#hopper misreading and thinking something is wrong

[hgrve]

hopper is trying to be a good dad to billy but it's an adventure

[jayfortheday]

EEK ur inbox is open, can I request Vance Hopper dating HC?

All the best wishes - Melo 💕

Vance Hopper Dating HCs

Pairing: Vance Hopper x GN!Reader (romantic)

Word count: 394

Tags: fluffy, first kiss, confession, bullying, fighting, dates

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vance definitely wasn’t the type of person that people thought would date anyone, much less someone like you

People definitely thought you were out of Vance’s league, which is why they were surprised to see you two together all the time, Vance himself especially 

Vance’s emotional issues have always held him back romantically, so he didn’t have any experience before you

You have to be vocal with him if you don’t like something or if he did something wrong because he literally has no real references for what he’s supposed to do

Most of his dates consist of taking you out for food or just hanging out at his house or the Grab N Go, he really just treats dates like normal hangouts

Vance is always afraid of getting mad over something that doesn’t warrant it, so if he feels himself getting angry, he’ll just step out and come back when he’s feeling better

He always says you’re the first good thing he’s had in a while and he’s really scared of losing you because of him acting stupid

Vance is always hanging around you, watching out for anyone who might give you trouble

One time, someone was bullying you as they pulled back their hand to hit you, Vance hopped in and almost broke their arm, but you intervened before he could

You told him that while you were grateful he stepped in, he didn’t have to hurt the kid that bad. He said he was sorry

Vance really likes physical touch, which surprised you because he’s usually really stand-offish

If you guys are ever hanging out, he’s touching you in some way if you’re comfortable with it, whether it’s holding your hand, his arm around your waist, or his arm hooked on yours

Since he was really scared of misreading your relationship, he wasn’t the one to initiate your first kiss

When the time came, you could tell he was too nervous to do it so you leaned up to him and kissed him

Ever since you had your first kiss, he kisses you all the time, it’s his favorite small way to show he loves you

Vance told you he loved you about 9 months into your relationship, a sentiment you happily reciprocated

Although Vance doesn't really say it, he can easily picture spending the rest of his life with you

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Even more HCs, y'all eating good tonight, fr I don't think I've had this many HC requests in a while, it's nice to get to do this kind of stuff :)

[paperbodiesamongthestars]

Day 23: Picnic

Read it on AO3 or read my whole Harringrove April Collection!

Jim Hopper never really expected to make it back to Hawkins from fucking Russia of all places, so he definitely didn’t expect to make it back and pretty much immediately end up with a second kid. It was just that Billy Hargrove had sacrificed himself to save El, and had somehow survived it, and Joyce was still a little mad at Hopper for not doing more about Billy’s shitty dad, and she had given him that look when it turned out that Billy didn’t appear to have anywhere to go once he got out of the hospital. 

Well, he had one place to go, but Hopper figured moving into Steve Harrington’s apartment could wait until they were both out of their teens. He told everyone who would listen that it was because while Steve and Billy were both technically adults, they were also dumbasses, especially when they were together. He said, loudly and often, that he simply didn’t trust those two boneheads not to burn down Steve’s entire apartment complex, if left to their own devices. 

What he said much more quietly, and only ever to Joyce, was that he remembered what it was like to be a kid with a shitty dad, and to cling to something simply because it was better than what he was used to. Billy might still end up with Steve—probably would, if the starry-eyed way they looked at each other was any indication—but Hopper wanted him to get there because he chose it, and not just because he needed a place to go. 

Billy, for his part, insisted loudly and constantly that he would much prefer to live in an apartment of his own, out from under Hopper’s tyrannical thumb—and yes, that was a direct quote—but he somehow never actually found one that he liked. No one ever called him on it.   

What Hopper hadn’t counted on, when he insisted that Billy move into the fancy house that he had bullied the government into buying for him and Joyce and the kids, was Billy and Steve’s commitment to fucking, just, all the goddamn time. Hopper had missed most of Billy’s recovery while he was in a Russian prison, but he found out later—from Joyce and Nancy and Jonathan and Robin and even some of the kids—that they had been caught at least half-naked by just about everyone before Billy was even released from the hospital. He wished, far too late, that he had chosen a house with fewer windows. There were far too many points of entry for him to manage effectively. 

“You know Steve thinks he’s stealthy?” he said to Joyce incredulously one night after he caught Steve—wearing what was obviously one of Billy’s shirts and the smallest pair of shorts Hopper had ever seen—sneaking out of Billy’s bedroom window. Billy’s second-floor bedroom window. “He’s going to kill himself falling off the damn house.”

“You didn’t catch him until he was already leaving, Hop,” Joyce pointed out, “so he’s not exactly wrong.” Jim wondered when Joyce had turned on him too. He considered nailing the windows shut, but he was pretty sure El would kill him with her mind if he tried it, so he didn’t. 

See, it turned out that “my house, my rules” only went so far with a kid who was technically an adult, and who had also sacrificed himself to save your other kid, so Billy got away with a lot. He got away with even more because both El and Will—and Max, who spent far more than half of her time at their house—were fully supportive of Billy and Steve’s ongoing shenanigans, and did their best to run interference with Hopper. 

