#plan nine from outer space

[inthedarktrees]

Vampira, a.k.a. Maila Nurmi, on the set of Plan 9 from Outer Space, 1956

[nerds-yearbook]

On August 20, 2009, Rifftrax (Mike Nelson, Bill Corbett, and Kevin Murphy) with special guest musician Jonathan Coulton performed their first Rifftrax Live event. The Rifftrax team "riffed" the Ed Wood classic "Plan 9 from Outer Space" live at the Belcourt Theatre in Nashville, TN, which, through Fathom Events, was simultaneously shown at theaters across the country (time delayed replay in the Pacific Time zone). They also riffed the short "Flying Stewardess" and there was also some prerecorded fake commercial buffers by Richard Kyanaka "Flour Grain Expo" and "BerryWatch". ("Rifftrax Live: Plan 9 from Outer Space", Event)

[argocitycosplay]

Plan Nine

Plan 9 is one of those rare reimaginings that works. From the first trailer, it reminds me of the 80s remakes like the Blob or the Fly that would take a concept, throw in some homage, and then run their own way with it using modern techniques. It’s far more a re-imagining of the story then simply re-making it for a contemporary audience. Plan 9 takes an interesting approach, I’ve always viewed it…

[yupcheekybradio]

From The Casual Company to Plan 9 From Outer Space Ed Wood was America's quirkiest if not worst director. Read all about him now on our website.

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https://www.instagram.com/p/CeOEZ8Eur-F/?igshid=MDJmNzVkMjY=

[mspaint-taylor-hebert]

you should make something NOW!!!!!!!

"i'm not an artist" "i can't draw" ""i'm not talented"

NO!!!!! open ms paint and draw something RIGHT now. write something about how you feel. it doesn't even matter if it's bad. have fun making things. kill the cop in your brain that cringes at stuff. be a little geniune. people are too afraid of putting shit out there.

"it'll be bad" who cares. we're allowed to make bad things. we're not being graded.

i love deviantart sonic OCs. i love the cursed tavros doll. i love ms paint art, i love weird youtube videos from small creators. make the next plan nine from outer space. seeing things that look like people had fun making them makes me happy. i love things that are imperfect. i love seeing the process and the emotion in something.

MAKE SOME THINGS EVEN IF IT'S BAD IT DOESN'T EVEN MATTER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[unofficial-writing]

Brown Eyes

Pairing: Din Djarin x GN!Reader

Warnings: Some angst, fluff, soft Din, that should be it

Summary: After being separated for almost two years, you were finally reunited with Din.

Word count: 1k

Translations: Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum - “I love you”

«̶ ̶̶̶ ̶ «̶ ̶̶̶ 　　　　 ̶ ̶ ̶»̶  ̶̶̶ ̶ »̶

One year, nine months, two weeks, and five days since you last saw Din. You had no idea if he was even alive, but you clung to the last words he said to you like your life depended on it. “No matter how long it takes, I’ll see you again.”

Ever since you two were separated a hole occupied space in your heart. Despite the effort to ease the ache, nothing worked. So over time you slowly began to fall further into your own mind.

You had built a small home on a remote planet beyond the outer rim. Remote was an understatement. Other than the animals that inhabited the surrounding trees, you were convinced nobody else lived here. Nobody that would be able to speak at least.

The land was mostly forests. A shallow but fast moving river ran through the trees, coming down from the mountain that sat a few miles from where you stayed.

Over the past year and a half, you built yourself a house and a system that kept you alive. At first it was merely for survival— just to get yourself by one day at a time— but now, physically at least, you began to thrive.

The lifestyle wasn’t bad at all. Most days you roamed the surrounding area, finding anything you could do to keep you busy. But time crawled painfully slowly.

The longer you spent here, the lonelier you got. You’ve already spent a year and a half without seeing another person. And to think of it, you couldn’t remember the last time you heard your own voice.

Now you walked through the trees, mapping your route without much effort. Mindlessly, your feet followed their normal track and allowed your thoughts to slip away from you. Your alert state faded over time since you no longer needed to look over your shoulder every few minutes.

Your bliss was ripped away from you with the sound of a ship flying quickly overhead. An N-1 Starfighter flew over the trees, headed in the same direction as you— which was also the same direction as your house. You cursed to yourself, thinking back to the fire you left running.

The smoke would be easily visible from the ship’s cockpit and the last thing you wanted was an unwelcome visitor. As far as your knowledge— which you couldn’t be sure wasn’t outdated— the starfighter was used on Naboo years ago so you couldn’t imagine who was flying it now.

Your feet were moving before you thought about it and your fingers fumbled for the blaster you kept concealed in your thigh holster. At least you had that. Your preferred weapons were left behind that morning. Approaching your house from behind the trees, you spotted the ship in the only clearing for miles, at least on this side of the river.

Worry trickled into your system, pooling in your stomach while you came up with a plan. As silently as possible, you moved to just under your window to see if you could get a glimpse of the pilot. You saw nothing so you stood cautiously, moving to the door to enter the little structure.

The pool in your stomach filled quickly as time passed without establishing who or where the pilot of the starfighter was. With your blaster in hand, you turned to go through your door, pointing your weapon in front of you.

The breath was stolen from your lungs as your blaster came face-to-face with the familiar beskar armor. “D-Din?” You whispered, your voice trying to get used to being heard again. His helmet came off slowly, revealing himself to you.

The face you had seen seen only a few times but knew more intimately than any other was now directly in front of you. The only thing that broke your trance was the makings of tears in his eyes.

Once your mind had caught up, your arms were around him. He caught you and wrapped his arms tightly around your torso, burying his face into your neck.

You were in tears, overwhelmed by your emotions. It had been so long since you had felt anything more than your usual stoic disposition and empty mind. And now your heart ached in the opposite way.

“I’m so sorry.” Din said, sounding like he was choked up. He lifted his head so he could look into your eyes, without moving his hands away from your waist. You lifted your hands to cup his face. It almost felt like he wasn’t really there, but he was.

His brown eyes gazed at you with guilt, longing, and adoration. Which mixed together to make the expression he presented to you. You examined his face for a moment before pulling him down to you. Your lips met for the first time in almost two years but it felt like no time had passed at all.

Din melted into your kiss instantly, pulling you closer while you sighed into his lips. After a long minute, he lifted his lips from yours and pressed slow kisses onto your cheeks where tears stained your skin.

Your eyes stayed closed while he kissed your face, finishing with your lips again. “Please don’t leave.” You whispered against his lips. Din’s hand went up to your cheek and your eyes met for the second time.

“I’ll never l leave you again, y/n.” He stated quietly. His voice sounded smooth and velvety in your ears. As he spoke, his breath tickled your cheeks. “Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum”

You didn’t understand all of Mando’a but Din had taught you that phrase when he had first said it to you. It caused your heart to flutter— a much preferred feeling to the previous emptiness.

For the first time in almost two years, you smiled. Din pressed a kiss onto your nose and rested his chin on the top of your head, silently promising he would never leave you alone like this again.

After all that time, all you wanted was to stay there in Din’s arms. Neither of you wanted to let go.

[thestarkerisobvious]

I Have To Tell You Something

Waking up with Peter in his bed, with Peter in his arms.  Was there a better feeling on this planet, or in any other?  Peter sitting up to rub the sleep out of his eyes, to yawn and stretch, to reach for his phone and then dismiss it, looking happily down at Tony before laying back down again.  Tony was happy.  Tony was on cloud nine.

That was his only thought as he inquired about Peter’s day, Peter’s plans, Peter’s agenda.  As Peter reached for his phone again and started talking, Tony only had one thought in his head.  This was too good to be true.  This was paradise.

Then paradise stood up and began to climb out of bed, then stopped.  

“I have to tell you something.”

Tony’s chest tightened.  He didn’t know how the kid did it - Tony had once flown a bomb into an alien wormhole and the only panic he felt came years later - but this kid could do it.  Say the one thing that made his whole body cold and his forehead sweat.  It was uncanny… like this kid had superpowers, or something….

“Yeah… it’s… okay this is really hard…”

There he was sitting, like a vision on Tony’s bed, naked as the day he was born, grinning in the afterglow and, supposedly, headed off to take a shower when he had stopped short and sat down again.  He was taking deep breaths before speaking.  Tony couldn’t breathe at all.

“... because I really like you…. THIS.  I mean I really like this.  Kind of a lot.  Like it’s… gosh the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me.  And that includes going into outer space with you.  And I don’t… I don’t want you to think…”

Tony opened his mouth but nothing came out.  Of course.  The superpowered miracle in his bed was about to break up with him.  What else was there for a mere human to say?

 “Oh gosh, I mean I hope you don't kick me out of the penthouse for this but…”

“Peter!”  Tony said, finding his voice at last.  Right now the boy was blushing slightly and looking like an angel from some extra-divine level of heaven.  Only Tony was pretty sure the extra-divine levels of heaven wouldn’t approve of older mentors taking their 20-something mentees to bed on occasion.  On many occasions.  Okay on all occasions when they weren’t out saving the world.

But it was no-strings-attached-sex, Tony had insisted.  It could start and stop whenever Peter wanted and there would be no consequences… Tony insisted… no consequences for saying “yes” but also no consequences for saying “no” either.  Tony had made that crystal clear… hadn’t he??  He had to make it clear once again.  

“Peter,” he scolded, sitting up at last.  Peter was sitting crosslegged on Tony’s massive Alaska King - Tony copied him and now they sat knee-to-knee to talk.  As if Tony didn’t have a care in the world.  As if he weren’t steeling himself to receive the bad news that Peter was done with the “benefits” part of the “friends with benefits.”  

Steeling himself?  He was Iron Man.  He was Iron-ing himself.  He would survive this.

He could survive having his heart ripped out by this young boy, couldn’t he?  Hadn’t his heart suffered more damage than this?

“...Robin… you are always going to be welcome in the Batcave.”  Even if it meant Peter would go back to sleeping in his room and Tony would lay down in this cold, huge bed.  Heartbroken and alone.  “So don’t talk like that.  You know none of this…”  He waved his hand around the rumpled sheets.  “You know this isn’t what matters.  Just… tell me anything you want.”

For a moment, Peter’s face fell in disappointment.  And Tony realized he would move heaven and earth to wipe that look of disappointment off Peter’s face.  Even if it meant Peter didn’t want to get naked with him anymore, Tony would have to be okay with that.  As long as Peter was happy.

“Anything, Peter,” Tony found his mouth saying now.  He hooked his hand around the back of Peter’s head and pulled their foreheads close.  “I mean it,” he said, and was surprised to find he was sincere.

Peter took another deep breath.

“I really need you to…”

Another deep breath.  He touched their foreheads together.  Then he leaned into Tony’s embrace to lay his head on Tony’s shoulder, whispering into the older man’s embrace.  

“I really need you to stay closer after I… after you make me come.  I mean… I mean we don’t have to snuggle-snuggle… but…”

Tony moved his legs out the way and wrapped his arms around the boy, pulling him close.

“I mean… I guess… maybe I do?” Peter asked, sounding slightly relieved.  “Need to snuggle, I mean… just for a moment, not forever…”

“Oh kid, of course, why didn’t you just ask?” Tony said, or would have, if he could have spoken.  Instead he was just pulling Peter’s head to his chest and rocking him back and forth.  So the kid couldn’t see.  So the kid couldn’t see his face breaking with relief, with gratitude.  Peter wasn’t ending this ill-conceived mismatched sexual liaison… not yet.  Not today.  Tony still had a few days left in paradise.    

“...and… I don't know but… if maybe you could…”  Peter was continuing, feeling bolder.  Tony kissed the side of his face in encouragement.  

“What, baby?”

“…if you could talk to me.  Afterward.  Just a little, I mean.  Your voice is such a turnon… but after I come it just goes away completely and that leaves me feeling… unmoored.”  

And Tony Stark, the man Pepper had described as a “wall of sound,” the man who had driven lovers mad with his inability to stop talking after sex, the man who had spent a solid decade disappearing after sex just to avoid his struggles to avoid conversation, that Tony Stark, said yes.

He said it calmly, of course.  He held his young lover tight and chuckled at Peter’s embarrassment, explaining that the only way for the two of them to be good in bed together was to practice, and making a few obscene suggestions along the way.  Peter was all grins and snuggled into Tony’s embrace, gladly engaging in the conversation, making suggestions of his own, and generally expressing relief.  And Tony…

…Tony was laughing at himself.  Laughing in relief.  He had made such an effort to stay silent in bed, to leave Peter alone, to give Peter his space.  But what if he didn’t have to do that?  What if he didn’t have to try so hard?  He was all grins now, just like the boy in his arms.

He was on cloud nine.

[honourablejester]

Okay, normally this wouldn’t be something I’d go near at all, but I saw some things fly past my dash on the new James Somerton youtube controversy, and I vaguely remembered watching one of the guy’s videos a while back (I can’t actually remember which one, I just remember he was talking about growing up in a poor town where people were paid under the table as a regular fact of life? I can’t remember the topic, which maybe says something about the dude’s presentation style). So I got curious and watched first hbomberguy’s plagiarism video and then Todd in the Shadow’s misinformation video on the guy. The basic takeaway of which appears to be that 90% of his output is stolen, and the parts that aren’t are often wildly incorrect instead. Anyway. I realise this is a weird thing to get hung up on given the much more serious issues of, you know, plagiarism and theft and misogyny and frankly astonishing opinions on queer history, but …

There’s a section in Todd’s video (around 1.25.00) about Somerton’s interpretations of various vampire media from his video on ‘Vampires and the Gays that love them’, and I got to ‘Gary Oldman was the first fuckable Dracula’, and … what?

It’s around 38.10 in Somerton’s video, and the full quote is as follows:

“Again, the significant element here is how readily Coppola depicts a vampire who fucks, whereas Dracula is more prominently depicted as a reclusive humanoid monster. From Nosferatu, Plan Nine from Outer Space, Salem’s Lot, the Last Voyage of the Demeter, this figure has almost exclusively been painted white, and shown with clownishly monstrous features. But Coppola creates a monster for whom the audience looks at and completely understands what Mina is so horny about.”

I’m going to leave out everything else he says about Coppola’s Dracula, because … wow, there’s a lot of interesting opinions in there, but …

Christopher Lee. And Bela fucking Lugosi.

The man cannot be unaware of the two single most famous depictions of Dracula ever put on film, right? Dracula has been ‘more prominently depicted’ as the Nosferatu-inspired Count Orlok type monstrosities, and Coppola’s is the first ‘sexy Dracula’ on film? Like. What?

