#for more sporadic but consistent positivity

[viablemess]

Hey you. You know you should be doing The Thing. I don't want to do The Thing, either. But we can sit down and do it for 2 minutes together. Then we can do it for 5 minutes. Then 10. And so on and so forth until it is done. I'll be coming back to reiterate this.

To whoever needs to hear it: it does not have to be perfect. It does not have to be world altering. It just needs to be done. And I'll sit with you while you do The Thing.

Now go. Stop scrolling. Go work on The Thing. I'll be back to check on you and cheer us both on.

#be productive with me #studyblr #studyspo #study motivation #positivity #productivity #students #positive quotes #positive mental attitude #mental health support #school #study blog #check back regularly #for more sporadic but consistent positivity #being productive #good vibes #can you tell grad school is altering my brain chemistry bc it is #and maybe not in a good way but alas

[headkiss]

you’ll always know me

part 1, part 2

pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: even as the crowds at his shows get bigger and bigger, eddie munson still has you, his very best friend. or, (for my swifties) eddie munson is your dorothea.

word count: 8.6k

warnings: fluff, a little angst, childhood best friends to lovers (sort of), weed and smoking, librarian!reader, first kiss, so many uses of the words “i miss you,” and some idiots in love !!!

a/n: hiiiii!!! this one took so long but i really love rockstar!eddie and i hope you do too!!! this is inspired by tis the damn season and especially dorothea by taylor swift <3 thank you to my love @inkluvs for encouraging me on this one ily!!!

♫♩♪♬

It’s surreal to watch someone close to you grow so much bigger than the town you live in.

To know that the person you see on the news, at award shows on your TV screen, is the same one who used to push you on the swings at the playground, who used to walk with you to and from school, who grew up beside you, closer than anyone else ever could have.

Closer than anyone ever would, still.

To most people, he’s Eddie Munson, lead singer and guitarist of Corroded Coffin. To you, he’s Eddie, the best friend you’ve ever had.

You can go back years and years, and Eddie’s woven into your life for so much of it. So is his music. You can pick out the points: watching Corroded Coffin play for the first time in middle school, watching their first gig at the Hideout, being in the front row for it all wearing the widest smile, having the loudest cheers.

Even the late night phone calls you’d get when he’d be stuck on lyrics, when he wanted someone’s opinion and chose to dial your number instead of his bandmates’.

(“Hello?”

“I can’t get this line to sound right.”

“Let’s hear it, Munson.”)

You’re often in disbelief of where he is now. Not because you ever doubted him, but because even after so long, it’s strange not to see him every day. You’re insanely proud of him, but that doesn’t mean you don’t miss him.

Because you do. You miss him so much.

A box sits on the top shelf of your closet, one filled with newspaper and magazine clippings, articles about the band’s success, positive reviews about their shows and their albums. Things to show that Eddie’s dream came true, and that’s a rare thing.

There’s only one kind of tabloid you choose not to keep: the ones booming with rumors you selfishly hope aren’t true.

‘Lead singer of Corroded Coffin has a new spark? Read more to find out who’s caught famous bad boy Eddie Munson’s eye.’

You see him constantly in pictures, through a screen, but you only really ever see him on holidays, when he’s able to come home. When he comes bursting back into your life in vibrant fireworks with his stupid, pretty smile and stupid, shining brown eyes. When he comes back only to leave all over again.

You only have yourself to blame, really, for letting it tear you up. Because more than anything, you’re happy for him, so happy you could never express it properly, but still, there’s an ache in you when he crosses your mind, when the feelings linger.

Life in Hawkins for you consists of working at the library, reading your days and thoughts away, hanging out with the gang when you’re up to it, and that’s about it.

Eddie always knows where to find you when he does come home, usually barging into the library with his arms open for a hug, one you rush into easily. You always spend the couple days he has in Hawkins together, being the you and him you’ve been since you were kids. But the lingering reminder doesn’t fade, the reminder of him having to leave looming over you like a storm cloud.

Eddie Munson comes home sporadically, unknowingly taking your heart with him wherever he goes. And when his inevitable departure takes place, you’re forced to regrow what’s missing from your chest. Every single time.

-

Besides his uncle Wayne, who could only ever see him as a troublemaking kid, you’re the only person who’s never treated Eddie any differently.

Not in high school when he was labeled a freak, not even when the fame rose so suddenly it felt like a tidal wave. You kept him afloat. You keep him afloat.

He knows he should call more often, he knows that even if the phone works both ways, you really don’t have a way of keeping track of which hotel he’s in, which state, which country, even. He knows that falls on him.

Your phone number’s burned into Eddie’s memory. He could never forget it, and still, he can’t seem to find the time to dial it. He’ll get called away, or he’ll just be getting back from a show and barely have the energy to shower before getting in bed. Worse, he’ll get the panicked sense that you won’t pick up anymore.

At least he’s never missed your birthday. That, he’ll always make time for, usually phoning you at the same time that a bouquet of flowers arrives at your door. And somehow, even when he’s away, you don’t miss his birthday, either.

Eddie’s sitting on the small couch in his dressing room, waiting to go on stage, thinking of you the way he often does.

He wonders if you think of him, too. If you miss him or if you’re angry that he’s gone so often, that he can barely even manage a fucking phone call. Though, you were never the type to be angry. Never with him, at least.

He wants to hear your voice, wants to hear you tell him ‘good luck’ before going on stage like you used to. He peeks at the table next to the couch. Eddie’s not sure how much time he has before he needs to go, but he figures it’s worth a try.

Just as he’s about to pick up the phone in his dressing room, there’s a knock on the door.

“Munson! You’re on in five!”

He’ll call you later, then.

-

“Beginning descent to the Indianapolis International Airport.”

The muffled sound through the airplane’s speakers is followed by the ding of the seatbelt signs being turned on. Eddie shifts in his seat to look out the window. He’s got his own little cubicle in first class, and though this is how he always flies now (other than when he finds himself on a private jet, which is even more unbelievable), he’s still not used to it.

He’s itching to get out of this seat, then he remembers that he’s still got the trek through the airport and the drive back to Hawkins. It’ll be worth it to see Wayne, who he doesn’t see nearly as often as he should, and get his classic hug with a slap on his shoulder.

It’ll be worth it to see you, who makes Hawkins feel more like home. You, who reminds him of the person he’s always been, the parts that get lost on the road. You, who hugs him tighter than anyone else ever has.

His hands clench into fits in his lap.

As soon as Eddie steps off the plane, his security team finds him. He’d assured them that he’d be fine, really, but this is how it is for him now. Through baggage claim and all the way to the car that’s waiting for him outside, security takes a step whenever he does.

Shutting the car door as he slides into the backseat, Eddie tips his head back and sighs.

The car ride feels shorter than usual, the city fading into trees and fields until the ‘Welcome to Hawkins’ sign comes into view. The gravel crunches under the car’s tires as it pulls into the trailer park. Wayne’s got enough to get a better place now, Eddie made sure of it, but he never did. He’d never admit it but Wayne’s sentimental, and the trailer houses too many memories to let go of it.

After all, it was home.

Stepping through the front door there’s the smell that he’d never noticed until he’d been gone for weeks at a time. The settled dust, the faint smoke of cigarettes, coffee, and the room spray Wayne inevitably uses to try and cover it all up.

Eddie drags his bags inside, waves to his driver, and shuts the door behind him.

Then, Wayne’s warm rasp, “my boy. Get in okay?”

He’s wrapped in his uncle’s classic hug quickly, the pats on his shoulder and all. Eddie closes his eyes and soaks it in, just for a second, “yeah. It was fine.”

“Good, good,” Wayne says, pulling back and grasping Eddie’s shoulders, getting a good look at him. “Take a shower.”

“Is that your way of telling me I look like shit?”

“Nah, that’s me telling you that you smell like airport, boy.”

“It’s great to see you, too,” Eddie says, smiling.

He and Wayne have the kind of relationship that time doesn’t really affect all that much. Whether Eddie’s away for a week or a month, or two, or three, they fall back into things like he’d never even left.

He knows Wayne’s probably lonely, probably hiding more than he could imagine, but he also knows that he loves him, and that’s always a good thing to know, to feel. Loved.

“Shut up, you know I missed you,” Wayne shakes Eddie’s shoulders and lets go, “now go wash up and you can tell me about your last show over some coffee, sound good?”

“Sounds good. I missed you too, Wayne.”

Eddie carries his bags into his room, leaving them open on the ground rather than unpacking. He’ll just have to pack them all over again, anyways.

Before long, the trailer’s small bathroom is filling with steam as Eddie steps into the shower, dropping his neck back and letting the water run over his shoulders, his back. He stands like that for a bit, simply letting the heat melt away at the tension in his muscles.

By the time he steps out, the mirror is completely fogged with steam, and Eddie wipes away at a section to look at himself. The bags under his eyes, the mess of his hair that he doesn’t bother taming, the small scratch on his chin from one of his rings. He shakes his head and heads into his room with his towel around his waist.

He throws on a pair of plaid pajama pants and a faded band tee, his hair soaking the back of it drop by drop.

In the kitchen, Wayne’s got two mugs of coffee sitting on the small table, a seat already pulled out for Eddie to take.

“Thanks.”

He nods, sipping from his mug as Eddie does the same.

In the silence, he can’t help but think of you, of how close he is to you now. Mere minutes away. He wonders what you’re doing, if you’re reading in bed after your shift, if you’d just showered like him, if you’re thinking of him, too.

“I saw her the other day,” Wayne says.

They both know he means you.

“How’s she doing?”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll ask her that when you see her tomorrow, but she seemed good.”

“How'd you know I’m gonna see her tomorrow?”

“Come on, kid. You go to the library the day after you get in every time and think I don’t notice?”

Eddie looks down at the mug in his hands, his face warm. It shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t have him feeling all shy and nervous, like he’d been caught, but it does.

“She misses you,” Wayne adds.

“She tell you that?”

“Doesn’t have to. I’ve known that girl since she was little and running after you on the playground. I can tell.”

Wayne has always said that you’re as good as family, after all. Eddie used to joke that his uncle liked you more than him, and you used to laugh and joke back that he was right.

Eddie’s suddenly very excited to sleep, only to get to tomorrow quicker.

“I miss her, too.”

“Yeah, kid. I know,” Wayne leaves it there, switching things over, “I saw you almost eat shit on TV the other day.”

“Come on!” Eddie groans. He’d tripped over a fucking wire on stage. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It was still fuckin’ funny.”

“Of all the shows, you just had to tune in for that one.”

Wayne asks about the tour, about how Eddie’s liking it this time around, about whether or not there’s anything new he’s working on.

In return, Eddie asks about the mechanic’s, about whether or not Wayne’s back has been acting up (which earns him a light slap on the back of the head), about what’s changed in Hawkins since the last time he’d been home.

Even through the smiles he shares with his uncle, Eddie’s wondering how you’ll react when you see him tomorrow, picturing how it’ll feel to be near you again. He gets that feeling in his gut, the butterflies that are nerves and excitement and questions and feelings rolled into one.

He’s pretty sure he dreams about you, too.

-

Your shifts at the library are always long; full days of scanning and shelving books. You’re lucky to say that you actually like your job. The smell of worn pages, the peacefulness (save for when Dustin comes barging in with his stack of overdue books that you let him off the hook for every time), the interactions that are almost always short and sweet since it’s meant to be a quiet place.

Your eight or nine or however many hour days go by much quicker now than they did during your high school job at the grocery store, that’s for sure.

You’re pushing the put-back cart between shelves, humming a random song quietly as you place the books where they belong, sometimes pausing to straighten things out. It’s the middle of a weekday and you’re the only person in there anyway. That is, until the small bell on the front desk dings.

“Just a second!” You call, squeezing between the cart and the self beside it to walk over to the front desk. You think your heart stops altogether.

You’d recognize that head of hair anywhere, the dark, frizzy curls. Hell, you’d recognize that damn denim vest anywhere, even the stance of the person wearing it. “Eddie?”

He turns around at the sound of your voice, and something lifts from his chest when he sees you. A grin spreads wide on his face, splitting his cheeks and crinkling his eyes in the corners, “there she is.”

Usually, when he comes home, it’s on a holiday and you’re expecting him, watching the door and waiting for him to walk through it. This time, you had no idea he’d be coming home. It’s the best surprise you could get.

You’re practically running into his arms, and he wraps them around your waist easily, yours tossed around his shoulders. Your face is buried in his neck, breathing him in, making sure this is real. “What the hell are you doing here?”

His hands clutch at the fabric over your sides, his head twisting so he can place a kiss over your hair, “had a break from tour. Missed home.”

And sure, Eddie hadn’t really realized just how much he missed it until he came back, it’s crystal clear now, with you hugging him. He really, really missed home.

You want to say something stupid and emotional like it hasn’t felt as much like home until now, or I missed the sound of your voice and the smell of your shampoo, but that would probably reveal a little too much.

“Just home you missed or…” you tease, pulling back to look at his face, his brown eyes that sort of sparkle. Your hands stay on his shoulders, his on your waist.

“I missed Wayne, obviously,” Eddie replies, acting oblivious and smiling at the small furrow in your brow.

“Eddie!”

“Aw, come on.” He tugs you in for another hug, his cheek squished against the side of your head. “‘Course I missed you, trouble.”

Trouble. You never knew you could miss a single word so much.

Eddie started calling you ‘trouble’ when you were kids, sometime in middle school when you’d stolen a bunch of his mixtapes and only returned them weeks later, when he finally noticed. He’d snatched them out of your hands and muttered ‘you’re trouble’ and it just stuck.

“Thank you,” you say, laughing when Eddie pulls back frowning at you. “And I missed you, too. Duh.”

“Duh.” He mocks. He lets go of you fully but doesn’t go far, leaning an elbow against the desk, “you’re doing okay?”

“I’m good. Things don’t change all that much around here, you know that.”

“I’m not asking about around here, I’m asking ‘bout you.”

You tug at the hair tie on your wrist. “I’m fine, Eddie. Promise.”

