#Reliable developers

[bet-on-me-13]

Steph's Year of Recovery

So! Danny noticed that a new face had made it's way into town. Two new faces actually, an older lady known as Dr Leslie, and a girl about his age called Steph.

He first met them when he was at the hospital for one of his parents. They had stood too close to an explosion again, and he met them while he was in the waiting Area.

Dr Leslie was a strict but obviously caring older woman, who seemed to be the one taking care of Steph as a kind of maternal figure, or maybe more like an Aunt. She greeted him simply and then walked away to talk with the Secretary, leaving him to talk to Steph.

Steph was a blond girl in a Wheelchair, and he could see bandages piking out of her clothes as he talked to her. She explained that she had been in an Accident a few weeks ago that left her wheelchair bound for a while, and that she had come to Amity for their surprisingly good Medical Centers.

He and Steph got along really well, and by the end of it he asked her for her Number so they could continue talking later. They stayed in touch, and when she was finally permitted to leave the Hospital, he introduced her to his friends. They all got along like a House on Fire, both figuratively and in one memorable case very literally (Vlad had pissed them off okay!)

Eventually Steph recovered enough that she moved from a Wheelchair to Crutches, and their shenanigans got even more chaotic (Vlad hadn't even pissed them off, this time was just for fun)

The only thing Danny could complain about was the fact that Steph was hiding something from them.

She said that she had been in an Accident a while ago, which was why they had come to Amity in the first place. But Danny knew it was more than that.

He could sense lingering traces of Death coming from her after all.

...

Steph honestly loved her current life.

Sure she had lost everything, her home, her health, her friends, her life, but she had gained new things too! Like Danny and the Gang! They were honestly some of the best friends she had ever had, and for some reason they just clicked with her instantly.

Danny was interesting and funny, Sam was vegan and a badass, Tucker was smart and witty, they all fit with her personality perfectly! It almost felt like she bad been friends with them for years. (She ignored the way her heart skipped a beat when she saw them)

But she still couldn't shake the sense that they were hiding something from her.

She knew it had something to do with the Ghost Problem in the town. And wasn't that a kicker, there was a whole Supernatural Ghost Outbreak in this Town and nobody knew about it. Dr Leslie had said that Amity was off the map enough to hide from Bruce, but she hadn't mentioned it was hidden from the Justice League itself!

Danny, Sam, and Tucker definitely knew more about it than they let on however. Whenever a Ghost Attack would happen, at least one of them would rush off with some practiced excuse and return after the Ghost Attack was over all dirty. She could guess what was going on, and she really didn't like it.

(This had killed her, she had died doing what they were doing, she didn't want to lose them)

Eventually she had to confront them, coincidentally on the same day they decided to confront her.

"Are you Vigilantes?" / "Did you die?"

"..."

"What?" / "What?"

[tomboyyyaoi]

found a smelly jacket in a big ditch

[yikesy]

I'm aware of how random this sounds

But because rrverse Apollo and rrverse Hermes have a tense and distant relationship, I was thinking about how differently they interact with their kids, and my thoughts spiralled until I thought of Luke.

I feel like an Apollo and Luke interaction would be so interesting. Luke probably wouldn't like him due how May got all messed up from trying to be his Oracle, but I feel like Apollo would be a kind uncle BECAUSE he knows what Luke's fate is (and probably disapproves about how Hermes treated the whole thing).

Like remember when Apollo once said that he would of adopted Frank if he could? I would like to think he would of wanted to adopt Luke too.

Your thoughts?

oh luke DOES NOT have a good impression of apollo. apart from the may thing let's not forget the event that kinda radicalized him was HALCYON GREEN. it's very interesting actually because he sees hermes as uncaring and neglectful but he sees apollo as actively malicious

so he thinks hermes is The Worst bc of his inaction but then comes apollo who he perceives as too involved, in the bad way (he's not, luke who by pure coincidence witnessed two apollo related atrocities before sixteen is an outlier and shouldn't be counted) Lots of wires crossed

but sadly I think bc of that his reaction to apollo would be very,, measured?? like, he thinks he's evil!! apollo would come down to see what's the deal with this kid everyone's making such a fuss about and luke would be very polite and amiable and and apollo would get hermes vibes™™ that he's just acting like that to hide he's scared and uncomfortable and then apollo would leave bc he doesn't want to keep subjecting him to that by forcing his presence. but he wouldn't know just How Much he was lying then and the depth of his Issues

but if they somehow got into a situation where luke gives up any attempt at preservation and GOES OFF at apollo (which he would) apollo would, well he would respond very calmly and pointedly take responsibility for everything which would confuse THE FUCK out of luke

and then he would go directly to hermes and tell him he needs to get down here now this shit is serious and hermes would be like "you know I can't why are you making it more painful than it already is" and apollo would be like "you're being an extremist and oddly stubborn about this" and they would go at it for a looong time.

apollo's opinion on luke's fate is that hermes may not be able to control or change it but what hermes can control is his own relationship with luke and the way he's hurting him right now, that if tragedy is going to happen anyway and you love the one it's heading to, then it's your duty to balance the scales and steal moments from between the lines of prophecy, so that happiness WAS there, even if it didn't change anything. that hermes is not only withdrawing his love but causing more misery to an already doomed person... he cannot stand for it

in the end apollo would end up routinely dragging hermes to see luke bc hermes does want to but he won't admit anything to apollo and he'd be sooo awkward and pathetic with luke and luke would stare at him with disdain and judgement. in the end apollo ends up acting like a kind of particularly forceful family therapist

so lmao from luke's perspective it would be like "this guy I don't like and I don't understand, for an unfathomable reason, took my dad being absent as a personal offense and now keeps dragging him here like some kind of cat who keeps bringing dead mouse and keeps dropping by to give me weekly updates and lessons on godly psychology and politics"

[startedwellthatsentence]

Murderbot 1.06 spoilers

I love that when Leebeebee asks how the Preservation Alliance deals with allocating resources for childcare, Baradwaj begins to go on about community support and shared responsibility, and Gurathin just bluntly states “debt”.

