory, Ajith Sunghay, previously declared that the educational system in Gaza “no longer exists at this stage”, citing the destruction of schools by Israeli bombing operations as well as their use by displaced Palestinians as shelters. “Children can no longer find a place to learn,” he said.

In a report published on 13 December 2023, Euro-Med Monitor revealed that the Israeli army has turned schools sheltering 10s of thousands of displaced people into military centres and field execution sites as part of its genocide against Palestinians. Euro-Med Monitor received testimonies at the time about Israeli army forces carrying out unjustified field executions and killings of Palestinian civilians after detaining them for days inside the same schools where they had sought refuge from Israeli violence.

Roughly one hundred leading European academics condemned Israel’s genocide against Palestinian civilians in the Gaza Strip in an open letter in March, citing its physical and cultural liquidation of the Palestinian people and systematic destruction of theStrip’s educational system.

It is crucial to shield schools in the Gaza Strip from Israel’s military assaults. The international community must put pressure on Israel to cease its military operations against and inside the Strip’s schools, in order to guarantee Palestinian children’s right to education and ensure that they return to their classrooms as soon as possible, especially given that these schools will require extensive repairs and reconstruction.

Converting educational buildings into military bases is a practice that continues Israel’s colonial legacy of dominance and tearing apart the fundamental components of the Palestinian people, particularly their cultural and educational heritage.

The humanitarian community needs to be made aware of the horrific conditions that children in the Gaza Strip are living in. Children are among the most vulnerable populations during times of armed conflict anywhere, and Israel’s ongoing military assault on the Strip is worsening their suffering with every passing day. They are not being protected in any way by international law, and the Israeli army has turned them into direct and intentional targets of killings, executions, and deliberate and indiscriminate attacks. They are also being subjected to crimes such as starvation, siege, denial of health care and basic necessities for survival, and prolonged denial of education, which will negatively impact their ability to exercise their other rights and leave them vulnerable to poverty, unemployment, and exploitation. Finally, there is a risk that future generations will not have the knowledge necessary to rebuild Palestinian society in the Gaza Strip once Israel’s genocidal war ends.

It is important to allow investigative committees and specialised technical committees to visit the Gaza Strip to look into the horrifying crimes Israel has committed and hold it responsible for its repeated violations of the International Convention to Prevent and Punish the Crime of Genocide. These violations include the systematic persecution of Gaza Strip residents due to their Palestinian heritage, which includes killing and abusing them physically and psychologically, undermining their ability to survive, and forcing them to flee their homes by crushing and militarising civilian property.

Source - https://euromedmonitor.org/en/article/6330/Israeli-army’s-destruction-of-more-schools,-health-centres-in-Gaza-is-additional-manifestation-of-genocide

[altschmerzes]

THE 13 BOOKS I READ IN 2023 IN ORDER FROM BEST TO WORST + THE PROTAGONIST'S SUPERLATIVE. PART 1.

NOTE: this ranking is entirely based on how much i enjoyed the thing and not necessarily on anything quantifiable or concrete. except for 1 and 12 those are just i think empirically true. also, this got very very hard between 2-8 and i enjoyed everything above 10 like, immensely. that said:

1. The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle. fucking gorgeous book. the writing was incredible, it made me feel like i needed to write right now right now right now or i was going to die and also why would i ever write again when i didn't write this. made me REEL several times and need to put it down and process it. i need to read it again and again. so much in there about the structure of story and fairytales and roles within a story and just. augh. man. i have at least a thousand words worth of highlights of quotes that make me completely insane. i want to write a dissertation on the interactions of amalthea and lír.

Protagonist: Amalthea/The Unicorn. Best Gender Moments And Unmatched Aro Vibes.

2. Blackcurrant Fool by Victoria Goddard. someone designed these books in a lab just to kill specifically me. i'm so thrilled i'm like, mad about it. this is book four in the series and included some MASSIVELY fun payoffs for some background references and foreshadowing that had been building for a while. some of my favourite tropes on this here earth are contained in this book and they make me insane in their execution. beloved. i kept having to put my face in my hands and shriek. like. literally. i liveblogged the last like ~30% of the book to several people. in detail.

Protagonist: Jemis Greenwing. Most Likely To Respond To A Given Situation With Both The Most Sincerely Heartfelt And Most Dramatic Option Possible And Then Insist That This Was The Obvious And Logical Thing To Do.