He nods, and there’s a small lull in the conversation that pinches at your chest for some reason. The sort of silence that never used to be there when it came to you and Eddie, always filling it with conversation or letting it be comfortable. Now, there’s something like awkwardness stretching and it stings.

Because it shouldn’t be there, because he’s Eddie and you’re you and you’re best friends and that’s all there should be to it. But it isn’t. You’re the same people, but so much is different.

“You working late?” He asks.

“Until we close.”

“Care for some company?”

You tilt your head at him, “you really wanna hang around the library for the last four hours of my shift?”

“Sounds like fun to me. I’ll even push the cart for you, and you can tell me what I’ve missed while I was away.”

It’s funny that he thinks he’d ever have to convince you to spend time with him, when you’re practically pulling at any thread of him that you can, when you’re taking anything he has to give you. Two days, a week, a couple of phone calls.

It’s all better than not having him at all.

“Only if you tell me what I’ve missed, too. Like all the cool celebrities you’ve met.”

“Not as cool as you, trouble.” Eddie taps your nose, smiling at the way you scrunch it in response.

“Shut up and start pushing the cart, Munson.”

He stands straight and salutes, “yes ma’am.”

You’re still smiling when you shake your head, “idiot.”

Eddie really does spend the rest of the day with you, pushing the cart while you re-shelf books, sitting in the extra chair behind the counter while you file returns, ducking when someone else walks in.

He asks you about Robin and Steve, Dustin and Lucas, how the kids are finding school, whether Nancy’s been hired at a big paper yet. He asks you about your family, and most of all, about you.

He hangs onto every word you say. And not once do you say anything to make him feel bad for being away, if anything, you can’t stop telling him how proud you are, especially when he talks to you about what’s in the works.

“I always told you you’d make it, Munson.”

“Wouldn’t have done it without you, trouble.”

-

The next morning, you’re sitting across from him in the corner booth by the window at Benny’s for breakfast. The same way you did every Friday in high school, at the same table.

Whenever you wind up at Benny’s when Eddie’s away, you tend to avoid that booth. It’s pathetic. Like his absence is clearer than ever sitting there when he isn’t. When he’s not putting whipped cream on your nose or stealing food off your plate.

Now, it’s his presence that surrounds you, his smile and his laugh, his foot nudging yours under the table.

The menu is sticky under your fingertips where you hold it, faded from sunlight and discolored from coffee spills that stain the page. You don’t really need to be looking at it—after years of coming here, you’ve probably got the thing memorized—but you need the time to collect yourself. To remember that this is Eddie, and there’s nothing to be nervous about.

You need the time to stuff down that flutter in your gut and in your chest.

On the other side of the booth, Eddie takes your distraction as a chance to really look at you. The details he can’t seem to picture when he’s away like the flecks in your eyes or the exact shade of your lips.

He never realizes just how much he misses you until he’s home. Until he’s sitting across from you and listening to the sound of your voice clearly instead of through a crackling phone’s speaker, until he gets to see the way your eyes light up slightly when you laugh.

It sort of hits him all at once, and he’s thinking, God, I should call more often. I should visit more often.

After a couple of minutes, you look back at Eddie, “you know what you want?”

“I’ve been getting the same thing since high school, trouble. Don’t need the menu.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll go order,” you say, placing your menu back in the holder by the window.

When you start sliding your way out of the booth, Eddie places a hand over yours on the table, “I can get it.”

You look down at your hands, his skin on yours, like you’d expected to see something there. A spark, a burn scorching your skin in the best way.

“I know you can,” you say, smiling at him. “But it’s my treat, okay? I want to get it.”

Eddie always feels sort of guilty when he’s not buying, because he has more than enough money to take care of it, more than he knows what to do with. Sometimes (often), people expect him to pay, even. And just like you’d known how he was feeling, you shut it down with a flash of your smile.

You shift to squeeze his hand before getting up and heading over to the counter, leaning on your elbows as you wait your turn.

Still, Eddie’s looking at you, his hand in the same spot on the table.

He knows that, despite it not being a busy morning at Benny’s, people are looking at him, whispering the way they did even in school. Only now, they’re saying they can’t believe it, look at him now, instead of calling him a freak. And just like in school, having you around makes the talk bearable. Hell, it makes it disappear, if only for a little while.

When the waiter finally comes over to take your order, you send him a kind smile, rattling off yours and Eddie’s orders.

Eddie watches the entire interaction. He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want to make eye contact with anyone else, that it’s because he’s just making sure you’re alright. It’s certainly not because of how pretty he thinks you look today, not because of how hard it is to keep his eyes off of you.

The waiter is a younger guy, probably around your age. Someone Eddie doesn’t know. He seems to tell you a joke because you laugh, bright and sunny, and Eddie suddenly wishes that Benny was the one taking orders.

Because he should be the one to make you laugh like that, to be on the receiving end of your grin and crinkled eyes. Because there’s this weight in his stomach that feels a little too much like jealousy. Because you’re his best friend and he fucking misses you.

Eddie looks down at his hands and twists his rings around and around until you come back, the old booth squeaking as you sit down.

“You okay?” You ask, always noticing his nervous habit of fiddling with his rings.

She’s my friend, he reminds himself. My best friend, that’s all.

“‘Course I am.”

“The guy at the counter, Dan, wanted me to tell you he’s a fan.”

He shakes his head, “I can't believe I have those. Especially in this town.”

“Excuse me? Your biggest fan is sitting right here, in this town, Munson.”

He probably thinks you’re joking with the way he chuckles, chest rumbling. But, you’re not. The shoebox full of clippings says enough, and you don’t think he’d ever let you live it down if he knew about it.

“She want an autograph?” He teases, the heaviness in his stomach melting away. Your biggest fan.

“In your chicken scratch? Yeah right.”

It’s not long before your food arrives, plates of waffles and fruit, sides of bacon and hashbrowns. Of course, you inevitably end up with whipped cream on your nose and food missing from your plate.

It’s your favorite kind of breakfast.

-

You’re sitting in the passenger seat of Eddie’s van—the same van he’s had since high school, that he refuses to replace—heading towards Steve’s place. It’s not unusual for either of you to be meeting up with the gang, but Eddie’s still nervous.

“Are you sure about this?” He asks you.

They don’t know he’s in town, and as sure as you are that they’ll be thrilled to see him, Eddie isn’t convinced. You place a hand on his shoulder and squeeze lightly as he drives.

“Everyone’s gonna be so happy to see you. Don’t you trust me?”

“‘Course I do,” he says easily, without thinking, “just haven’t seen anyone in a while, you know?”

“We all miss you, Eddie. It’ll be fun!”

Logically, he knows nobody’s gonna kick him out, or treat him any differently, but it doesn’t stop him from getting nervous. You wanted to surprise everyone, and how could he say no to you? So, here he is, gripping the steering wheel too tight and worrying too much.

Pulling into the driveway, he nods, “here we go.”

You hop out of the van before he has it shut off, but he catches up quickly. He follows you to the side gate of the house, watches you unlatch it and stroll into the yard. The sound of voices mingling hits his ears as you walk around the house and find your group of friends sitting around in lounge chairs.

“Look who I brought,” You announce.

Your shout is followed by eyes flicking towards you, then Eddie who stands beside you. Then, a chorus of his name, plus Argyle’s “rockstar!”

“Hey guys,” he says, waving shyly.

It’s odd to feel this way around these people that he’s known for years. Robin and Steve who’ve rented him way too many movies for free, Nancy and Johnathan who are probably why he graduated high school, and Argyle who was always his most loyal customer.

All of these memories and he feels a little too much like a stranger. At least he’s got you, who feels like one of the only sure things in his life. No matter how long goes by, you’re there, and he hopes you always will be.

“You want a drink?” Steve asks, leaning to reach into the cooler beside him.

“I’ll take one, thanks,” you say, catching the can Steve throws to you.

“I’m driving,” Eddie says, jingling his keys.

“Eddie Munson being responsible,” Robin teases, “they grow up so fast.”

And just like that, he feels a little better. These are his friends, and even though he’s not around all of the time, and even though he may not be as close to everyone anymore, they’ll still be his friends.

You sit down on the empty lounge chair and pat the space beside you for Eddie, sending him a smile that says both ‘told you so,’ in your snark he can practically hear, and ‘everything’s okay,’ in your kind way.

He plops down beside you.

“How’s everything going?” Johnathan asks him.

Not wanting all of the attention on him, Eddie keeps his answer short, “busy, but it’s a ton of fun.”

“Everything you ever dreamed of?” Robin adds.

“You could definitely say that.”

Though, Eddie has this strange feeling that he’s missing something whenever he’s gone. It’ll go away, but somehow, it always finds him again, when he’s debating on calling or not, when he’s hit with a memory of you in the front row at the Hideout when he’s on stage.

He looks over at you and finds you smiling softly at him, eyes fond. He can’t believe he’s the one you’re looking at like that.

Eddie blinks and turns back to the group, “how about you guys? How’re the jobs?”

The chatter picks up and surrounds him, but Eddie can’t stop thinking about the way you were looking at him just then. He’s never had someone look at him like that, like there’s nothing but affection there.

It’s platonic, he tells himself. She’s my best friend.

You feel happier now than you have in a while. Things feel more complete when Eddie’s around. Things feel right. It’s all of your favorite people with no empty chair, it’s falling back into a friendship that’s existed for years.

When conversations split off into smaller ones, you lean your head on his shoulder, and the words sort of slip out of you, “it’s really nice to have you here.”

His heart beats louder, he leans his head on top of yours, “it’s nice to be home.”

And it is. Eddie loves touring, he loves playing his music, and he loves his job, but at the end of the day, he’ll always be this boy from Hawkins, and he’ll always be happy to be home, to be with you.

Catching the moment, Argyle—always sharing his thoughts—says, “sick, you guys are finally together.”

You and Eddie both sit up, like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t, even when you’ve sat like that countless times before.

Everyone’s eyes seem to be on the both of you now, and you have a tiny panic inside. Have you really been that obvious with how you feel? Does Eddie know and he hasn’t said anything because he doesn’t want to hurt you?

You laugh awkwardly, “what?”

“Like, dating,” Argyle explains.

“Me and Eddie?”

He’d been frozen for a second there, surprised that Argyle thought that. Was he seeing something Eddie couldn’t? No, no way.

“Just friends, guys,” Eddie says. “Come on.”

You swallow, forcing out a word, “exactly.”

“They’ve always been like this,” Nancy says, which explains enough but also sort of nothing at all.

Just friends. It’s something you know, you remind yourself constantly. It’s all it’ll ever be, and still, hearing Eddie say it out loud has your stomach feeling heavy. Just friends, get over it.

Even as conversation picks up again, as you laugh with everyone, the two words play in your head over and over. Then, after saying your goodbyes, once you’re in the van with Eddie again, it fades, because if you can’t be in love with him, you can be his best friend, and you’d much rather have that than nothing at all.

Once he drops you off, Eddie thinks and thinks about what Argyle had said. He goes over memories, over how he feels around you, and it hits him like a huge punch to the gut.

He thinks he has feelings for you. Big, huge feelings.

-

It’s the same day, a different sky, the sun sunk behind the horizon to give way to a sky full of stars and a bright moon.

Eddie’s van is parked by Lover’s Lake, the back full of blankets where you both sit, the doors open to look at the sky and the way the moonlight reflects on the water.

There’s practically an indent in the ground in the spot he’s parked, the one that’s been your go-to for ages. From day picnics to nighttime smoke sessions, it’s another place on the list of the ones that are filled with memories of Eddie.

Beside you, he’s got a joint in hand, the flick of his lighter catching your ears over the crickets and the breeze. You watch him inhale, his chest expanding, the smoke slipping from his lips. You turn back to the water.

“Your turn,” he says, handing you the joint.

You grab it between your fingertips and bring it to your mouth, feeling the smoke trail down your throat, further, then you’re breathing it out, clearing your throat at the tickle.

“Out of practice?” Eddie teases at your small cough.

“My favorite weed dealer went out of business,” you say, nudging his shoulder with yours, “so, yeah.”

He takes the joint back from you, “you don’t smoke when I’m not around? You know Argyle’s gotta have some stock.”

“Oh, he definitely does. A little too exotic for my taste. Besides, he won’t give it to me for free.”

“Getting cheap, trouble?”

You shrug, shoulder to your cheek, and give him an innocent smile.

It feels easy, the joint being passed back and forth between sentences until it’s done and stubbed out, the flow of conversation, the comfort that’s there. It’s always been easy with him, even when it hurts a little.

Eddie’s got on his worn denim vest, still full of pins, and you tug at it, “think this thing has a permanent weed smell by now.”

“I think that’s just part of my natural scent,” he replies, playfully flipping his hair over his shoulder.

His curls graze your cheek—that’s how close you’re sitting, thighs touching—and you giggle. You’ve had so many nights just like this one with Eddie, and it feels like some kind of reward that you get to have them still, even when they’re far less regular now.

“Doesn’t this make you think of high school?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Eddie’s hand is on his knee, his pinky twitches, reaching for your leg, “hell, I’m even wearing the same clothes as in high school.”

“How does it feel like yesterday and also a lifetime ago?”

Eddie looks over at you, the warm glow of moonlight and stars on your skin, the way your sweater hangs off your shoulder, the shine in your eyes that’s part weed and part nostalgia.

“A lot’s changed since then,” he says. “I’m not a loser anymore.”

“You’re still my loser.”

How is it that even when you’re calling him a loser, the idea of being yours in any sense of the word is enough to have Eddie’s heart swell in his chest, a balloon floating up and up and he has to swallow to push it back down.

“Stop being cheesy,” he plays it off, ruffling your hair.

You shove his arm away, “I just miss you!”

Eddie looks at his arm, your hand still holding onto it, he follows your arm with his gaze until it lands on your face. He thinks you’re beautiful, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen and no groupie could change that.

“I miss you, too, trouble.”

Something shifts, the air growing thicker, a sort of understanding between the two of you. There’s something here, something that could be a disaster but could also be so, so good. Could be everything.