Neither is wrong, but the perspective is important. The Preservation Alliance does not have the material resources to support its population. It has to import them. And once they’re in the Preservation system, then yes, Baradwaj is right, the resources are allocated equitably to those who need them.

But Gurathin is also right, in that in order to acquire the resources in the first place, the alliance has to go into debt. And it has to do missions like the current PresAux mission in order to pay toward those debts.

The community resources are GOOD, but they aren’t FREE. Gurathin, who comes from outside of the system, is better able to see that reality. It’s not as if Baradwaj doesn’t know this, but it isn’t how she conceptualizes it, and she has to be reminded that the goods that are communally shared do have to originate OUTSIDE of their system.

[hitlikehammers]

Early November, 1984 and all Eddie wanted was to light up behind the Byers' place in peace🚬

he went all that way and all he got for it was a maybe-dead💀-but-definitely-unconscious-king👑-slash-maybe-babysitter(?), plus some shithead children directing his van🚐 to those fucking abandoned labs that may as well be lit up in neon lights screaming 🚨THIS IS A FUCKING TRAP🚨

Eddie shouldn’t be here. Like, not in a it’s forbidden kinda way, but more in a, there’s no real reason for him to fucking be here.

Save for the obvious.

It’s just…after the whole dead-not-dead thing with the youngest kiddo, the property around the Byers house has kinda turned into no-man’s-land; easy place to get high when Eddie wants a change of scenery, basically, with no one trying to break his nose, or call the pigs.

Or snatch his supply.

But when he hears that fuckface Hargrove call out, the tone on him—and Eddie’s real sensitive to tones, he can guess between the lines for everything he can’t read—he perks up; listens in. Stays put out of sight.

(And no, he does not cream his pants when Harrington calls back, Jesus; taunts like the cocky prick that he is—

And no it is not a close thing or…whatever.)

Point being: he hears more than sees what happens. Up to and including a gaggle of literal fucking children dragging Harrington toward wha Eddie thinks is Hargrove’s eyesore of a car, one of the sheepies crossing around like they’re planning on driving it, and Eddie’s not one for the rule of law or anything—definitely not if it’s Hargrove’s property that’s on the line—and fuck yes Eddie’s driven without a license, and far below the age to get one, but, but—

He’s tripping over himself to turn the keys in his own ignition and swinging the van around quick enough to kick up dirt before he leans over and throws open the passenger door.

“Hey,” he hisses, low but not quiet, he needs them to hear but he doesn’t know if Hargrove’s gonna storm out any second, it’s a delicate balance; “hey, get in,” and he’s crawling over the seat to open the back, too, to push things to the side to mostly leave it flat, tossing blankets to the middle with no care for their cleanliness because there’s no time for that shit, there’s no time and then he’s grabbing the hinges of the doors and flinging his whole top half around to eye this hoard of strange ankle-biters and what’s revealed quickly to be their still-weirdly-attractive-when-beat-to-shit charge in Steve Motherfucking Harrington, trying to project some degree of meaningful trustworthiness, because he is trustworthy, here and now, but they’re kinda in the fucking clock of crazy-eyes-Mc-West-Coast stumbling out of the house, so Eddie’s kinda gotta urge these rugrats with real feeling, waving his hands to the point where his fucking wrists hurt:

“Get in.”

And of course these little urchins still and just, raise a fucking eyebrow at him. Like they’re not working on an inexact sort of fucking timeline—

“Who the fuck are you?”

Yeesh. He wasn’t off when he said they were ankle biters; the little lambies have teeth.

“I just wanna help,” Eddie tries to say it with as much of the genuine concern that he really and truly feels, and not get weighed down with the probably-suspicious-off-the-bat vibe of pulling up in a random van just to start the exchange out with waving some strange kids into the back of it.

Jesus, that sounds terrible, wow, okay.

He gets it.

“No,” oddly, not the ringleader girl who eyed him first but it’s the curly headed boy now who stands up, squares his shoulders, and stares Eddie down with an only-slightly-less-menacing glare. “No, you’re not gonna hurt Steve.”

“I don’t want to hurt him, I swear,” Eddie’s honestly surprised by how unmuddled his tone bleeds put as desperate, versus irritated by this motley crew of munchkins trying to fight him when he is risking his own neck to help them.

And…King Steve, but then: can he be that motionless, hanging awkward from the noodles limbs of a handful of preteens (at most)?

“I just want to get you out of here, somewhere safe,” Eddie bites his lip, wonders where the fuck he intends to go and realizes he was probably just going to drive toward his home and hope for the best; “Er, somewhere safer than here,” and they don’t fucking budge, little assholes, and Harrington doesn’t fucking twitch, and just, just…

Ugh.

“Come on,” he urges them again, just shy of begging; lets how fucking nervous he’s getting seep clear into his tone a little, but he honestly doesn’t think he’d have convinced them to move if not for the crashing of something in the house behind them, and—well.

Nothing like impending doom to speed shit along.