As Todd says, anyone even passingly aware of Dracula films is gonna go … Hammer? Universal? Bela Lugosi. The single portrayal that has been shaping Dracula’s iconography for nearly a literal century? THE film Dracula? The one literally everyone is going to think of?

Like. It’s such a weird choice. If he was going to say something about what you could get away with onscreen now vs in the 60s or 30s, or about the evolving tension between the sexier Draculas vs the more monstrous, which Chris Lee’s Dracula was an element of, a more visceral, animalistic portrayal vs Lugosi’s suave charm, arriving to what Coppola’s could actually explicitly put on the screen, but … This is framed like Universal and Hammer just didn’t exist. At all. It cherry-picks such a weird selection of examples of the Nosferatu style portrayals (and not even of Dracula, just vampires in general), and just flat never mentions the two single most famous Dracula film franchises ever made.

I’m curious what the comment section for this video was like. It’s been locked down now because of the controversy, so I can’t tell, but I’m assuming … I mean, that can’t have flown, right? As Todd says, literally anyone could have picked up on that one.

It’s just such a strange thing to choose to say. There maybe is a fair bit to say about ideas of sexiness in film across different decades, or if he meant that Coppola’s Dracula was the first to literally fuck on screen because of what could be shown in different eras, or even which Dracula he personally found most sexy, but …

Why would you choose to say, with a straight face, that Dracula has most prominently been depicted Nosferatu-style when literally anyone with the remotest knowledge of Dracula is going to point directly at Bela Lugosi and his ninety years worth of imitations and rejections and parodies and rebuttals? Nosferatu is a silent era classic and a periodic cult revival for vampire depictions, but THE movie vampire in popular consciousness is still Lugosi’s suave, sinister European nobleman in classy eveningwear. Any random Joe Soap off the street is gonna know that. Saying the Nosferatu depiction is the most prominent is just flat not true and everyone knows it.

Sorry. Again, I know this is a weird thing to get hung up on, but it’s such a weird choice. I get selective cherry picking of evidence to make your chosen point, but you can’t just ignore the one depiction that literally everyone knows and expect them to just nod along. Right?

Anyway. Weirdness aside. Carry on.

[other-peoples-coats]

still thinking about palaptine's phone tree of doom/The Chip Lag Issue, and have come up with a third, even fucking funnier option for how order 66 rolls out:

Ol' mate sheev manually corrected for lag. Like sure, you have to squash the lag time down from like, millions of years to like. a reasonable but still funny time frame, but consider it.

Skeevy sheevy, the great wrinkled raisin of evil himself, sitting at his desk, looking at the Great Big Space Spreadsheet listing where every goddamn clone commander in the GAR is, along with the current lag time in communication, and sitting down to schedule out Enacting His Evil Plot.

Target roll out time is 5 pm CSC (coruscant standard time), because that's when it's Most Dramatic and also maybe most jedi are in temple to avoid peak hour coruscant traffic (but mostly the drama). The furthest flung CC+Jedi pair is on the ass end of the outer rim (lag time 13 hrs 54 min). Therefore, he has to send that message at........ass o'clock in the fucking morning, in order for it to reach where it's gotta go at the same time as everyone else gets theirs.

fine. no pain without gain, it's one day of getting up at 2 fucking AM and dialing a clone to tell them to murder a jedi. loathing feeds sith powers, getting up at 2 am to make a fifteen second holocall is peak fucking loathing, all is evil in the world.

Sitting down with his evil!space-appointment-calendar* (different from his personal calendar, his work calendar [delegated], his work calendar [not meant to be delegated but delegated to fox anyway], his work calendar [actually not delegated], his CIS war calendar, and his not evil-space-appointment-calendar), along with space!world-time-buddy.com and his spreadsheets of 'where the fuck are the murder targets and their murder weapons now'.

Planning out every fucking phone call - ok, kenobi is on utapau, 8hr 13min delay, that means the call to cody has to be at ....space world time buddy says 8:47 sharp! in goes the appointment to the evil space appointment calendar, "8:47 AM, Kenobi🔫🔫🔫🎉🎉🎉".

"9:13 am, Koon 🔫🎉"

"10:02 am, MULTI CALL COMMANDER ONLY, hy'rt, kleei, janso...[click to expand]"

"10:30 am, Tapal+ brat"

etc etc.

And then. Having to reschedule meetings around these totally fucking arbitary points in time. He's gotta keep it normal until go live! (or, well, go dead.) nothing to see here, pay no attention to the chancellor ducking out to make 15 second holocalls every eight minutes, it's fine.

Like yes awful terrible etc but also: the idea of lord evil himself blearily opening his holocom after a day of making fifteen second phonecalls at random points to compensate for lag is hilarious to me. by the 400th call he's doing the call centre mangled script like 'commander order execute clone 66. How may I order you today. Thank you for calling I am clone how may I execute you?'

*at least sleazy sheevy's evil appointment calendar opened up some once dooku became a head shorter. Can you fucking imagine the mutual monologing. this nine hour meeting could have been an email.

[thequeenopower]

Unplanned ; Sapnap

I don't even remember the night, never mind where I met him. But he was cute, kind of awkward, but cute. He was forward even though he seemed shy around girls. So I went home with him, it didn't seem like he knew what he was doing, but once he figured it out he was great at it. But then it ended and I snuck out before the birds began to sing.

And two months later came two lines.

I didn't expect it, I was half expecting some sort of STD but definitely not a baby. And the worst part was, I didn't have any way to contact him. I gave him a fake number and the goddamn state of Florida is so huge that I have a better chance of finding him in outer space.

I tried planning an abortion appointment but since I've never done it before, I was too far along to get the thing out so know I had two other options;

Keep it and live with it, or, give it up.

Now I was planning on giving it up, I was never fit to be a mother. I was still in college with a shitty job. I couldn't support myself, never mind a child. But there's something people never talk about when going through with giving a child up, its the connection you make with the baby growing inside you. Now I never believed I'd make a connection with it, but the second I saw his face on the ultrasound, I fell in love.

I became a better person for him, and because of him. I quit my job and worked my ass off to try to graduate sooner, which didn't quite work out. But, I was able to get a good job at a high up corporation doing their finances while continuing school part time. I was also able to get an apartment and split rent with a friend.

Then when 34 weeks came along, so did the baby.

What had happened was I was on a flight from Florida to California for a family vacation and then went into labor on the plane. They landed somewhere in Texas where I soon had my baby, Benjamin Michael l/n.

That was nine months ago, and two months ago I re-discovered his father.

~~ two months prior

"Hey, y/n! Whatcha doin'?" Ashley announces her presence which scares Benji.

"Not much. Just changing baby butts," I shake a diaper on Benji's face, it itches his nose a little which makes him giggle.

"Could I use your TV in here to watch a streamer?" I nod, knowing she only wants to use this TV so she could spend time with Benji before her trip.

The three of us got comfy on my bed as she started up the stream called, "FORTNITE TOURNY WITH PUNZ AND KARL". By someone named Sapnap. It's an odd name for a stream but maybe it was normal. I never normally had time to watch stuff anymore, if I did it was either TV shows, movies, or Markiplier, cause who wouldn't want to watch Markiplier.

The stream turns on and it's immediately on the lobby menu of Fortnite, a man in the top left corner goes on for some time talking about god knows what. For some odd reason, the stream stayed on for about 2 hours. Though I wasn't paying attention as I was doing my own thing, like school work and checking up on Benji and Ashley. It wasn't until I was done with my work that I finally laid on the bed and paid attention to the TV. The man on the screen looked familiar but I couldn't put my finger on it. It wasn't till I heard him speak that I realized who it was.

"Nick?" Ashley looked at me confused before her eyes went wide and her mouth fell open.

"No way. It can't be." I nodded as I was entranced by the man laughing and playing with a ball on the screen.

"You have to contact him and tell him! His name on Insta-"

"No, I couldn't do that to him. It's best if we just leave it at this. It'd ruin him and his career." My eyes were teary as I had finally come to terms with Benji not growing up with a father.

~~ present day <3

You had taken a trip to TwitchCon with Ashley's little sister Jenny. Ashley couldn't make it since she had an art contest at her school to be in. Though she wanted to still be able to give art to her favorite creators so she paid for Jenny and me to go. It was very hard to handle two other people but at least Jenny was 14 and was able to take care of herself when I wasn't able to.

Jenny was going to be wearing costumes for the days we were there for and the first day she was dressing up as someone called 'Dream'. So I decided she couldn't have all the fun and dressed up as a Minecraft creeper, which was three sizes too small, and Benji dressed as a Minecraft panda. It was a regular panda suit but I put a Minecraft panda head as the hood and made it so it could stay on his head.

We walked around outside for a bit before the building opened. We took some photos of people who asked, Benji getting complimented every two seconds. He would just smile and kick his feet since I was baby wearing him. Then it was time for us to go in and we got straight into line for someone, I never checked the name. It was about an hour-long wait, but it wasn't bad as Benji was mostly quiet. He did get fidgety at times which is when I would take him out and let him stand or be held by Jenny.

Finally we made it to the front of the line and Jenny was getting excited.

"He's one of Ashley and mine's favorite streamers. You have the stuff to show him right?" I nod and turn my back a little so she can take out the items from my bag.

"Hello," The man greets as Jenny excitedly walks toward him.

She gives him the pictures which he accepts and thanks. I then take a picture of the two of them. He goes wide eyed as he looks at me, as if he knew me.

"Hey, uh, cute baby." He replies. He seems unsure of what to say and kind of awkwardly stands there.

A couple seconds passed as I thanked him for the compliment. We're then told we have to move along which lets us go into the next line.

As we stand in line I try to remember who the man was. The person floats in my mind a little, it's fuzzy and only there for a few seconds at a time, like clips of a movie.

"Hey, what was that guys name that we just met?"

"His name is Sapnap."

~~

I couldn't get him out of my head for the rest of the day. It was like he was stuck there and I had no intention of getting him out. He knew, he had to of. If he didn't, then why did he stand there like a fish out of water when he saw me. I knew he didn't know Benji, but he most certainly knew me.

Jenny and I sat in our chairs at the panel, the creators sitting above us all waiting to be asked questions. Jenny asked me to go up and ask a question for her and to ask them if they had seen a certain art by her which she had accidentally posted on my account.

"Hello, I'm y/n, this is Benji," I wave his hand for him which got people to aw.

"My friend has a couple of questions, if you don't mind me asking two." They sat in silence waiting for me to ask. Sapnap whispered to a boy beside him which made the boys eyes go wide and look at me bewildered.

"So one, what's your favorite Minecraft animal slash mob?" They all answered with their respective answers, Sapnap's animal being a panda.

"And second, my friend wants you guys to check out a piece of art she created but accidentally posted on my account. Is it alright if I tell you the user so you could check it out?" The blonde one all the way to the right nodded and took out his phone.

I told him my account and he replied back with his reaction to it which got some others to ask to be shown it. As I sat down, the man's phone was being passed down the line of people. It stopped at Sapnap as he took out his phone to most likely copy the user to also like the photo.

The panel continued on for another couple hours until it finally finished. Jenny begged me to stay a little longer and go outside to meet some people we couldn't before.

I waited off to the side as she took photos and just played with Benji outside of his carrier. It wasn't long until we were interrupted by someone tapping my shoulder.

"Hey, y/n, right?" I turn towards the voice and see Nick. I nod and he smiles leaning against the wall with me.

"So we finally meet again, at last." I chuckle and see Benji looking at Nick with his big green eyes.

"How old is your son?" He looks puzzled, like he knows something but just wants the last piece to be sure.

"He's going to be nine months soon." He looks at me. Does he know? Surely not.

"Is he- is he mine?" His voice is low, like a scared kid.

I nod, not really knowing what to say. A tense air blankets us and there's nothing else said between us. It took minutes, a couple of photos that he took with fans, before he finally asked a question.

"Could I hold him?" I stare at him blankly, not knowing what exactly to do. Finally, I slowly started to move Benji towards him. He holds him under his armpits, far away from him like the second they'd touch they'd explode. I push them together which gets Benji to laugh and clutch onto Nick.

Nick smiles, realizing that this is probably the best feeling in the world. He fell in love that day, not with the woman standing next to him, but his son that was in his hands. From that day onward, he vowed to take care of them both. He put their needs before his and eventually stopped streaming for some time to fix the relationship between the three of them. After a while, he got back into streaming and showed off his newly wedded wife, who was pregnant once more, and his son, whom he explained he loved more than anything in this world, and outer space.

ill be honest, the time line is a little messed up but fuck me it was hard to find things that sewed everything together perfectly. please just go with it, im tired lol.

[in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather]

[Starship Icarus]

Summary: 65 x Passengers (2016). Due to an errant power surge and a malfunctioning pod, Mills is accidentally awoken nine decades too early en route for the exploratory mission to Homestead II. After undergoing all the stages of grief alone, he nearly loses his mind and takes his own life once he has exhausted all his options for rescue. In the depths of his solitude and desperation, he does the unthinkable. He awakens another passenger.

Word count: ~2.7k

*

Floating serenely through the undisturbed, sepulchral quiet of deep space, Starship Icarus glided on as asteroids hurtled by, supernovas exploded in the distance, and space and time hung suspended in unknowable endlessness. To contemplate such conditions for too long was a fast ticket to madness. Space dementia, as sci-fi authors of old dubbed it. Luckily for the passengers of the Icarus, no one was awake to contemplate anything and lose their mind in far flung corners of the cosmos.

No one was there to hear the sound. So perhaps there wasn’t any sound at all, the Buddhists would ponder. Perhaps even the low rumble that ominously shook the panels of the ship was not there either, as all five thousand passengers were asleep, dead to the world - and beyond, when it occurred. The machines aboard the ship dispassionately set about repairing the damage, employing failsafes and established protocols.