“No way you think about me when you’ve got crowds and fans and-“

“I think about you a lot, honey.”

Honey. He’s probably called you that before, but never like this. Never dripping sweet and sincere, never looking at you like he wants to do something you can’t even let yourself imagine in fear of being let down, of hoping too much.

Eddie’s hand shifts from his own leg to yours, thumb running back and forth, burning you even through the fabric of your pants.

“You do?”

“All the time. You’re my best friend.”

Right. Friend.

“You’re mine, too, Eddie.”

And suddenly you can feel his breath fan across your cheek, your lips. His face is close to yours and the hair that falls over his forehead tickles yours. Just a second ago he’d been saying the word ‘friend,’ and now it feels like he’s going to do something to contradict that.

Against all odds, he does.

Eddie couldn’t help himself. Maybe he’ll blame the weed, or maybe he won’t, but before he knows it he’s reaching up with the hand that isn’t on his leg to cup your cheek and tilt your head. And he’s kissing you.

He’s kissing you.

It’s so delicate, so much you’re afraid to even breathe, like it’ll break in an instant. Eddie’s fingers squeeze your leg, urge you to kiss him back and there’s no way that you wouldn’t. Not when his lips are actually on yours, not when he tastes like weed and mint gum and something perfect.

It could be seconds or minutes that you’re kissing, tilting your head even more to feel him, clutching his sleeve tightly. It never deepens, but it doesn’t have to, it says enough.

When you pull away, it’s not one or the other who does it, it’s natural, like it’s been rehearsed time and time again. Eddie leans his forehead against yours, his hand still on your cheek.

“Was that a bad idea?” He asks you, voice low and quiet.

“Maybe. I don’t know.” And you don’t, because there’s no way of knowing what’s gonna happen next, if things will be ruined, if this will fade away like it never happened, or, maybe, just maybe, if it’ll start something.

“Was it okay?”

“More than okay.”

You don’t talk about it that night, and you don’t want to just yet. You’re fine with enjoying the pink-tinted haze at least until tomorrow.

-

Eddie’s barely been gone for two days and you’re not sure what to do with yourself. After that night, neither of you brought it up, and as much as you wanted to, you couldn’t. You were scared. And anyway, it was probably just the weed for him.

You’d never kissed before. Sure, you’ve come close, faces inches apart when you’d share a bed, whispers away, but nothing ever happened. Until now.

Now, sitting on your bed, chin resting on your knees, you’re reeling from knowing what Eddie’s lips feel like and missing him all over again. Rebuilding that piece in your chest.

Somewhere else in the country, in the world, Eddie’s position isn’t so different from yours. He’s sitting on the edge of his hotel bed, forearms on his knees, head bent. He wants to call you, and he’s figuring out what he’ll say when he does.

He misses you every time he isn’t home, but it’s never felt like this. There’s never been this ache in his stomach that won’t go away because of it. Fuck, he misses you more than ever.

The last trip back to Hawkins was different than anything else, because he brought back these feelings with him and he keeps reaching up to press his fingertips to his lips, like the memory of your own lingers there.

Sure, he’s had silly, sticky thoughts like waking up with his arms around you after a nap and thinking he could wake up that way forever, but he’s always pushed them down. Now, it seems, he can’t, the images too buoyant to ignore, floating back up every time.

Sucking in a deep breath, he sits up and reaches for the phone, dialing your number that’s stored in his memory. His leg bounces as the phone rings.

You’re startled by the screech of your phone on your bedside table, head lifting to look at it shake on the receiver. You reach over and pick it up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, trouble. It’s not a bad time, is it?”

Eddie. His voice crackling through the phone sends a spike down your spine. You clutch the phone a little tighter.

You’d expected Robin, or Nancy, even Steve. Because there’d been a time, earlier in Corroded Coffin’s career, when Eddie would call you at least three times a week, and then the calls grew less frequent until they sort of died out to holidays and birthdays.

So, maybe a couple of years ago, you’d have expected Eddie’s voice, but not today.

“Eddie, hi. Not at all.”

“I- um, I just wanted to call,” a small pause, he clears his throat, “how are you?”

“It’s only been two days, you know how I am.”

“I mean right now.”

You twist to lay on your side, legs curling in towards your chest. You smile to yourself like an idiot. “Right now, I’m good. It’s lame, I already miss you.”

“I miss you, too.”

The reply comes easily to him. There’s no thought to it, because in the past 48 hours, he hasn’t been able to stop missing you for a second. The warmth of your hand in his, the sunshine sound of your laughter.

He’s not sure why everything’s so big now, his feelings amplified, only quieted now, by the sound of your voice.

“Did you have a show today?”

You have a way of asking that makes it sound like you really care, Eddie thinks. He loves his music and he knows you know that. It means the world to him to do what he does, confusing feelings or not.

“Not today. We spent the day on the bus. Show’s tomorrow.”

“Nervous or excited?”

It’s something that you used to ask him before every small show in Hawkins, and the memory has a grin spreading on Eddie’s face. “It’s always both. More excited, though.”

“You should be,” you say. “You guys are really great.”

“Yeah? Who’s your favorite band member?”

He’s fishing, and you tease him rather than bite, “hmmm. Gareth.”

“Fuckin’ trouble. You liar.”

“You asked!”

“You answered the question wrong, honey.”

There it is again. Honey. You’re sort of glad he can’t see you right now because you probably look way too happy, burying your face in your pillow for a second before replying.

“You know you’re my favorite, Munson.”

“Yeah I am,” he sounds far too proud. And then, he’s softer, “I’m not keeping you up, am I? Time zones fuck me up.”

“No, no.” Even if he was, you wouldn’t tell him. This is better than trying and failing to sleep the way you so often do. “It’s not that late. What time is it for you?”

“Not that late,” he says, even though the clock on the nightstand reads 1:14AM. “So, what’s happening in Hawkins right now?”

“Mmm, it’s getting warmer. My window’s open and the crickets are loud as fuck.” You twist the phone cord around your fingers, “it’s donation week at the library, so I’ve been shelving new books for a change.”

Eddie listens to every word you say, asks you questions like if you’d kept any books for yourself (you had, but swore you’d give them to the library when you were done) and hums between your sentences.

Somewhere along the way, he’d laid down while listening to you, eyes shut as he tried to picture what you might look like right at this second. If you’re in your pajamas or not, whether your hair would be a little messy, baby hairs a halo around your face.

Then his eyes grew heavier, your voice putting him at ease even with the sounds of his bandmates laughing from somewhere in the hotel.

“Eddie?” You ask after he’d been silent for a bit.

“Hm?” He hums sleepily.

“I lost you for a second there.”

If he wasn’t half asleep, he’d feel worse. “Sorry, getting sleepy.”

“You wanna hang up?”

“No, uh- keep talking to me? You have a nice voice.”

You smile, cheeks pinching with the size of it.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll keep talking.”

And you do, you keep talking and talking until you can hear the sound of Eddie’s tiny snores on the other side of the line. You’re smiling again at that.

Even after you’re sure he’s asleep, you don’t hang up right away, not until your own eyes are growing heavy. You put the phone back quietly, like you’ll wake him if you’re not careful. You whisper a soft ‘goodnight, Eddie,’ as you do.

There’s a small stiffness in your fingers from how tightly you’d been holding the phone, and still, you’d let your hand cramp for hours to talk to him.

The next morning, Eddie wakes up with the pattern of the phone pressed to his cheek where he’d left it last night.

-

The TV sends flashes of color flickering across your living room and over your face. Usually, you’d be in bed by now, but it’s the night of the MTV awards and Corroded Coffin is nominated. You couldn’t miss it.

You’re not really paying attention to most of it, the sounds of performances and hosts and thank-you speeches filling your ears as you read your latest book. At least, you’re not paying attention until Eddie’s category is announced.

That has you shutting your book and sitting up, grabbing the remote to turn the volume higher.

They show the nominees, give far too long of an introduction before tearing open the envelope holding the winner’s names. You don’t know it, but you’re practically white knuckling the blanket on your lap.

“And the MTV award goes to… Corroded Coffin!”

You stand and place a hand on your chest, feeling your heart beating—racing—for the band, for Eddie. This is huge, it’s a dream, and it’s his. If you could, you’d give him a suffocating hug right now.

Eddie’s voice taking over, thanking his fans and Wayne, the boys and their team, then, thanking Hawkins and the people there, even when they gave him hell.

If you knew the right number to call to talk to him, you’d dial it in an instant.

Lucky for you, your phone rings the next night, late enough that you can only assume it’s Eddie given you don’t know anyone else who’s probably in a different time zone right now. You pick up quickly, fumbling with the phone a little before bringing it up to your ear.

“Eddie?”

“How’d you know it was me?”

“Ummm, my amazing intuition? Telepathy?”

“Telepathy, she says.” There’s a soft chuckle on his end, you close your eyes and lean your head back to thump against the wall behind you. “How’re things, trouble?”

“I feel like I should be asking you that, mister MTV winner.”

Eddie’s been calling more often again, whenever he gets the chance, really. Even so, he never thought you’d be keeping up with him that way, that you’d care enough to watch an award show and remember what he’d achieved.

“You were watching?” He asks, heart thudding.

“Of course I was. I’m your biggest fan, remember?” You’re sitting with your back against your headboard, knees bent, hand absentmindedly pulling at a loose thread in your pajama pants. “I’ve got cheerleader pom-poms and everything.”

“You do not.”

“Do too. They’re super metal, all black.”

“Yeah, cause pom-poms are super metal, babe.”

Another pet name in the rotation, uttered like it’s easy, natural. You bite back a smile.

“Whatever. Mine would be,” you say. “I’m glad you called.”

“Me, too.”

“I wanted to call you yesterday,” you admit, twisting that loose thread in your fingers, “after I saw you won. I’m really proud of you, Eddie.”

They’re words he hadn’t been expecting, but ones he’ll be thinking about over and over. He wants to keep making you proud, he thinks, and he’ll pour that into everything he does whether he means to or not.

“Thank you,” his voice is quieter, almost shy. “I wouldn’t be here without you, you know?”

“You would. You’re talented, and there’s no way that could stay hidden in this town, you’re bigger than it.”

Somehow, it’s easier to be so open with him on the phone. You don’t have to look at him, get distracted by his tongue running over his lips or the way his bangs get caught in his eyelashes sometimes. This way, all you have to do is speak, nothing more.

“Trouble-” he can’t even find the words to say, because there’s affection laced in your tone, seeping through the phone and into his head and, fuck, he wants to kiss you for it and he can’t. “I really miss you.”

“I miss you, too.” There’s some silence, and the overthinker in you worries that you’ve said too much even though you meant it with every part of you, that you’ve given yourself away. “Anyways, I should go, let you celebrate your win.”

It’s what he would be doing if Eddie’s thoughts hadn’t been so full of you and your mouth and your voice. It’s what his bandmates and friends are surely doing in some club around here.

“You don’t need to. I’m not doing anything.”

“No?” You try to lighten your tone, to joke the way you usually do, “don’t have groupies knocking on your hotel room door right now?”

Instead of playing along, Eddie’s voice is serious, still soft in the way he speaks to you, but serious nonetheless, “I don’t entertain them, honey.”

“You don’t?”

He’s tried. But ever since you kissed him, probably since before that, too, Eddie can’t seem to look at anyone else, let alone have someone else kiss him and tarnish the memory of your lips on his. He’s only ever thinking of you, it seems. So no, he hasn’t fooled around lately.

“Not in a while. I’m trying to write for the next album. No distractions.”

No distractions. He says it like that’s true, even though he can’t seem to fully focus, like there’s a piece he’s missing. Like every lyric he’s written since he’s been back isn’t somehow about you.

He’s so, so fucked.

“Look at you, Munson. Squeaky clean.”

You hope he can’t tell that you’re sort of a mess, a stupid blossom of hope planting itself where it shouldn’t. He’s your friend, he’s always been just your friend. But you kissed and it felt like something changed, and you can’t seem to let go of that.

“You sound surprised,” he teases, gathering his wits the best he can.

“Can you blame me? You used to have multiple lunchboxes reserved for your weed.”

“You loved those lunchboxes and you know it.”

“Yeah, I did.”

And then, like that moment was simply a blip, easily brushed over, your conversation turns back to your normal. Jokes with underlying affections, teasing while picturing what kind of smile the other wears when you laugh lightly into the phone.

Time runs away from you, and by the time you hang up it’s well into the early hours of the morning, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

-

After hanging up, Eddie’s got this sinking, aching pull in his stomach. He knows what it is, has had bouts of it before where he misses Wayne’s hand patting his back or the way his mattress is worn-in just the right amount back at the trailer, when he thinks about what his friends might be doing or what science project Dustin’s got going on.

But it’s never felt this heavy. Eddie’s the most homesick he’s ever been.

He’d listen to your voice forever, but in that moment, he’d give anything to see your face, to see the shake of your shoulders when you laugh, the curve of your smile.

What the hell is wrong with him?

Eddie wipes his palms on his thighs before standing and walking out into the living room of his band’s suite hotel room. The guys are still up, and they’re all staring at him like weirdos.

“What?” He pauses in the doorway.

“Did you tell her you’re in love with her yet, or what?” Jeff, the electric guitarist, asks him.

“What?” Eddie says again because there’s no way he heard that right. He’d only just come to terms that he had feelings. This is much bigger.

“You’re joking,” Gareth pipes in, “you don’t even know it? Dude, you’re all ‘I miss you, trouble, you’re my favorite person ever.’” He does a knowingly terrible impression of Eddie.

“I do not sound like that.”

“You kinda do,” Jeff says.

“Why else would you be spending hours in that room on the phone, man? Come on,” Gareth sing songs the next bit: “you’re in loooove.”

Then Eddie thinks and thinks and thinks. The warmth that blooms when he hugs you, the jealousy he felt when he thought that server at Benny’s was flirting with you, the difficulty to say goodbye, the way your kiss haunts him in his sleep.

These idiots aren’t usually right about things, but just this once, maybe they are. Eddie Munson is probably, very likely, definitely in love with you.