“I wanted to drive,” the redhead’s muttering with a scowl as they heft the body they’re barely keeping off the ground and awkwardly feed Harrington head-first up to Eddie where where he’s crawled properly into the back of the van to help, and Eddie thinks these little fuckers just might be more wild and feral and insane even than he originally would have guessed for how they make to scramble behind their Steve; only just manages to steady and lower the royal body as careful as he can before the hoard clamors in and denies Eddie so much as a moment to press his finger under Steve Harrington’s flop of bloody hair and touch below his jawline where those stupidly infuriating moles of his speckle his skin, marks that Eddie’s hasn’t ever really paid attention to ever, nope, Eddie only needs now to assess whether he’s just accepted a dead fucking body into his van but: no.

Maybe a little sluggish, but pulse’s strong. Which: Eddie doesn’t care about past the legality of it all. Beyond getting saddled with a murder charge or some other bullshit.

No other reason. Of course. Yeah.

The only thing that floors him more than the Hardy Boys-plus-Girl on steroids tearing onto the cushions around where their unconscious charge is laid out, as Eddie shifts into gear and makes to get the fuck out of dodge, like, yesterday, is the even-louder voice in his head that asks probably the most pressing question:

The fuck did the King do, and how, and why, to make these children this loyal?

What follows all that is quite arguably—actually more than that; definitely a strong contender for—the most surprising thing that’s ever happened to Eddie. That could maybe ever possibly happen to Eddie, in any circumstance for any reason within any universal construct or reality. And he’d been really marinating in his Munson Doctrine this year, too, having been forced to reevaluate some shit after the letter arrived to hammer the most disappointing nail in the coffin of Eddie’s first senior year, but then…fuck everything, then there were the stupid little sheepies and their stupid gorgeous goddamn babysitter—which still, still: what the fuck was that, who the fuck even was Steve Harrington?—and Eddie’d barely even put the ink down to dry before all of them banded secretly together and shredded that motherfucking document before it could even properly take root in Eddie’s brain.

All while something else entirely started to take root in his chest, in his hea—

Well. Something. Something that wasn’t even remotely recognizable inside his most recent—and most polished to date, if he does say so himself—draft of the Doctrine like, at all.

Which is the point.

Because Harrington was indeed alive, and did indeed wake up, and clocked Eddie quicker than expected, even by name—Munson? What the fuck?and hell if that hadn’t fluttered between Eddie’s ribs an indefensible amount that no one would ever know about ever, thank you very much, but still: Jesus H. Christ—

But all his own humiliating discombobulation at the not-even-hands-just-voice-and-presence-of-the-golden-boy aside: it’s a damn good fucking thing Harrington wakes up, and is definitely not dead, because Eddie knows where the King lives, and he knows he’s not driving in that direction but had instead been foolish enough to give these shitweasel munchkins the benefit of the doubt here, like that there maybe was a safe house or some shit, fucking sue him, he was a little prepccupied, yeah—by the threat of a chase with that Hargrove fucker and then by the absolutely spectacle of Harrington screeching at the wayward waifs like a harried mother at the stovetop, because fuck, but Eddie nearly crashes them into three ditches and at least five trees for for trying to watch and he can’t even pretend otherwise—but the end result is definitely not a fucking safe house, and these little asshats have directed him in the wholeass wrong direction, if the undeniable fact of the old abandoned labs at the edge of town looming big through his windshield, looking at least slightly less abandoned (as if that’s not goddamn terrifying in and of itself), what the fuck has he literally driven into, is he an accomplice, and to what, and just, just Jesus—

“Hey.”

Eddie is honestly wholly jolted out of his spiral for a lot of reasons, here. The low tenor exhale of a sound in a voice too kind and open and invested, to much like music given what it does to Eddie, what music means to Eddie and what this voice shouldn’t fucking mean too straight out the goddamn gate. The proximity of a body close enough to feel the warmth of each breath. The indefensible feeling of it being nearly erotic out of nowhere and with no justification at all—just the reality of Eddie’s world right now, to feel the barest brush of the side of a body alongside his, leaning forward where he’s still in the driver’s seat. All of that would tip his world at the very least into a different sort of spiral pattern, breathless in a completely other way.

But.

What knocks Eddie hardest and most effectively in one go is the hand on his shoulder, braced to comfort and steady, and the realization in the flesh of how fucking big it is, how the span of that palm, those fingers, because Eddie knew those hands looked big, not that he’d studied them with any real…attention or anything but feeling them was something entirely other, and the touch, the touch is…is—

“Hey,” and Harrington’s breath is close enough then to tickle Eddie’s hair, goddamn: “breathe.”

And where Eddie hadn’t been wholly aware that he wasn’t, y’know, doing the breathing thing so well, either for the absolute insanity of the evening or the ominous spread, all proper D&D-style foreshadowing of nope don’t go there not now not ever waiting where these menaces had directed him to drive; but whatever the reason, where Eddie now takes a gulp of air in now that fucking burns, there’s Harrington, leaning over a little more, a second hand on Eddie chest to steady him as he falls all while he’s fucking squeezing Eddie’s shoulder, only a second before he’s getting ready to jump out of the van like he wasn’t just beaten unconscious like, five fucking minutes ago.

What the actual flying fuck.

If Eddie weren’t a goddamn idiot, he’d put the van in reserve before anyone could get out the back, fuck the way they’ll be thrown against the sides, at least they won’t be walking—willingly—into whatever the fuck’s waiting, all angry red and kinda…pulsating in the distance in a way that may or may not be a trick of his own paranoid mind, and then spewing little glowing motes into the air like lightning bugs.

Which could be charming, if it weren’t way fucking past the season for that shit.

And in fairness, the whole experience of Steve Harrington touching him and leaning close and breathing near him and telling him to breathe? That shit does carry him through—mostly—the hours that will follow, cliche and genuinely fucking embarrassing as it is, as it will be, to acknowledge at all.