*

Starship Icarus set out on its exploratory mission to Homestead II on schedule. Minor last minute repairs took place, but no one was particularly surprised by that. The first manned mission to an Earth-like planet whose distance exceeded a century one-way was bound to run into some hiccups along the way. More significant than repairs to the ship itself were changes to the crew and passenger lists that happened in the run up to launch day. Although all crew members had undergone decades of training and all passengers were screened extensively, subjected to all manner of psychological and physical testing, as well as a series of simulations in preparation for the voyage, some wished to renege and back out at the last moment. When leaving all they ever knew became startlingly real. The prospect of sleeping for one hundred and twenty years. Of waking up on Homestead II and hoping it was the promised land the space exploration company claimed it was. Working for an indeterminate number of years, collecting samples, testing, exploring, charting. Then going back, effectively putting life on hold for two and a half centuries, hoping that two 120-year long bouts of hibernation were as harmless as they were assured, and then resuming whatever would be left of life more than two centuries on from the moment they departed. Would there be any surviving family? Would there be an Earth to return to at all? How different would the late twenty third century be from the early twenty first? The 1770s were certainly a little different from the 2020s…

It was easy to view it as an abstract adventure, even as one said their goodbyes, did G-Force testing, submerged themselves in sensory deprivation tanks and wrote goodbye letters. Most recorded videos, actually. Mills preferred letters. Those always seemed more real. But the now-or-never of making their way on a journey into outer space made it all hit home. Several people broke down and had to be separated from the group. Mills didn’t know what was done with them in the meantime, but the voyage proceeded to plan. He had to assume they had worked out their differences.

Before everything faded, Mills, like all other passengers, listened to the only-slightly-uncanny mechanic voice of the travel companion explain the procedure that was about to take place. Putting him under and transporting him though unimaginable distances to Homestead II. The last conscious thought he had was that the planet name sounded to him like a portmanteau of ‘home’ and ‘instead’, like they were escaping their dreary lives and looking for better options.

*

The impact of the asteroid sent shockwaves through the Icarus. Deep in its machinery, circuitry was damaged and major systems went down. Others took on their load in mere blinks of an eye, before the dying segments even had a chance to hiss and fizz out. High up on the surface, a few lights flickered and one pod sighed to life.

Mills’ pod filled with a soft light and set about the task of bringing him out of stasis. His body was released from suspension, thumping softly on the white ridges of his bed. Stage One commenced with the first post-stasis injection. His chest expanded as if from the blast of a defibrillator and he slumped back down. Mills’ lips parted and sucked in their first rattling breath in over thirty years. For a few more minutes, as he swam towards consciousness from the deep waters of oblivion, machines tracked his vitals. Then they withdrew and the pod tilted, opening in segments around him.

His screen rose into view and he started blinking, the light still harsh on his long-disused eyes. The sound of the system booting up was familiar from the hundreds of test runs done back on Earth. The travel companion greeted him and assured his groggy state was perfectly normal after more than a century in stasis.

“Where am I?” Mills croaked, frowning as his eyes watered. His arms felt heavy as he rose a hand to rub the tears away. His vision was still blurry and the voice explaining his condition sounded like it was under water.

“You’re aboard the Starship Icarus, the Homestead Company’s premier interstellar liner. We have nearly completed the voyage from Earth to Homestead II, where you begin your exploratory mission. Homestead II is the second planet outside Earth’s solar system to be colonized and the first in the Bhakti system to be explored,” she launched into the brochure pitch of Homestead II and Mills tuned out. His eyes flickered from the screen to his left and right, down long corridors, barely illuminated and empty, as his pod wheeled him to the door.

“…the Icarus is on final approach. For the next four months, you’ll enjoy space travel at its most luxurious,” the voice went on and Mills became uncannily aware of his stiff facial muscles as he tried to smirk. The meatiest part of the pitch. The gold-class passengers, sure, maybe those would enjoy the utmost luxuries. He was on board because of his ‘useful profession’ as an engineer and mechanic. Had he been part of the crew, in his role as Commander and Pilot… His thoughts were still lethargic and fuzzy. He was in no condition to bitterly ponder the politics of setting up these sorts of missions. At the end of the day, he was on board and that was what mattered.

“…let’s get you to your cabin where you can get some rest.”

The screen folded away and he stepped down, rolling his weight from his heels to his toes experimentally. He would have expected the floor to be cool on his bare feet, but it was pleasantly warm. Panels in the floor shone ahead of him, tossing proverbial breadcrumbs to show him his path. Mills padded down the tubular corridor and rubbed his temples as a headache started to throb right in the between them.

“You may be experiencing post-hibernation sickness,” a different voice from the travel companion told him. No shit, he gritted his teeth. A hundred or so years will give you such a crick in the neck. His door illuminated and he entered his cabin. It looked somewhat barebones. Like a little bit of shithole, if he was being honest. The kind of shoebox you live in during college, with a bed that folds into the wall and drab décor you are not allowed to change. Everything was a muted creamy color that looked dimensionless. Storage compartments lined the wall over his cot, like overhead luggage compartments on a plane. He hadn’t really considered he would be spending four months feeling like he was on a flight with some shitty airline. The bathroom was equally cramped, but he had to give them some leeway on that. He was huge. All his life, he had to enter most doors sideways, wear a pair of jeans until they fell apart if they managed to be long enough not to give off the impression of capri pants on him, and he banged his head on every hanging light fixture in his vicinity.

He had pre-selected a lot of things prior to his voyage, from the furniture for his cabin to the different outfits he would wear on the Icarus and on Homestead II. As he looked around, his travel companion spoke.

“Welcome to your cabin, your home until we make landfall. Over the next four months, you will prepare for your life on Homestead II. Meet your fellow passengers, take skill building classes, and learn about colonial living. You’ve been assigned to learning group 65, for passengers with engineering and technical trade skills.”

He yawned, long and hard, and his ears popped. “Please, scan your ID to confirm luggage delivery.” A panel in the wall opened and revealed a silver suitcase. He looked at it and padded over, but another yawn made him stop and roll his shoulders sleepily. The voice prompted him again and he looked from his left to his right wrist, looking for his cuff.  He pressed the metal plate of the cuff into the floating blue sphere that indicated where to confirm and heard the chirp of a successfully completed operation. A water dispenser in the corner burbled to life.

“To help you recover from hibernation, be sure to drink plenty of fluids.”

“Well, I tried drinking solids before and it didn’t work out too good,” he groaned as another yawn almost split his jaw at the hinge. His vision seemed to gradually come into focus, but it was blurring now again from the overwhelming need to sleep. He picked up the cup of pinkish liquid that didn’t look too inviting, but he was so parched he would have sifted his piss through a gym sock for some hydration right about then. The liquid was delightfully smooth going down and the amount in the cup perfectly satiated him. He collapsed on the bed and wondered how come, after essentially sleeping for over a century, the first thing he wanted to do was sleep some more. Still, he did not wake until his alarm rang and informed him he had orientation in an hour.

*

Mills felt far more invigorated after his sleep and sprang to his feet with his usual energy. He indulged in a long, steamy shower, standing under the perfect jet of water until the hot water seeped into his muscles and warmed him all the way down to his bones.

Still dripping from the shower, skin pink from the heat, he swiped his large hand across the fogged up mirror and took a look at himself. It should not have been a surprise that he looked exactly the same as when they left. His black hair hung in damp ringlets around his face, the van dyke he sported framing his lips. He didn’t spare much time to contemplating his reflection. The last thing he wanted was to be late.

After drying off and putting on his casual outfit that consisted of a cream long sleeved shirt, charcoal jeans and black boots, he checked himself out again. He wondered if he should complete the outfit with his leather bomber jacket or if that was too douchey. It felt like picture day at school, everything riding on one outfit and one moment. He ran his hand through his dark locks, brushing against his shoulders and necked another cup of that pink liquid. But Brawndo has what plants crave, he snorted at himself, it's got electrolytes!

He jogged down winding corridors, taking turns as the panels directed him. He was too absorbed in the fact that he was barely going to make it in time that he didn’t take much in until he was inside the designated room. Had he not been too busy fussing with his dress some southern belle debutante making her grand entrance into society, he might have bothered to remember his way back.

The room was playing triumphant music and turned on all the panels and lights.

“Hello, passengers,” the hologram of a new travel companion in Homestead blues smiled at him. “Will you all take your seats?”

Mills craned his neck to peer through the door, trying to see if anyone was waiting outside. He knew he wasn’t early, so the others should have been here a while ago. Maybe he was in the wrong place. “Welcome, Learning group 65.” Nope. He was in the right place alright. “Your introduction to colonial life.” Mills sat and held in a chuckle at being the only one listening to this intro. Had it been a real person, he would not be playing out this silly charade. Guess machines aren’t that perfect after all. “Earth is a prosperous planet. The cradle of civilization,” the hologram launched into its spiel. “But for many, it’s also overpopulated, overpriced, overrated.”

Mills raised his hand in the air, feeling a mix of amusement and foolishness to be asking a holo permission to speak. “Excuse me, I think there must be some mistake—”

“Hold all questions till the end, please,” the holo lifted a silencing finger and went on.

“Right, sorry,” he raised his hands up defensively, now definitely smiling.

“The colonies offer an alternative, a better way of life,” the holo kept pitching even after Homestead had made the sale. He was on board, almost touching down. Nobody needed to hear all this again.

“I’m sorry,” he chuckled as the images of what the company projected Homestead II would look like crawled across the screen. “Where is everybody? Did their alarms not wake them?”

“We are all on the Starship Icarus,” the holo replied and had it been a person, there definitely would have been an undertone of sarcasm there.

“No, but I’m the only one here,” Mills sighed, trying to stay patient.

“There are 5,000 passengers and 258 crew members aboard the ship,” the holo stated unhelpfully.

“So how come I’m alone then?” he frowned. His voice sounded suspicious before he even registered the tension gathering in his body.

“We are all in this together,” came the tepid platitude from the holo and Mills shot up from his seat, determined not to waste any more time on this useless travel companion.

He strained to listen outside the door, but couldn’t hear any footsteps, any movement. In fact, there was nothing at all. No other pods had opened, as far as he could remember from his daze yesterday. He didn’t run into anyone on his way, then or now. His stomach dropped and he felt like the ship flipped upside down. He lost balance for a moment, a wall rushing at him with a mean left hook. He felt himself slide down it, his soul floating somewhere outside his body as the impact rang a hollow din in his ears. He ran without touching the ground, chasing his own tail again and again, searching for anyone at all, yelling out hello’s and is there anyone out there’s as he took sharp turns down the warrens of corridors.

He put as tight a seal on panic as he could as his heavy boots thundered in the tomb-like silence of the ship. A viewing window blurred past him as he ran and he slid to a stop. Part of him screamed to keep going and not waste time, while another part recognized he had no idea where he was going anyway, so why rush. He approached with timid steps, aware he was about to witness the awe-striking majesty of deep space.

Blackness the likes of which he could never have conceptualized stretched and hung heavily in every direction. Embedded in it were countless flickering stars, swirling galaxies in warm and cool hues, bustling with life and swallowed in a paralyzing stillness all at once. His head spun as his mind tried to take it all in and he gripped the frame of the window for support. A primal, utterly irrational urge seized him and he wanted to bellow out into the void. The eerie, complacent silence, completely ambivalent to his existence and current anguish was overwhelming. Some brutish, simple part of him wanted to disturb it, make some mark.

But in space, no one can hear you scream.

*

@safarigirlsp ​

[danshive]

Do I misunderstand hate watching things?

Is it like watching Plan Nine From Outer Space, in which you're having a laugh, or is it actually common for people to legitimately watch things that make them angry for... "fun"?

Is the fun later, when they talk about it with people? Do they heckle with others?

I am genuinely confused how this works.

[casuallyimagining]

When September Ends // part nine.

Min Yoongi x female reader

Summary: Six years after leaving your home planet, you’re forced to confront your past… and the one you left behind.  Word Count: 5,040 Genre: Star Wars au, friends to enemies to lovers, angst Warnings: minor character death, survivor's guilt, yoongi has anger issues, mentions of the death of an entire planet, anxiety, alcohol, reader character suffers from the burden of high expectations, mentions of torture (nothing  explicit), mentions of needles, hospitalization, brief descriptions of scarring, brief descriptions of panic, hospitalization, an assassination attempt, a gun fight, murder

Notes: Thanks to @daechwitatamic and @the-boy-meets-evil for listening to me complain about this fic, helping me plan, and beta-ing for me; to @oddinary4btsfor the late-game encouragement and edits.

Playlist: All of the poetry in this fic has been pulled from various songs and poems. You can find all the songs (and some others) in the playlist that I made for this fic on Spotify.

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Eyes straight ahead. Don’t stop to look at anything. Don’t turn to make sure Yoongi’s beside you. Keep walking. Get to the tram station. Get to the records room. 

Stay. Calm.

The heels of your boots echo against the cold steel of the never-ending hallway. Your feet hurt. The boots you’ve stolen aren’t your size and your toes are squished together painfully. You dare not look around–the only indication that you aren’t alone is the equally hollow echoes of footsteps in sync with your own. But you keep walking. You’re almost to your destination.

On your left, the wall gives way to an open cavern. Several officers mill about on the platform, some standing and chatting, some sitting, their noses in their datapads. None of them pay you any mind.

“...and I don’t particularly want to be transferred to the Outer Rim,” one of the officers is saying to another. Based on their stripes, they’re both lieutenants. “But Aiju was just born, and we’d rather raise her on the surface.”

Whatever he says next is drowned out by the sound of far-off wind, and then a gust that blows through the station. There’s a rumbling that steadily gets louder until the tram finally breaches the inky blackness of its tunnel. Nearly silently, it slows to a stop on its single rail. You file on, letting the officers go first, and turn to face the doors as they slide shut. 

As the tram hums to life once again, you risk a glance at Yoongi. You’ve avoided it since you’d left the relative safety of the ship. It was safer that way, but also… there’s something about seeing him dressed like this–crisp lines of utilitarian cloth that cling in the wrong places and hang loose in others, three yellow tiles glittering on his left breast, regimented, strict, uniform–it all makes you think of the future that you were both groomed for since childhood. It leaves a sour taste in your mouth. You look away.

The tram rumbles through three more stations as it approaches the bridge of the ship. An electronic voice announces the station you pull into as the tram slows. Hydroponics. Medical. Maintenance & Engineering. Officers and troopers filter on and off. Most glance up at you just long enough to check the rank on your uniform. The troopers give quick salutes but otherwise ignore you. All the while, the thrum of your heartbeat in your ears gets louder the further you get from the flight deck, your ship, and Tee. 

Finally, the voice announces your arrival to the bridge

You exit the tram in a clump of bodies, unsure if it’s Yoongi practically pressed into your back or if it’s some officer who has no concept of personal space. You don’t dare look. Left outside the station, you tell yourself. Once you’re off and past the crowd in the station waiting to board, though, the clump dissolves and you make a left into a wide corridor that stretches to the nose of the ship. The footsteps fall in sync with your own again, and the briefest of glances confirms that it’s Yoongi.