Yeah, he’s so fucked.

♫♩♪♬

thank you so so much for reading!!! if you enjoyed please please please consider reblogging and letting me know what you think! it helps and means so much <333 i have plans for a part two, and if you’d like to see it, some support would help a bunch! ily!

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson imagines #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson blurbs #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson request #eddie munson requests #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x fem!reader #rockstar!eddie munson #rockstar!eddie x reader #rockstar!eddie #eddie stranger things #stranger things eddie #stranger things imagine #stranger things fic #rockstar!eddie au

[drdemonprince]

Hangouts don’t have to involve doing something out of the ordinary together— majority of life is an accumulation of a series of mundane, regular, consistent tasks we need to engage in to survive. The goal is to move towards sharing the mundane together rather than drifting through each day, moving from task to task… alone. Right now, I’m being forced to apply for jobs so I have a position as an attending somewhere after I finish my fellowship next June. There’s so few openings that I can’t be picky about location. I’m also simultaneously studying for my board exams to get licensed in my medical specialty. It’s overwhelming. I find most of these processes deeply unethical and it is excruciatingly cringe to beg for someone to see that you are worthy of life. I’m not even sure how long I can drag on in academic medicine… so this is a particularly stressful time period in my life. But I don’t want to isolate and study myself to death. I don’t want to fixate on this in a way where I have no time left to spend with the people I care about. If I only hung out with people to do something different/ fun/ out of the norm, I’d essentially limit myself to sporadic interactions. Instead, I asked my homies if I could still be there with them AND study or work on a stupid cover letter etc. Along with communal cooking nights and such, I’m slowly starting to spend more time in comforting silence with my homies. I’ll be studying while someone is cleaning or cooking or doing their laundry. Bottomline: I want our day-to-day lives to be more bearable. The cooking, cleaning, caretaking, caregiving, chores, all of the mundane… that’s where we can gradually build in more interdependence. It’s nice to have celebrations that honor any auspicious moment or time in our lives. It’s great to get together to try something new. But we need more low-stakes hangouts that also give us room to deepen our relationships. In Bengre, even if some folks still went out into the city to work during the day— almost everyone including our elders and children, would be outside under the moon at night. Some spend hours drinking chai on porches looking onward at the children playing cricket on the beach sand. Some make the rounds sprinkling blessed flowers from this morning’s temple ritual on every patch of fertile soil in the village as an offering to the land. Some practice their musical instruments and everyone can hear the soothing beats of the mridangam or the melody of the tambura. Some are out back in the kitchens mashing together spices to marinade the fish that others caught on the river this morning. Point is anything… no matter how “mundane” can be a ritual. If anything, that is what makes rituals sustainable.

Beautiful writing from Ayesha Khan that gets me thinking about the conversations we've been having on here about culture!

[trashyreptilian]

Artfight got me fucked up for a bit' and for whatever reason I decided to make two ref. sheets to come back with,,,

================================================

Biographies (long read):

((If it wasn't obvious, everything you're reading below is all made up stuff for my AU. Fanon junk basically.))

-General Info-

Full Name: C

Age: Its species don't age. Instead, being adult already as they're formed. Existed since 1992.

Height: 7'3'' ft

Gender: Agender

Sex: Sexless

Species: Sloth alternate ("Flawed Impersonator")

Homeplace: Mandela County, Wisconsin (US)

Romantic/Sexual Orientation: Aromantic asexual

-Other Info-

Personality?: Cesar Torres's alternate, or just C for short, is pretty young. Inexperienced in many things. But some of it's due to it failing their main task, killing its human target. It lacks knowledge of how humans behave and how they live in general. Not to mention, it doesn't have a firm grasp on how its own species operate and the community surrounding it. Anyone who comes across C, will see how very sporadic their energy is. Never really clear what gets it excited. The only times it calms down is when it's bored or it's forced to. While this may sound like a positive thing, it holds little to no willpower over itself. Getting into trouble with someone, somewhere, is a frequent occurrence. It'll do whatever it wants on a whim without considering the outcome. Speaking of control, it cannot assert any ounce of authority around other alternates to save its life. Since their status is as low as it could be without completely enraging Hell's overlord, it's easily pushed around. Takes but a simple threat to put it in line. C seems unaware of where the ill treatment is coming from. Because despite all of that, their friendly yet creepy demeanor persists anyway.

Thinks Before Acting?: Not really, at least without any aid it won't. Actually needs to be looked after if even given a basic task to do. Not much of a planner, its attention span is quite inconsistent. Tends to get distracted easily by anything that's remotely interesting to it.

Positive Traits?: Laid-back, energetic, curious, excitable and flexible.

Negative Traits?: Oblivious, careless, passive, impulsive, self-indulgent and irritable.

Way Of Speaking?: Only knows fluent English and there's no discernible accent when talking. Their voice sounds grating because they change tones often. One minute it goes from croaky to high-pitched out of nowhere. A fairly distinct quirk they have is their laughter. Simply put, it's unrestrained. Loud and animated, it lets loose like a maniac. (Headcanon voice: https://youtu.be/7eWUGKKslPI)

Occupation?: Failing to replace their human target, C is stuck as a mere impersonator. Usually alternates in that type of position are either killed off or taken in as workers for other superior figures. The second option doesn't happen often since most prefer having the older overdriven doppelgangers instead. However, in its particular case, it got extremely lucky. A few seconds away from dying, someone was willing to take them in. Whom happened to be Six, a pride alternate. He had ulterior motives behind the decision, yet ended up keeping C around since it proved to be somewhat useful. Nowadays, it mostly serves as an extra helping hand for Six's other far more competent worker (The Preacher "Ora"). Carrying out any kind of manual labor whenever needed. But it needs constant supervision, otherwise it'll wander off and indulge in its own silly pastimes. Which mainly consists of interacting with other impersonators like it, or collecting random human used items.

Powers/Skills?: Sloth is regarded as the weakest sin of the existent seven, they're not expected to have mastered their own abilities. That's rather obvious about C. Mostly uses them for fun and in return, it stagnates its improvement. Having some basic skills, also commonly seen within its species. Night vision and voice mimicry, sees clear in pitch darkness just fine but copying voices is not their strong suit. Oftentimes it's choppy and sounds like it's fighting between two voices. Surface adhesion and body alteration are more its speed. Can freely walk on any wall or ceiling without falling, and capable of contorting its body in many grotesque ways. One better advanced skill it knows is matter manipulation. Meaning that it can turn its entire being into black fog-like smoke, might reshape the size or form if necessary. Moving onto its unique skills, ones present with sloth alternates. Their general resilience to harsh conditions and physical trauma is greater than other sins, known to heal and regenerate much faster as well. Adding on, its body is very flexible. Having nearly no limits to how far it could distort or stretch out its body parts.

================================================

-General Info-

Full Name: The Preacher "Ora"

Age: Her species don't age. Instead, being adult already as they're formed. Existed since 1890.

Height: 10'0'' ft

Gender: Female

Sex: Sexless

Species: Envy alternate ("Overdriven Doppelganger")

Homeplace: Mandela County, Wisconsin (US)

Romantic/Sexual Orientation: Homoromantic Asexual

-Other Info-

Personality?: Known as one of the few older, somewhat active, alternates within her kind. She outlived her busiest years as a doppelganger, nowadays mostly carrying out menial tasks for more important figures. A boring and repetitive life, but one that she's come to terms with. As long as she's serving her overlord in some way, she'll still feel the need to perform perfectly. Having worked as a "false" nun in the past, allowed Ora to gain a deeper understanding of humans and just how vulnerable they are. A lot of her early work made her develop superior tactics in manipulation. She may not be putting them to use as often anymore, but she remains dangerous nonetheless. Having no guilt in deceiving anyone if it means she has something to gain. This mindset persists in any sort of connection she makes with other alternates. Ora prefers surrounding herself with stronger and wiser individuals, who prove being far more useful for her. While she can carry around an approachable appearance because of her typical calm nature, it remains as a façade, making herself appear less threatening. No one likes an outwardly hostile alternate after all. Unless provoked consistently, she won't shy away from verbal abuse. It's best to not be hated by her, or worst, make her envy you.

Thinks Before Acting?: Pretty much all the time, she feels more in control when she's got everything planned out. Staying well-calculated and on point while working. Being steps ahead of any potential adversary or threat, is better than getting involved in a physical altercation.

Positive Traits?: Patient, analytical, responsible, focused, persuasive and sympathetic.

Negative Traits?: Resentful, judgmental, pessimistic, controlling, malicious and devious.

Way Of Speaking?: Only speaks fluent English, but her vocabulary still includes fragments of older words and slangs not as commonly used anymore. Her voice is gentle while also low, and has no accent. At times, the tone comes across as demanding. (Headcanon voice: https://youtu.be/gpWfgLTRPGo?t=13)

Occupation?: Overdriven doppelgangers typically don't get any actual significant tasks. Instead, they do manual labor for others or teach the inexperienced alternates. Anything that takes up too much valuable time, is dumped onto them. Ora is no exception to this. After her literal human disguise began reverting back to an uncanny state, she could no longer interact with people. At first, she sought out to become a sort of teacher for newer alternates who were tasked with impersonating nuns. Spending a few years doing just that most of the time, letting others learn from her experience. Eventually it was put on halt once appointed as a worker/servant for a pride alternate. Which was Six, one of the overlord's "favorite" doppelgangers. Her job now is mostly doing the dirty work that Six doesn't want to do. Gathering electronic devices, keeping guard, stalking Six's victims, babysitting his much younger inexperienced worker (alternate Cesar). All the boring stuff basically.

Powers/Skills?: Due to her current form’s state, her body feels fatigue a bit faster when in use of her abilities. But it doesn't mean she's defenseless. Possessing a few basic skills, which are also common with her species. Like night vision and surface adhesion. Capable of seeing her surroundings even in complete darkness, and free to move around on any wall without the risk of falling. One thing that Ora's perfected is voice mimicry. There's probably no voice she can't copy near flawlessly, and for as long as she wants. A skill she's mastered over the years. One advanced ability she's used often is matter manipulation. What it means is that she can turn her entire being into black fog-like smoke. They might reshape the size or form depending on the situation. Moving onto her distinct skills, which are seen amongst envy alternates. Their intelligence is viewed as far more advanced than other sins, though competes with pride alternates. Psychological and emotional manipulation is her forte. To add, sound wave screams. The kind that can shatter glass and deafen someone momentarily, or permanently. Its intensity is fully controllable as well.

#best friend au #alternate universe #au interpretations #mandela catalogue #the mandela catalogue #alternate cesar #the preacher #my art

[mortalityplays]

Hi there! I’m a newly graduated editor and writer trying desperately to make freelance work for me, and/or find a permanent position with a publishing house or company. Do you have any advice for how to start getting clients consistently/how to get your foot in the door? I’ve been struggling to find work since I graduated last spring and it’s been hard to figure out where to start or what I’m doing wrong when a lot of the time I am just being ghosted :”)

I had to go for a walk and think about this. I've written and deleted two very long responses because it's hard to balance what I think I've learned about 'the industry' (fake idea but we can unpack that another time) with what it has made me learn about myself. The latter is not really going to be important or helpful to anyone else's specific circumstances.

Here's what I can boil it down to:

The idea of a 'traditional path' into editing/publishing or a standard entry point and career ladder, is almost entirely made up. I don't think that's on purpose. Getting established is very slow and hard and confusing and full of unexpected opportunities and disappointing dead ends. As people who are fond of narratives, it's only natural that we retrospectively turn our journeys into storylines. Real life doesn't really work like that, though. Take all advice with a pinch of salt; ultimately all advice is just somebody trying to speak to their past self.

All of the best clients I've ever worked with have been friends and artistic peers first, clients second. Some of them were also starting out when I was starting out, and we just traded services to help each other get a leg up. Now that they're well established in their fields, they're in position to vouch for me with bigger clients.

Having someone who can vouch for you is worth its weight in gold. Do a tiny job as a favour, then tell a small client you did that job. Do their small job for a small fee, then tell a medium client you did that job. Collect testimonials. Collect examples of past work. Let me tell you a secret: I didn't go to school for this, and nobody ever trained me. I've never landed a job by talking about paper qualifications because I don't have any. Show, don't tell.

Don't beat yourself up if you have to take other work to make ends meet. Not only will you be happier, healthier and more stable with that consistent income, but life experience will make you a better editor. I spent years working in bars and restaurants while I was doing sporadic small editing jobs on the side, and I loved it. It taught me about people, and how to speak to strangers with total confidence, and how to demand the value of my work, and how to spot when a writer doesn't know their shiraz from their malbec. All experience is work experience in the arts.

On that note, SPECIALISE. Pick out a subject you're especially passionate and knowledgeable about, or a genre or medium where you're particularly determined to excel. Study up on it. Look for clients who need specific expertise, and sell yourself to them. Generalists are everywhere, but you might be the only 'amphibious vessel technical manual editor' in your state. Learn to adapt your offering to the client and tell them why you're the key that fits their lock. Lie sometimes maybe I don't know shh I didn't say that part.

I think that's all I've got that isn't unbearably navel gazey. It's really hard work and I haven't finished the marathon either. I may still end up going back to generic office jobs on and off in the future. Mostly I try to follow the only really good advice an artist has ever given me: Do what you can, with what you've got, for as long as you can. At least then you can say you did.

[chihoshisai]

Night Crush

Nanami x Reader

cw : i can fix/help him reader, coffee shop au, nanami is tired, positive ending // wc : 1.5K

The chimes of the bell echoed throughout the coffee shop, signaling a customer had entered the property. Withdrawing from the task that had previously kept you occupied, you turned towards the counter, expecting to welcome the only person that would dare come at such dark hours for the bitter taste of caffeine.

“Hi,” you greeted with a sympathetic smile at the sight of the drained expression that adorned the features of Nanami who walked further in. “The usual ?” you asked, well aware that he would come here at least once a week to possibly decompress from work, as he enjoyed a book alongside his coffee.

“Evening,” he replied with a voice that hinted nothing of his emotions, “yes I’ll take an americano,” he added with a nod.