But in the now—

“Thanks, man.”

And…oh, well, fuck.

As in point number one: that hand—bothhands—really are distracting as all hell but then also, simultaneously, very much point number two:

What the actual fuck.

“What?”

Apparently sending Eddie-usually-eloquent-enough-to-spin-some-pretty-bullshit-on-demand-Munson reeling outta nowhere is this fucker’s MO. Probably for the best that Eddie’s been writing him off as a pretty airhead for years now—if for nothing more than his own sanity.

Or else, like…relatively speaking.

“You got us here,” Harrington gestures out the window and…yeah.

“Here?”

That’s the relative part. And the insane part to be thanked for. Because where they’ve ended up is definitely the DoE labs that were supposed to have shut down or whatever, after people disappeared and came back and disappeared again and also didn’t and were never gone and fake bodies and whatever.

No one thanks anyone for bringing them to a place like this.

“And it’s more than I could have asked someone to do,” Harrington’s going on like it’s a casual thing, a favor like walking his goddamn dog and not more like what’s actually staring them down inside the fencing, namely the building that doesn’t look as abandoned as advertised by half, and definitely doesn’t at all look like the only thing it’s missing is a big neon sign blinking TRAP! FREE TRAP! IN THE MARKET FOR A QUICK PAINFUL DEMISE AT THE HANDS OF THE WORLD’S SHITTIEST TAINT FACTORY EAST OF ARMPIT-IAPOLIS? STEP RIGHT UP! ALSO REMINDER: CLEARLY A TRAP!

“Harrington,” Eddie doesn’t love the way his voice trips over a bonafide gulp. “Steve.”

He also doesn’t love how much feeling sneaks into that part because one, where the fuck’d that even come from and two, he…

Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever said this guy’s first name out loud. As in…ever.

He doesn’t love how nice it feels, how scary but bubbly-warm it tingles at the base of his throat and the pit of his stomach.

So there’s all of that.

Still set inescapably under the threat of the non-existent-but-no-less-real-neon-sign-of-death and…stuff.

“We know what we’re doing,” Steve’s pats Eddie’s shoulder again, moves the hand from his chest like he’s pulling away, like he’s leaving to go toward the trap and Eddie whips his head around just in time to catch Steve shrug sheepishly and add:

“Like, mostly.”

It is not at all lost on Eddie, how Steve doesn’t even try to sidestep that he’s walking into the gaping maw of probably death, here.

That might be the most terrifying part of this yet.

“I could,” Eddie’s voice is a crackle, so he tries clearing his throat, licking his lips; “I could at least try to help.”

That comes out a little stronger, but not steadier, and he doesn’t really think he’s making his point very well at all.

But then there’s Steve, and his hand back full on Eddie’s shoulder, saying:

“You could,” like he believes that; “and we’d be grateful,” added in like he means that too.

And most unbelievable of all of it, what he tacks on last with a squeeze of his hand and a lower pitch for no reason Eddie can figure save to catch inside the clench of his pulse so it takes to jittering like fucking mad as the King himself exhales:

“I’d be grateful.”

And what the fuck does that mean, said with eyes so bright when the night’s so dark?

And what the fuck does it mean when Eddie’s heartbeat starts jittering, a butterfly between cupped hands, until:

“I need you to be safe though,” and the words have physical form, brush Eddie’s frizzled curls straight behind his ear like…tenderness, delicate.

What. The. Fuck.

Eddie blames the way his heart goes form butterfly to battering ram, ready to crack through his ribs for no reason save a feeling he can’t justify, but’s too real to pretend away as less when he half-fucking-moans:

“What about you?”

Because Steve’s shepherding the kiddos. He’s keeping Eddie on the sidelines, safe. He’s charging into battle with a handkerchief and a bat and a goddamn pair of rubber gloves found from somewhere, sticking out his back pocket like he’s flagging in day-glo, holy hell—

But who takes care of Steve?

“I’ll see you at school,” Steve winks, leans this time to bump one shoulder straight to Eddie’s and then he’s jumping out the back of the van, and he’s moving too fast and—

“Harrington,” Eddie calls, suddenly forgetting he’d ever been trying to keep quiet, to avoid attention of whatever they’re going out to face, Hargrove or harbingers of worker fates, or both at once; “fuck, fuck,” he hissed as he trips over shit that got shifted back in his way as he stumbles to the doors and yells:

“Steve!”

And it’s like maybe saying his name does something to Steve himself, too, because he pauses, and even for the distance, the little curve of his lips isn’t a smirk, it’s a smile.

It’s fucking beautiful.

And then he’s saluting cockily before he turns on his heel with just one last parting shot;

“See you on the other side, Munson.”

And the tunnels beyond only let him watch so long, see so far. The weird shit in the air, and the bandanas he can see a scuffle over, to make sure they’re tied over noses and mouths, lit by weird pulsing colors, obscene squelching noises he can hear the echoes of even this far back and just, just…

Typical eldritch fuckery from a monster manual.

That doesn’t belong in real life.

It’s a fucking trap, Admiral. Good fucking god.

And Jesus H. Christ, but Eddie hadn’t even had the chance to light up tonight as he’d planned, as he’d explicitly driven out to do.

For fuck’s sake.