You’d memorized the layout of star destroyers as children in the Academy. Every ship is made to be exactly the same so that it was easier for the higher-ups to know exactly where they were going, no matter which ship they were on. You stop in front of a set of doors and press the button to call the elevator. Yoongi taps his fingers against his leg as you wait–another nervous habit of his. Finally, there’s a light ‘ping!’ and you can hear a voice inside the elevator car announce the floor you’re on before the doors slide open. A man files out, salutes you both without even looking at your faces, and walks off.

When the elevator doors close, you let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. “We’re so dead.”

It’s shockingly warm for late spring, and you’re suffocating in your Academy uniform. You’re sitting alone in one of the unused classrooms, tucked away in a corner, back against the outside wall. The concrete blocks are a little cooler than the air around you, and you try to focus on that and not the pooling sense of dread and guilt and worthlessness in your stomach. You aren’t even sure why you feel like this–you didn’t even want the internship in the factory–but perhaps it’s because you know that this… failure will only end up causing you more work in the end.

You only have one year left at the Academy, but you think it might kill you. You can hear people now. Dead at 21 because she couldn’t take the pressure. You’d like to see them try it.

You allow your head to fall back against the wall–not too hard, not enough that it would hurt–just as the door to the classroom opens. You stiffen. Technically, you aren’t supposed to be in here. Technically, you should have gone home. But you can’t face your parents right now, not when the sting of defeat is so fresh. Footsteps draw closer, and you let out a quiet breath.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

It’s Yoongi. 

Cautiously, he steps over your legs and slides down the wall beside you. He’s sitting so close his shoulder is pressed against yours, and there’s something about having him there–something solid and warm, inside and out–that, at the very least, calms your racing thoughts. It’s quiet for a moment, the din from the factory a few blocks away muffled by the thick, industrial walls of the Academy. But then Yoongi lightly kicks your foot, drawing your attention.

“You know it’s not that big of a deal, right?”

You shrug. “I guess.”

“You got second place. That’s still amazing.” He laughs a little to himself. “I was 83 out of 90. What’s that say about me?”

“You didn’t try,” you counter. But his wide, gummy smile brightens your mood, just a little. “You’d probably have gotten top 10 if you’d put in a little effort.”

“Didn’t want it.” He says it flatly, matter-of-fact. “And you didn’t, either.”

“No, but…” You don’t have to finish. He knows the quiet part. He’s seen the quiet part firsthand.

Yoongi sighs. “You did so well. They can’t expect perfection all the time.”

“They can and they do.”

“Well that’s fucked. You did basically perfect. You’re-” He groans. “Danya–the girl who won–Dae said her dad’s the internship manager. The whole thing was fucked from the beginning.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“No. Hey.” He tugs on your arm until you look at him. “I’m proud of you, okay?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. It’s too much. You don’t know how he knows what to say when you don’t even know what it is you need, but he does. Every time. But as much as you want to, you don’t respond. Something small in you bristles at his words.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Yoongi mumbles. And for a moment, you think he means the classroom. But he doesn’t move, and you realize he means Fest. 

You hum. He’s not wrong.

The records room is almost empty when you enter. There’s a young officer at a desk typing away at a data terminal. He’s young–much younger than you and Yoongi, though he could be around Jungkook’s age–and his pale skin is practically phosphorescent in the bright, sterile lighting of the records room. He stands when you enter, saluting almost automatically. The pips on his uniform indicate that he’s a lower rank–a junior lieutenant–than what you and Yoongi are pretending to be.

“Sirs! - er, I… Is there something I can help you with?”

You were expecting some questions–it would be weird if this whole mission went by and you didn’t interact with anyone on the whole star destroyer. But that doesn’t stop your heart from racing.

Yoongi answers before you can, his tone calm and cool. “We were told that the Commodore’s personal comms have been on the fritz.”

The junior lieutenant frowns. “I don’t think so. It says he’s been in his office for about an hour. That’s where he’s scheduled to be.”

Yoongi shrugs, and sounds a little annoyed when he answers. “Dunno. Night shift said-”

“Ugh night shift is always complaining about something.” The second lieutenant types something into his terminal. “They’re probably talking about this.” He spins the screen around and jabs a finger at a blip on the monitor. You watch as it flickers out briefly before it comes back on. It’s in Grafner’s office, so you assume it’s him. “It’s nothing. Sometimes the signal drops for a second. It came back on immediately.” He rolls his eyes. “But you can check it out if you want. The Commodore should still be in the executive suite for another hour.”

You nod, and Yoongi thanks the kid, and without another word, you leave. And by the time you’re on the smaller lift up to Grafner’s office, your nerves are almost debilitating.

Something about seeing that little blip on the ship has rattled you to your core. Your palms are sweaty as you grip the railing in the lift. What are we doing here? the rational part of your brain demands. Why did they choose you? You’re an intelligence expert–you’re not military, you’re not an investigator. Not like this, at least. You’ve never done anything like this. You’ve never been in a blaster fight.

What do they expect you to do?

A hand brushes your own, and your reality snaps back into focus a little. Yoongi’s pinky finger rests over yours, curling itself into the deathgrip you have on the metal bar. He’s leaning against the railing, too, so you aren’t sure if it’s intentional or not, but it shocks your brain back into functioning. You can still feel the nerves–the adrenaline–but they’re less panic-y now, you feel like you can focus on the task at hand.

The lift slows to a stop as it reaches the executive floor.

You take a deep breath and let it out slowly as you walk down the hall. Grafner’s office is the last one on the left–C Deck, Suite 9–and by the time you get there, you’re sick of hearing your own footsteps. There’s just something about how these ships echo that unnerves you. There’s nothing to dampen the sound, everything’s so plain and sterile and similar. If you weren’t familiar with the ship’s schematics, there’s no way you’d be able to tell this floor from any of the others. 

There are two storm troopers standing guard outside of Grafner’s office. It’s the only thing that differentiates his door from the ten others in the hallway. You pause just outside–or rather, you’re forced to pause, as one of the troopers holds out a hand to stop you. It’s funny. They don’t put a hand out to stop Yoongi. 

So you’re already annoyed with them, but then the one who stopped you says, “Do you have an appointment with the Commodore?” and he directs it straight past you to Yoongi. 

Under any other circumstance, you’d mind. You’re usually not that type of person. And based on the badges on your stolen uniforms, you’re both the same rank. But you’re already on-edge just from being here, and your adrenaline’s pumping, and you just want to get in, do whatever it is you have to do, and leave.

“Comms sent us,” you snap, glaring at the trooper closest to you. “Commodore’s location chip is acting up.”

“Again?” the other trooper asks. “They just fixed it last week.”

Yoongi shrugs. “It went out again last night. We were told to check it out.”

The troopers grumble, but they step aside, the plastic of their armor clattering together noisily. Of course, that echoes off the walls, too. The one in front of you taps the panel by the door, and it slides open. You step inside quickly and quietly, and almost immediately, the door shuts behind you.

Grafner’s office is large. It’s all dark steel, with large, thick windows overlooking the vastness of space outside. You’re only a few decks below where the bridge juts out parallel with the top of the main portion of the ship. The windows face the nose of the star destroyer, but you can barely see it from here–from this point, the front of the ship is nearly two kilometers away. Except the windows, there’s almost nothing else in the office. A small conference table. A portable bar that seems to be stocked well. A single shelving unit in a corner. And a desk in the middle of the far wall where Grafner sits, reading his datapad.

“Well?” he demands, not even looking up.

You exchange a look with Yoongi. For the briefest of moments, you can see a look cross his eyes. A look that says he wishes he were somewhere else–Denebia, or Spira, or even Fest–anywhere but here. But then it’s replaced by something harder, and a little sad, and he slowly and carefully pulls his blaster out of the holster on his hip. You mirror his actions, keeping the weapon at your side for now.

At your silence, Grafner looks up. You can tell there’s some sort of insult or demand on his tongue based on the look on his face, but almost immediately, it flickers–just briefly–to surprise, before finally settling on something much cockier. 

“Hello, bartender,” he hums, standing from his desk and slowly making his way around the front of it. “I suppose perhaps I should stop calling you that. Though admittedly, I have nothing else to call you.” He leans against the front of his desk, crossing his arms in front of him. “You never did tell me your name.” Something in the back of your mind notes that he looks like one of the lecturers you used to watch at the Academy. He’s in a casual version of the Imperial uniform, sans military jacket. His dress shirt is perfectly pressed, the blue and red bars on his chest shine as if they were recently polished, his pants are so crisp that you can still see the fold lines in them.

“Fuck you,” you spit. Part of you wants to vomit. The other part–the larger part–wants to blast him away right here, right now.

Grafner laughs, almost to himself. “She speaks! To be honest, bartender, I wasn’t sure that you could anymore. So much crying and sniveling the last time.” Beside you, Yoongi shifts his weight and raises his blaster. Grafner clicks his tongue. “Now, now. Let’s not be brash. Remember where you are.” 

“Shut up,” Yoongi tells him.

“I assume you’re here because you’ve heard my plans for your beloved Senator Mothma.” Casually, Grafner leans back. “Though I do feel I have to warn you. Should you somehow manage to take me out, someone else steps up to take my place. First to take care of Mothma, then to eradicate the rest of you rebel pests.”

“If we wanted a monologue, we would have asked for one,” Yoongi practically growls. But before he can even think about doing anything, the door behind you slides open.

“Commodore, I-” one of the troopers from outside starts. But then he seems to process the scene in front of him, because he yelps, “Hey!”

You aren’t sure who fires first, but suddenly, there’s shooting. You try to jump out of the way, try to duck behind Grafner’s conference table, but you aren’t quick enough. A blaster bolt grazes your arm and you cry out just as you fling yourself behind the table.

Yoongi doesn’t know what’s happening, doesn’t see you get hit, but he hears the cry of pain and the sound of you hitting the floor, and his mind immediately jumps to the worst. Another shot pings against the steel right beside his head, though, so he can’t focus on you just now. As much as he wants to, as much as he wants to run over to you, he forces himself to turn his attention to the now two storm troopers shooting at him.

He manages to take one out quickly with a shot to the helmet. The trooper crumples to the ground where he stands. The other proves to be more problematic. Yoongi tracks the trooper as he creeps around the room, his shots just barely missing. But then the trooper stumbles ever so slightly on one of the conference chairs. It’s the opening Yoongi needs. The plastic ‘thunk’ as the body hits the floor is almost sickening.

Silence falls over the office. Yoongi doesn’t see Grafner, assumes that in the confusion, the commodore managed to escape. He takes a step toward the table where you had fallen, and suddenly, there’s a searing pain in his shoulder. It’s so sudden and the pain is so sharp, it causes him to drop his blaster. Grafner steps out from his hiding place–the shadowy corner blocked by the lone shelving unit.

“I have had it with you rebel pests.” Grafner’s voice is venomous. Gone is the cool, collected commodore. Now, his eyes are wild, angry. His blaster–where’d he get a blaster?--is pointed directly at Yoongi. “I will personally root the seeds of rebellion out from the four corners of the galaxy and destroy every last one of you. But first, I’ll start with you.”

Yoongi closes his eyes, anticipating the blaster shot, but it never never comes. He opens his eyes just in time to see Grafner fall to the floor, body limp. You’re standing on the far side of the desk, blaster still raised, but your grip is loose. As soon as you make eye contact with Yoongi, it slips out of your hands and clatters to the floor.

Now that he’s not actively afraid for his life, Yoongi’s shoulder is on fire. He looks down at it to make sure his arm is even still there, because honestly? He’s really not sure. There’s a hole in his jacket where the blaster hit, and he can see a bit of the carnage that is his shoulder. But he doesn’t look too close–you still have to leave, and he’s almost certain that you wouldn’t be able to carry him back to the transport ship.

“We should get out of here,” you whisper, practically reading his mind. Yoongi nods, but you’re already pulling out your comms. “Tee, we’re on our way back.”

The comms beeps in reply–Tee’s signal that she received your message.

You go to the commodore’s desk, pick up his datapad. Briefly, you tap through it. Yoongi assumes you’re looking to delete files from it–Mon Mothma’s location, anything to do with the rebellion–but then your brow furrows. You press a button, turn off the datapad, and you slip it into your coat.

You approach Yoongi and ever so gently fix his jacket so that the blaster burn isn’t as obvious. And when you walk out of the room together, he makes sure to walk a step behind you so you block most anyone from seeing his injury. You walk quickly, but not so fast as to draw attention. Yoongi only notices when you’re halfway back to the tram station that your hat is nowhere to be seen.

It’s only a matter of time before someone notices that something is wrong. Grafner is the commodore. While he may be high enough ranked that he’s allowed some privacy, he’s in charge, so there’s no telling how many people come in and out of his office every day. So Yoongi’s almost certain that soon, someone’s going to alert the rest of the ship and things will get more complicated.

You’re on the tram when it happens.

The lights dim, and somewhere outside of the tram car, an alarm begins to wail. It’s nothing like the repetitive klaxon of the Star Chaser’s warning systems, but the high-pitch and sheer volume send Yoongi into a tailspin anyway. What if you can’t escape? What if you’re stuck here? There’s no way you make it off this ship alive. The gravity of everything hits him, and he feels himself wobble on his feet.

You glance at him, concern evident on your face, but he passes it off as unsteadiness from the tram’s movement. No need to worry you, too. One of you should try to stay rational.

The tram slows to a stop at the Flight Deck, right in the middle of the ship. You can’t even hear the robotic voice announce the station you’ve arrived in. And when the doors open, Yoongi is hit with a wall of sound. He follows you out of the tram calmly.

People are rushing around all over the place. TIE pilots run to their battalions to prepare to launch, officers are scrambling this way and that. It’s chaos. No one seems to know what’s going on. Yoongi follows you through a corridor to the hangar bay. You’re so close. Only a few more steps until you’re back on the ship. Once you’re out of the range of the star destroyer’s tractor beam, you’ll be home-free.

But Yoongi knows that the closer you get to Tee and safety, the more perilous things become.

The chaos of everything actually does a good job of masking your movements into the hangar bay. No one stops you as you make a right down the hall that leads into the hangar. You’re even able to pick up the pace a little, since everyone else is rushing around, too. 

Your luck runs out 50 steps from the loading ramp into your ship. 