3. Bee Sting Cake by Victoria Goddard. some really excellent introductions to characters and concepts in here. did a good job as the second book in the series to continue keeping things interesting while maintaining and expanding on what was good about the first one, introducing new elements and making them play well with the established dynamics and situation. some really fun exploration of 'what if your two favourite people met each other and how would that go'. some delightful stuff about bees also which gets me in my feelings and the pov character has a good cry a couple times which he damn well deserves at this point.

Protagonist: (since there are two, i'm alternating for this series' superlatives) Peregrine Dart. Best At Being Totally And Completely Fine (Lying).

4. Stargazy Pie by Victoria Goddard. YES. I LIKED THESE BOOKS A LOT OKAY. THREE OF THEM IN A ROW. WHAT OF IT. very fun introduction to a series, it was a great first book. it delivered its worldbuilding in my favourite way for a fantasy series to do so, which is to just sort of drop me right in and explain as we go in a naturalistic kind of way. it meant i had to accept i just didn't know what was going on several times but that was fine. excellent combo of silly and serious and the characters are just. so charming and i'm so so fond of them. also i love a really stuffy strict distant society. bc then i'm like OHO TIME TO BREAK THESE RULES!!!

Protagonist: Jemis Greenwing. Most Likely To Have Everything Happen To Him So Much And All At Once.

5. By Force Alone by Lavie Tidhar. this book would probably have been ranked higher if it weren't for all the Someone's Got Their Dick Out. which is fine, go for it, but it felt like all the like. someone is getting their guts stabbed out and someone else is fuckin every other page is mostly a thematic thing that is supposed to drive home how gritty and grimy the narrative is. which y'know. not my bag. i like a gritty and grimy narrative but dude we know. that said it was extremely fun except for that, and i liked the way the characters were described a lot. they were not good people and it was deliberate and compelling. it was a lot to process all at once and i wish i'd slowed down with it - the last fourth of the book particularly hit me like a train. special shoutout to everything this book did with pelinore and the questing beast.

Protagonist: Arthur Pendragon. Most Doomed By The Narrative.

[docholligay]

What would be your dream race? Real or made up.

Hm, I mean, I would love to run a LOT of the world ones: London I put in for the ballot every year, I would really really love to run the London Monuments half, but I haven't put in for the ballot for it--my grandmother has said she'll help me pay to run London if I get in, but a half marathon is not impressive to her ahaha, and London is the only marathon she gives a shit about that's not Boston (I cannot qualify for Boston)--but someday if I have the free cash I'll probably put in for the monuments half.

Someday, SOMEday, I'll run the Marathon du Medoc, which has oysters and wine and steak and shit along the way, and has people throw up all the time, because it also has a rule I VERY much support: you have to be able to run the marathon in 6:30. That's not crazsy at all, that's only a 14:50 pace, BUT, if you're stopping at everything, as a practical matter you have to have a fair amount of cushion time.

So as a practical matter I'd want to make sure I could run a marathon in a 10 minute mile. That DOES NOT sound impressive. Until it's like, mile 20. (Seriously, if I drew London tomorrow my strategy would be 'survive'. Until beeb is in klindergarten, i don't have the time to train for a marathon. Cutoff for london is a 15 minute mile, I would come up with a run/walk strategy to survive the thing so I didn't DNF)

There are plenty I WOULD run: Paris, Tokyo, I do put in for Chicago, NYC, but those 3 above are probably my "If you said I could run whatever" choices. On the ground right now, whole trip being paid for it would be the Monuments half, because I know I can run a half without trouble. And I LOVE running through cities, especially major cities.

Now, if I had a shit ton of money and I could put on my own race, so looking forward to making everyone SO mad at me:

The Kawaii Ass Bitch Magical Girl Women's Run!

There would be the 5k, 10k, and Half.

There would be a drawing to win a Tokyo Marathon Package with guaranteed entry for the racers. This is, last I looked, worth about 6k.

If you run the 5k, you get one entry, if you run the 10k, you get two entries, if you run the half, you get three.

Anyway, also along the course I would have some cool stuff! At the start of the 10k/Mile 6ish, I would have a bunch of kids in the local band playing some magical girl themes and the like (I would pay them) and at the 5k start/the last 3ish miles for everyone else, I would have a big arch that would be all decorated and everything, and as you run through, there are speakers playing different attacks and power ups and the like from different magical girl properties. There's a spot on the course I'm thiniking of where you would have to go through a tunnel, I light it all up with those LED rolls so it's like a transformation for you.