“Alright,” you said, as he fetched his card to pay before busying yourself with the making of his drink. 

At this unholy hour of the day, the shop usually remained empty — making for a laid-back shift whilst you kept yourself occupied with either cleaning or endless scrolling on your device. However the routine you had established for yourself got interrupted by the sporadic apparitions of Nanami which started about four months ago. Being the only guest, it was an easy task for your brain to remember him and his preferences, as you slowly started to notice simple details about him over time. 

The way his hair was perpetually neatly combed and parted, his aloof behavior and the way he seemed so engrossed in the books he read — ultimately sparking your own interest in literature, wondering if novels truly had the power to draw people in. 

Anticipation towards his appearances in your workplace had stirred up these unexpected butterflies and accelerated heart rates from your body. The more you watched the clock tick away the time, the more hopeful you grew that he would come, and more often than not you wound up disappointed and hurt — feeling lonely at the realization of how silent your surroundings were, but mostly by its emptiness which was emphasized by the soft yellow lights of the café.

It was a slight crush really, created by the intimacy of sharing time with another individual in a place that usually brimmed with people, buzzing with laughter and conversations. The veil casted by the arrival of night would make anyone fall prey to the serene atmosphere brought forth. And you were one of its victims. But it wasn’t the only reason why you had fallen for Nanami. Yes he was a handsome man, even behind his spectacles you could tell as much. One look at his body and it was apparent how well built he was, as you secretly wished for a peek at what probably consisted of finely refined muscles.         

The more glances you casted in his direction, the more you took notice of how tired — exhausted — he seemed. Seeing further than his attractive appearance, it left you wondering what sort of corporate environment he found himself in, even though he seemed adept at putting up a front. It was in the way he sometimes spoke, or how his shoulders would crouch for a second, even the occasional sigh that would escape his lips was enough for you to come to that conclusion. Going as far as causing your heart to clench, it gave you the desire to help, to do something, to ease his pain even if it was a meager gesture. 

You finished preparing his order and hurriedly went to deliver it to Nanami, who sat near the window with his legs crossed, his book by the side awaiting for his usual coffee to arrive before starting his reading. 

“Here's your americano,” you uttered with a shy glance towards him, hoping to catch a closer look at that sharp jaw of his. 

“Thank you,” he replied as he watched the cup being placed on the table beside his novel. 

These small mundane conversations were enough to elicit daydreams in your mind. You gave him a slight nod before returning to the counter, to begin appearing to look busy when all you truly were doing was poke a look or two towards him. Though as you had been doing so for months already, the thought of feeling unfulfilled surged up inside you — bothering you even. It wasn't enough. You wanted more. 

As such, the remaining pastries of the day gave you an idea — which left you pondering whether or not this would be a well received gesture or deemed unnecessary. With steady hands, promptly placing a piece of cake on a plate, you headed towards Nanami once more, each step increasing the rate of your heart and deepening your breathing as this wasn't part of your usual night shift routine.  

The sound of your heart echoed through your brain having reached the table, and your breath caught your throat at the sight of Nanami pausing to look in your direction. 

“What's this?” He asked, eyes lingering towards your hands, “I didn't order that,” his tone was slightly surprised which made you even more nervous.

“It's on the house. Since you come by every so often, I thought you could enjoy this with your coffee. I hope it’s not too much of a bother,” you blurted out in a single breath — deeply inhaling afterwards as your eyes traced the outlines of his facial features, praying for a positive answer.

“I see,” his flat tone ringed in your ear, “in that case I’ll gladly accept it.” And with swift movements, he momentarily closed his book and made place for the unexpected order atop the table. 

You beamed — truth be told, who in their right mind would refuse to accept food offered by what supposedly consisted of their favorite place ? as you placed the plate down, the thought of considering rejection almost made you feel foolish. But this wasn’t enough.

“May I ask you something?” You inquired, fiddling with your fingers while your eyes darted towards the ground. Without a doubt, you were testing your luck to see how long it’d last. 

“What is it?” His eyes hadn’t left your side for a second

At the sound of his voice, you raised your head, allowing yours to fill itself with worry, “are you alright?” 

Nanami sighed.

And your mind started racing — what if you had annoyed him ? Embarrassed for having crossed a line, you steeled yourself to apologize, but he further beat you up to it.     

“Sometimes I am required to work at night, and it is a real hassle,” he bluntly said, shoulders slouching as he let himself exhale once more.

That much you knew, but you still nodded in acknowledgement, “it must be hard.”

“It can’t be helped,” he shrugged, “plus if I don’t let myself come here from time to time, I’ll reach my limit. Few coffee shops are open at this hour so I am grateful for this place,” he finished with a smile.

A smile.

The upward curve of his lips sent a turmoil of emotions inside you — never had he showed such a reaction in all the time you had observed him. With glee, you internally praised yourself for coming forward tonight. And so, you pushed further.

“What do you like? I’ll bring it to you next time,” you exclaimed in a confident voice. 

“Bread,” he replied, looking at you through his sunglasses, “I like bread. And alcohol.”

“Oh I see,” you said with a nervous laugh, worried as your café wasn’t the type to sell bread even during the day — instead you swore to look up how to make it, master it in the hopes that it would be good enough. “By the way, what sort?” Your apprehensive smile remained on your lips.

“There’s a bakery not far from here that I like to go to. They have—” Nanami began without having the chance to continue.

“Would you mind showing it to me?” the words escaped before you had the time to process them. At the sight of the raised eyebrows in your direction, you decided to screw it and further push your dwindling luck. “The bakery I mean, would you mind if we go together?” As heat settled on your face, indicating your blush — you gripped your apron with more force than necessary, awaiting for what you convinced yourself would be a negative answer. Your mind was already one step ahead, grieving the end of what had been a short unrequited crush and how empty the café would remain for the upcoming time.

“I don’t mind,” Nanami’s monotonous tone replied, “give me your number so we can plan this out.” 

What?

As his hands moved to search for his cellphone, your mind took a moment to process the information before delight overthrew the previous misleading feelings — leaving you clumsily reaching for the phone in your pocket. Both having exchanged numbers, you gave a slight bow to Nanami, finally leaving him to enjoy himself and rushed to the staff room to giddily enjoy your victory.

#nanami x reader #nanami x you #to be honest i'm not satisfied with how this turned out but i'm still considering doing a part two #part two would involve the bakery with more feelings more interaction and something more intimate #but i did not like my writing in this so i cut it short instead of continuing #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #jjk x you #jjk x reader #coffee shop au #still posting it since i don't have more to add to this part

[starqueensthings]

FOREWORD | NEXT | AO3

We begin our journey with the protagonist. This chapter will read dry for those only here for our Clone Wars and Bad Batch favourites. Since it’s an introductory chapter, it’s strictly OC’s in this one… (squint real hard and you may find a glimpse of one our faves!)

WARNINGS: brief elusions to a traumatic past, but next to no detail provided (yet). Mildly graphic descriptions of medical injuries and surgery.

RATING: the entirety of this work will be classified as 16+ for mature themes, with sporadic chapters upped to 18+ for explicit encounters.

PLEASE ENSURE YOU’VE READ THE FOREWORD LINKED ABOVE FOR AN IN-DEPTH DESCRIPTION OF WHAT DEGREE OF CONTENT YOU CAN EXPECT THROUGHOUT THIS STORY BEFORE PROCEEDING.

The unusually abrasive whirring of his hip servos both alerted her of his arrival, and wordlessly reminded her for the umpteenth time that the congestion of her work schedule had rendered him irresponsibly overdue for an oil bath, though neither that irksome grating nor his return to her side proved urgent enough to pull her attention from the task at hand.

He slowed to a stop and hovered in the doorway of that rapidly darkening office, hinged hands clasped together in front of him while his round, glowing oculars patiently blinked at the obvious intensity of her concentration.

She allowed herself only a breath more to wallow in that den of self-pity and exhaustion, the raging tornado of unfinished tasks in her mind threatening to raze what was left of the mental space she’d intentionally attempted to preserve for finishing the three dozen neglected medical reports.

“Hi Lumi...”

She addressed her AZI assistant in a shamefully distracted mumble, fingers hovering over the buttons of her keyboard as she fought to orient her over-saturated thoughts into the holocomputer through the fidgeting funnel of her hands.

“Good evening, Dr. Kiore.” Correctly identifying her current aversion for distraction, her droid companion thankfully offered nothing more than his typical jovial salutation.

The last couple of weeks had seen this duo truly depart the somewhat turbulent infancy of their working relationship, and the wrinkles of unknown expectation and unlearned behavior had since-been ironed smooth with the steam of shared experience and consistent reinforcement. Free of the bravado that budding surgical residents wore atop their shoulders like robes sewn with the threads of overconfidence, Lumi had become a remarkable working companion to June. Not only did his programming ensure he had a wealth of easily accessible medical knowledge, but he wasn’t hindered by the limited cognition of the human brain, being able to accurately process and categorize large amounts of data while simultaneously completing a variety of other tasks whilst entirely free from the plague of exhaustion.

Much to her appreciation, he’d also managed to effectively catalogue her dynamic panoply of mannerisms, thus ensuring he could readily identify her preferred positioning during specific procedures, recognize the potent displeasure behind her eyes if (and when) the nurse droid failed to include certain niche tools on her sterile tray, and presently, her sheer desperation for an extra ten seconds of undisturbed focus.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself, collecting the hospital-issued datapad from the desk in front of her and ceasing its slumber with the prod of a finger. Her tired eyes danced across the seemingly infinite list of medical charts waiting for their turn at the forefront of her mind, and it was with another dejected sigh that she checked off only the top item before abandoning the device again.

Tense from yet another long day of stooping over an operating room table, the muscles in her neck immediately protested the duress of a stretch as she extended her arms over her head and flexed her aching fingers. Refusing to lessen the strain until a satisfying pop met her ears, she paused for a moment to relish in the pain successfully distracting her from that perpetual gnaw in her mind.

“Alright,” she proclaimed suddenly, sending her palms clapping together in a gesture of feigned motivation, and Lumi immediately took his cue to enter, head twirling about on his neck with glee. “I need you to go to room 8-E,” she instructed while pushing her desk chair backward several inches with a nudge from her sneakered toe. “CT-2658 needs a preliminary vitals scan and a thoracic x-ray. Once those are completed, transmit the imaging to his chart and locate an FX-9 to prep him for a thoracotomy. This morning I just caught the nurse droid replacing the valve in his mask with the wrong colour… If it gets changed again before he’s anesthetized, make sure it’s the yellow valve. No incisions until I or a 2-1B is present.”

“Right away, Dr. Kiore.”

“Oh, and he goes by ‘Bolts’. Avoid using his CT number unless you absolutely have to.”

Lumi acknowledged her final anecdote with a small bow of the head before he turned and zoomed back through the open door into the hallway beyond.

The budding ache behind her left eye intensified as she watched his small metallic form circle the Welcome Station, an oversized u-shaped desk perched in the middle of the expansive ward, before pivoting and vanishing down the hallway on the left, and the increasing need to activate the lamp on her desk meant it was nearing the time her stomach would begin to revolt against her negligence, that measly handful of mixed nuts tossed hurriedly into her mouth some hours ago having utterly failed to satiate even a fraction of her hunger.

But time had vanished… again, and June was confident there wasn’t a meal anywhere in the galaxy capable of freeing her from the constant overstimulation that working in the Grand Republic Medical Facility had imbued her with over the last fortnight. And so her fingernails drummed absently on the desk in front of her as another exhausted sigh escaped her nose, both gestures laying bare her body’s continued attempts at combating the gale of patient information whipping about her mind. Resisting the urge to momentarily abandon that pressing obligation and head to the staff room for a fresh caf, she granted herself only another moment of quiet, the mental weight of her extensive to-do list keeping her glued to the cushion of her desk chair despite the near-rabid craving for both caffeine and a snack. Nibbling absentmindedly on her thumbnail, she redirected her attention back to the holocomputer in front of her and opened Bolts’s medical chart.

The wounded soldier had arrived at the hospital in the very early hours of the morning, having been medically evacuated from a planet called Malestare in critical condition. The triaging doctor in the emergency room at the time had quickly diagnosed the soldier with a condition known as ‘Flail Chest’, and had directed him to the Surgical Department on the 8th floor immediately thereafter.

The accompanying trooper was the company’s medic, and was only able to provide snippets of the harrowing and incomplete story. When probed for information about the initial incident, he described witnessing a series of explosions “about a kilometer south” of his squad’s tactical position, though admittedly had a poor vantage point at the time of the incident. He’d barely managed to rendezvous with the limping remnants of his decimated platoon before being urgently summoned to stabilize the wounded– Bolts included.

“I had to dart his chest,” the panting Medic heaved to the emergency doctor downstairs, wiping sweat from his brow with a trembling hand as he watched his brother disappear behind a small crowd of scrub-clad nurses, each of them fervently ripping the remaining armour from that fragile form. “Twice. The catheter held for a while, but collapsed just as we were jumping to lightspeed. He– he needs to be intubated… quick.”

With hurried reassurances that CT-2658 was now in the best care, the medic was ushered back onto the shuttle and returned to the front lines while his brother was rushed upstairs for lifesaving care.

Dr. Pherto Pavot, a highly intelligent albeit moderately antisocial man, was a longtime colleague of June’s and had been laden with the duty of on-call trauma surgeon for the duration of the night shift. With the assistance of an FX-7 medical droid, he’d managed to both successfully intubate the patient and send him for x-rays by the time the morning surgeons began to trickle in for their shifts only a short time later.

June had barely tied her sneakers before leaping into action. Determined to get the ailing soldier into surgery before her day was through, she took every spare moment she could find between the myriad of other scheduled procedures to dip into her office and stare at the radiographic imaging Pherto ordered that morning.

Now, as the sun completed its arc across the expanse of the Coruscanti sky, reaching its rays downwards for the cold slumber of the horizon, she was barely able to overpower the persistent pokes of exhaustion.