Apparently, one of the things Hopper had missed during Billy’s long recovery was the day some under-informed nurse let Billy’s dad in to see him. Everyone agreed that it had been a very dramatic scene, but they weren’t very forthcoming about the details. Only Max and Lucas and Robin had been there to witness it firsthand, but the kids all still talked about it in hushed whispers. The only way they ever described it to Hopper was to say that Steve had gone “just completely feral, Hop.” Neil had never bothered to come back, so whatever it was that Steve had done that the kids didn’t want Hopper to know about had been pretty effective. Max’s grudging affection for Steve had given way to complete adoration on that day, and El’s affection for Billy was well-established, so she had been right there with Max. Hopper hadn’t asked why Will was so supportive of the two of them, but he could guess.

So Billy lived with Joyce and Hopper and Will and El, and Hopper did his very best to maintain at least some semblance of propriety, and every kid in the house did their very best to defy him at every turn. It was exhausting. Which was why he was so goddamn irritated when he heard the low sound of voices in the middle of a walk through the woods behind the house that was supposed to be an opportunity for him to get some damn solitude for once. They were voices he recognized, unfortunately. He sighed heavily as soon as he got close enough to make out what they were saying. 

“Harder, baby,” Billy practically moaned. “God that feels good.” 

“Are you sure?” Steve asked a little breathlessly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Yeah—ohhhhhh…” Billy’s confirmation devolved into an actual moan, and Hopper had had enough. He marched toward the voices, bursting into a clearing with his brow furrowed and an admonition on the tip of his tongue. 

The first thing he noticed was that they had chosen a beautiful spot—they were on a soft-looking picnic blanket in the middle of a pretty little meadow dotted with wildflowers. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the surrounding trees. The remains of a picnic were spread out in front of the two boys, next to an open picnic basket. 

The second thing Hopper noticed was that he had maybe slightly misread the situation. Billy was sitting cross-legged on the blanket, tank top and cutoffs firmly in place, and Steve was kneeling behind him, also fully clothed. Billy’s head was tilted to one side, and Steve had his elbow pressed firmly into the muscle of Billy’s shoulder. Both boys were staring at him with wide eyes. They recovered at about the same time, and Hopper sighed inwardly as Steve cocked one eyebrow. Billy’s eyes sparkled with amusement as Steve spoke. 

“You’re always so tight, B,” Steve said, completely deadpan, eyes locked on Hopper’s. Billy smirked and gave that same low moan again as Steve pushed down with his elbow. 

“You get so deep, baby. Feels so good,” Billy said, and Hopper had seen some shit in his life. Had fought literal monsters. Had spent months in a Russian prison, most recently. He absolutely was not going to blush in front of these two dumbasses. He refused.

Instead, he sighed heavily, resisted the urge to murder them both, and turned around, making his way out of the clearing. Billy waited until he was almost, but not quite, out of earshot before he spoke again, and Hopper was pretty sure he did it on purpose. 

“We’re actually fucking after this, though, right baby?” he asked, and Hopper, unfortunately, also heard Steve’s response. 

“Course, B. That’s why there’s lube in the bottom of the picnic basket.”

“You think of everything, pretty boy. Best boyfriend ever.” Hopper was tempted to turn right back around to yell at them, except that Billy sounded genuinely happy. And that, Hopper would never admit to anyone but Joyce, was a thing that he thought Billy Hargrove deserved a lot more of. He did, however, pick up his pace, before he heard something—again—that would haunt him forever. 

[femmeharringrove]

#68 on the prompt list!

068: "We’ve been celebrating our wedding anniversary on the wrong day for the past nine years."

this took me a minute i'm so sorry oof!!

If there's anything Billy's learned, it's that his cooking skill is nothing compared to the culinary prowess of his husband. Stefano Alexander Lorenzo Harrington (a mouthful, Billy knows, he was terrified of messing it up during their vows) is king of the kitchen, and Billy enjoys everything he cooks, but sometimes Steve's menu can be used to give insight to what he's feeling.

It's one of those funny little quirks that the blonde man fell for all those years ago. After Starcourt, after he nearly died, his father cut ties with him completely and Max all but literally dragged him over to Steve's place. Steve didn't like him back then, not that Billy ever gave him a reason to like him, but the moment Max explained everything his doe eyes softened and he offered Billy a room in his house on the spot. Billy spent countless nights after that feasting on baked ziti and lasagna - "with my own pasta, none of that pre-made shit," Steve pronounced proudly as he served Billy the biggest slice of pasta he'd ever seen in his life to that point; he's outdone himself several times in the years since - and at one point realized he couldn't live a day without Steve's cooking.

He couldn't live without that blinding smile either, or without the sight of Steve chasing the Party around like a distressed young mother, or without the feeling of being wrapped up in those slender arms, face tucked into the crook of Steve's neck as the taller boy promised to keep him safe from the monsters of this and any other world. Steve told his parents Billy was just staying at the house until he found his feet, but they ended up living like that for four years before an argument between the Harrington men got ugly enough to make Steve want to leave. And so they did, after helping Steve's hoard of kids move to their respective colleges. They found themselves a little apartment in Malibu and Billy went to college that same year.

It was hard, for a while. Steve was still unsure of what he wanted to do in life and Billy struggled to find a balance between classes, his job at the garage down the street, and time with Steve. They fought, they cried, and Steve always ended up smoothing things over with Billy's favorite soups, no matter how hot it was outside, and slowly things got better.