Maybe before every start the countdown to the start gun would be Zettai Unmei, that sounds fun to me.

Anyway, the last stretch before the finish line would be playing the outers (read: harumichi) transformation music, and I would SOMEHOW figure out how to have fans blowing either fake or real rose petals, depending on the permits I could get ahaha.

Because it would be putting you up to run a marathon, it would presume you are of the athletic quality to run a marathon, at least potentially. So the cutoff times would be as follows. THEY ARE AGGRESSIVE FOR MOST PEOPLE'S TASTES.

5k: 30 minutes

10k: 1 hour 3 minutes

Half: two hours fifteen minutes

If you don't cross the finish line in that time, your name isn't in the randomizer.

Why? I get fucked every time I run the run to the pub by a bunch of 10k slow walkers in the last goddamn mile or so, walking four abreast for funsies. By the time I hit these people, the 10k has been started for AN HOUR AND A HALF. The draw prize is a place in the Dublin marathon, pretty much like what I'm suggesting above. I am bitter about this. I am bitter about fucking slamming into a bunch of people who could not fucking finish the Dublin and killing me when I am at the toughest point of the race, for me. I would hope this would encourage people who want to walk, to walk somewhere else. You can all think I am a villain, and that is fucking fine. There are some years the people who won did not even RUN the race. This INFURIATES me. Hate me! It's cool!

Also there's beer at the end I hate a fucking race without beer at the end.

[helyiios]

Inspired by that prompt from Snovyda, imagine Ethan finding Benji after he actually has tried to kill himself (if you’re comfortable of course, no worries if you aren’t)

TW : description of SH

There are a few things that scare Ethan Hunt. Eating too much junk food is one of them, along with reliving the loss of his first IMF team, having to go through the pain of seeing them die in front of his eyes without being able to do anything, to see the light fade from their eyes and their figures slump, cold against him.

Benji had been odd for the entire day...snappy, rude, even fully mean. He'd screamed at Brandt and slammed his coffee against a wall after messing up the same line of code three times, and he'd almost punched an analyst who'd had the bad idea to look out for him to get help about some data issue.

Which was worrying Ethan, were it not a little bit frightening him, too. It wasn't like he'd never seen Benji angry—the man had given him displays of displeasure plenty of times in their friendship, and it always took him aback, because there was a softness in his eyes that didn't quite fit the harshness of his words. But today was different, he could feel it.

He could feel it, and when Benji hadn't answered Brandt when he'd asked the team to get drinks, he'd started feeling uneasy. Then he hadn't answered Jane, Luther, and then Ethan had tried calling him, as a last resort, and the line had gone dead.

Working at the IMF means he's good at many things usual people are not, and that translates with him picking up his friend's door at 2 in the morning, the relentless ice cold of D.C's weather clawing at this skin as he was working his magic, finally feeling the locks give in.

It was the first time he'd gone into Benji's flat, actually, and he doesn't exactly know what to expect. It's big, for one, but he doesn't exactly know where his friend stands on the whole money thing. Surely the IMF pays well, especially when you're a field agent. But he did not have the same pay when he'd started, and he'd had this flat for at least 15 years. Which, hey. Maybe Benji had always been rich.

"Benj ?" he asks carefully, trying to see if there was any noise betraying the other's presence, "are you there ?"

Nothing.

He makes his way into the living room, surprised to see the lights turned off fully, save for the dim TV screen that was displaying a show he could not pinpoint, barely flooding the cold Chinese takeout in blueish light. The kitchen was bare, and the fridge was open, revealing one opened can of beer sadly tipped over the edge. He goes over to close it.

It's cold, he notes, and then sees that all the windows were open.

Don't panic, he swallows, forcing himself to go look over them, praying to every gods above to not find the other's body crumpled on the ground, covered in blood.

Nothing.

Good.

"Benji ? It's Ethan. I...I wanted to check up on you. You weren't picking up your phone."

Silence.

There's another quite massive room to his left, and the entire thing is covered in some trendy Hi-Fi stereos, along with four computers screens bathed in purple LEDs, close to a large chair and a rainbow lighted keyboard. He smiles to himself, appreciating the ambiance of the room.

Still no Benji.

There's something that tells him that he isn't in his room. It's a gut feeling he's been trying to ignore for the entirety of his trip to the flat, but the shivers on his body are impossibly to put aside now, and he feels his jaw tense.