“Hey! Hold it!” a voice behind you shouts. For a moment, Yoongi considers pretending that he can’t hear the voice over the alarm. But then the trooper’s right there and it’s impossible to ignore him. “Lieutenants, forgive me for asking, but what are you doing here? No one’s stationed here at the moment.”

“We got word that this ship might belong to the infiltrators,” you state. And Yoongi gives you credit. You sound like you know what the fuck you’re talking about. “We were going to sweep it and wait to see if they return to make their escape.”

The trooper nods and salutes, apparently accepting your answer. He steps away, turning to go back to his post near the door.

Yoongi knew the Imperial training for the troopers was shit, but this is a whole new level.

The second you’re clear of the ramp, you gesture for Tee to take off. Yoongi collapses into the jump seat, hand immediately flying to his shoulder. The back of his head connects with his headrest, suddenly exhausted as everything comes crashing down on him.

Holy shit. What just happened?

You stand on a makeshift raised platform in the largest room on the ship. It used to be a banquet hall when the Mon Cal cruisers were designed for civilian leisure travel instead of warships. But now, it’s a war room. All of the equipment that normally fills the room–making it a maze of workstations and wires–are either pushed to the sides or moved somewhere else entirely, leaving a wide open space for dozens, if not a hundred, rebels to stand together.

You’ve never really been one for attention, but one glance to your left and you think that Yoongi might just melt under everyone’s gaze. He squirms, almost imperceptibly, and his hand brushes your own. Commander Vela is giving a speech that, quite frankly, you’ve been ignoring since he started talking. You’re more interested in looking out over the crowd. 

Seokjin and Namjoon are in the front row. Namjoon is beaming, deep dimples pushing in his cheeks making his smile look impossibly wider. Seokjin grins. He’s holding what appears to be a cup of caf, and when you catch his eye, he raises it slightly in your direction.

Off to the side, in the back, stand Jungkook and Tee. Jungkook’s expression is neutral, but his eyes sparkle, and you aren’t quite sure why, but you can tell he’s happy. Tee stands tall beside the kid, a sparkly new award magneted to her chestplate. The rebellion droid corps had presented it to her this morning for her dedicated service in the field.

There are others you recognize throughout the crowd. Other majors you’d gone through the ranks with, some of the other commanders. They all look varying degrees of pleased or bored, and based on their faces, you get the sense that many had to be dragged away from something else to be here. And there, in the back, stands Mon Mothma herself. You’re not sure that anyone else even knows she’s back there–she’s not supposed to be on this ship, she’s supposed to be on the command ship as they prepare for the assault on the forest moon of Endor. But she’s here, fiery hair done just so, her cream-colored dress beautiful against a sea of army drab and safety orange flight suits.

“... for your quick thinking and bravery,” Commander Vela finishes his speech, and you really aren’t sure you could repeat a word he’s said the past five minutes. “We are proud to have you among our ranks, and we hope that your recovery is speedy.”

The Commander turns then and a young officer you don’t recognize hands him a medal. He approaches you first, and you bend a little to allow him to slip the silken fabric over your head. The medal is heavier than you were expecting, a beautiful bronze with a deep red neck ribbon. You resist the urge to pick it up and read what it says.

“We’re proud of you, major,” he says softly, shaking your hand. Your eyes sting a little, and absently, you notice that this is the most well-groomed you’ve ever seen his mustache.

Commander Vela moves on to Yoongi. The young officer proffers another medal, and the Commander slides it easily over Yoongi’s head. Gently, he readjusts it, letting the bronze settle against Yoongi’s chest. The officer hands the Commander a pin, and he gingerly pins it to Yoongi’s jacket, just under his captain’s pips. It’s awkward to watch, as the commander struggles to be gentle while working around the sling that constricts Yoongi’s left arm. 

But eventually, he manages to get it in place. And when he steps aside, the gathered crowd erupts into cheers and applause. In the back, Mon Mothma smiles.

You allow yourself, just this once, to bask in the praise.

It doesn’t take long for everyone to clear out after the ceremony. Without all the people, the room is cavernous, echo-y. You sit on the edge of the raised platform, legs dangling off the edge, your feet almost brushing the steel floor. Yoongi walks over, stopping just in front of you. You’re silent as you watch Seokjin’s back as he leaves the room–the last straggler before you’re completely alone.

“Fancy medal you’ve got there,” you say finally, nodding to the blaze red starbird pinned to his chest. 

“Yeah, well…” He trails off, shrugging with his good shoulder. He makes brief eye contact with you before his gaze lands on the floor. It’s quick, but you can see the sadness behind his eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. I just…” Again, he shrugs. 

Standing there, a foot away from you with the expanse of the empty room behind him, you’re struck by how small he looks. But more than that, he looks wounded. Not just his shoulder, though you can see the corner of a bacta patch peeking out from the neck of his tunic. He looks a little like he’s gotten his ass kicked by the universe. There’s a tiredness in how he carries himself, like the exhaustion has settled deep in his bones. He’s lived 80 years in his 30-year lifetime. For the first time since he came back into your life, you consider that maybe it was too soon for him to get back into the field.

But you get it. Maybe it’s not exactly the same, but you understand wanting to keep moving forward. You would have gone insane if they’d sidelined you after Orto Plutonia. You would have fought tooth and nail to get back to work.

Maybe you both need a break.

Quietly, you gesture for him to come closer. Yoongi takes a step forward, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, another more tentative one. He stands between your legs, his hand coming to rest gently on the top of your thigh. He looks conflicted, like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how. You pull him to you, then, arms wrapping around his shoulders, careful of his injury. He sucks in a sharp breath, but his good arm snakes around your waist almost immediately. 

He lets out a deep sigh, almost like he’s deflating against you, and his head hits your shoulder. “People are dead because of us.” His voice is soft, sorrowful.

It’s been weighing on you, too. Of course it has been. But at the same time…

“They would have killed us,” you tell him, voice low. “There was no way we were going to make it out of there without something happening.”

“I know, but…” His hand fists in the back of your shirt. “I just can’t help thinking about if that’s what they thought when Kitt and Jieun and Feeney…” You hum softly in the pause before he continues. “And they didn’t even get a medal, you know? They didn’t have next of kin listed in their files, so they didn’t even…”

His voice catches, and your heart breaks for him. He’s been carrying so much weight for so long. And of course, they’ve been on his mind. It’s almost the anniversary of their deaths. You squeeze him a little tighter, wary of not putting any pressure on his left shoulder. And you sit there, in near silence, for as long as he needs. 

Eventually, you’ll break apart. Maybe you’ll talk about it, maybe you won’t. But right now, you hold him. Because he needs you to. And because after six years of missing him, and almost 20 years of ignoring things, you kind of just want him to hold you, too.

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I can't believe it's the end (kind of!)!!! the epilogue only kind of counts because it's not the end of *this* story. but this plot is over! what do we think? did you like it? I hope! I had so much fun writing it and finding bits of the Star Wars universe to insert. please let me know what you thought!

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

NASA'S WEBB SCORES ANOTHER RINGED WORLD WITH NEW IMAGE OF URANUS Following in the footsteps of the Neptune image released in 2022, NASA’s James Webb Space Telescope has taken a stunning image of the solar system’s other ice giant, the planet Uranus. The new image features dramatic rings as well as bright features in the planet’s atmosphere. The Webb data demonstrates the observatory's unprecedented sensitivity for the faintest dusty rings, which have only ever been imaged by two other facilities: the Voyager 2 spacecraft as it flew past the planet in 1986, and the Keck Observatory with advanced adaptive optics. The seventh planet from the Sun, Uranus is unique: It rotates on its side, at roughly a 90-degree angle from the plane of its orbit. This causes extreme seasons since the planet’s poles experience many years of constant sunlight followed by an equal number of years of complete darkness. (Uranus takes 84 years to orbit the Sun.) Currently, it is late spring for the northern pole, which is visible here; Uranus’ northern summer will be in 2028. In contrast, when Voyager 2 visited Uranus it was summer at the south pole. The south pole is now on the ‘dark side’ of the planet, out of view and facing the darkness of space. This infrared image from Webb’s Near-Infrared Camera (NIRCam) combines data from two filters at 1.4 and 3.0 microns, which are shown here in blue and orange, respectively. The planet displays a blue hue in the resulting representative-color image. When Voyager 2 looked at Uranus, its camera showed an almost featureless blue-green ball in visible wavelengths. With the infrared wavelengths and extra sensitivity of Webb we see more detail, showing how dynamic the atmosphere of Uranus really is. On the right side of the planet there’s an area of brightening at the pole facing the Sun, known as a polar cap. This polar cap is unique to Uranus – it seems to appear when the pole enters direct sunlight in the summer and vanish in the fall; these Webb data will help scientists understand the currently mysterious mechanism. Webb revealed a surprising aspect of the polar cap: a subtle enhanced brightening at the center of the cap. The sensitivity and longer wavelengths of Webb’s NIRCam may be why we can see this enhanced Uranus polar feature when it has not been seen as clearly with other powerful telescopes like the Hubble Space Telescope and Keck Observatory. At the edge of the polar cap lies a bright cloud as well as a few fainter extended features just beyond the cap’s edge, and a second very bright cloud is seen at the planet’s left limb. Such clouds are typical for Uranus in infrared wavelengths, and likely are connected to storm activity. This planet is characterized as an ice giant due to the chemical make-up of its interior. Most of its mass is thought to be a hot, dense fluid of "icy" materials – water, methane and ammonia – above a small rocky core. Uranus has 13 known rings and 11 of them are visible in this Webb image. Some of these rings are so bright with Webb that when they are close together, they appear to merge into a larger ring. Nine are classed as the main rings of the planet, and two are the fainter dusty rings (such as the diffuse zeta ring closest to the planet) that weren’t discovered until the 1986 flyby by Voyager 2. Scientists expect that future Webb images of Uranus will reveal the two faint outer rings that were discovered with Hubble during the 2007 ring-plane crossing. Webb also captured many of Uranus’s 27 known moons (most of which are too small and faint to be seen here); the six brightest are identified in the wide-view image. This was only a short, 12-minute exposure image of Uranus with just two filters. It is just the tip of the iceberg of what Webb can do when observing this mysterious planet. Additional studies of Uranus are happening now, and more are planned in Webb’s first year of science operations.

[master-sass-blast]

Down the River -The Hands that Heal, Part Fifteen.

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five: Chapter One, Part Five: Chapter Two, Part Five: Chapter Three, Part Six: Chapter One, Part Six: Chapter Two, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen, Part Fourteen

Summary:

“Did your aversion to public displays of affection and planning dates end those relationships?” When you nod, Chinatsu kicks back in her seat. She stares at the city skyline for a moment, then folds her hands over her stomach. “What’s your strongest, earliest memory as it relates to your sexuality?”

“See, that’s what I don’t understand.” You lean forward and brace your elbows against the table. “I’ve done trauma recovery work and spoken with patients; I know that the stronger the memory is, and the earlier in life it is, the more formative it is for how you feel and respond to things. But what keeps coming to mind doesn’t have anything to do with my relationships or sexuality!”

“Let’s investigate it anyway,” Chinatsu says. “What comes to mind?”

You can practically feel your body try to shut down. Everything goes numb; the early fall breeze doesn’t feel like it’s catching on your skin anymore. It’s almost like something inside you separates from the outer shell of your body. You swallow hard, then force yourself to speak. “It’s when I came out to my parents.”

aka talking about feelings and trauma is hard, part two.

Pairing(s): Lin Beifong x Reader.

Rating: T for emotional trauma and trauma processing, specifically focused on queer identity.

Word count: 9.2k.

“You don’t need to make a big deal out of this!”

…

You can hear birds chirping outside. The residents in the apartment next door are awake; it sounds like they’re making breakfast. You can hear the clatter of dishes and muted chatter through the adjoining wall.

There’s a crack on the ceiling of your bedroom. It’s been painted over, but the break still shows through. It looks like a river cutting through a ravine. You know every inch of that crack. You’ve stared at it on countless groggy mornings and sleepless nights.

Your alarm clock went off ten minutes ago. It’s another day at the physical therapy clinic. You need to get up so you can shower before heading off to work.

You blink when the sound of something hitting the floor –followed by light swearing–emanates through the wall. Sounds messy.

Your alarm clock went off ten minutes ago. You need to get up.

Your eyes trace over the crack in the ceiling. If you let your mind wander far enough, you can envision yourself floating down the imaginary river. You can almost feel the coolness of the water against your skin. The strength of the current beneath your body.

You need to get up.

Your body feels like lead. Despite sleeping adequately, your mind feels like it’s full of fog.

You stare up at the crack on the ceiling. You inhale deeply, then breathe out slowly.

You can feel the water dragging you under its surface.

Get up.

You force yourself to sit up. You stare at the floor for several minutes without really seeing it. Then –finally–you get up from your bed and walk to your phone. “I need to place a call to Northern Moon Physical Therapy Center.” You sag against the wall, gazing off into space while the operator places the call. Your mind drifts to nowhere, filling with the crackle of quiet static. Your body almost goes numb; it’s like you’ve been disconnected from your body, and now part of you is drifting away on some invisible current–

“Northern Moon Physical Therapy Center, how can I help you?”

You flinch, blinking rapidly, then clear your throat and identify yourself to the receptionist. “I need to call in sick today. I think I might’ve caught a bug.”

The receptionist –a sweet young woman named Li-Na–hums sympathetically. “I’ll let management know. Feel better soon.”

You thank her in a mumble of words, then hang up. Alright, at least that’s taken care of.

You’ve got a day to rest. A day to recuperate inside your apartment. A day to stay inside, by yourself, just staring off into space…

You pick up the phone and ask the operator to place another call. When the line picks up, you ask, “Hey, can I take you to lunch today?”

…

The world feels like it’s on lowered volume. Nothing sounds as clear or looks as bright. The chatter from midday shoppers is just a muddy mess. The gently swaying multicolored flags that hang up in Yangchen Plaza are distant blurs.

And I didn’t even get hungover for this, you think absently. Your fingers fidget with the hem of your blouse. What a damn shame.

“Hey. Sorry I’m late.”

You flinch, caught off guard, then look up as Chinatsu sits down across from you. “Oh. Hi. It’s alright.”

She pauses halfway into her seat. She studies you for a long moment, then slowly finishes sitting. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” You swallow hard, then force yourself to nod. “I’m alright.”