Billy proposed to his boyfriend two years after that, and a year after that they got married, unofficially, with Hopper officiating and the Party giving Steve away. They were married on the beach on September 6th, Steve cried all through the ceremony and they spent much of that night in absolute bliss, wrapped up in each other's arms. Billy swore that the date would be one he would never forget, how could he forget? Nobody forgot their wedding date.

They've been married nine years now. He's got his engineering degree and owns the garage down the street now. Steve's artistic streak led to him opening a studio and offering art classes on top of selling his own work. They moved out of the apartment after Steve curled up to Billy's chest one night and begged for a baby. They have three of those now, bustling six-year-old Antonia, quiet three-year-old Max, and two-month-old Angelo. All three are with Auntie Max tonight, who's also moved out to the coast with Lucas and El in tow, because tonight is a special night. It's September 6th, and he and Steve are supposed to be celebrating.

Except Steve's making tiramisu and cheesecake. He's making Alfredo with shrimp and chicken and spinach, which Billy loves but knows that his husband hates. In fact, this is Billy's favorite meal, which Steve only pulls out when he's got something important to say or when Billy's feeling down. And Billy's not feeling down.

It takes some work to steal the great Stefano's attention in the kitchen, but Billy's got almost two decades worth of experience here. He hums before he touches the man - years of touch starvation and a few too many bad experiences have left the man rather skittish, especially with unexpected touches, so Billy's careful to give him warning. He presses right up against Steve's back and wraps his arms around him, fingers of his left hand slipping up under his shirt to stroke over Steve's hip while the fingers of his right hand settle just under the waistband of the brunette's sweatpants, trailing over a sensitive patch of skin. From there it's all about the kisses - little ones to the nape of Steve's neck, lazy ones on the side of his throat, nips and playful bites to the shoulder. He nuzzles at Steve's cheek a few times in between that mix and Steve lasts all of two minutes before he's melting back against Billy and gazing back at him, eyes painfully warm and full with that adoring look he always gives Billy. For a moment, the blonde can't breathe, stunned for the billionth time by Steve's beauty. He presses a soft kiss to his plump lips, slow and full of love, before nosing along his jaw.

"What are you thinking about?" he questions. Steve hums, turns from his current task of slicing his pasta dough to wrap his arms around Billy.

"You," he hums, and Billy has no doubt to the validity of that answer, but he presses anyway.

"What else?"

"What are you talking about?" Steve's eyebrow arches and Billy takes that exact moment to realize that his husband's beginning to grey, his coffee brown waves of hair showing a little speckle of silver. At thirty-five, Steve isn't really old at all, but he's got other little signs of age. He's not a lanky teenage boy anymore. But he's as stunning as ever, and Billy's heart melts as they stare at each other.

"Pretty boy, you told me you think spinach in alfredo is a sin, but you're adding it in and you only do shit like that when you've got something to share with the class. So share." His eyebrow arch as Billy opened his mouth to argue, and he hides a smile as Steve backs down.

"Fine. Sit down, Papa Blue." It's Billy's favorite nickname, received after their son Max stole the nickn baby blue. Max is biologically his, thanks to a donation from Robin. She did the same with Angelo, though their latest baby is Steve's, all big eyes and fluffy hair. Billy sits at his husband's request, and Steve sits across from him looking a little worried. "So, uh, you know how today is our anniversary?"

"Yeah, what about it?" Billy asks. Steve chews on his lip.

"Well, I called Hop this morning because he and Joyce wanna come meet little Jellybean," he begins.

"Angelo is gonna hate that nickname once he gets older," Billy warns. Steve shakes his head in amusement.

"No way, he'll love it. Or he'll at least have to tolerate it, because I'm not letting it go anytime soon. But that's besides the point. Hop and I were talking and he asked me what we did for our anniversary yesterday."

"Yesterday? Our anniversary is today, doesn't he remember?" Billy frowns as Steve runs his fingers through his hair.

"That's exactly what I said," he huffs. "But he was adamant we got married on the fifth, and so I went and checked."

"And?" Billy presses, terrified that he already knows the result. His husband bites his lip.

"And he's right. We misread the number on the date." Steve gives him a sheepish, frustrated look. "We’ve been celebrating our wedding anniversary on the wrong day for the past nine years."

"You can't be serious," Billy deadpans. Steve blinks at him.

Oh god.

It takes Billy seven seconds before he's snorting with laughter. Then he's flat-out snickering, and it doesn't take Steve long to follow. They laugh in the kitchen together until Billy's sides hurt and Steve starts to struggle for breath between his giggles.

"We've been doing it on the wrong day, what a bunch of idiots we are," Billy chuckles. Steve wipes tears of laughter away.

"Yeah, yeah," he chuckles, before his face morphs into something more apprehensive. "I'm sorry I got it wrong." Billy waves it off with one hand, a soft look settling on his face.

"Don't be. I've been making the same mistake. And I wrote the date down, I should have made my handwriting more legible." Billy's hand reaches over the table for Steve's. "Baby, I don't care that we've got the wrong date. All I care about is celebrating what we've got together, okay? I just want to celebrate the fact that I found someone who loves me more than I could ever deserve, someone who's stuck by my side through good and bad. I don't care what day we do that." He watches as Steve's anxious look melts into something significantly softer.