Benji is okay, he tries to convince himself. Maybe he left in a hurry. Maybe he's out with friends.

You do not have friends, when you're working at the IMF. At least, not other than your colleagues.

He doesn't want to go to the bathroom.

He doesn't, because he knows the trope. He knows the clichés. He hates that he can see a faint light from under the room's door.

"Benji," he says again, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm going to come in."

He tries the handle. Locked.

It should take him 30 seconds to make his way in, but his fear gets the best of him.

What will he find, in there ? Does he want to know ?

He's so scared.

His hands are shaking when he finally pulls it open, and the scene in front of him is worse than anything he'd come up with.

He stumbles backwards, covering his mouth with his left hand, his breath dying in his throat.

Benji is slumped on the ground, surrounded by a small pool of blood, a pool that was overflowing from his left arm, the arm that was sliced in tens of small cuts, some larger than others, some red, some white, some across—

One along.

A long one, spreading from his wrist to the middle of his forearm, was bleeding out profusely, and Ethan screams out.

This shouldn't be happening.

This should not be happening.

I should have never left him alone.

"BENJI !" he yells, taking the other's face in his hands and checking for a pulse—faint, but present—and grabbing the first roll of toilet paper he can find to dabs at the scars, feeling his heart give out when the soaking overtakes the white immediately, too much, to deep, too red. "BENJI, WAKE UP, PLEASE, BENJI !"

How long had he been there ?

Some of the scars were already dry.

Blood dries in around an hour.

No.

"Fuck—FUCK !" he chokes out, taking out his phone and slamming the three numbers on the screen, trying to help with the hemorrhage, helpless, watching his friend's face pale more and more, feeling his pulse dim.

He should've never left him alone.

[9-1-1, what is your emergency ?] 

Finally.

"It's my friend," he wheezes, trying to keep the tears away from his voice, "my friend, he's—he's in his bathroom, he's cut himself, I think—I think he tried—" breathes in, Ethan, "I think he's tried to kill himself, I'm trying to keep the blood in but it—there's a lot, and—"

[Okay, sir, does your friend have a pulse ?]

"Yes, yes, a small one, but it's fading, and I—"

[Alright, we're sending you an ambulance, can you give us the address ?]

Everything after this fades out.

He stares at Benji's unmoving face as he gives the informations, holds his hand, and it's so cold, and lifeless, and he feels burning tears trail their way along his cheeks, and slumps on him and cries, and cries, and begs him to wake up.

He begs him to show him his blue and golden eyes once again, to scream at him, to insult him, look at him annoyedly, anything, he'll take anything, please,

Benji, you're not supposed to be so cold, he whimpers, sobs shaking his entire body, you're the sun, you're not supposed to be so cold.

Wake up, Benji, please, for me ? Wake up.

Wake up.

There are stocks of bloodied toilet paper lying on the ground by the time help comes, and he's forcefully pulled from him as the other is lifted on an ambulance stretcher, and he says, yes, I'm his best friend—I need to come with you, please, I need to make sure he's okay.

"Sir, we need to know," one of the paramedics asks, and their voice is so soft it makes him violent, "is it the first time you found him like that ?"

Yes. Yes.

"Yes," he harshly replies in between the tears, "I don't know how—I—"

"There are other, older scars on his arms, this is not a one time thing. Hopefully this is the first and last time it's gone to such lengths."

No, he can't have other scars.

Benji can't have been doing this to himself.

Benji...Benji is—

"I didn't know," Ethan sniffles, voice high pitched, rubbing the unforgiving tears from his blood stained cheeks, "I didn't know, I didn't—"

"It's alright, sir," the paramedic, bless them, whispers back, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You friend is going to be okay. We're going to help him."

I would rather have to face a new nuclear threat tomorrow than have to see Benji like this anytime more.

Stay with me. Stay with me.

[delta-pavonis]

Last 10 Fics/Writing Patterns meme + Last First Line Tag Game

First the writing patterns meme, which is such a cool idea! I was tagged by @teejaystumbles! Thank yoooou.

Rules: Post the first lines of your last ten fics posted to AO3 (Sort by date posted), AND see if there's a pattern!