>>>part two 💚

For @miraculousmultifan, who requested Post-S2; 'Now, I’m not going to deny that I was aware of your beauty. But the point is, this has nothing to do with your beauty. As I got to know you, I began to realise that beauty was the least of your qualities. I became fascinated by your goodness. I was drawn in by it' at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST—very late, obviously, and MID-S2, rather than post but it ENDS UP being post-S2, promise 🖤

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @estrellami-1 @finntheehumaneater @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here @pukner @ravenfrog @sadisticaltarts @samsoble @sanctumdemunson @shrimply-a-menace @slashify @stealthysteveharrington @swimmingbirdrunningrock @theheadlessphilosopher @theintrovertedintrovert @themoonagainstmers @theohohmoment @tillystealeaves @tinyloonyteacups @tinyplanet95 @warlordess @wheneverfeasible @wordynerdygurl @wxrmland @yesdangerpls @yourmom-isgay @1-tehe-1

divider credit here

[doomdoomofdoom]

due to topical demand

(x)

[bonyfish]

look at these incredibly low-fi photos of my beautiful cat Yuca

camera: Pentax Auto 110 film: Lomography Orca semi-stand developed in flic film black/white & green for an hour using a hacked-together apparatus of plastic folder dividers to hold the film in the tank

[nabaath-areng]

the problem with my n24 is that with the clock going around gradually i have periods of being awake at day and periods of being awake at night, but then because i tend to sleep really badly during night time i spend my daytime days being very tired and sluggish, and my nighttime days are much more productive and energetic. but i cant do just anything i want at night, so i cant get as much done as i have the energy and drive to. and then i also need sunlight to feel sane in the head, and so i hate missing out on daytime wakefulness. but then the sun is also why my sleep quality is much better during daytime. if im gonna stuck with a seemingly incurable sleep disorder since birth cant i at LEAST have the sleep be overall consistent? apparently not lmao

[chronotopes]

wrong way to cook: decide what you want to make and google a recipe

right way to cook: form parasocial relationships with two or three charismatic recipe developers

[kimberlyannharts]

Just so people know - after everything we went through with the Netflix "reboot" I'm not trusting any news about a mainstream Power Rangers project until I see a trailer on my screen

[corellianhounds]

Idk why everyone thinks Crosshair was the chaotic misbehaving brother as a cadet. Mr. “Good soldiers follow orders” even without the chip? Mr. “Loyal to the Empire” even after they destroyed all Kaminoan cities and facilities and didn’t care enough to come back and see if there were any survivors? Mr. “Not immediately swayed by emotional convictions” even when they belong to those closest to him who he should trust above unseen authorities?

Even if you think obedience and compliance was hammered into him by those in charge and he had to learn to keep his head down or face the consequences, that doesn’t explain why it takes him so long to eventually accept the truth, despite the mounting empirical evidence he receives after the most dire possible circumstances that should show him that those in charge are wrong. It isn’t until Mayday’s death that Crosshair finally accepts the truth because it’s then that he’s being directly told by the people in charge that he and everyone like him is expendable and unnecessary.

Somebody with a rebellious youth is much more critical of authority figures even if they’re presently obeying them, and they’re much more ready to drop said authorities the second it’s a viable option and they physically can. Crosshair doesn’t behave like a dog that’s been beaten its whole life, he’s constantly making active decisions not only to follow the Empire but to enforce what the Empire dictates, even when he’s the one reaping the direct consequences of pushback on the ground for it. Because that’s what good soldiers do.

This guy was the kid following the rules by choice and getting mad at the others for finding loopholes or accomplishing things the ‘wrong’ way, especially if and when it got all of them in trouble (because they were kids and wouldn’t have always been right). Rules and structure are there for a reason. We’ve been here less than ten years, what on earth makes you think we know more than the people in charge? Why do I have to be punished because you guys couldn’t do as you were told?

To me the four of them (and Echo later) are a sliding scale when it comes to decision-making based on head vs heart. Crosshair and Tech are on one side, using logic and reason over emotion as their basis for decision-making and how they see the world, and Echo and Wrecker are more on the heart/instinct side of reasoning, putting people and ideals ahead of simply accomplishing objectives despite what the odds might be against them. Hunter’s the balance in the middle, being able to see both sides and weigh what the best option is based on the evidence and the context within which it’s being given. All of them have different fluctuating percentages of what’s going to motivate or drive them day by day, just based on the context of their circumstances, but that’s the general scale.

I think Hunter as a kid probably realized if he could get all of them to learn the rules as quickly as they could, then they’d know how to break them effectively with the least amount of repercussions and collateral damage. They were an experimental group for a reason and were likely given a modicum of wiggle room when it came to problem-solving, the Kaminoans not just allowing but pushing them to be more creative, flexible, and adaptable. They all know the hard rules of structure, chain of command, and behavioral compliance, but after that they’re given more freedom of choice. Their personal convictions inform both the why and how of following orders.

Wrecker is easier to figure out because he wears every thought and emotion on his sleeve and sees no reason not to. He’s more of a follower— Thinking is for other people, he’s a busy guy and man of action, give him something concrete with actionable directions and he’ll accomplish it with aplomb.

Tech, as a kid, likely knew both the spirit and letter of the law, which means he could see problems and solutions objectively regardless of his personal feelings/opinions and knew that rules are there to be guidelines: No structure is perfect and always following rules exactly was never going to always be the right decision. He would choose whichever seemed like the most logical, obvious route to success, finding loopholes and workarounds where he could as a means of balancing the consequences or fallout of said decision.

Hunter also knew both the spirit and letter of the law, but he was able to read situations and people better than Tech was, relying more on his gut instinct to tell him what the best course of action would be, even if that choice wasn’t the most logical. He’s a mediator and the best choice of leader because of his ability to get people working together by knowing how to convince each of them in their own way that this plan will accomplish their objective AND lead to the most amount of people being satisfied/happy in the end, them included. Despite the fact Hunter’s more reserved, he’s still a people person. It just happens to come from empathy, observation, and instinct, the latter two being qualities he was designed to specialize in.