Her mouth twists into a disbelieving frown –but then a waiter materializes next to your table, distracting both of you. Once your orders have been taken, she returns the full brunt of her laser-focused attention to you. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” Your voice trails off as you try –and fail–to find the words to explain the mess of muck in your mind. You smile, sardonic, and laugh softly. “I mean, nothing, I guess.”

“Right,” she drawls, expression flatly unconvinced. She adjusts the collar of her tweed blazer, then arches one eyebrow at you. “So, you wanted to have lunch and talk about the weather?”

You blanch. “I –I don’t want you to think that I’m… that I’m just using you for your expertise–”

“What are friends for?” She waves one hand dismissively. “You’re buying me lunch. It’s fine. Why do you look like someone killed your dog?”

You grimace and stare down at the table. “Uh… relationship troubles, I guess.”

Chinatsu nods. “Same lady?” When you nod, she nods again. “What’s the scope of things this time?”

“I… We’re together.” You smile, but it quickly slips away. “The problem’s on my end this time. She pointed out that I’m not very affectionate in public. And that I don’t really initiate a lot of dates. It’s making her feel like I don’t want to be seen with her.”

Chinatsu drums her fingers against the tabletop. She considers, then shrugs. “Not everyone’s comfortable with PDA. And not everyone is a planner.”

“But she’s right,” you insist. Your eyes start watering, and you have to take a deep breath before you can continue. “This isn’t exactly… new to me. It’s come up in past relationships.”

“Did your aversion to public displays of affection and planning dates end those relationships?” When you nod, Chinatsu kicks back in her seat. She stares at the city skyline for a moment, then folds her hands over her stomach. “Not to be nosy, but did you ever experience an instance of sexual abuse or assault?” When you shake your head, she nods. “What’s your strongest, earliest memory as it relates to your sexuality?”

“See, that’s what I don’t understand.” You lean forward and brace your elbows against the table. “I’ve done trauma recovery work and spoken with patients; I know that the stronger the memory is, and the earlier in life it is, the more formative it is for how you feel and respond to things. But what keeps coming to mind doesn’t have anything to do with my relationships or sexuality!”

“Let’s investigate it anyway,” Chinatsu says. “What comes to mind?”

You can practically feel your body try to shut down. Everything goes numb; the early fall breeze doesn’t feel like it’s catching on your skin anymore. It’s almost like something inside you separates from the outer shell of your body. You swallow hard, then force yourself to speak. “It’s when I came out to my parents.”

Chinatsu blinks, then cocks her head to one side and stares flatly at you. She paraphrases you, “‘Doesn’t have anything to do with your sexuality.’”

“Not –not like this!” you sputter. “It doesn’t have anything to do with romantic relationships or dating!”

“It’s fine.” She waves one hand dismissively. “How did they react to you coming out?”

“My mom was supportive.”

Chinatsu nods slowly. “Was your father in the picture?”

“Yes.”

“How did he react?”

Your throat constricts. You shrug and look away from her. “He was himself.”

“Did he disown you?” When you shake your head, she presses further. “Did he assault you –verbally or physically?”

“Tui and La, no!” you reply with a vehement frown and shake of your head. “No –no, he would never. He’d cut off his own hands before he raised one to me –or my mother!”

“Okay, good.” Chinatsu drums her fingers against the wrought metal table top. “I’m assuming he rejected you –or, at least, made you feel rejected.”

The addendum catches you flat-footed –because, no, he didn’t reject you. Not in so many words, at least, you reflect as your chest goes tight with pain. You look down, avoiding your friend’s intense, all-seeing gaze. But we can’t always help what we feel, regardless of what actually happened.

“I heard you the first time.”

Chinatsu watches you while you struggle in silence. When it’s apparent you’re not going to offer any new information, she leans forward in her chair. “Okay. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. But, I do have a question, if that’s alright?” When you nod, she continues. “So, I’m gathering that you agree that you have an issue with being distant in relationships, especially in public settings. What do you see as the source of that anxiety?”

You frown, perplexed, and look up to meet her gaze. “Anxiety?”

“Admittedly, it’s a supposition on my part,” she concedes with a shrug. “But, from what I can gather, you aren’t coming across like you don’t enjoy physical affection at all, or that you don’t see the point of dates.” She pauses, but when you don’t answer, she adjusts her glasses and keeps going. “To me, it reads like you have an aversion to public displays of affection. Generally, aversion is driven by discomfort, distaste, or anxiety,” she explains, ticking off each item on her fingers. “Everything you’ve been telling me –in my opinion–points towards anxiety.” She lowers her hand, then studies your face before asking, “So, in your view of yourself, where do you see that anxiety coming from?”

Your face scrunches up in confusion. “What, like…” Your gaze flits across the plaza, as though you’ll find an answer written on a storefront sign. “Like trauma?”

“Could be,” Chinatsu agrees with a nod. “Or it could be a negative belief system –something that tells you whatever you’re doing is bad, or dangerous, or wrong.”

Something heavy tugs at your gut. You fold your arms over your torso to try and abate it, but it only grows heavier. More uncomfortable. You swallow hard, then shift in your seat.

“Are you okay?”

You nod without thinking about it. “Yeah. Just…” Your teeth fuss at the inside of your bottom lip. “I mean, the Water tribes aren’t necessarily the most open-minded. Queerness isn’t a bad thing, but you’re not supposed to be open about it. I guess…” You roll your shoulders to try to relax your neck (not that it works). “I guess I’m always worried about making everyone else uncomfortable… with… all of it.” You look back up at Chinatsu. “Is that enough?”

“Of course, it is.” She waves one hand dismissively. “This is about your perceptions of yourself and the world around you. Anything can be enough.”

“But –it’s not like I got attacked. Or sexually assaulted.”

“Devastation according to legal or social code really isn’t the point,” Chinatsu explains while shaking her head. She pauses when a waiter brings you both your meals, smiles and says thank you, then waits for the waiter to move out of earshot before resuming. “Trauma isn’t just about things society deems as obviously traumatic. I mean –how many patients have seen you because they hurt themselves doing mundane chores?”

“I’ll do you one better,” you fire back, grinning for the first time since you sat down. “A majority of people throw their back out by sneezing.”

“Spirits, that’s terrifying.” Chinatsu picks up her chopsticks and mixes together her noodles, steamed vegetables, and Komodo chicken. “But, the point stands: injuries aren’t only caused by catastrophic events or abuse. It’s the same with psychological trauma.”

You nod to yourself slowly. You pick up your spoon –but freeze before you stir up your Southern-style Sea Prune stew. “How do I get over this?”

Chinatsu snorts. “Not that easy. You’ve seen how long physical trauma lasts. It depends on the person, the inciting incidents, what treatments are used–”

You let out a dejected sigh. “Figures it wouldn’t be that easy.”

She pauses, then reaches across the table and places one hand on yours. “Hey.” When you look up, she offers you a reassuring smile. “It can get better, okay? I’d recommend therapy –obviously–but in lieu of that, try journaling or talking with someone you trust.” She retracts her hand, then gestures to you. “It’s evident to me that whatever’s causing all this distress is pretty deeply rooted, so doing things to filter it out should help make things clearer.”

You manage a small smile. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”

…

You have five days until Lin’s supposed to stop by for dinner. Five days to process through whatever bullshit has you all clogged up about romantic relationships so that you can present it to your girlfriend in a coherent enough fashion, in hopes that she doesn’t just dump your emotionally constipated ass and find someone better.

You swallow hard, press down the churning in your stomach, then open up the journal you’d purchased after your lunch with Chinatsu. Alright. Stream of consciousness. Let’s do this. You uncap your pen and stare down at the faintly lined page.

Nothing comes.

You inhale deeply, then put the date in the top right corner of the page. Maybe that’ll help.

It doesn’t.

You spend at least five minutes staring at the empty page, trying to think of something –anything–to write. Your brain feels like it’s turned to lead. When was the last time you even thought of a full, coherent sentence? Were you ever truly capable? Well, it doesn’t matter now, seeing how your damn brain has decided to be a useless glob of shit.

You flop back against your sofa and let out a frustrated groan. How can this be hard? It’s just writing about my feelings!

Maybe it’s your memory that’s at issue here. After all, you still can’t see the connection between your father and your problems in your romantic life. To you, it just doesn’t add up.

Granted, it’s not a pleasant memory. It’s one of those recollections that you keep deeply buried, beneath countless layers of repression and denial.

God, I was so terrified, you reflect with a grim smile. I thought I was going to throw up.

Your mother was wonderfully supportive when you came out to your parents. She’d smiled warmly, blue eyes crinkling at the corners, and taken your face in her hands. She’d wiped the tears off your cheeks and assured you that, of course, she’d always love you no matter what.

And your father…

It’s strange, how emotion warps memories. The scene playing out in your mind’s eye switches between being in suffocating black and white, or being painfully bright, like staring directly into the sun.

The kitchen in your parents’ home feels too small. You feel like a giant crammed into a closet –like in a book you read as a child where a girl, upon being transported to a magical realm, grew twenty times her size after eating enchanted cookies.

The instinct to hunch over under the weight of your father’s indifference still holds strong today. You have to forcibly straighten up and relax your shoulders and neck.

It’s disorienting to the point of nausea –you still feel too big to fit in the room (too big to properly breathe), but under your father’s state you feel no more than an inch high. He towers over you, somehow miles away despite sitting at the table next to you.

You think that maybe he didn’t hear you. Or maybe he didn’t understand. Either way, he still hasn’t said anything, and you’re going to throw up or pass out –or both–if he keeps silent. You swallow hard, knees shaking, and tell him the news again–

You jerk out of your reverie with a grief-stricken sob. You clamp one hand over your mouth, body trembling as panic washes over you. You draw down a breath as deep as you can, then lunge for your journal and scrawl out a single sentence.

Why do I always have to make myself small?

You cap your pen, all but fling it onto your coffee table, then drop your face into your hands before bursting into tears.

…

“Are you okay?”

You inhale sharply, blink, then return your attention to Amaruq. “Yeah. Sorry. Spaced out for a minute.”

She seems none too convinced. She leans against the table in the breakroom and tucks a client folder under her arm. “Are you sure? You went ashen for a minute.” When you purse your lips, she pulls out a chair and sits down. “What’s wrong?”

“Just…” You quirk your mouth to one side and shrug. “Dealing with some stuff.”

“I’m so sorry. Do you need to talk about it?”

You nearly say “no” –it’s reflexive–but stop just before you can shake your head. Maybe… maybe it would help. Amaruq grew up in the Northern Water tribe, too. She’d understand the culture.

Besides, Chinatsu told you to talk to someone about it; if you talk to Amaruq, you can actually say you’ve done that much.

“Uh…” You swallow hard, then nod. “Yeah, actually. If you’re okay with that.”

“Of course.” She sets the closed folder on the table, then sits back in her chair and folds her hands over her lap. “What’s going on?” She cocks her head to one side for a moment and studies you for a moment. Then, her eyes widen; she glances around the breakroom, then leans towards you once she’s certain there’s no one nearby. “Is it –is it the incident?”

You shake your head. “No. No, it’s not that. It’s–” You have to swallow again when nausea suddenly overtakes you; your stomach churns, and you can feel a cold sweat break out across your back and the nape of your neck. You breathe deeply through your nose, then let it out through your mouth. You flick a glance around the room to make sure no one’s within earshot –aside from Amaruq, of course–then murmur, “It’s queer stuff.”

“Oh.” Amaruq blinks a few times. Then, her brows furrow together. “Is it Lin?”

“I mean… not really?” You shrug when she motions for you to continue. “It’s… it’s more me than her.”

Amaruq nods, expression heavy with contemplation. “Okay.”

“You–” You grit your teeth when another wave of nausea crests over you. “You grew up in the tribe. You –you know how things are.”

Understanding settles over Amaruq’s features. She nods slowly, emphatically, and sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Your knee bounces up and down beneath the table. You lean forward, arms braced against your stomach to try and ease the nervous tension coiled there. “I mean–” You let out a hollow, breathless laugh. “We’re lucky. We could’ve grown up in the Earth Kingdom. Or Ba Sing Se, specifically.”

“There are places where it’s worse,” Amaruq agrees with a sage nod. She purses her lips, expression strained. “But I don’t think many people really consider…” She swallows hard, tucks her tongue against the inside of her lower lip, then sighs. “They don’t think about what it’s like if you’re just expected to stay in the closet your whole life.”

It’s like someone cut the strings holding you up. You slump forward, managing to brace your chin against your palm. “Yeah.” You manage a wan smile and arch one eyebrow at her. “We won’t go to jail for it. Or be killed for it. And it seems like once those bars are cleared, the world stops caring.”

“They do,” Amaruq agrees. She stares down at the table, gaze distant, then smiles faintly. “I had the hardest adjustment when I moved here. I was so used to being… overly discreet, I guess. I was so shocked at how open everyone is here about their sexuality.”

“As a rule, yeah.” You laugh. “It’s almost like they’re being rude, right?”

“Exactly!” Amaruq’s eyes widen. “It seems so… so socially unaware!”

“It’s like you’re forcing everyone else to watch!”

“That’s how I felt!” She leans back in her seat again and smiles, equal parts nostalgic and pained. “I learned how to get past it –how to be more comfortable with being ‘out’... but, Tui and La, it was painful for a bit.”

You clench your teeth and grimace. “Yeah.” You close your eyes and breathe deep when another wave of nausea mixed with dizziness sweeps over you, then open your eyes and look at your friend once more. “How did your parents react when you came out?”

Her nostrils flare, and her lips tuck into a tight frown. “They were dismissive. I mean –they were fine with it, but they really didn’t want to talk about it. They didn’t want me to be open about it.” Her jaw tightens, and her brows draw together. “My mom said that she didn’t want to have to think about it.”

Your gut clenches sympathetically. “I’m so sorry.”

“After coming here, I tried to explain…” She pauses, then shakes her head. “Well, I tried. They weren’t very receptive.” Her hands curl into tight balls in her lap. “We don’t talk anymore.”

You frown, saddened, and reach out to touch her forearm. “Oh, Amaruq, I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.” She forces herself to untense and offers you a small smile. “It is what it is. My partner and friends here have been very supportive, and I couldn’t be more grateful.” She watches you for a moment, then asks, “Have you told your parents?”

You nod.

“How did they react?”

“My mother was supportive,” you answer, smiling softly –though it slips away seconds later. “My father… he was a lot like your parents.”

Amaruq grimaces. “I’m so sorry.”

“You know–” You let out a sardonic laugh. “I never really thought about how it impacted me? But… I haven’t been back to the Northern Water tribe in years. I just… can’t.”