By last updated date:

3 March 2024: Quaternion

KLOT DOD-DOT The knock of the twisted iron ring against its plate on the outside of his library door startles King Morpheus from his reverie. He is supposed to be notating one of the histories of the Moirai, the so-called Three Sisters of Fate, who have ruled the island nation of Ananke with brutal efficiency since seemingly time immemorial. Their ships have been seen too often in view of his coastline of late and he needs to be prepared for whatever their intentions are.

15 February 2024: you might be the answer to the sinner in me

“Hob, are you alright?” Hob’s shoulders tighten and his spine goes ramrod straight. It is the family holiday dinner and he is out on the back patio in the cold, staring at the over-manicured hedgerows that make up one of the distant property lines. He left to have space to pull out his vape pen and take a hit because that is probably the only way that he is going to get through the night.

16 January 2024: Placebo Effect

“You should just DM him,” Desire is studying their nails, the dark red of dried blood, while reclining on a chaise in the living room of their oldest sister’s condo. “My kingdom for anything that might throw Dearest Mumsie and Popsicle off your trail for an evening. I don’t think I can endure another holiday of it.” They sprawl, letting their head loll backwards over the armrest, to look at Dream almost upside down. “What say you big brother?”

6 January 2024: show me who I am

Hob taps his fingers on the table next to the map of Northern Ireland and takes a sip from his glass of shiraz. “I think this is it. This is the plan. We’ve got it. Anyone see something we missed?” He looks around the table at each person in turn, waiting for a response.

1 January 2024: Another Song

Shunk ka-thunkszzzz. The lights in the entire loft go out. “What the FUCK?” Matthew’s voice smacks into Dream despite the thick panels of wood between them.

30 December 2023: Thoughts on the Roman Empire (and Other Pickup Lines)

“You know, I think this whole meme going around about men thinking about the Roman Empire is great!” Hob smiles at the ceiling as he leans back in his chair, balancing it on its back legs, propping his feet up on the table in the private library study room. He doesn't need to look at Morpheus to know that the grad student is giving him a withering glare, or perhaps not looking at him at all. “First off, people are discussing history! Second, some of the jokes are actually solid gold. Like I saw one that just murdered me in broad daylight. Wanna hear it?”

21 December 2023: Levade

“Oh fuck Dream,” Hob writhes in his bonds. “You said you wanted more did you not?” The centaur smirks. “I am simply acquiescing to your request.”

15 December 2023: You create me against your lips

The first time Hob sees Dream is when the latter has the audacity to enter the Morningstar's realm. He watches as the Dream King intimidates Squatterbloat into bringing him to the Palace. The demon is stupid and gullible, easily swayed, and Hob has a mind to bury his morningstar in the moron's fleshy head, but he would rather observe the visitor and his raven from the shadows.

9 December 2023: where I'm supposed to be

For all that he shares a given name with the God of Sleep, has a nickname of Dream, he has only experienced lucid dreaming rarely. Once, maybe twice, before. But. He knows he is dreaming right now.

26 November 2023: Venus conjunct Saturn

“Show me, Hob.” Dream purrs in a way he knows will make his lover shiver. “Show me how she pleasured you.” He is laid beneath Hob, who is on all fours above him, and the only cloth they have is the sheets upon their bed here in the Dreaming.

Other than 30% of those fics having titles from Maneskin lyrics... apparently I like to start with sounds or dialog. Some in medias res beginnings in there, too. Huh. Fascinating.

And, just for fun, here are the FIRST few lines paragraphs of the finished fic I have on deck, a sequel to A Change in Tactics (published in October 2022!)... (originally I was tagged in a last lines tag game by @amielot!)

“We have to stop meeting like this!” Hob laughed as he broke the barstool in his hands over the head and shoulders of another patron of the White Horse Inn. Said patron had just previously been trying to stab Hob with a shard of wine bottle so he most decidedly deserved it. Hob pulled a chunk of wood from where it had lodged in his palm and frowned at the blood that welled up there. A crash to his left stole his attention. “Ope. Watch out Lou!” Lou ducked the tankard aimed at her head with all the sliding fluid grace of one well-acquainted with being deep in her cups. She didn’t spill a single drop of her own ale as she backed around the bar and out of the Inn through the alleyway door. Lou may have been part of starting this fight, but she clearly had no intention of finishing it. Which was just fine by Hob. Lou didn’t deserve to be in hospital any more than absolutely necessary. She had enough going on, as Hob had just learned. Speaking of his mysterious friend… Hob flung his sweaty hair out of his eyes in time to watch Dream elegantly sidestep the brawler charging him like they were a pair in some courtly dance. The beautiful bastard hadn’t even moved his hands from where they were clasped at the small of his back, while his opponent had gone headlong into a wooden pillar. “This only happens when I join you here, Hob.” One loping step over the fallen man and Dream was back at Hob’s side. (Graceful twat.) “This type of violence is notably absent when you visit my Realm.” (Double the twat on that one.)