Crosshair obeyed the letter of the law because structure exists for a reason and if that structure has yielded the best results and most success for the longest amount of time, then it’s obvious it must be the right one in place. Loopholes can be taken advantage of, but only when there isn’t an explicit wording against it or there is clear and mounting evidence that the rule doesn’t apply to him. To deviate from the majority in matters of how something is achieved is acceptable; to do so in matters of why is not.

[leastinsanesscpilot]

Beginning to think that there are some parts of my history that are best kept in history.

[drygrasses]

Car repairs……….ASS

[grison-in-space]

Since the dental Tribble has been on a strict no kibble, no crunchy, no chewing diet. (In a week or so she'll be allowed to use her teeth again a bit more, but no one wants to see a dog get dry socket.) Spouse feels that canned dog food (perpetually on hand to make into pupsickles) is not experienced as filling enough, and we do know that Tribble has done better on grain inclusive foods for the past decade, so... the rice cooker has been simmering with chicken stock rice too bulk out the canned food all week, and Matilda and Benton have both gotten a fair bit of overflow rice as a treat.

Unconnectedly, tonight happens to be my first night alone as the sole human all evening in quite a few months. Matilda has been doing her job of enforcing bed, of course, but I can also rely on other humans to help make routine happen if she's too tired to be on it.

If I was worried that Tilly hadn't worked out her evening routine enforcement functions before now, I shouldn't have been. I don't think I've ever seen a dog so excited to move the evening along towards the part where dinner and the good cookies are.

[hitlikehammers]

Seriously though, ALL THAT EDDIE MUNSON WANTED in Early November, 1984 was to get a little high and maybe make it through senior year this time 🎓

...but if by mid-November of 1984 he maybe felt a little more strongly about wanting something someone else because 👑Steve fucking Harrington💗 is maybe his surprisingly (?) squishy heart's 🫀 fucking kryptonite🧪 and maybe, unthinkably, impossibly 🚨THIS IS NOT A FUCKING TRAP?!?!?!?!??!?!🚨 What THEN?!?!?!?!?

<<<last time:

“See you on the other side, Munson.”

And the tunnels beyond only let him watch so long, see so far. The weird shit in the air, and the bandanas he can see a scuffle over, to make sure they’re tied over noses and mouths, lit by weird pulsing colors, obscene squelching noises he can hear the echoes of even this far back and just, just…

Typical eldritch fuckery from a monster manual.

That doesn’t belong in real life.

It’s a fucking trap, Admiral. Good fucking god.

And Jesus H. Christ, but Eddie hadn’t even had the chance to light up tonight as he’d planned, as he’d explicitly driven out to do.

For fuck’s sake.

Eddie’s fingertips are numb from drumming the steering wheel so long, cuticles biting from biting too hard for too many minutes, maybe even hours. He can’t turn on the van, can’t risk the noise.

Wishes like hell he could, to drown out the stray growls, the screams, the howling, the definite fucking explosions of something, the…ripping.

He doesn’t know how he knows that’s what the sound is, the low screechy rumble. But he knows.

So he’s about three gasps of too-shallow breath from sicking up whatever he ate today when he hears something else.

Footsteps.

Motherfucker.

His legs are half-numb, asleep from staying so still, so unobtrusive for so fucking long, but he dives for the still-half opened back doors, doesn’t bother with the windows because part of the whole production was being able to hear something, no matter how sick it sloshed around his veins every time there was anything to hear, and he scrambles blind for something to swing, to hit with, whatever’s finally coming to his door but then it’s too late, the the hinges are creaking and—

His intruder’s just as struck dumb as he is, but Eddie has pure fucking adrenaline on his side, so he pants out while he crumbles like a string-cut puppet, so much for that tattoo idea—

“What,” Eddie spits, shaking his head more like a spasm, hair going everywhere and catching in his mouth; “and I do not ask this idly, Harrington,” then he’s wheezing kinda humiliatingly; “but what,” and he gestures wifey at the still crimson-tinged woods beyond, now lit brighter with actual fucking flames farther back, plus the not-dust clusters floating on the breeze and that’ll definitely be what Eddie blames for the way he coughs out hard:

“Actual fuck?”

“Munson?” And the way Steve says his name sounds like it should be accompanied by a frown, or at least more confusion, but what Eddie seesinstead is something like the…good sort of surprise.

Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever been even just a part of anything like a good sort of surprise. The suggestion of it alone here any nows heady as all fuck.

“What are the hell are you still doing here?”

And, well. He, that’s…

That’s a very interesting question.

“Umm,” and holy fuck, is Eddie glad it’;s as dark as it is, it has to be impossible to see proof of how hot his cheeks have gotten.

“Well, it seemed pretty intense, whatever you were,” he clears his throat, tosses his wrist again at the still-very-glowy maybe tunnels or maybe rips in spacetime, fuck if Eddie even knows.

“Wanted to try and come help but,” he shrugs, hides a little behind his hair; “not really my forte, but getaway car,” he reaches and knocks on the wall of the van, a little proud: “that I am a sought after professional so, I figured,” the he shrugs again because…what the hell did he figure? What the fuck use is he in whatever the fuck this actually is, which, which…

“But I’m gonna ask one more time,” because Eddie is nothing if not obnoxiously curious, so:

“What the actual fuck?”

And Harrington? Steve?

Motherfucker just snorts, and grins a little, despite the soot and blood and the swelling from the whole getting beat unconscious not so long ago.