“Blunt force trauma from an undetermined source to the thoracic cavity–” she typed, jaw clamped closed against a violent yawn as she plugged data into the Kaminoan medical report her colleague had initiated many hours previously. “–Right 3rd to 6th rib fractured laterally, floating. Basal intercostal catheter in situ. Slight left pleural effusion. Prognosis TBD post surgery.”

She sighed, eyes peering disapprovingly at the screen of her holocomputer where Pherto’s hurried notes failed to complement the detail of her own, and the detrimental, perfectionist urge to delete the entire report in favour or starting over was nearly as challenging to repress as the yawn that continued to plague her, though she refused both. ‘Sorry Kamino,’ she grumbled, acutely aware that attempting to pull another word from her brain might cause it to simply cease firing entirely. ‘That's going to have to do.’

With a deft swipe across the screen from the pad of her cold finger, she landed on the patient’s main profile page. Despite having resentfully expected to see that irksome negative space beside his designation number, the implication of that missing information instantly soured her already dwindling mood, sending her eyelids aflutter atop an exquisite roll of her blue eyes.

As an attending general surgeon, she did not technically hold any amount of authority over her colleagues, though that had yet to stop her from repeatedly begging everyone in the Hospital to make a habit of prompting soldiers for their elected moniker upon intake. Much to her frustration, all of them continued to ignore her relentless pleas; intra-hospital memos went ignored, verbal requests were casually dismissed, ingenuine agreements were immediately followed by inaction. Even escalating the issue to the Chief of Surgery with hopes that her request may transcend the Surgical Floor had proved fruitless, as he had promptly deemed the issue “unimportant for effective medical care, and superfluous data in an already cluttered medical chart.”

‘Easy for him to say,’ she had seethed to herself, stalking away from her superior with the raging, indignant cry of “I am not just a number!” still reverberating poignantly in her ears. While there hadn’t been a clone soldier brazen enough to shout that sentiment in her face since that… eventful… day, the nuance of his message had not fallen on deaf ears, and it quickly became a personal mission of June’s to ensure that her patients, a demographic that now predominantly consisted of clone soldiers, never felt like anything less than a person in need of medical care.

Returning the holocomputer to a dark-screened slumber, she sat back in her chair and finally permitted that unrelenting yawn to contort her features as it expanded her lungs and forced her eyes closed. The shiver that rolled uncomfortably down her spine acted as an unsavoury reminder of how late the hour had grown, and she pivoted her chair to face the window of her office, hopeful to catch that last sliver of beautiful autumn sun before it commenced its duty until morn.

Unlike her best friend Jacoba, whose earliest memories included running amok in her parents’ home with a stethoscope made of string and a pair of purple safety scissors, June’s childhood dreams did not entail ending up as a surgeon in the busiest medical facility in the galaxy. While convincing her to speak about her childhood typically proved more challenging than pulling teeth from a snarling massiff, those closest to June knew that her earliest memories were ones filled with nature: impossibly tall pillars of pine swaying in an everlasting zephyr; rolling hills adorned with an emerald carpet of clover and jewel toned flowers, the vibrancy of their exotic petals possible thanks to the extended daylight hours that only Wild Space was privileged. Acting as the apex to her childhood oasis, and perched at the end of a winding path of uniquely red clay, was a small log home; its stone chimney mercilessly emitting delicate puffs of fragrant smoke toward an impossibly large sky, and the hand-knotted hammock chair hanging from the rafters on the porch, swayed in time with the trees. It was a dichotomously sheltered yet wild upbringing, full of innocent and simple dreams; hopes and desires and plans that reached only the stars of Wild Space.

Back then, June was naught but a tiny mind, desperately hopeful to gain only that of which she was knew: a cozy home nestled between protective mountains, an overflowing rain barrel infinitely teeming with signs of micro-life, a bustling market of familiar faces, a treehouse on the edge of a forest too full of exotic flora and fauna for her to wander unsupervised, a soft blanket for a picnic, a spike to impale one of her favourite mini sausages and a roaring fire into which she could roast it…

Now, long-estranged from her family and far away from that place both geographically and mentally, life looked a lot different for Dr. Juniper Kiore. Robbed long ago of that blissful childhood naivety, she was now a hard working young woman of twenty-three with no plans to return to the home world she still deemed the galaxy’s hidden corner of paradise.

As another shiver rolled down her spine, she cast a quick glance toward the accompanying desk in that shared office; the clutter and detritus Jacoba was notorious for deserting atop that otherwise identical desktop patiently awaited its owner to arrive for her shift and plunk her purse down amidst the fray. X-Ray films from the hectivity of yesterday still clung to the backlit display board on the wall, the series of luminous images depicting a grotesquely cracked skull and the adjacent cranial hemorrhage, and a femur shattered beyond recognition.

Interpreting the permission of that first yawn as authorization to open the floodgates, June’s cheeks quickly expanded under the duress of a second yawn barely seconds after recovering from the first, forcing her eyes closed again. With an indecorous grunt, she cracked each of her cold knuckles, relishing in the way that discomfort pulled her farther out of the stupor of fatigue before she turned to retrieve the caf mug perched beside her keyboard.

“Bleh…” she grumbled instantly, lips flattening in disgust as she swirled the anaemic dregs around the bottom of the ceramic cup. There were unmistakable signs of the milk beginning to coagulate, collecting around the sides of the purple dish with each twirl of the wrist. ‘Isn’t this the mug I grabbed at lunch?’ she asked herself, eyes unfocussing under knitted brows as she struggled to piece together the hurried two minutes in which she’d dashed to the staff room for caffeine some half dozen hours ago. ‘Or maybe this is the caf from last night, and that’s the caf from today?’

Her gaze fell upon a second mug sitting daintily beside the potted plant only inches from her right hand, identical to the first in every way with the exception of a small chip along the rim, stained with a lip gloss that she was sure she hadn’t bothered to put on in several rotations.

She traded one for the other, repeating the swirling motions and watching the minute dash of milk collect in the centrifuge of dark liquid. Bringing the chipped rim to her nose, she took a gentle sniff.

“June—”

Every cell in her body, every hair on her skin, collectively seized in alarm, shoulders jerking upwards in a startled spasm while a sharp gasp slapped against the back of her throat. That panic only intensified as, what could only be described as a miniature tidal wave of the stale beige caf, cascaded over the rim of that chipped purple mug and landed with a splat on her left knee.

“Maker, you scared the shit out of me,” she gasped, pressing a hand over her pounding heart and stowing the cup heavily back onto the desk.

“Sorry.” Challa snorted from his casual lean in the threshold, arms folded over his chest. “When is Jac coming in?” he asked, gesturing with a small nod to the empty desk chair on June’s left side.

She stalled the answer on her tongue, stealing an extended second for another calming breath as her heart continued to smash against the inner walls of her chest. “She won't be here for another half hour,” June finally conceded, tipping her wrist to check the time.

‘18:56pm. No wonder I’m kriffing starving.’

He offered nothing but a small hum in response, that heavy, signature Twi-lek brow tense with unspoken complaints as if he wholly disapproved that he couldn’t simply demand the clock say what he wanted it to say.

Dr. Challa Shuk was a fiercely intelligent and highly celebrated doctor with an inherent knack for organization and a remarkably efficient, yet, consistently pleasant bedside manner; the combination proving a perfect recipe for the individual tasked with running the second busiest department in the hospital.

Seemingly overnight, the inception of the war had shifted the priorities and policies of the institution to accommodate for the Grand Army of the Republic, incidentally bringing with it the ever-present undertone of tumult and uncertainty for the staff throughout. Being the determined and capable doctor that he was, Challa rose to the occasion marvelously, shouldering the brunt of the responsibility and almost single-handedly converting the Surgical Floor from a slow-paced civilian center to a bustling combat medical zone. But, despite his unwavering commitment to both the Grand Republic Medical Facility and to medicine in general, his acceptance of the changing reality, and the shifts in policy required to ensure a smooth transition, were not widely accepted by his employees; many of the surgical department doctors were highly resistant to the procedural changes and the variation in their established routine that came with it.

June and Jacoba were the only caveats to this unfortunate behaviour, both of them still early enough in their careers to embrace the required alterations with barely a breath of skepticism. Their adaptability had earned them both significant favour with the Twi’lek Chief of Surgery, and a number of other rarely anointed perks: both girls had been gifted their own AZI-class medical assistant droid to which they were permitted to utilize for whatever means they deemed appropriate, both were allotted the unheralded freedom to implete their own surgical schedules (much to their colleagues dismay), and the duo had been presented with their own office, an offering typically reserved for those who’d transitioned toward a career in the field medical research.

But Challa’s favourtism of the pair had seemed to sour as of late, the jovial smiles he typically offered in response to their notorious shenanigans had melded into snorts of derision and subdued grimaces. Last Primeday had seen him stick his scowling face into their office and bark that Jacoba’s chair had developed an irritating squeak that needed to be rectified immediately; two days later, he’d summoned June into his own office and reprimanded her for having inappropriately cold hands, hissing that he was growing very tired of fielding continued patient complaints that their doctor’s fingers felt like icicles. While moderately affronted at the time, June merely shouldered the chastization, both unable to deny that her hands were always cold, and very aware that root of his bespoiled mood did not stem from the subnormal temperature of her skin…

“You weren’t about to drink that were you?” Challa inquired from the door, nose scrunched in disgust as he watched her snatch a kleenex from the box on the desk and dab at the stain on her pant leg.

She huffed and rolled her eyes, watching the unabsorbent paper square fail to remove even a fraction of that putrid stain. “I was thinking about it,” she retorted, crinkling the tissue and tossing it into the trash bin under her desk. “I was trying to sniff out how old it was when you gave me a damn heart attack.”

“How ladylike of you,” he teased, ignoring her reproachful glare. “And there’s no time for caf right now. I heard you agreed to stay late again tonight, so I need you on deck to tackle this case.” He shifted his weight to his feet and unfolded his arms, pulling his datapad from the breast pocket of his lab coat and prodding it awake. “I’m transmitting you the chart of your next patient,” he advised, violet eyes appearing neon whilst bathed by the illumination from the device in his hands. “It’s a simple laceration repair sent up from the emergency department, but it’s been sitting for a while and the FX-7’s are still tied up. See that it’s dealt with and discharged, and then meet me in my office.”

Her datapad chimed from the table in front of her, needlessly alerting the room that she’d successfully received the details of her next mission though she refused to acknowledge it, her sapphire eyes now narrowed skeptically at her boss. An abashed silence filled the space between them as he averted his eyes from hers, the atypical nature of his request not lost on either of them.

“A laceration repair?” June repeated with an unmitigated scoff, cocking an eyebrow at his obviously intentional silence. “From emerge? Are you kidding me?”

Her incredulity must have been the expected response, as he’d already reached to pinch the narrow bridge of his nose before she’d finished voicing her aggrievement.

“Eight battalions landed at lunch, June,” he declaimed over her final few words, eyes closed against a wave of barely-restrained impatience. “They’re beyond swamped down there. And like I just told you, this one has been sitting for too long already. I want it dealt wi—”

“But Rondi is the on-call trauma doc today,” June protested, gesticulating wildly towards the door as if Dr. Rondi Reid was eagerly waiting outside her office to accept the umbrageously trivial case being thrust under her nose. “And I’m only staying late to do the thoracotomy. I just sent him downstairs for prelim scan—”

“Jacoba will scrub in when she gets here,” Challa exhorted, dismissing her disgruntlement with a wave of his hand. “Besides, I have something important to discuss with you afterward and we both know that surgery would have you here all night.”

The ire bubbling in her gut rendered her apathetic to everything other than the injustice of the situation, and the pleading flash of his violet eyes was missed entirely as she clamped hers closed and choked out a dramatic whine.

“Challa come on,” she begged, lurching forward in her chair and interlacing her hands in a feigned prayer, “I’ve been staring at his x-days all day. I basically just redid his entire Kaminoan report because some people can’t be bothered with details, I know this case the best. That’s my surgery.”

“You will go where you’re needed, Kiore, and I won’t hear another word about it.”

The conversation was over, his statement drenched in a finality more potent than the stench of that day old caf. The rapidly darkening tone of his voice in combination with the uncommon use of her last name meant there was no point but to concede to his authority, and it was with great difficulty that she bit back the slew of arguments still poised for their turn on her tongue.

“Fine,” she grumbled, looking deliberately away from his stern expression and collecting the datapad from her desk. “But this ‘meeting in your office later’ better be a party in my honour for being such a kriffing team player.”

“Not quite,” he abjured following a frustrated albeit amused snort. “Now get to 18-S. And for everyone’s sake, leave the attitude here.”

June glared at his retreating figure, waiting until the tips of those magnificent, sand coloured lekku disappeared down the hall before throwing herself dramatically against the back of the chair, an insolent groan rumbling loudly in her chest.

“Laceration repair!” she hissed to the ceiling, the realization that a fresh cup of caf was now entirely out of the question pulling a false sob from her lips. “My thoracotomy… all damn day I’ve been prepping… ‘they’re swamped down there’… yeah, yeah… aren’t we all…”

It seemed no amount of grousing and groaning would appease the indignance still inflated in her chest, and her datapad continued to mock her with its innocent luminance as she tipped her head forward and roughly pulled her long dark hair into a ponytail. When she had affixed her mane firmly to the nape of her neck, June begrudgingly snatched the device from her desk and opened the holochart Challa had so graciously gifted.

DSGN: CT-5863 GEN: 1–B RNK: Captain (742nd)

ASSN SECT: 91st MRC DRCT SPVR: CT-411 STATUS: Active Duty

Assigned priority: CLASS D. OPEN WOUND: NON life-threatening.

Intake notes: subdermal lac. quadrant 6— full thickness separation, jagged edges from unknown source. PT reluctant to divulge cause of injury. PT uncooperative when offered NBA injection. Declined having accepted NBA from combat medic at time of injury. Advised to remove all vesture from waist up. Hema scan still outstanding.

“Oh fantastic,” June griped to the cactus on the desk, her mood now as prickly as it’s sharp little spines. “Refused a pain injection— twice, has been sitting here for Maker-knows how long, nobody remembered to ask his kriffing name, and I have no Lumi to transcribe for me. A glorious ending to another glorious day.”