I tag... everyone who has a springtime birthday.

[remembertheplunge]

Striking the set

On the back of a drawing  of a man on a couch that I “painted”in 1986, I wrote the following;

Over “Striking the Set” November 19, 2086: a reaction to the first weekend Hand to Hand, The Aids Plague hits.

_________________

I later felt this was a picture of Daryl Speicher in his last days here. It was a good likeness painted before I met him. He, of course, was not a couch person. But he did die 2/3/1987.

He was my first match.

11/29/1987 a day of reflection—

________________________________________

June 27, 1987

This is actually a painting of Glen Miller. His beauty so overwhelmed me. His tragic truth so shocked me, and later, his courage in death’s parlor so inspired me.

His mother called today “Glen passed away at 7 or so last night."

The angel of energy visits the couch. The final curtain descends. 

Of the four men on the couch that November day, Glenn is the first to go.

John Hickman died 10/25/1987

Al Adami died July 3, 1987

Joel,still alive and doing very well. Still with life energy.

God Bless them always.

End of entry

Note:

I have had this painting which I entitled “striking the Set” hanging for over 30 years. I took it down today to relocate it, and realized that I had written notes about it on the back of the painting. 

Those notes are included above.

I lived in Sacramento, California from about may of 1986 to August 1987.

While there, I applied to work in an Aids support group called Hand to Hand. I had to be interviewed prior to acceptance. Al Adami interviewed me. I later learned that Al had Aids. I was shocked as the first person I knew who had it. During the training for Hand to Hand, a Doctor who ran the training named Elizabeth and Al did a dying scene for we 15 or so trainees. Elizabeth helped Al “die”.Powerful experience. As Hand to Hand volunteers, we would help people with Aids through their illness and death. 

I am including a photo of the “Striking the Set” painting and what I wrote on the back in the next blog post.

I had been in three plays in 1985-1986. When a play ends, the stage set is dismantled and taken away. This is called “striking the set”.I borrowed  the term for my painting, since Aids in 1986-1987 usually meant striking the set of a life.

Glen Miller’s tragic truth was that  at maybe age 30, he had Aids and was dying. John Hickman and Al Adami were also about my age then, early 30’s.

Glen Miller wanted to live to see his June birthday in 1987.

A group of we Hand to Hand volunteers went to his house. We brought champagne and cake. We sat around his bed once floor and laughed and talked. Glen drank some champagne, ate some cake and seemed to be happy.

As I was arriving at his house someone from in side was playing the song “Michael Row Your Boat Ashore” by the Highwaymen. When I hear that song now, I think of that haunting moment.

[mommalosthermind]

I’ve been being told, since the tender age of 18, that my family history means I need to see a breast specialist immediately. That I should get genetic testing to better pinpoint my odds.

I’ve been referred to the specialists three times. 20, 25, and now.

The first time, I was told my family history was irrelevant, I was too young and wasting their time.

The second time, I was told no. That I should bully my fourth-grade-drop-out, Tylenol is an Unnatural Evil believing idiot of a mother into getting tested because it would be less expensive for them to do a single test on her, and then use those results for her children, than to do a test for me, for me to use on my children.

The fact that she laughed at me apparently just meant that I hadn’t explained it to her properly. A good mother, you see, would come in to get tested. You know. Like I was trying to do.

I’m mid-thirties. Every Gyno I’ve ever seen has expressed concern about breast cancer purely based off family history.

Gyno sent me over again, armed with yet more family history, yet more cancer found in the last few years.

Specialist finally let me in the building. Specialist took one look at my history and went, why didn’t you start seeing us at 25? OR before! You should have been getting this done for ten years at least! Don’t you know your odds, as of this paperwork alone, are double the average American woman? You should be getting a professional breast exam every six months!

Because You Would Not Let Me. YOUR people looked at that same paperwork and decided it wasn’t worth their time. I wasn’t worth the money.

Had my first mammogram today.

It took nearly 16 years, though.