“I know what you mean.”

You lean back in your chair, somewhat floored by the revelation. You stare down at the tabletop for a moment, then shake your head. “Wow. I can’t…” Your voice trails off, and you swallow hard before whispering, “Wow.”

“It’s understandable,” Amaruq assures you after studying you for a moment. “I don’t think I could go back, either.” She shakes her head, lips pursed as she mulls it over, then turns her attention back to you. “I’m guessing the ‘culture shock’” –she makes air quotes with her fingers– “is causing strain between you and Lin?”

You nod. “It’s… it’s been a problem for all my romantic relationships, really. I can’t think of one that didn’t end –or at least have problems–because of it.”

“I’m sorry.” Amaruq winces sympathetically. Then, she leans over and places her hand on your upper arm. “But, if I can give some encouragement?” When you nod, she smiles. “It’s worth working through, I promise. It won’t be easy, but it’ll be worth it in the end.”

You smile back and place your hand over hers. “Thank you.”

…

Saturday arrives without warning. It’s like you blink, and then it’s the end of the week.

Despite everything, you start panicking. You oscillate between frantically cleaning, wondering if you’re cleaning too much, and following each tick of the minute hand on the clock you keep in your kitchen until you nearly lose your fucking mind.

Three minutes until noon, and you finally stop. You force yourself to get off your couch, take a deep breath through your nose, then let it out through your mouth until the room doesn’t feel like it’s spinning anymore. Okay. You’re making dinner tonight. Go get ingredients.

The walk down to the outdoor market in your neighborhood does you good. The fresh air and sunshine clears your head and finishes clearing out any remaining panic.

You… might go a little overboard. You were already planning on making Northern-style Sea Prune stew, so you purchase the handful of ingredients you don’t have on hand. There’s also a good deal on whole red snapper, so you get one to share with Lin –which means getting ingredients for a marinade. You get some fresh vegetables and mushrooms for sides, too. If Lin hadn’t already told you she’d bring dessert, you’d have gotten something for that, too.

Halfway on your walk back to your apartment, and you regret not taking a cab back. Fucking hindsight, you grumble in your head as you adjust your hold on your many paper bags.

It turns out to work for the best, though (making so many dishes, not walking back, though nothing detrimental happens). Getting the stew going, prepping and marinating the fish, and preparing the vegetables and mushrooms keeps you busy for the rest of the day. Between cooking and cleaning as you go, you don’t have time to spiral into overthinking for the rest of the day.

A knock on your apartment door jolts you out of your efficient flow of work.

Your stomach drops. You catch yourself against the lip of the counter when you stagger. You close your eyes, inhale deeply through your nose, then let it out through your mouth. Relax. Everything’s going to be fine… hopefully.

Lin offers you a small smile when you open the door. She waits until you’ve closed and locked the door, then holds out a small, white paper box to you. “I stopped by The Juniper Cafe.”

“Always a good choice.” You accept the box from her, then lift the lid to peek inside –only to let out a soft, pleased gasp when you see four custard tartlets sitting inside. “You got the mango flavor!”

“You said it was your favorite.”

You grin at Lin; you feel warm all over. “That was very sweet of you.” You tuck the box in the icebox for later, then turn and hold your arms out to her. “It’s good to see you.”

Lin steps forward and accepts the offer for a hug. “It’s good to see you, too.”

Something shifts in your brain as soon as she wraps her arms around your shoulders. It’s like the final, teeny piece of the dam holding your emotions back crumbles. It ripples through your whole body; relief and grief cascade through you, warring against each other, you go nearly boneless at the same time your eyes well up with tears and your throat constricts. You draw in a shaky breath, then bury your face against her shoulder and let out a shuddering sigh.

Lin picks up on the shift immediately. She tenses, then cups the back of your neck with one hand. “Are you okay?”

You nod, then turn your head a little so she’ll hear you easier. “It’s just been a long week,” you explain, voice wavering.

Lin stays still for a moment. Then, she slides her free arm lower, around your waist, and hugs you closer. And she just… holds you.

You feel tears threaten to slip free when she kisses the top of your head. You sniff, then let yourself melt and break –just a little–in her grasp.

…

It’s a fight to keep Lin from assisting you in finishing dinner.

She balks, first, at how much you’re making. Her eyes go wide when she sees how many pans and pots are atop your stove –and again when you check the oven, revealing the baking snapper. “If I’d known you were going to this much effort–”

“Yeah, why do you think I didn’t tell you?”

“How much did you spend–”

“You’re not paying me back.” You close the oven door –the snapper’s not quite done yet–then shake your head when she crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re my girlfriend, Lin. It’s fine if I want to spoil you a bit. Besides–” you stir the pot of bubbling stew with your waterbending “–these’ll be leftovers for me in the coming week.”

She sighs, but doesn’t argue. Instead, she steps into your kitchen. “How can I help?”

“I’ve got it –you’re a guest!” you insist when Lin rolls her eyes.

“I’m your girlfriend,” she fires back, giving you a flat stare (though the corners of her mouth twitch upwards). “It’s fine if I want to help you.” When you don’t acquiesce, she simply starts doing dishes you haven’t gotten to yet.

So, clearly, your only recourse is using your waterbending to bend the water away from the dish in her hands. You giggle when she slowly turns her head and stares at you, then let the water revert to its natural course. “Sorry.”

“I doubt it.”

…

Dinner goes smoothly. The two of you set up on your sofa, kick back, and enjoy the mountain of food you made while catching each other up on your respective weeks.

You nearly choke on a mouthful of rice and vegetables when Lin tells you about a bust on a Spirit Vine dealing ring. Your eyes bug out, and you quickly swallow before clearing your throat. “Sorry, I didn’t–” You raise your eyebrows at her. “You said ‘pounds,’ right?”

“Pounds,” Lin confirms, looking simultaneously amused and exhausted.

“Two hundred pounds,” you repeat; you can’t even wrap your head around the amount. When Lin nods, you gape. “I –what would they even use that much for?”

“There’s groups purporting various medicinal and spiritual uses for Spirit Vines,” Lin says with a sigh. “So there are corporations and private individuals trying to cash in on a new industry opportunity without having to go through proper licensing, affiliating with local unions, or paying taxes. Aside from that, there’s research that suggests that the vines could be used as a new energy source.”

“So it’s the same deal,” you surmise. “Capitalize on the resource, avoid fees or legal limitations, create a monopoly…”

Lin nods and wipes her fingers on a napkin. “And, unfortunately, there’s testing that proves the vines can be used to create weapons.”

Right. Kuvira’s giant mech used spirit vines to power the cannon. It was practically in every paper at the time. You purse your lips. “Shit.”

Lin grimaces and nods. “Yeah.” She leans back against your couch and offers you a small smile. “What happened with your work this week?”

“Nothing as exciting as what you did,” you state with a laugh.

Lin laughs along with you. “Some days, I think I’d take that.”

But dinner passes all too quickly. And because Lin insists on helping you with the clean up and putting the food away, you’re suddenly out of stall time and back in your head.

You swallow hard when your stomach churns. Maybe dinner wasn’t such a good idea, after all. You grit your teeth, then force the nausea creeping up your throat back down. I am not wasting that snapper.

Lin notices the shift in your mood –probably because she’s spent years as a detective and was trained to pick up on such changes, but also probably because you feel like you’re going to shit out your heart, and that’s bound to show on your face. She latches onto your shoulders like you’re about to keel over. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you lie. You take a deep breath, then try to squish yourself back into your body before looking up at her. You smile and look up at her without really seeing her face. “I’m fine.” You blink when she takes your wrist in one hand, then laugh when she starts counting under her breath. “I’m not going to pass out, Lin.”

“You look like it. You need to sit down.”

You let her walk you over to your couch and sit without protest. You clasp your hands tightly in your lap, then offer her a thin smile when she sits next to you. “We should…” You clear your throat, then force yourself to keep going. “We should probably talk about ‘it,’ yeah?”

It doesn’t take Lin long to catch your meaning. Her brows draw together, but then her look of confusion fades a few moments later. She purses her lips, but lets out a long breath and nods. “Only if you feel up to it.”

“I want to,” you assure her. “And –I mean, we need to. We should.” You can feel your hands getting sweaty, and you wipe them off on the legs of your pants.

After you go silent for a few moments, Lin gestures for you to continue. “You’re the one who said you wanted time to sort stuff out.”

“Yeah.” You tuck your hair behind your ears, then cover your face with your hands. “Look, just–” You draw in a shaky breath, then lift your head slightly so she can hear you clearly. “This –this is going to sound really stupid, and it’ll probably sound like I’m whining, so I’m sorry in advance, okay?”

Lin frowns and sits back against the sofa. She crosses her arms loosely over her chest, then crosses one leg over her knee. “Alright.”

You’re sweating. You can feel the clamminess on your hands, along your back, at the nape of your neck, in the pits of your knees. Your chin trembles, and you stare down at the floor as you try to think of where to even start with all of this shit. You let out a shaky breath –then jolt when Lin puts a hand on your back. You gasp, then clear your throat and look at her.

“Whatever you have to say,” she assures you, voice quiet but clear, “it’s alright.”

You swallow hard, then nod and go back to staring at the floor. “I… I don’t know. I guess –I guess it’s never really one of those things I thought about, you know?”

“Thought about what?”

“About… about how different things are here, compared to the Northern Water tribe.” You let out a shaky breath, and some of the tension in your chest chips away. You sigh –then let out a bitter laugh. “You know, any time any of us talk about it –or anyone raised in the Southern tribe–we always hear about how it’s worse in the Earth Kingdom, worse in Ba Sing Se. And it is. The laws and social attitudes towards queerness there  are worse than they’ll ever be in the Water tribes.” You pause, purse your lips, then smack one loose fist against your thigh. “But… no one understands!”

“Understands what?” Lin asks after you’ve been quiet for a few moments.

You deflate a bit, shoulders slumping, and drop your head into your hands. You groan, then rub your face to try and focus your mind. “It was so weird when I first moved here, you know.” You lower your hands from your face and offer her a hollow smile. “I mean, I knew that Republic City followed the Fire Nation’s reforms and Air Nomad philosophies towards sexuality. I knew that it was an open safe space for queer communities.” You sit back against the sofa and stare down at your lap. “I still remember the first week I was here. I’d just gotten settled in university, and I’d gone to a local market to get a few supplies –and there were two men, just walking together and holding hands! And they stopped to look at some produce, and one of the men kissed his partner on the cheek, and I couldn’t help but stare because it just… felt rude? To make such a public scene?” You sniff, then wipe away a tear that’s trailing down your cheek. “And I looked around, and literally no one but me noticed. But back home, it would’ve been such a big deal!”

“Is PDA frowned on in the Water tribes?” Lin asks with a frown.

You grimace and sigh. “For visibly queer couples, yes.”

She grimaces as well. “But not for straight-passing couples.”

“But not for straight-passing couples,” you surmise. You go quiet again, then let out a quiet, watery laugh. “You know, I never really processed… any of it. The whole rule against appearing ‘gay’ in public, against talking about it, or being open about it outside of home, or in select company just seemed so normal. And it still feels normal.”

Lin says nothing –but when you start crying harder, she reaches over and takes your hand in hers.

You sniff, then let out a choked, body-shaking sob. You rub your cheeks dry with the back of your free hand –not that it does much good, because your skin’s soaked again seconds later. “I feel so big,” you confess with a shaking gasp, “all the time. I feel like I’m always breaking out of my body. Like I’m taking up too much space. Everywhere I go –whenever someone might be able to tell I’m gay, I feel like there are thousands of eyes on me, that everyone’s just waiting for some sort of proof–” You inhale sharply, when Lin puts one arm around your shoulders, then weep a bit when she tugs you into her arms. You bury your face into her neck and cry. “I –I just d-don’t want to piss anyone off, o-or get ye-yelled at, or–”

“Easy.” Lin shushes you, then hugs you tight. She kisses your forehead, then cups the back of your neck when you whimper. “Just breathe.”

Easier said than done, but eventually, you manage. Your shoulders and chest jump as you gasp unsteadily, but slowly, surely, your body winds down. Eventually, you’re limp in her hold, hiccuping softly as tension and panic winds out of you, leaving melancholy and fatigue in its wake. Well, that was dramatic. You sniff, then grimace. And it probably didn’t explain shit. You swallow hard, then let out a tremulous sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be.”

“Well, I am. I don’t think I explained myself well.”

“You did fine,” Lin says, voice soft but firm in a way that tells you that while she cares about you and is sensitive to your mood at present, she’s not going to tolerate arguing. (Good thing for her, your sob session tired you out.) She smoothes one hand over your hair, then kisses the top of your head when you draw in a shaky breath. “I have one question, if that’s okay?”

You nod, then sniff. “Yeah, go for it.”

“Can you look at me?” She waits, then brushes a few stray locks of hair off your forehead once you lift your head. “You mentioned that you didn’t want to be yelled at.”

You frown, confused. “Yeah…”

“Has anyone ever yelled at you over this?” Lin asks, gesturing vaguely with one hand. When you drop her gaze, and your expression shifts to one of pain, the arm wrapped around your back tenses. “Who yelled at you?” she asks, voice lower, more gravelly.

You shrug, trying to seem nonchalant, but your eyes start stinging again. “My dad did.” Your lower trembles, and you can feel your throat tensing with grief once more. “When I came out.”

Lin sucks in a breath, then pulls you against her. She hugs you tight, tucking your head beneath her chin. “I’m so sorry. He was wrong for rejecting–”

“He didn’t!” you snap –more out of anger towards yourself than her. You pull away, then lurch into a standing position and start pacing around your apartment. “That’s –that’s the thing I don’t fucking understand! He didn’t reject me! He didn’t tell me that I was wrong for being gay, or that he didn’t want me to be gay, or that he was ashamed to have a gay daughter, or any of it!” You spread your arms wide in a harsh, jerky movement. “None of that happened!”

Lin watches you, lips pulled into a worried frown. “But he yelled at you?”

“I mean…” You stall, deflating slightly. You swallow hard, fighting against a fresh wave of nausea, then shrug. “Yeah. He did.”

“Why?” When you shrug again, she purses her lips and changes tracks. “What did he say?”

You clench your jaw as anguish threatens to overtake you again. You look away and spread your arms in a short, tight movement. “He got mad when I tried to push the issue.”

Lin’s brows draw together. “I thought you said he didn’t reject you.”