She tucked the datapad aggressively into her armpit and stalked from the office, flicking her ponytail onto her shoulder as she went.

The bedlam of the open ward met her at the mouth of the hallway, that staggering din nearly forcing her eyes to narrow against the onslaught of noise as she made her way around the unusually barren welcome station. The dissonant harmony of a dozen monitors, shrilly beeping in the chorus of chaos, echoed around the white walls and attacked her eardrums with a gusto that she hadn’t quite become accustomed to yet. The deserted nature of that central hub was immediately explained by the sheer pandemonium lining the hallways, and every other step toward 18-S saw her ducking out of the way of a rolling FX-7 droid, hurrying to answer its urgent summons.

The egregious sound of violent gagging assaulted her ears as she passed room 12-N, shortly followed by the spectacular splat of what could only have been vomit hitting the floor. ‘Control your face,’ she reminded herself, upper lip quickly flattening in disgust as she back-peddled to that doorway and prodded the button that would summon both a sanitation droid and the nearest surgical student.

Room 18-S was the second last room of the south wing, and bore the classification of ‘Outpatient Room’, meaning it was only modestly equipped, and outfitted for only minimally invasive, single treatment procedures. The hoverbeds were never prepared for an overnight stay unlike those in the Northern and Eastern halls, and in place of the large diagnostic scanners that typically consumed all available real estate on those sterile grey walls, were lockers acting as safe storage for the overflow for other rooms, and containing a varied assortment of extra medical supplies, sterile tool packs, and maintenance equipment.

Doing her best to resurrect whatever was left of her dwindling patience, she stopped in front of the closed door of her destination. Praying to the stars above that whoever was waiting on the other side was neither vomiting on the floor like the poor chap in room 12, and didn’t feel the need to berate her about his heinously long wait, she knocked gently on that steel barrier and waited.

***

FOREWORD | NEXT

Tag list: @anxiouspineapple99 @sinfulsalutations @starrylothcat @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @secondaryrealm @dystopicjumpsuit @freesia-writes @sev-on-kamino @littlemissmanga @523rdrebel @wings-and-beskar @wolffegirlsunite @sunshinesdaydream @clonemedickix @drafthorsemath @jediknightjana @moonlightwarriorqueen @starstofillmydream @mooncommlink @wizardofrozz @trixie2023 @clonethirstingisreal @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @mythical-illustrator

#starqueenswrittenworks #The Only Exception #oc sundays #captain Howzer x fem!OC #Captain Howzer x OC #Howzer x fem!OC #3rd POV

[oneweirdbookaddict]

Whumptober day seventeen!

Touch aversion, leave me alone. Character focus: Legend and Hyrule, little bit of Wars

726 words

Warnings for injury, mentions of stitches, touch aversion. Let me know if there should be more!

~~~~

Sky was the go to for hugs.

You wanted a hug?

Sky was always willing.

Always happy to be comforting, willing to lend a shoulder to cry on.

And he just had something about him that made him easy to go to- he didn’t ask questions until conversation was initiated by the hugger.

Some of them spent more time hugging Sky than others- Wind, for example, was much more willing to go to Sky for a quick hug than Legend.

Touch aversion was common among them- sporadically or usual, they all had times when contact was unwelcome.

Just a side effect of the trauma- like most things are.

They respected it, always asked before any sort of contact, made it an unspoken rule to do their best to not touch those who consistently didn’t want contact.

Legend was very specific about who was allowed to touch him- Hyrule was a sometimes, Wind was a sometimes, Wars, surprisingly, was a most of the time.

The others were pretty much always a no, except in cases of emergencies.

Four was not a touchy person- didn’t seek it out, didn’t initiate it, but didn’t actively avoid it. He’d awkwardly lean into a hug if asked, but he’d be stiff as a board.

Wars was a big no- he’d initiate it at times, but it was rare. Touching him without permission if you didn’t need to was a massive no.

Sky, as far as they’ve all seen, has never turned down a hug or any sort of contact.

Time won’t turn down a hug or anything, but won’t seek one out. They privately wonder if he thinks he’s too adult to be able to ask for a hug.

Wild was weird- some days he’d rival Sky for the most cuddly Link, and others he avoided it more than Legend. Always best to just ask.

Wind was almost always touchy, always happy for a hug, a high five, a fist bump, any sort of contact. If he turns it down, something's up.

Twi was like Sky- never had they seen the rancher turn down a hug, he was another go to for hugs, always willing to provide a shoulder for anything.

Once his Wolfie secret came out, he’d even occasionally let them pet him as a wolf.

They found out these patterns early on into the group’s meeting, and respected them.

Nothing dire enough had occurred to put someone in a position where they had no choice but to be touched, even if they didn’t want to be.

Until now.

Knock on wood- the second he thinks these things it happens.

“Don’t touch me!” Legend growls, using the hand that isn’t pressed against the gaping wound on his side to swat weakly at Wars.

“Vet, c’mon, man, you need stitches-”

“No! I said no! Don’t you touch me, get away-”

“You’re going to bleed out.” Wars argues, dodging another weak attack.

“Leave me alone!” Legend snaps, and something in his eyes- the absolute panic in them- stops Wars.

“Legend. I don’t want to do this to spite you. You need medical attention, though. If you’d prefer someone else-”

“Leave me alone! I’m fine, it’s not going to kill me, I can do the stitches myself, please-”

“We both know you can’t, Legend, you need to let someone help you. Who-”

“Don’t touch me!” Legend hisses as Hyrule holds a hand out, and both pause.

“I can heal you. I have a spell.” Hyrule offers softly.

Legend pauses. Looks trapped, eyes staring at Hyrule.

“No stitches. I’ll just have to touch for… five seconds. That’s it. I’ll do it. Is that ok with you?”

“You shouldn’t waste that on me, that’s a powerful spell and someone else at some point will be hurt-”

“We can worry about that later. It won’t take much to heal this, so I’ll be fine, too. I just need your permission. Is that ok?”

Legend takes a shaking breath, still hesitant.

But nods slowly.

Hyrule offers a gentle smile, kneeling next to the vet when Wars moves, putting a gentle hand on the cut.

His hands glow for a moment, and then fade.

And all that’s left of Legend’s wound is blood on his tunic and Hyrule’s hands.

Silence for a minute. Then Rulie stands, offering a small smile. “Let’s see if we can get that blood out. There’s a small stream down this way, it’s not far.”

Legend takes a shaking breath, nodding and standing as well. And the two walk off, Legend's hand slowly moving to take Hyrule’s as they walk.

~~~~

#whumptober2023 #whumptober 2023 #whumptober writing #no. 17 #leave me alone #touch aversion #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu legend #legend lu #linked universe legend #legend linked universe #lu Hyrule #Hyrule lu #hyrule linked universe #linked universe hyrule #lu wars #wars lu #lu warriors #warriors lu

[r-ene]

05.19.23

It's really finals for this semester. my exams for all classes are sporadically scheduled, depending on the prof and us, the class as we get asked when we would want to take the finals. even the professors are itching to stop with academics and get a vacation.

currently i've taken my minors exams and pediatrics. i'm very proud of my pediatric final grade ?? with this i conclude that professors significantly impact students' performance in their classes. my professor for cardioanatomy and physiology, neuroanatomy, microbiology for 2nd year and pediatrics and neonatal for this semester is one of the best educators i've come across. actually most of my professors are, but doc's leaving for a month and will stop teaching since he got promoted in his hospital into a very big position and today was our last-ever meeting with him and i just wanted to show some appreciation, hahaha

so, yeah. as i complete my finals requirements and exams, i will do so with a grateful spirit because the professors in my current university really brings out the best in me. i'm more confident now with my brain and self and i think most of my social anxiety's went away that i agreed to participate in the national convention for an event ?? although one factor for that is because my team consists of my close friends, but still. really big step and i'm proud of myself and insanely grateful for everything, haha.

anw wish me luck with finding a uni to cross-enroll to this midyear to complete my subjects so i could go on to internship next year !!

#r-ene #r ene #respiratory therapy #respiratory therapy major #study #collegeblr #uniblr #college student #respiratory therapy student #uni #respiratory student #respiratory #studies #studying #students #student #college studyblr #college life #college #university student #life update #uni life #uni student #uni studyblr #university #university life #university studyblr #update

[multi-level-shipper]

Update Post- Moving Blogs

Hey guys,

I'll be perfectly honest and say I'm not sure how much interaction happens on this blog as it stands- I appreciate those who do comment, reblog etc, but things have steadily declined over the years.

Honestly this blog has been running for years, ever since 2016, and I'm unsure how to proceed running it when I feel as though I've changed a lot as a person. In some ways nothing's changed, but in other ways it feels like trying to put on clothes that are too small. I thought about purging all my old content and just staying here, but then I'd be losing a museum of the fun I've had on here...and I don't want that to happen.

Also, I really hate talking about my personal life, but I feel as though I need to bring up a few things.

The past four years have not been kind to me. This year has been the least kind of those four years. I had to move very suddenly and VERY messily with the help of a few friends. I had a LOT of mental health struggles and ongoing depression and a very bleak outlook on my life. I've figured out a lot of things alone that I shouldn't have had to. Most of this year I have been living in survival mode, just taking it day by day. THIS is why I have been ten times more sporadic and unable to hold down any kind of consistency when it comes to my social medias, thus making me feel worse and eventually leading to a horrible art burnout where it just hurt to pick up my pen. (Said burnout is over, but it did happen recently.)

I'll reblog where I'm moving to in a day or two and leave it pinned, honestly I'm tired right now and it's the night of my birthday so I don't want to spend any more time overthinking.

Questions, comments, etc are welcome. I have a Ko-Fi tip jar if you wanna throw anything my way. (I've gotten single digit donations that have helped my ass in the past, so anything helps.)

I'm trying to stay positive, I've still got ongoing baggage but I'm trying to learn how to carry it gracefully rather than keep waiting for a lake to dump it in.

#general tomfoolery #blog move #archer kacey

[subtilitas]

Hello from the eGrave to any readers that might still be here. It’s been a very unceremonious and slow decent to silence here at subtilitas for the past few months, certainly part of a larger trend from the past year or so of much more infrequent/sporadic posting. 

I wanted to provide a little update since, after 12+ years of running this site, it feels a bit unfair to ignore it further. Most of the absence coincides with starting my own architectural studio (above) about around 6 months ago here in Los Angeles (after disbanding my previous studio, which had been active the past 7 years). If you are interested in my personal work, you can follow our aptly named studio Subtila / on instagram. 

Now that the dust has settled a bit and the new year is here, I’m excited to begin posting again (starting today!) and spending more time sharing projects. Not sure if it will be at the same frequency of years past, but at least reintroducing some daily consistency here (www) and on the instagram. 

Subtilitas has always been an incredibly rewarding hobby since I started it in November of 2009. Even though much has changed since then, from the explosion and variety of architectural websites and social media, for all of its positives and negatives, I always enjoyed coming back to this mostly unchanged and poorly designed basic blog. I hope that in all of the noise out there, it can be a place to continue to find a small selection of interesting projects.

-Jeff

#subtilitas

[bebbie-bilinski]

Hi! Do you have any adhd/asd stiles headcanons? They're always so fun to read!

ohmygosh hello!! boy do i have plenty of headcanons pertaining to autism ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

(apologies in advance this is going to be incredibly self indulgent as a lot of these are based on ways autism shows up for me. i'll put a little "*" next to those!)

Autisic Stiles Stilinski Headcanons

it was incredibly obvious that he was on the spectrum when he was growing up - he didnt always respond to his name when called, no eye contact with anyone aside from his mom and dad, had the same outfit in multiples because thats the only thing he felt comfortable wearing, stuff like that! since then he's expanded who he allows himself to make eye contact with like anyone from the pack but its pretty sporadic eye contact and not consistent

was in special education for a portion of elementary school until it was deemed he didnt quite need that anymore *

selective mutism - as a kid he rarely spoke more than a couple sentences throughout the span of a week and because of this he was taught ASL and still uses it when he experiences speech loss (the pack has taken it upon themselves to learn at least the basics to understand stiles when he switches over to that) also sidenote to any autistic people who may be reading this i highly recommend learning whatever version you have of sign language in your country its been such a positive change in my life its so worth learning!

hes a sensory seeker and sensory avoider but his most favorite textures are: rocks, sherpa, faux fur (only the soft and very short kind, water, bamboo fabric, sorta-wet dirt, door frames, beards (if any of the guys in the pack grow out their facial hair get ready for lots of pats from stiles), and the feeling of running his hands over his freshly-buzzed hair *

stims - his stims consist of popping his lips, shaking his head side to side, sucking in air, rolling his tongue, hand flapping, knee bouncing, swaying, spinning, humming, grunting, pacing, touching the textures he likes, having a particular song on repeat, pursing his lips, and laughing! the ones pertaining to age regression are: rattles, having a pacifier in his mouth, and the sound blocks make like getting tumbled over *

safe foods - he is an incredibly picky eater but has safe foods he either has had everyday for years now or some for special occasions: oatmeal, toast, curly fries, lemonade, grilled cheese, mac n cheese (are we seeing a theme here haha), ramen, any sort of veggie-meats, soup, any sort of snack that crunches like cheese itz goldfish veggie straws etc.

his bed - he likes his bed in a very particular way i'll even throw in a pic of the bed frame he has!

he lines all the edges with stuffed animals and/or pillows and does not like having his bed made neat, he likes to keep it looking like a nest and hes very serious about that Noah knows better than to make his bed if he's ever tidying up around the house! he only sleeps with a jersey comforter and a 25lb weighted blanket and does not like laying his head on his pillow but rather hugging it so most nights he sleeps flat against the mattress *

outings - any sort of long outings is going to require a bag of sorts and stiles will often forget to bring such bag, his dad always brings it and makes sure to tell anyone he might be with (like Derek, Lydia, Scott etx) to bring The Bag ™ it consists of: noise canceling headphones, a couple of fidget toys, at least one small stuffed animal, his backup anxiety medication, sunglasses, and a change of the most sensory friendly clothes *

#teen wolf agere #pack pup #autistic stiles stilinski #age regressor stiles stilinksi

[ficsex]

Mx. FicSex, thank you so much for your blog! I hope this is a kind a supportive ask and not a bugging one, but I've noticed that you post really sporadically, and I wondered if you've ever considered using the queue function, to space out your answers? That way, your blog could have more consistent content, and maybe you wouldn't have to post so often!