And what kills me, I think, other than the fact that the mammogram itself took like ten minutes? What kills me is—

My partner suddenly realizing that all those times I’ve brought up cancer it was a lot more of a concern than he realized. What do you mean she said your risk on paper is probably above 30? That’s so high? Why didn’t the specialist see you earlier?

Because when he goes to the doctor, they just nod.

When he goes, they make all the phone calls. He gets to see the allergist. The nutritionist I was told no for, he’s already made an appointment for.

I get gentle hedging about how maybe I should lose a few pounds. I get laughed out of the office. I get baffled looks when I ask about early onset arthritis due to the Lyme disease and then nothing.

It took me 16 years of pointing at six different family members with four different types of cancer—two of them more than one! At the same time!— to get what should be basic care.

My partner is speed-running all those years of my quiet worry. All the things that could have gone wrong. All the things that can still go wrong, but now with the safety net of being cared for. All the worry I’ve been carrying about what I may have passed onto my kids.

And it took ten minutes in a pretty pink room.

[fayeandknight]

Personal post in which I am processing old trauma.

It's weird how you can clearly recall an experience but have no emotional response/true comprehension of it until many years later.

My relationship with my ex fiance happened during my first three years of college, if you don't count the stalking and harassment that went on for several years after. I'm in my 30s now, that was a long time ago.

It took me a few years after breaking up for the last time to realize that the relationship wasn't just "really shitty" but had in fact been extremely abusive. To this day when I think of him I think of screaming and crying, breaking glass, blood, absolute terror, and the inability to breathe.

Over the years I've been processing the truth of things he'd normalized/minimized/gaslit me on and trying to give myself grace for the long term effects it's had on me. And for a while I thought I'd acknowledged all of it. But recently (last year or two) it's hit me like a sack of bricks that he tried to murder me. I don't mean going too far in a fit of anger, I mean he planned out and followed through on a deliberate plan to kill me that I survived by sheer luck.

That day has always been a cold, stop motion memory since it happened. I can recall it in a series of snapshots, each clean and neat and utterly detached from each other.

He tells me we'll have the house to ourselves.

He's drawn me a bath in the big Jacuzzi tub with rose petals in the water.

I undress and get in.

He is sitting on the side of the bathtub.

He is cupping my face for a kiss and whispers something about Ophelia.

My head is underwater.

I am flailing and grabbing at his hands, the side of the bathtub. Water is going everywhere but I can't get out from underneath his hands.

I can't breathe. My lungs are burning. I am beyond terrified. This is the inevitable end. This is how I die.

His hands are off me and I am able to get my head above water.

He is taking keys off the counter and handing them through the cracked open door.

I am soaking wet and holding my clothes against me in a bundle that mostly covers me.

I shove past the person on the other side of the door and run barefoot back to my dorm.

He gaslit me hard about this that it never happened. I didn't even get a chance to bring it up. He just showed up the next day to take me on a date (which he very rarely did) and complained about how outside of sex we never had one on one time because there were always people in the house. I was still in shock I think and don't really remember what happened in between my running out of his house and him showing up at my dorm apartment. I do remember being in the living room of his house after the date and having a very public fight that he pulled out of nowhere.

For a long time that memory has been something I shied away from even thinking about. It was a cold spot in my brain that gave me mental frost bite.

And then when I did acknowledge it, it was framed as 'I almost died' in my mind. But the more I think about it, the more clear that this was a planned murder becomes.

We were in college and he lived in a busy frat house/known party house with four other guys. He either dedicated significant time to tracking people's coming and going to find a long enough window of time to drown me and dispose of my body. Not a small feat considering the near constant foot traffic in the house. Or he engineered having that house be empty.

The tub, which wasn't normally used due to being disgustingly dirty, had been spotlessly cleaned.

He never got undressed or into the tub with me. He was wearing a short sleeved shirt with shorts and angled his legs away from the tub.

He referenced Ophelia, who dies via drowning. I was a theatre major at the time.

He very much intended to murder me by downing me in that bathtub.

The only reason I survived is because someone forgot their keys on the bathroom counter and had to come back for them. That's it.

It's so wild to me how long it's taken my brain to feel, I don't know safe??? enough, to really put the severity and full implications together. I didn't repress the memory, just avoided it. And I'm not even shocked that he tried to kill me, more that he tried to murder me - though I'm not sure how much sense that distinction would make to anyone else.