“He didn’t.” You sniff, shoulders shaking as you start crying again. “He– I–” You stop, swallow hard, then take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Just start from the beginning. Get the whole thing out there. “I came out to both of my parents at the same time. My mom was supportive. She hugged me, told me she loved me–” You stop when your voice breaks, then duck your head and push forward. “And my dad –I mean, it’s not like he really reacted. He–” You gasp. Your chest feels tight. “I thought –I thought he didn’t hear me, or maybe he didn’t understand, so I told him again–”

Lin stands and steps around your coffee table.

“He told me that he heard me the first time,” you eke out between sobs as she draws you into her arms. You choke on a gasp, then cling onto the front of her shirt. “And –and that I shouldn’t shove it into anyone’s face. He told me that he heard me, and that was that, and to be done with it, and that I shouldn’t be so dramatic–”

Lin hooks her arm under your shoulder when your knees give out. She wraps one arm around your back, then squats and hooks her other arm under your knees. She carries you back to the couch, sits, then tucks a blue throw blanket you keep over the back of your sofa around you.

You’re incoherent for a while. You bury your face into her shoulder and sob; you let it all out –all your nonsensical grief, and anguish, and fear.

Lin stays quiet, but her hold on you never falters. She doesn’t complain, or fidget, or try to hurry you along in any way.

You cry until your face feels raw from your tears. Until your voice is hoarse and you’ve given yourself a headache. Until you’re on the verge of collapsing from dehydration (okay, maybe not that severe, but you feel like a dishrag that’s been wrung out until it's bone dry).

“I don’t know why it hurts so much,” you croak once you’ve caught your breath, some long while later. “It wasn’t that bad. It shouldn’t hurt so much.”

Lin’s silent for a couple beats. Then, she shifts so your head is tucked in the crook of her neck. She squeezes you against her for a moment, then brushes her lips against your forehead. “I think it’s enough.”

You sniff. Your throat goes tight. And then, you start crying again.

…

She stays the night.

“It’s your choice,” Lin says once you’ve gotten up to get some water (because even though you’re not on the verge of death, you did dehydrate yourself), “but I’d feel better knowing you’re not alone tonight.”

“I mean… you can stay if you want.” You gulp down some water, then frown. “I won’t have coffee for you in the morning.”

“I’ll live.”

You grimace into your water cup. “I don’t have any spare toiletries for you to use, or anything. I don’t know if I’d have pajamas that fit you, either.”

“It’s not the end of the world,” she says with a shrug.

“Dental hygiene is important,” you mumble into your mug.

Lin merely arches one eyebrow at you, unimpressed. “If it’s that important to you, I’ll just borrow your toothbrush.”

You scrunch up your nose. “Isn’t that gross?”

“...I’ve had my entire tongue inside your cunt.” She smirks when you spit your water back into your cup out of sheer shock. “I find it surprising that this is where you draw the line at ‘gross.’”

You laugh a little, but it fades. You go back to staring down at your half-empty glass of water. “I don’t want to be a bad hostess.”

“You made me dinner–”

“And then I cried on you for an hour and ruined your shirt.”

“It’s not. Ruined.” Lin stands, walks over to your kitchen, and places her hands on your shoulders. “Look, if it’s that important to you, I can duck back to my place and pack an overnight bag.”

“But it’s late,” you sigh with a glance at the clock. “And cold. I don’t want to make you deal with that.”

“You wouldn’t be –but fine. I’m fine with staying without an overnight bag.” She stares down at you for a moment, then softens when your exhausted, bleak expression doesn’t lift. She cups your cheek with one hand, then murmurs your name. “If you want to be alone, it’s okay. I won’t take it personally.”

You sniff, then lean into her hand. “I want you to stay.”

“Then I’ll stay,” Lin murmurs as she sweeps her thumb over the swell of your cheek.

She winds up not returning to her apartment for an overnight bag. She borrows your toothbrush. “I worked homicide as a detective,” she says when you keep fussing over her. “Arguably, this is the least gross thing I’ve seen or done in my life.” She borrows an oversized shirt of yours and a pair of shorts that she deems comfortable.

You climb into bed next to Lin after turning out the light. You let out a shaky, relieved breath when she wraps one arm around you, then lay your head against her shoulder.

You feel bad. You feel guilty. You’ve spent the better part of the evening as an emotional, spewing wreck, and now you’ve got her here overnight without basic amenities for her.

You bite the tip of your tongue before you can apologize; it seems wrong to make her console you –again–after all she’s done for you tonight. You sniff, then adjust where your hand rests on her chest so you can feel the gentle thud of her heart. “Thank you.”

Lin hugs you closer and kisses the top of your head. “Of course.”

It’s a short course to falling asleep (though you spend your remaining consciousness making a list of what you need to have on hand should your girlfriend spend the night in the future).

…

Lin wakes up before you.

You wake up face down in a pillow, starfished across the open space in your bed, tangled up in blankets like a penguinseal in a fisherman’s net. You grunt when something presses against your shoulder, then lift your head and shove your hair against your face. “Huh?”

Lin smirks. “Good morning.” She holds a steaming mug out to you. “I made tea.”

“Oh.” You struggle into a sitting position, then accept the cup with a grateful nod. “Thank you.”

The two of you sit in silence for a bit as you drag yourself out of the dregs of slumber. Once you’ve downed half the cup, you finish extricating yourself from your snarl of blankets and make your way to your living room.

The two of you have some of the mango custard tarts for breakfast. Lin uses a plate and utensils to eat hers, while you pick one up out of the box and bite straight into it.

“It’s about the authentic experience,” you argue when Lin teases you.

“What’s so authentic about eating like a heathen?” Lin quips.

You swallow, then gesture with your tartlet. “Because I feel the urge to eat them like this everytime I go to Juniper’s.”

Lin smirks and shakes her head.

It’s soft and companionable, eating custard tarts and drinking tea on your sofa in the early, autumnal morning light.

You finish off the last of your tea, then lay your head against Lin’s shoulder. “I–” You purse your lips as the urge to apologize rears its head, then swallow it. “Thank you. For last night. And everything.”

“Of course.”

You lift your head when she leans forward to set her plate, utensils, and cup on your coffee table, then settle back against her once she sits back once more. You nestle against her side, then let out a little sigh when she takes your hands in hers. “I feel like we should talk about last night.”

“Do you want to?”

You press your lips together, but nod. “I think we should. I mean –we haven’t even talked about your side of it, really. It’s… it’s important to me.”

“Okay.” Lin squeezes your hand gently, then shifts so she’s angled towards you. “Is it okay if I go first?”

“Yeah.” You nod, then look up at her. “Of course.”

She offers you a small, soft smile, then looks down at your joined hands. “I don’t think I’ve ever considered how growing up in the Northern Water Tribe would impact your perspective of public affection –or your own sexuality, for that matter.” She squeezes your hand gently, then lets out a soft huff. “I suppose I was more fortunate. I grew up in an accepting family and environment. There wasn’t ever an issue of public affection being ‘inappropriate’ because of my partner’s gender –or a notion that I was supposed to keep my sexuality completely to myself, or only in select circles. It was always my choice.”

“I’m glad,” you interject. You offer her a smile when she looks at you. “I’m glad you had that support.”

Lin gives you a small smile in return, then drops your gaze as she returns to contemplation. She stares down at your joined hands. Her thumb rubs circles against the back of your hand. “If I can ask… why did you keep saying that how your father responded ‘wasn’t that big of a deal?’”

“I…” You blink a few times, then swallow hard. I don’t know. You shrug. “It… it just isn’t, I guess.”

“But he yelled at you when you came out to him. How is that not a problem?” Lin frowns when you don’t respond. “Did he yell at you a lot?”

“I don’t know,” you answer with a shrug. “It didn’t seem like a lot. He wasn’t the most emotionally open person, so when he got mad, it was kind of hard to tell until it hit the breaking point.” When Lin nods, but her frown doesn’t lift, you frown up at her, concerned. “What?”

She sighs. “Look, I’ll concede that I’m not the best at this shit, but –in my opinion–he shouldn’t have yelled at you. Whatever was going on in his head, you’re his kid. You needed him.” Her voice cracks at the end, but she swallows hard and moves on quickly. “There wasn’t anything you did that warranted him yelling, as far as I can tell.”

A lump rises up in your throat. You press your lips together to try and keep the tidal wave of feelings –anguish, anger, grief–at bay. You give a tight, one shouldered shrug and let out a hollow laugh. “I appreciate that, but it’s not like you were there.”

“I wasn’t,” she agrees, nodding. “Doesn’t mean I can’t tell if something’s fucked up when I see it.”

You grimace, then shift your position on the couch. You cross your free arm over your stomach and bring your knees up against your chest. “I thought we were talking about you,” you deflect, careful to keep your voice teasing instead of accusatory.

Lin considers, then shakes her. “Not much to talk about.”

“Okay, no–” You level her with a hard stare when she opens her mouth to argue. “Relationships are a two-way street, Lin. The whole reason we wound up here is because I made you feel like I don’t care about you or our relationship. Your feelings are important, regardless of my childhood bullshit.”

“Stop. That.” Lin’s upper lip curls slightly as she meets your stare. “Quit trivializing your experiences. If we’re talking about my feelings, how am I supposed to feel when you’re degrading yourself in the process? Because now I feel like I need to comfort you –and I want to–when you’ve made it clear that we’re talking about my hurt in the situation. How is that fair?”

You duck your head and purse your lips. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad.” She squeezes your hand tenderly. “It’s just not fair.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” You sniff, then let out a ragged sigh as your vision clouds over from tears. “I just… I hate that this all splashed out on you. You shouldn’t have to deal with it.”

“Everyone brings baggage to a relationship.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t want you getting hurt!” Your voice breaks at the end, and you gasp as tears start dripping down your cheeks. “I –I didn’t ever want to hurt you!”

Lin lets go of your hand and winds her arms around your shoulders. “It’s okay.”

“It isn’t.”

“Yes, it is. People fuck up. We’re working through it. It’s okay.”

You can’t help but snort. “I think you may have missed your calling as a therapist.”

“I’d fling myself off a bridge first,” Lin replies, utterly serious, without missing a beat.

You sniff, then lay your head against her shoulder. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

“Of course.” She kisses the top of your head. “Thank you for being honest with me.”

You sigh, then nestle against her. You take a moment to collect yourself –catch your breath, dry your face, let the wave of emotions pass–then tap her arm. “We still need to talk about you.”

“I already said–”

“You’re not getting out of this!” you interject. You wag your index finger at her. “If I’m suffering, so are you. Start talking about your feelings, Beifong.”

“You do realize who you’re talking to –hey!” Lin grabs your hand when you start poking her in the ribs. “That’s enough, brat. Behave.”

“Not a damn day in my life.”

“Isn’t that the truth.” She chuckles when you laugh, but her body goes tense against yours soon after. “Okay, hear me out. I’ve already told you I don’t have anything to say for my part –no.” She claps one hand over your mouth when you start to protest. “You can be patient.”

You’re half tempted to lick her hand, but it’s lost in the wake of unexpected arousal. Note to self: bring this up later.

She lowers her hand once you nod. “I’m being honest,” Lin continues. “What I needed was context and clarity. Especially since I know that what you’re dealing with is trauma-based–”

“It’s not–”

“Whatever you want to fucking call it,” she sighs, slightly exasperated. “My point is that it’s not just a lack of care or effort. You’re processing through shit, and I’m okay to meet you where you’re at. Okay?”

I’m gonna fucking cry again. You mash your lips into a thin line. You can feel your eyes burning again. You smile, then nod. “Okay. Thank you.”

Lin’s expression softens. She tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. “Of course.”

You curl up against her for a bit, and she folds her arms around you. The two of you bask in the late morning silence –the glow of the sunlight filtering through the window, the rattle of Satomobiles outside, the soft sounds of the tenants around and above you starting their day. There’s a deep sense of peace that comes with it; it’s almost meditative.

“I want to get better,” you say after a bit. At Lin’s questioning hum, you look up at her. “I want to work on being more comfortable with relationship stuff in public. Not just for you –though you’re very important to me–but for me, too.” As much as I count, anyway. You swallow, then press on. “I just… need time.”

Lin nods, then tucks your head beneath her chin. “I have time.”

[jinruihokankeikaku]

"A Film for a King" (by Tsurumaki Kazuya; published in Eva Fan Club #6.)

There's a movie called Ed Wood.

Tim Burton was the director, and it became quite a hot topic―I'm sure there are many people who have actually seen it. It's a black-and-white piece that humorously depicts Ed Wood, said to be the worst film director in history.

I was unfamiliar with the name "Ed Wood", but for a long time, I had been curious about the film Plan 9 from Outer Space, presented in a book I'd bought about ten years ago called something like The Best 100 Sci-Fi and Horror Films. I've no idea why a film deemed to be the worst in history would be ranked among the Best 100, but while virtually every film ranked below #30 was presented with about 1/8th of a page, and with no stills, this "worst film of all time" was spared half a page, and featured still inserts larger than those for films like Planet of the Apes and Brainstorm. Even among independent movies, those that are half-bad never linger in my memory at all, and indeed I gradually well up with anger towards them - but conversely, I do, at times, fondly remember films whose lack of quality is remarkable. This was probably a truly awful movie. So I went ahead and assumed that for that reason, the editor of the book must have been very fond of it.

If I were told that it was the worst, I would want to see it, and confirm for myself the ways in which it was, but because it's an old movie, and the worst movie, it would never be broadcast on television or arrive in repertory cinemas, nor, at that time, would its video release have been launched quickly, so I was sure that like La jetée, which was the source material for Tokikake, or The Last Battle by Luc Besson (known as the French Spielberg), it was one more film that I would never get an opportunity to see.

This is where Tim Burton's Ed Wood comes in.

For it is the worst film in history - Plan Nine from Outer Space - that is the greatest work of the worst film director in history, Ed Wood. As opportunistic marketing, Plan Nine from Outer Space was also being screened in some mini-theaters where Ed Wood was showing. But alas, as soon as I was able to go see it, my feelings waned. After all, it was the worst movie. In the end, I didn't go.

I did see Ed Wood later, on LaserDisc. A line that Orson Welles delivers to a troubled Ed in the middle of the film lingers in my heart. His film, Citizen Kane, was undoubtedly one of the all-time greats, but it was not successful commercially.

An audience has the right to judge the best from the worst. But a film is something that ultimately exists for the director, and the director alone.