"Billy Hargrove, you deserve all the love this world has to offer and then some," he corrects gently. Billy's eyes crinkle softly around the edges as he smiles.

"And you've got more love in that mop on your head then the rest of the world could ever have." He stands and leans over to hold the other man's face in his hands, planting three quick kisses to his forehead. "Trust me, honey pie, you give me more love than I deserve. You give the whole world more love than it deserves." Steve's responding smile is bright and adoring, and Billy's heart melts even more.

"I love you, Billabong," he murmurs, stealing his own kiss from Billy's lips.

"And I love you, princess." They stay like that for a time, silent and content, before Steve speaks again.

"We're gonna get it right next year, right?" Billy laughs, nose wrinkling in his amusement.

"Of course. And every year after that. We can make it a two-day event, spend the first day bein' all romantic. I'm keepin' you in bed on day two, though." His smile turns into a familiar smirk. "Make you remember why you love having me around." He revels in the way his husband blushes violently, and Steve swats him away as he jumps up.

"You're a menace, Billy Hargrove. Leave me alone so I can finish cooking." He gets one last kiss before Billy backs out of the kitchen, and if he's got the same dopey grin on his face as he had in his twenties when looking at Steve Harrington, then it's neither here nor there.

[stardustgirl05]

Not A Normal Family

Ok here’s a thing. I didn’t know what else to call it so I might rename it if I get suggestions. This is based off of this post by @willel and I love this idea so much so this is definitely gonna be a multi-part series. The only thing is it’s very mediocre, I have defs written better, but it’s a fun plot to write and angst is my jam so here i am anyway. 

Edit: the rest of this is on ao3!! it’s almost finished, we’re up to 7 chapters so far. ao3 is in my bio

warnings: ST3 spoilers, language, death, abuse mention, alcohol mention, fire, sadness, angst

-----------------------------

July 4, 1985

“CLOSE IT NOW!”

Dustin’s voice crackled through the walkie talkie. Hopper barely registered the words, all he could focus on was the figure a few yards away, hardly visible behind bright streams of light. He hesitated. Obviously, he couldn’t wait forever. There was no way Joyce could get down from the platform without being shot by Russians or sliced in half by a beam of energy. But if he did this, closed the gate and everything, she would die. No question. And if he didn’t…

If he didn’t, El would die. Will and Jonathan would die. And Joyce, whether she made it out or not, would never forgive him.

Hopper managed to make out her face from the control booth. She was smiling, a resigned, melancholy smile. Her head moved slowly in a nod. He couldn’t breathe. His heart had stopped. Yet his hands still moved to twist both of the keys, and his eyes, filled with tears, squeezed shut to avoid seeing the machine burst in a flash of light, shrapnel flying everywhere. The force of the blast sent a tremor through his body. He looked to where he last saw Joyce. 

She was gone.

-----------------------------

Hopper walked slowly alongside Murray in the rain, flanked on either side by U.S. soldiers. He still couldn’t bear to think about what he had just seen. Joyce, his friend, his only real friend, his… his… something, obliterated by a Russian machine that opened the gate to the Upside Down, the place that had tormented Joyce and her family for years. A cruel twist of fate. 

His eyes scanned the scene. Firefighters and official looking men running between cars, running into the burning mall. He saw figures sitting in the back of ambulances, shock blankets draped over their shoulders. The acrid smell of smoke wafted from the mall, bouncing off the wet asphalt. He stopped, letting the soldiers and Murray pass, and shifted his gaze between ambulances, looking for the tell-tale yellow shirt. 

It’s my fault if she’s dead, Hopper thought, a shock of fear coursing through his body when he couldn’t locate El. I told her to stay put, where the danger was. I didn’t turn the keys fast enough and now—

His eyes locked on El, sitting by herself in an ambulance, a nurse fussing with the bandage on her head. She looked up at him with wide eyes, and threw the blanket off her shoulders, running as fast as she could on her injured leg. They crashed into each other, Hopper’s tears finally spilling down his cheeks. He opened his eyes, arms wrapped around his daughter, and gazed across the parking lot to see Will slowly stand up, looking around. Will’s eyes settled on El and Hopper and flitted around the crowds of people on either side of them, a look of realization finally crashing upon his features. Hopper met his eyes, gripping El tightly, and hoped his face could say everything it needed to. He couldn’t speak if he tried.

Will crashed to his knees, face in his hands, shoulders shaking. He hoped he was wrong, that he misread Hopper’s expression, that his mom was around here somewhere, just talking to some government person or something. Maybe she just found Jonathan before she found him. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Will? Where’s Mom?”

Will’s sob caught in his chest. He felt like he might throw up. She obviously wasn’t with Jonathan. 

“Will! What’s happening?”

Will finally looked up at his brother’s face. He wore the expression he always did lately, like the world had just caught on fire. Will shook his head and looked at Hopper, who was breaking away from El. He saw him start to navigate towards them through the chaos. Jonathan followed his gaze, and his eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. El was trailing behind Hopper slowly, watching Will and looking around occasionally. Hopper kneeled down in front of Will and Jonathan with a heavy sigh. 

“I think… you already know what I’m gonna say,” he said, voice thick with tears. El tentatively crouched next to him, looking confused herself. 