“Gas leak, I guess,” Steve huffs something like a laugh that’s not actual funny, but feels more like an inside joke Eddie doesn’t get, but desperately wants to; “probably what’s been causing all the weird shit around here.”

“Oh, wow,” Eddie covers the weirdly gnawing ache to know, know, know this man and his little secrets; fuck, also his big ones, all his secrets, all of him, what the fuck. “Didn’t know you were a goddamn comedian, save some for the rest of us,” he rolls his eyes when Steve frowns a tiny bit, tips his head like a puppy who doesn’t understand and good fucking god is it adorable.

Eddie’s so fucked, isn’t he, and out of nowhere.

“King can’t also be the jester, man,” Eddie takes pity on him, explains, wonders if giving his secrets will merit him the pleasure, the privilege of learning Steve’s the way he wants, or finding something in the inklings he’s feeling that are real and not just wishful thinking or heightened emotions in an impossible night that makes no sense so maybe any possible future for what Eddie’s got sparkling at the edge of ever single one of his veins is just as nonsensical too, and fuck—

“You mentioned a getaway car.”

Eddie stills; and that’s not mean feat.

“And seems like I was maybe a little incapacitated in the way here so,” Steve leans in, close enough that Eddie smells smoke, and sweat, and might fucking faint because it’s fucking intoxicating. Eddie’s not even mad he didn’t get a joint in before the night went to shit in the maybe-best-and-most-fantastic of ways.

If it’s not just nonsense, and a blip of the impossible on the radar of Eddie Munson’s deeply unimpressive life.

But Harrington’s eyes are twinkling, and when Eddie gets over the thumping of his heart and hears the squabbling of tweens approaching, the question Steve’s teeing up comes straightforward, but then full of layers all at once.

“Up for giving us a lift, then?”

If Steve’s involved?

Is he fucking ever.

—

Dropping the little barnacles off doesn’t take long, even if they’re kinda scattered around town. Eddie gets an earful and a half about D&D, which isn’t the worst thing, though he mostly relishes see Steve’s reactions, listening to his little interjections for the shitheads to can it. It’s…there’s just something about it.

Something about him.

“My house isn’t this way.”

Eddie…realizes that.

“Yep.”

So fucking eloquent, Munson. Jesus.

“Pretty sure yours is, though”

Oh, look. All this time Eddie’s tried to write him off as stupid and pretty and he’s actual a paladin fighting dragons with an actual brain under that gorgeous hair, son of a goddamn bitch.

“I’ll sleep better,” slips out of Eddie’s mouth without thinking, because of the two of them left in the van, seems like Eddie is the one who’s fucking brainless.

“What?”

He really wants to bang his forehead into the steering wheel but…that would be a good chunk of what’s driving Eddie, literally, toward Forest Hills.

“Your head,” Eddie taps his own temple, keeps driving, keeps his eyes on the road because he thinks he won’t be able to look away if he even gives himself the slightest taste in this moment.

“You look alright now but like,” Eddie sucks a sharp breath through his teeth, because:

“Not gonna pretend you didn’t scare the fuck out of me, not to mention your brood,” because that’ll soften the really fucking telling confession, obviously, score one for Eddie not being a whole-ass sap about someone he barely knows and—

“Oh.”

Eddie breaks his own rule not to look in a fuckking instant, because that single word, more a breath exhaled, is…wondering.

“Oh, you’re,” and Steve looks like he’s working from something bigger than just Eddie making a fool out of himself for worrying over Steve Harrington’s wellbeing. “You wouldn’t sleep well because,” and Jesus H., Eddie stepped in this shit because now Steve’s spelling it out, but then at the same time…he’s spelling it out like he wants to see all the letter laid plain to…

Marvel at.

Almost like…almost like he doesn’t know what to do with it. And if he doesn’t, if he didn’t know what to do with being cared about, what the fuck did that mean for Steve fucking Harrington—

“Sure,” Steve finally says, pulls Eddie from his thoughts, his wonderings, the way he’s fucking appalled at the implication that maybe no one’s ever shown Steve enough regard to fucking care.

“Sure I can,” and Steve’s feeling the words out like they’re precious and not just…basic; like maybe he’s afraid they’ll go away:

“Stay.”

Eddie shifts into park and runs around to open the goddamn door before he can think twice of being that absolutely and indefensibly insane, makes sure Steve steps down from his seat without incident, without a single bump of scrape.

Holds himself back from guiding him with a hand at the base of his spine to the door but like…only just.

He throws a pair of jammies that look like they’ll fit and pretends to take time in the bathroom that not mostly just freaking the fuck out about the wave of, like, just…feeling things about the fact that Steve Harrington is in his house. In his room. Will be in his clothes when he convinces himself to breathe, and walk out of the safe space near the shower.

“Okay if I wake you up,” Eddie makes himself enter with words, lest he get caught up in just staring, and never find his way back out. “I think that’s what they say you gotta do for hits like that to the noggin.”

Steve snorts, but nods, and only winces for the motion a little.

“Yeah, dude,” Steve says, and it’s…fond. Good god.

Addictive, more than anything Eddie’s ever sampled, and he’s not as experienced as he talks a game for, but like, he’s had his share.

“What are you doing?”

Eddie looks up from where he’s shaking a blanket out to stretch across the floor. It’s cold enough that he’ll need it, is all.

“My uncle sleeps on the couch,” Eddie says, because it’s really that simple.

“Then let me,” Steve reaches for the threadbare blanket, grabs at the corner and scrambles up from where he’d sat on the bed like he damn well was supposed to, because he’;s got a fucking head injury.