Hey anon - I do use the queue - that's why when there's a burst of content, you get two a day for a few days in a few, and not six answers all at once.

I have a full time job, two part time jobs, two community volunteer positions, a needs-a-bunch-of-work house, four partners, three cats, and a hell of a combo of anxiety, depression, and ADHD. I am not going to promise you that I'm "doing my best" at keeping up on this blog, because the truth is that this blog is my literal, absolute lowest priority item. I could space out the queue items more, and have just one post a day, but that wouldn't change much either.

Followers will just need to be okay with this being super sporadic, because that's not likely to change. Not being a butt-face here, I just want to be suuuuuper up-front. I love this blog, and I can't spend much more time on it than I do. But the time I do get to spend on it makes me really happy! And I hope it makes other people happy, too.

:)

#it me #don't get annoyed with anon #I'm taking the ask in good faith

[hausofneptune]

[the astrology of pedro pascal] - soft mars aspects (major) | mars trine uranus

hey y’all! in this series we’ll be covering major soft/positive aspects (conjunctions, sextiles, and trines) to pedro’s mars. he doesn’t have any major hard aspects outside of the square to his venus, but the minor positive aspects to his mars (quintiles/biquintiles and septiles) will be covered in an upcoming series, as well as the rest of the major and minor aspects to the rest of his planets and asteroids in his chart! i also want to note that when it comes to these aspects, they have to be examined through the lens of the entire chart, as they’re influenced by a myriad of factors within it.

disclaimers | masterlist | ask

mars trine uranus (within 8.1°)

in this aspect, the planetary bodies are harmonious and their energies are naturally and positively expressed. mars represents our motivation, libido, and assertiveness, and how we navigate our aggression and anger. it rules war, violence, and accidents, as well as things that are deemed traditionally masculine. as venus’ counterpart, it’s indicative of our sense of masculinity, as well as the type of man/masc-presenting person we’re attracted to, or the darker/yang-like qualities we exhibit ourselves and are drawn to in others. uranus signifies sudden and unexpected events. it’s the co-ruler of aquarius in modern astrology, and represents innovation, eccentricity, rebellion, and unpredictability. it’s also a generational planet, and it stays in the same sign for 7 years, meaning everyone born in that time frame will share the same placement. 

this grants the native with an energetic, and at times sporadic, level of determination and drive. they can be extremely innovative in their creative output, as well as the ways in which they navigate conflict. they tend to be nonconformists, and are extremely confident in their unconventional views and self-expression. they may be drawn towards tech, or more non-traditional fields where they can express their creativity. they may reject the idea of living a conventional life and settling down with a family and working a 9 to 5, and would much rather live life on their own terms and jump from one thing to the next. 

with uranus’ influence, the native may want to be amongst a group of like-minded individuals. although, their martian side can influence them in the opposite direction, and they may take a hyper-independent or self-important approach to their endeavors. they may prefer acting on their “gut feelings” over being pragmatic and objective, and act immediately when they feel inspired. experiencing “highs and lows” may be a consistent theme in their lives, they may go from being inspired, juggling multiple things at once, and potentially overworking themselves, to feeling unmotivated or “stuck,” and resistant to new ideas. 

this “high and low” conundrum may also translate to other facets of their lives, as this can manifest as random emotional outbursts. although, these natives tend to entertain conflict only if they’re certain that they’re in the right. this may show up most in youth as temper tantrums; in adulthood, their perspective is more influenced by their high ideals and less by a sense of egotism. growing up, they may have enjoyed hobbies that contrasted with those of their peers, and grew passionate about them despite potential feelings of rejection or isolation. these feelings can follow them into adulthood and manifest as emotional avoidance or insensitivity to others. 

in relationships, they may require more of a “cerebral connection” with their partner (similar to the moon sextile uranus and moon sextile BML aspects pedro also has). they may find themselves attracted to people who challenge them on their ideals or inspire them to think outside the box. they may require constant stimulation in order to not become “bored,” and therefore could struggle to settle or commit to long-term relationships. 

this can also be indicative of feeling comfortable in one’s sexual identity, these natives may enjoy exploring the taboo and experimenting in their intimate lives. they may be the types who can detach emotionally from their intimate partners, which may bring ease to any FWB situations they participate in. their “high and low” nature can also translate into this area of their lives, as they may have bouts of feeling hyper-sexual or insatiable, and then become celibate for weeks or months at a time, and potentially direct that energy towards other areas of their lives like their careers. 

ultimately, this aspect can influence the native to have great confidence in their creative endeavors, as they’re naturally inclined to be pioneers and push the bounds of what’s deemed “normal” and acceptable. they’re typically very open, understanding people, but may need to put effort towards not being too overly dogmatic about their ideals and beliefs. they embrace the possibility of the unknown, leading them towards expansion that others may limit themselves from out of fear. 

as always, if anyone has any of the placements or aspects mentioned in this post i’d love to hear how it personally manifests in your own life and how it impacts your personality, or if anyone has anything to add in general feel free to reach out and let me know!

#mars trine uranus #mars uranus aspects #pedro pascal #pedro pascal astrology #uranus astrology #pedro all mars aspects #pedroMSMSA #pedro pascal fandom #the last of us hbo #mars astrology #the mandalorian #joel miller #oberyn martell #pedro pascal birth chart #din djarin #astrology #astrology notes #astrology observations #birth chart #astro notes #birth chart reading #natal chart reading #birth chart observations #natal chart observations #astrology aspects #pedro pascal natal chart

[bohemian-rhapsody-in-blue]

Bebop Crew July Challenge, Day 1: Midnight

Thanks to the @bebopcrew community for the prompt list! I’ll be writing fics based on their July 30-Day Challenge all this month (if I can!); I’ll also be posting them to AO3 here!

Fittingly, I wrote most of this around/past midnight—my sleep schedule is so messed up these days that I’m most productive between the hours of 11 PM and 4 AM, so that’s probably when I’ll be getting most of these stories posted. So if you see me posting, for instance, my fic for Day 1 on what’s technically July 2, well…that’s what I have to say for myself.

This fic was also (minorly) influenced by @graysongraysoff’s first fic for Beboptober 2020, “3, 2, 1…Let’s Jam!”

Also, enjoy this rejected first line: “There are many benefits to being a marine biologist bounty hunter….”

As the clock ticked past midnight, Spike and Jet sat on neighboring barstools, keeping a sharp lookout for the bounty head who was rumored to pass through this bar tonight—or from a message from Faye indicating that the bounty head had visited the bar where she was stationed, instead. There had been no sign of the guy for a while, and the only messages from Faye just consisted of her complaints of boredom. (The bar was on a relatively remote asteroid, after all.) The anticipation and the silence—other than the occasional attempt at conversation from Jet or the crack of peanut shells (no drinks for them tonight, or at least minimal drinks; they needed to focus)—gave Spike a lot of time to think about the reasons he’d become a bounty hunter in the first place. The reasons he’d chosen this offbeat, freelance profession to fill this part of his life—such as it was.

Sure, the paychecks were irregular, often scanty, and—more often than the crew would like—nonexistent. And he wasn’t one to pretend that the money didn’t matter, that he was purely in the bounty-hunting business for the love of the job or whatever. And sure, one could go on and on about catching bad guys, keeping them off the streets, bringing justice to the world—and Spike supposed those were advantages too, though he preferred to leave the philosophizing to Jet. And they definitely weren’t the reason he’d picked up the work. Anyway, on nights like these—when he and Jet and Faye were in their element, and he was sure a fat stack of Woolongs was on their way—Spike preferred to focus on the more practical benefits of the job.

Spike knew he’d chafe in some corporate 9-to-5 job, or in retail or customer service, or in any position with set hours and fake smiles and a supervisor breathing down his neck. He’d struggle and squirm as if wearing an ill-fitting jacket. And he couldn’t imagine having to say things like “actionable items” or “let’s circle back” with a straight face. He often griped and complained about the woes of bounty hunting, but he was feeling unusually optimistic tonight, and he had to admit, the freedom that this job afforded him suited him perfectly.

Take the work hours, for instance. Twelve A.M. and he was wide awake, raring for a catch; in twelve hours he’d probably be passed out on the Bebop’s couch. And the job was so unpredictable that in another twelve hours, he might still be asleep. This was the kind of schedule that suited him; he wouldn’t have it any other way.

And to be honest, midnight wasn’t a bad time to be up and working. The sky outside the bar was pitch-black, but the streets hummed with life. As Spike looked around, he saw flickering neon signs, sporadic streetlights, headlights of cars and spacecrafts, and the occasional tiny flame of a lighter filling the darkness. And while he and Jet were quiet, the bar was replete with lively conversation, raucous laughter, and the sounds of games of pool, foosball, and darts, often accompanied by wild cheering. These were technically Spike’s work hours. This bar was sort of his office. The gun resting securely at his side served as his office supplies. What boring corporate job would let him say that?

For another thing, he didn’t have to deal with any stupid dress codes; he never had to memorize the meanings of words like “business casual” or wear the same polo shirt with the same embroidered logo of the same megacorporation as everyone else. He did business dressed up in a suit and tie because he wanted to, and, in his opinion, it looked stylish as hell. (As bonuses, it also allowed him a lot of freedom of movement and was very comfortable, as was evident from the few times Ed had stolen and wrapped herself in it, gleefully flapping the ends of the sleeves.)

Perhaps the best aspect of the job, though, was that every day of it was different. It brought the Bebop crew in contact with such a wide variety of criminals and other strange characters—from senile old chessmasters, to vindictive bombers using teddy bears as their weapons, to homicidal genetically-engineered clowns—that no two people they encountered were ever the same. And if Spike decided a bounty head was too boring, or too much of a small fry, he didn’t have a boss forcing him to take it. (More often, he had an empty bank account and a disapproving look from Jet forcing him to take it—but that was neither here nor there.) Also, the work took Spike and his crewmates pretty much everywhere in the Solar System. He was constantly on the move, never staying in any one place for long. It suited his restless spirit perfectly—and made sure that nothing, or no one, from his past would be able to catch up to him.

“Spike.” Jet’s voice startled him out of his thoughts. “That’s the guy.”

Spike glanced over to where Jet was gesturing, and sure enough, the muscular, grizzled man entering the bar, with a suspiciously gun-shaped bulge under his trenchcoat, matched the description in the criminal records and the picture on Big Shot exactly.

With a grin, Spike rested his hand on his own gun. “Let’s get him.”

Sometimes, when he was in a more brooding mood than tonight, he’d reflect on how his life never felt real. How it felt more like a constant dream he could never wake up from. The ephemeral, meandering nature of bounty-hunting, with its strange and amorphous structure, felt dreamlike sometimes, too. And for someone on the outskirts of society, seeking autonomy—well, he guessed that applied to his whole group of crewmates, in one way or another—it was perfect. As much as he liked to complain about the job, it fit him better than he’d like to admit.

And here he was now, in the dead of night in a random bar on an even more random asteroid, easily dodging the bounty head’s blows and landing his own—without making too much of a scene that attracted the rest of the bar. The fight was over quickly enough that the man didn’t even need to pull out his gun. Just the way Spike liked it. As he threw the final punch that rendered the man unconscious and Jet tied him up, he was completely comfortable. Relaxed. In his element.

There were worse ways to spend a dream.

#cowboy bebop #bebop crew #july 30-day challenge #prompt challenge #anime #spike spiegel #jet black #midnight #bounty hunting #character study #fic #my fic #textpost #maya’s musings #maya’s masterpieces #hi bebop crew! i'm not dead!!! #apologies for just disappearing from the discord for a while #sometimes mental health just gets to be...A Lot #and sometimes the way to self-regulate is to take the pressure off yourself and write NO bebop fanfic #and other times the way to self-regulate is to write 1000 WORDS of bebop fanfic #all while listening to the killers' 'the cowboys' christmas ball' #20 times #on repeat #in july #that's just the way it is

[emmashouldbewriting]

What I find really interesting and compelling so the argument that Kate is so lazy and workshy she won’t deliver as Princess of Wales and she’ll have the lowest number of engagements out of everyone like when she was Duchess. But what we’ve seen recently is an appropriate scale-up of her work and engagement numbers. She’s working more - maybe it’s not the Anne numbers the detractors want, but it’s an increase. I think this is great!

Maybe it’s sustainable and her numbers only go up from here. Maybe her numbers go back down in a month or two. But either way, there’s been an obvious change in her work schedule/work habits that makes it clear she understands that being Princess of Wales = more responsibilities and she intends to deliver.

(I also think the scale-up now does indicate that she and William were asked to hold back through the spring because of the coronation and a want to highlight Charles and Camilla without “competition”.)

I think she has a pattern. They tend to work a lot more Sept-March than in the cooler months and their summer work is a bit more sporadic. They're definitely more consistent at this time of year imo, probably because there's more breaks/stuff with school in the summer. I don't think there was a 'scale back' like people think. It doesn't benefit the monarchy to "hide" the heir to the throne and his wife, especially when they always poll as the most popular. There's really not some anti-Wales conspiracy at Buck Palace lol

We know how far out their schedules are planned, and for me personally, I've always said nothing much would change in their first year as the Waleses. Things like the Early Years campaign from earlier this year would have been in the works for ages, way before QEII died, so a huge amount of Catherine's schedule would have been taken up by it. Late 2022 and at minimum the first half of 2023 would have been "planned" as them being the Cambridges. I think we will see more from them now as their schedules are planned befitting their position as heir. I hope that's the case.

But then I've always been on the side of them being more consistent over their actual workload increasing, so there's that.