“W...wait. Where’s my mom?” Jonathan said, his words breaking slightly. Will squeezed his eyes shut.

“Uh. She, uh… we got caught up with the Russians again and the machine started and she couldn’t get back over and… I had to close it.”

“I don’t understand. Are you saying the Russians took her or something? She’s just stuck in there, right?” 

Jonathan was sounding desperate now. His panicked eyes looked back and forth between Will and Hopper and El, and the burning mall behind them. 

“No, kid. We blew the machine up. She’s…” he paused, Seeing the devastated expressions on their faces, seeing El staring down at her hands. “Gone.”

Will’s head was spinning. He felt his skull hit the cool metal frame of the ambulance, and finally opened his eyes to see Hopper watching him, tears running down his cheeks. Will had never seen Hopper cry before.

It still hadn’t sunken in yet. Crying was almost automatic for Will, his emotions assuming the worst before his brain could catch up. Jonathan was still staring incredulously at Hopper. 

“I… what?” was all he managed to get out. Will heard soft footsteps approaching from his right, and looked over to see Mike lower himself between El and Will. 

“What’s happening?” he said, putting a hand over El’s. Hopper exhaled slowly. 

“Alright, why don’t we get out of the rain?” he said softly, moving to help the kids onto the ambulance.

“El? What’s happening?” Mike wrapped an arm around her shoulders, staring at her intently with worried eyes. Will saw Hopper start saying something to Mike, and saw Jonathan starting to believe what he had heard, felt his hands begin to shake, heard his name being called from somewhere, but he didn’t care. His mom, his only real parent, was gone. She was probably the only person who understood what he had gone through, and what he was still going through. She was the one who reminded him to set his alarm in the mornings. She was his ticket out of a sleepover at Mike’s if he was having a particularly bad day. Will was scared. What were he and Jonathan supposed to do? They couldn’t exactly go back to normal, and it wasn’t like he had someone else to fill his mom’s  place—

But there was someone.

His head immediately went into panic mode. Oh no. Oh no no no  nononononono—

But no. They wouldn’t make them go there. They probably wouldn’t even be welcomed there. It’s not like anyone would find out and hunt them down or anything, they could just stay… somewhere else.

Will inhaled slowly, trying to calm his racing heart. He kept expecting to see his mom’s silhouette running out of the smoke from the mall, some injuries but otherwise unharmed. So far, there was nothing.

From somewhere on his right, Mike was vocalizing his shock, still squeezing El’s hand. On his left, Jonathan was sitting silently, staring at the swirling inferno ahead of them, his tears glistening like molten lava in his eyes. 

-----------------------------

July 11, 1985

“This is not a very unusual situation, Jim. When the kids still have a parent alive, that’s where they go.”

The lawyer’s beady eyes were emotionless, blinking slowly, like he was bored with his job. Hopper was getting more and more frustrated every second he spent looking at this guy’s stupid face.

“Yeah, I get that, but Lonnie doesn’t have custody, right? So they go somewhere else, right?”

The bored-looking lawyer adjusted his pens on his desk. “Well, technically, there was never a custody battle. He is still their legal guardian.”

The clock over the door was ticking louder than Hopper could think. Yet it still couldn’t drown out by far the most annoying voice he had ever heard. He just doesn’t get it, Hopper thought. They can’t go live with that asshole, Joyce would never let that happen.

But she did. She unknowingly and unintentionally ruined her kids’ lives by getting blown up in a secret Russian laboratory. Hopper closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Is there any way they won’t go to that— to Lonnie?”

“I’m afraid that would require legal action, and none of us want to deal with that right now, do we? Not after that whole mall fiasco,” the lawyer smiled dryly, twisting his wedding ring as if to say, Look at me, with my functional family life. How unfortunate for those kids. Ha ha. 

“Thanks so much for your help. I really appreciate it,” Hopper drawled, standing up to leave. “Have fun with your pen organizing.”

-----------------------------

“What are we packing for, exactly?”

Will was staring into his almost empty closet, holding an almost full box labeled CLOTHES in his arms. Hopper had driven by that morning with El and told them to start packing before driving away. El said he had been acting weird all week.

“We can’t just stay here, Will. I’m going to college… at some point… and you would probably go live with Hopper and El or something,” Jonathan said as he shoved various things into a box of his own. 

“I don’t know,” El murmured, sitting on the edge of Will’s bed. “He made it sound like you would have to go with your dad, but I think he’s going to talk to someone about it.”

Will and Jonathan glanced knowingly at each other, neither of them speaking. If living with Lonnie was bad with their mom around, it would be hell without her.

After a while, El spoke again, her voice barely audible over the shuffling of boxes. 

“What did he do?”

Jonathan stopped packing, turning to face her. “What?”

El fidgeted with the blue hair tie on her wrist. “Your dad. From what my dad said, it would be… bad if you went with him.” She paused, looking from Jonathan to Will and back again. “Is he like Papa?”

Will looked at the floor. Jonathan sighed. 

“I mean… yeah. Kind of.”

-----------------------------

Three hours later, Hopper’s brand new police car pulled into the driveway, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. Will, Jonathan, and El were sitting in the living room, listening to one of Jonathan’s mixtapes. Packing had become an abandoned idea. The door squeaked open and Hopper walked in, a grim look on his face. He sat in the chair across from them, hunched over as if he was deep in thought. 