Seeing romantic gestures between couples makes me feel cold and frightened and grief stricken. And for a long time I attributed that to my most significant/serious relationship being an epic shit show and a half. But I'm starting to realize that it's also because one of the few romantic gestures I've received was actually part of the plan to murder me. So I'm trying to be gentle with myself when I experience those feelings.

I'm not some bitter shrew who hates seeing happy couples. I am experiencing the fallout feelings of an extremely traumatic and very nearly fatal event.

Anyway I'm not really expecting for anyone to have read this whole mess. But if you did, here's a picture of Forte snuggling me from this morning as thanks for sitting with me for a bit.

[wilsons-striped-ties]

april tc challenge (days 1-30 one shot)

original post here!

1. does your tc have a catchphrase or something they say a lot?

no but he does use "eh" a lot to start his sentence or to refer to people HAHA but there are some phrases he will just repeat in the exact same tone and way like "i don't know" when he's teasing someone

2. what’s your favourite memory with your tc?

i think when i gave him cupcakes on his birthday? the look of surprise on his face was priceless

3. have you dreamt about them? if so, what’s the best dream you’ve had?

yup, i think it was a dream where he asked to take a picture with me LOL i don't really dream about him

4. if you could move away with them, where would you move to? would you bring anyone else?

anywhere he wants to HAHAH it can just be the two of us <3

5. do you know their star sign? are your star signs compatible?

yeah he's a cancer and im a taurus and apparently we're very compatible

6. have they ever given you a gift? if so, what?

he gave our class personalized handwritten notes for graduation!

7. have you ever given your tc a gift?

just gave him a note and baked brownies for him today, i also gave him cookies and more notes and also cupcakes for his birthday!

8. what’s their best physical feature?

his dimples hehe maybe his smile too

9. what’s their best personality trait?

hes really thoughtful and sweet actually, quite sensitive too :'

10. what subject do they teach? do they teach you?

HISTORY yeah he taught me for years three and four

11. how old are they? what’s the age gap between you?

not sure of his age but our age gap is confirm above twenty years

12. if they could teach another subject, what do you think they’d teach?

he used to teach english too but he does just seem like a history teacher

13. have you ever hugged? what was it like?

I WISHHHHHHHHHHHH

14. what’s your dream date with them?

i would love to just go on a walk with him and hold hands or go to a museum or something!!

15. do you have any pictures with them? if so, when from? and if not, do you think you’ll be able to get a picture with them?

i just took a picture with him, i have at least six pictures with him i think, i always grab a picture when i see him HAHAHA

16. is your tc single? do they have any kids? or pets?

married with three kids, not sure about the pets (i offer as tri-*gunshots*)

17. does your tc remind you of any characters, whether they’re from a book, tv show or film etc.?

not sure HAHAHA

18. what’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve said or done in front of your tc? did they notice?

oh gosh the other time i served him the wrong coffee order cause i worked at my high school canteen for a bit HAHAHAHA

19. what colour do you associate your tc with?

dark blue, dark red, black, gold, brown

20. is your tc a good teacher?

THE BEST

21. can you remember the last thing you said to your tc or that they said to you?

"bye mr passion fruit" "bye, take care"

(this was today when i was leaving after teachers day)

22. how do you cope when you really miss your tc?

i write about him, look at our pictures, reminisce about some memories HAHAA

23. what animal does your tc remind you of?

i have no idea, tiger maybe?? in my head he's the most beautiful hurricane though. he'd be a really beautiful, complex animal but elegant and sleek too, but mischievous at the same time... maybe a fox? wolf? folf? HAHAHAH

24. if actors had to play you and your tc in a movie, who would you cast as yourself and who would you cast as them? why?

woah im not sure about that, i feel it's hard to play him and i have no idea about myself too whoops

25. what’s your favourite outfit of theirs?

his black/dark blue dress shirts? he always wears the same stuff

26. do you stay in contact outside of school? if so, how? (email, text, letters etc.)

yeah, text

27. in your opinion, what’s the hardest thing about having a tc?

the delusions and waking up to reality... the urge to do something to further your relationship but the fear and legal matters :'

28. do you flirt with your tc? do they flirt back?

I HAD A CHANCE TO BUT CHICKENED OUT i just do it subtly, he does tease me a little though

29. if you could ask your tc absolutely anything and get a completely honest response, what would you ask them?

what cologne did he used to use cause it smelt insanely nice

30. how do you think your tc would react if you told them your feelings?

i don't know... i think he'd just wave it off or maybe smile and look away and scold me or something maybe?