Also he’s a guest, even if kind of a…guest brought here under some degree of duress. Eddie didn’t exactly give him too much of a choice. But he doesn’t, can’t dwell, because Steve grabbed for the blanket.

And his hand touched Eddie’s hand in the process and made it inconveniently accurate that now they both have brain injuries of one kind or another, goddamn.

“Get the fuck up here,” Steve finally sighs, but again, like it’s fond, and how, and why, as he pulls Eddie up by where they’re both holding the blanket still; “not kicking you out of your own bed,” he mutters, shifting to the side that Eddie doesn’t use. Like he knows.

Eddie’s maybe vibrating from the fucking cells of him until sleep finally comes in the form of Steve’s steady breathing, and the warmth of him inescapable and so fucking like comfort, wrapped in the worn blanket Eddie’s mama made when he was still small.

—

Anyway. That’s how it starts. Being anything, in the vicinity of Steve Harrington.

Waking him up dutifully four times before it makes sense to get up and go about the day; or else, for Steve to. Eddie isn’t into mornings.

But he does tail Steve out the door before realizing that Steve doesn’t fucking have his own car here, and then he’s shoving bare feet in his Reeboks and taking Steve to Loch Nora, where he’s still sleepy enough—probably, or at least it’s a decent excuse—to ask if Steve’ll call him a couple times today, just to make sure his head’s still okay.

And Steve does the…fond-marveling look that skips in Eddie’s chest, fuck all, and agrees. And waves at him with a secret little grin—and Eddie wants all the more to know those fucking secrets—and then, know what that fucker goes and does?

He calls. On the hour, every three hours until they both agree to go to bed. Like he knew somehow that Eddie was waiting, the whole goddamn day. Even if he doesn’t wholly understand the why.

But then of course Eddie can’t leave well enough alone, even after the sees Steve off that next morning and through the calls that follow after; can’t fucking sleep in the days that follow, not like he managed that first night, when objectively he should have been freaked the fuck out the worst, given even the hint of what he thinks maybe he saw in the woods—but whatever. Point is, he realizes real quick that he needs to know if Harrington is alright, with his own two eyes. Under his hand when he dares touch his skin just a little to see if it’s still warm and…stuff.

And yeah, okay, he might not know all the details or the context, but he’d picked up enough to know things were peachy in the most wholly fucking sarcastic sense possible, and the idiot is in fact at school that Monday when he absolutely should not be, if the state his face is still in is anything to go by, but…yeah.

Eddie corners him in the locker room, where Eddie doesn’t go because he cuts gym like he gets paid to—wouldn’t that be nice, he’d be rich—and he’s gonna call it a public service more than a vaguely stalkery act because hey, he’s a super senior but he thinks, just maybe, that sport-ing with what’s undoubtedly a concussion isn’t the best idea.

He pops out in front of Harrington before he makes for the back entrance after coming from his car between classes for fuck knows what reason, maybe cleaning his goddamn pulverised face a little, and shimmies him closer to the tree-line where Eddie’s storefront sits and its weird, or maybe concerning, because Harrington lets him with just the slightest sounds of protest—maybe he’s worse off than expected if he’s this willing, fuck, and what’s Eddie gonna do if the Golden Boy passes out in the middle of the woods, way to think this through—

“Any reason you kidnapped me from phys ed?”

Eddie startles at that voice. Remembers vividly—inconveniently—how broad the hands that the voice comes with are. How arm. How—

“You shouldn’t be having balls throw at you,” Eddie answers, more petulant that’d be planned. And wholly unprepared for the curl of a smirk he gets in return at the wording.

Jackass. His majesty’s just fine, Eddie should have left him. To—

“Knight in shiny armor again, Munson,” Harrington tuts at him, but…once Eddie processes and accepts the flush he knows is on his cheeks, he can actually look at the guy, who’s taken a seat now on Eddie bench, thighs thick how he spreads them wide across the wood.

Wood, Jesus, thank fuck he didn’t say that out loud to make it two-for-two.

“Gonna give a guy ideas, if you keep at this.”

And Eddie’s jaw drops a little at that tone, lewd little, taunting but not for the cruelty of it, more the playfulness like somehow the world’s tipped on its axis and up is down and Steve Harrington can make weirdly-close-to-come-ons in the presence of Eddie Munson. Or, fuck. Not just in the presence of.

Clearly directed at and to, in the absence of literally anyone else.

And he can’t know it, not then, not yet: but giving Eddie Munson an in, giving him the ideas?

That’s a fucking dangerous game.

And the wildest part of all of it is that smirk, that glimmer in those eyes.

Like Steve goddamn Harrington knows it, and—somehow, unthinkable—wants dealt in to play.

>>>part 3/3

For @miraculousmultifan, who requested Post-S2; 'Now, I’m not going to deny that I was aware of your beauty. But the point is, this has nothing to do with your beauty. As I got to know you, I began to realise that beauty was the least of your qualities. I became fascinated by your goodness. I was drawn in by it' at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST—very late, obviously, and MID-S2, rather than post but it ENDS UP being post-S2, promise 🖤

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @estrellami-1 @finntheehumaneater @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here @pukner @ravenfrog @sadisticaltarts @samsoble @sanctumdemunson @shrimply-a-menace @slashify @stealthysteveharrington @swimmingbirdrunningrock @theheadlessphilosopher @theintrovertedintrovert @themoonagainstmers @theohohmoment @tillystealeaves @tinyloonyteacups @tinyplanet95 @warlordess @wheneverfeasible @wordynerdygurl @wxrmland @yesdangerpls @yourmom-isgay @1-tehe-1

divider credit here and here

[chaikajpeg]

chise and philomela