“I just spoke with a—“ he rolled his eyes slightly. “—professional about your situation.”

Will and Jonathan stared at him, silently willing him to go on. El was sitting in the corner of the couch, watching their faces. Hopper sighed heavily before continuing. 

“There’s nothing I can do.”

No one spoke for a moment, knowing what was coming next. Will felt his throat tighten and his jaw clench. He forced himself to relax.

“Your dad… has full custody over you now. By law, you have to go live with him. Jonathan, you won’t be there for very long, since you’re almost 18, but…” Hopper cut off, eyes drifting to Will. El saw Will’s face fall, and reached out to grab his clenched hand. 

Hopper continued, twisting his hat in his hands. “I reached out to Lonnie about a week ago, told him that… told him what happened. I’ll call him later tonight about the custody situation. In the meantime, you guys should finish packing soon.”

Nobody spoke. Will glanced at Jonathan, who was already looking at him. Jonathan gave him a weak smile, an attempt to comfort the twisting feeling in Will’s stomach. His fears were confirmed.  This wouldn’t be the worst thing that had ever happened to him (obviously, nothing could top possession), but it would make the rest of his life miserable. As if it wasn’t miserable enough already.

-----------------------------

Jonathan was livid.

Of course, the legality of a 17 year old working a minimum wage job and taking care of his kid brother was extremely questionable, but Will living with Lonnie? 

The last time Jonathan had talked to his father was just after Will disappeared. Lonnie said he wanted to see them. Lie. Lonnie said he wasn’t the asshole. Lie. Lonnie said he cared. Lie. He was just about the worst parent Jonathan had ever come across. If you could even call him a parent. Jonathan needed to do something about this, even if it required going to court. If he had to see Will in pain one more time, he could never forgive himself for letting his brother, and mother, down. 

That’s why as soon as Hopper told them the news, Jonathan drove to the library and checked out all the law books he could. He also started looking in the newspaper for job openings. He knew Hopper would never let him follow through with this, but what would he be if he didn’t try?

-----------------------------

“Hello?”

Lonnie heard the chirpy voice from all the way across the house. He hated how his girlfriend, Lisa, always put on that annoying baby voice on the phone. It gave him headaches. He’d tried telling her to stop, but no such luck. 

“May I ask who’s calling?” Lisa trilled, and Lonnie stood up to shut the door, rolling his eyes as he heard Lisa pop a gum bubble. They had been together for about a year now, having met in a bar downtown. Despite the overpriced food, it was a decent spot to get away from whatever “domestic life” Lisa wanted to start. As if he would ever have kids again.

“LONNIE!” Lisa called from the living room. “IT’S FOR YOU!”

Lonnie, hand still on the doorknob, huffed impatiently and trudged to the phone, pulling it from Lisa’s grip.

“Hello?”

“This is Chief Jim Hopper, I’m calling regarding the… incident that I told you about last week?”

Right. The Incident. When Hopper had called on the 5th, a day after it happened, Lonnie was less than surprised. Of course Joyce would run off into a burning mall and get herself killed. Probably to save one of her precious angels or something. In fact, Lonnie was barely sad. At least he wouldn’t have to talk to her anymore, not that he did before. Sure, he may have loved her at one point, but those times were far behind him.

“Yeah. Do I have to help plan the funeral or something?” 

He heard the chief laugh dryly on the other end of the line. “No, that’s not… I’m calling about your kids.”

Lonnie froze. Crap. The kids. Of course he would be saddled with them again after all these years. This was just what he needed.

Wait. Kids? Plural?

“What about the kids?” he said muttered, trying not to let Lisa hear.

“They’re legally in your custody now.”

Lonnie shook his head, making sure he was hearing things correctly. “Uh, okay. How are they holding up?”

There was a dull silence. He heard people muttering to each other before Hopper answered again. “They’re doing a bit better. So, you’re taking them to Indianapolis? When do you think you’ll pick them up?”

Yep. They. Them. Plural. Like he didn’t drive all the way out to Hawkins to comfort his ex over one of their deaths just two years ago. What the hell? Did she have more?

And besides that, Hopper sounded surprised. Like he didn’t think Lonnie would be willing to take them in. Asshole.

He was right, though. 

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe in the next couple of days or so. I’ll stay for the funeral.”

More muttering. “Okay, great. Nice talking with you, Lonnie.” 

And just like that, he hung up.

-----------------------------

Hopper put down the phone, a look of disbelief on his face. Did Lonnie actually care enough to take the kids in willingly? He shook his head and sat down at the Byers’ kitchen table. The funeral. He hadn’t even thought about that. He looked into the living room to see the kids admiring some of Will’s drawings, El occasionally asking what it meant. Jonathan would laugh and Will would say something about El needing to play DnD more. Hopper was glad they had found a way to distract themselves. 

He pulled Jonathan aside later that night, and told him about his call with Lonnie. 

“He’s probably just glad he’ll get the house, too, so he can sell it and buy more booze,” Jonathan said with an eye roll, leaning against the hallway wall.

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.”

 “You’re not seriously gonna give up and let us go with that monster, right? 

“This isn’t up for debate. There’s nothing I can do about it, and definitely nothing you can do about it,” Hopper snapped, raising his voice as loud as he dared. He sighed, shaking his head. “But we really should talk about the funeral.”

Jonathan lowered his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah. I know.”

“Listen, kid, I can do all the heavy lifting, alright? You don’t need to do everything yourself. Especially planning your own mom’s funeral.”

Jonathan shifted, pulling his arms tighter to his chest. “It’s just… we have to be on a budget, you know? I still have a job and everything, but… there used to be two of us bringing in income.”

“I get it,” Hopper nodded. “I’ll help out with some of that.” He considered the idea of digging up Will’s old coffin, since it had never really been used, but thought that bringing that up would be a bit insensitive. Hopper saw Jonathan glance at his brother and El, smiling slightly as they laughed about something Will had said. 

“I could do it, you know. Take care of him.”

Hopper sighed. “No. You couldn’t. Joyce wouldn’t want you to, and it would be bad for the both of you.”

“Worse than living with an alcoholic with anger issues?” Jonathan retorted under his breath, his eyes alight with anger.

Hopper said nothing.

“Look, I’m just saying it’s not good for Will to suddenly move and switch schools and have a completely different lifestyle. Enough’s happened to him already.”

Hopper closed his eyes, thinking. “It might be good for him. To get out of here. You know, your mom was thinking about moving before all of this happened.”

Jonathan paused. “What?”

“Yeah. She thought it would be better if you got out of Hawkins. And I think I agree with her.”

Jonathan’s mouth was open slightly, his eyebrows knitted together. He turned away with a scowl, walking down the hallway to his bedroom. Hopper could feel a headache coming on. He sat down at the table again as El shrieked with laughter, making papers go flying haphazardly around the room. He couldn’t help but agree with Jonathan. Lonnie was the last thing either of them needed. But if he did anything, it would be make sure those two got the hell away from danger. He knew Joyce would agree with him. He knew it.

[harringrovecryptid]

Under the Mistletoe

A special little gift for my favs @color-me-cas @roseaque and @pan-shego

I hope you all have an amazing Christmas!

The kids thought it would be funny to hang mistletoe in the doorway between the Byers’ kitchen and dining room.

Correction.

Dustin thought it would be funny. The other kids were secretly excited because it gave them plenty of opportunities to steal kisses under the guise of a Christmas tradition.

The parents couldn’t possibly find anything wrong with spreading a little harmless holiday cheer, right?

Unfortunately for the kids, they greatly underestimated how much traffic would be moving through that doorway. And how often two people might cross under the mistletoe at the same time.

Dustin and Mrs. Byers were the first fatalities. And at that moment Dustin seemed to decide that holiday traditions aren’t that big of a deal, and maybe mistletoe wasn’t a funny idea…

But ever since Mike explained to El what mistletoe was, she was very keen on ensuring the rules were followed.

So Mrs. Byers got a quick peck on the cheek, and Dustin got teased by Lucas for trying to “make a move” on Will’s mom.

That is, until Lucas and Nancy got stuck in the doorway a few minutes later.

Over the next hour it seemed as if everyone fell victim to the harmless plant. Mike and Will. Dustin and El. Hopper and Joyce (quite a few times and most definitely not all accidents). Steve would blow raspberries into the cheek of whichever unfortunate kid he crossed under with, which Mike thought was disgusting but it made Eleven laugh.

And after about the tenth raspberry from Steve all romantic notions surrounding mistletoe were hopelessly lost.

“None of you better be sick.” Hopper’s complaint was almost drowned out by the sound of a car engine in the distance.

“That’s probably Max!” Lucas called out as he ran to the window to watch as a familiar Camaro pulled into the driveway. “Ew, she brought Billy.”

“Who else was going to drive her dipshit?” Steve rolled his eyes as he helped Joyce carry dishes of food to the table, occasionally walking through the doorway with Nancy, Joyce, or Jonathan. By that time in the evening, kissing whoever happened to be crossing his path under the mistletoe became more habit than anything else. And if Steve could make Jonathan blush and act flustered then all the better.

“Yeah but why does he have to come inside?” Mike complained, leaning over Lucas’ shoulder to watch the two step-siblings approach the house.

Steve shrugged and continued his task.

He and Billy didn’t necessarily consider themselves friends after the Snowball, but they weren’t really enemies either. Sure they’d occasionally share a cigarette at the rock quarry when they happened to meetup there, and maybe Steve was starting to really enjoy the color of Billy’s eyes or the way his curly hair framed his face like a halo of sunshine…

And okay maybe Steve had spent a night or two thinking about the way Billy might kiss, but that was something a little more confusing than he was willing to think about during the holidays.

Especially when Steve would sometimes catch Billy staring with the same daydream-y look in his own eyes.

But maybe Steve was just imagining it.

“Hey losers!” Max called out as she burst through the front door. Billy trailed behind her with what looked like a casserole of some sort.

The kids quickly gathered together around the tree and began talking among themselves, sharing Christmas plans or creating them for the following days.

“Susan sent this.” Billy offered, lifting the corningware in his hands. He still hadn’t moved from his spot at the front door.

“That was so sweet of her.” Joyce smiled at the teenager. “Thank you for bringing it, you can put it in the kitchen. You’re joining us right?”

“I’m probably going to head out…” Billy tried to say before Joyce shook her head.

“You’re eating with us. Jonathan already got a chair for you.”

“Oh.” Billy said, awkwardly walking in the direction that Joyce was pointing.

Steve was only half-listening to the whole exchange. But he had to hand it to Mrs. Byers. She had a way of trying to make everyone feel wanted.

Steve grabbed a couple of empty glasses and walked them to the table.

Billy was in the kitchen now, looking around the busy house like he didn’t know what to do.

“Hey,” Steve gestured to the remaining glasses, “wanna help finish setting up?”

There was relief in Billy’s eyes as he followed Steve, grateful for something to do instead of awkwardly standing around. They made quick work of the glasses and plates, and Billy was just handing Steve the bread bowl when they happened to be crossing under the mistletoe at the same time.

“Thanks.” Steve pecked Billy on the cheek and walked back into the dining room. He was looking for somewhere on the crowded tabletop to put the bread when it dawned on him what just happened.

Slowly, Steve turned around, eyes widening in shock.

Billy was still standing in the same spot, staring back at Steve with a look on his face that Steve couldn’t quite discern between confusion and disgust.

Then Billy looked up, and he spotted the mistletoe. A slow smile crept along his face as Billy turned back to Steve.

Before either of them could say anything, Joyce was calling everyone to dinner and the room was suddenly crowded with hungry kids.

Steve was swept into a chair, trying to look anywhere but at Billy. And because apparently the universe hated him, Billy ended up sitting right next to Steve.

Thanks was given, plates were filled, and to the children’s delight, eating commenced.

For the next few minutes Steve’s fingers nervously turning a bread roll into crumbs until he felt something on his leg. Glancing down, Steve almost choked when he saw it was Billy’s hand.

Steve stared at the blond and Billy kept his gaze on Joyce, who had apparently asked him a question about what he wanted to do after he graduated.

All the while, the hand on Steve’s thigh stayed, occasionally shifting, but never leaving.

That night, after the dinner was over and the dishes were washed, Steve drove to the quarry.

He didn’t even question whether or not Billy would be there. He knew.

The Camaro was waiting for him with it’s passenger side door open in a silent invitation.

Billy was smoking in the driver's seat. He kept his gaze forward. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Steve answered, crawling into the passenger's seat, not sure if his stomach was doing somersaults because was afraid of excited. “You and Joyce seemed to get along alright.”

Billy exhaled, cigarette smoke hiding his expression. “She’s a nice lady. Kinda too nice.”

“Why? Because she invited you to dinner?”

Billy shrugged. “I’m not usually everyone’s favorite guest.”

“Well you seemed to behave yourself tonight.” Steve stared out the windshield, wondering where this conversation was going.

Billy lifted the cigarette from his lips and held it between his fingers. “I misbehaved a little.”

“What do you mean?” Steve watched the smoke rise from the small object.

Billy put it back to his lips and took a long drag before speaking.

“Stole something.”

“What?!” Steve bolted forward, staring incredulously at Billy as he turned on the radio and began browsing stations.

“Billy why would you… how..? You have to give it back, whatever you stole.”

“Mmh hmm.” Billy nodded and reached inside his jacket. “Once I'm done with it.”

“What's that supposed to…”

Steve's question trailed off once Billy pulled the mistletoe from inside his coat and hung it under his rearview mirror.

The car was suddenly very quiet with the exception of Judy Garland singing a Christmas medley over the radio.

“Still want me to give it back?” Billy smiled, but Steve could hear a tinge of nervousness in his voice. As if Billy was scared he'd completely misread what happened earlier.

Steve reached out and touched the delicate green leaves that were tied together in a pretty red bow. “I guess we could always give it back in the morning.”

Tension melted away as Billy flicked his cigarette from the car window. “Yeah. Or we could hold onto it for a few days.”

“Or just bring it back next year.” Steve whispered as he found himself leaning into the other boy like he was being pulled by a magnet.

Billy met Steve half-way.

“Next year.” He repeated, tracing his fingers along Steve's jaw before leaning in for a kiss. “Merry Christmas Steve.”

[junker-town]

When MLB’s best team also blew a 12-run lead

Here’s what it was like to watch one of baseball’s biggest comebacks ... from the wrong side

I am a Mariners fan, which has led to many bad sports nights. The worst began with Dave Burba slopping what I can only assume was his take on a cut fastball a few inches off the plate away. Ichiro was at bat, Mark McLemore on deck, the twilight was falling on a beautiful Ohio evening, and the Cleveland Indians were hosting the 80-31 Seattle Mariners.

I’d never seen the Mariners on television before. I moved to Seattle when I was 10 and was a boring enough child to fall in love with baseball after my first visit to the Kingdome. Thanks to the vagaries of cable, however, I had to follow my team via radio and once-yearly excursions to the ballpark. That’s not necessarily a bad thing when you have Dave Neihaus guiding you through your favorite team’s golden age*, but it did leave me starved for non-aural baseball.

*As it turns out, 1995-2003 was also the Mariners’ only non-fecal age.

So starved, in fact, every time Seattle made it to a national broadcast, I would try to watch. And every time, for literally years, I’d get notified that, so sorry, your game has been blacked out. Until, suddenly, on Aug. 5, 2001, it worked. I was baffled by this turn of events, of course, but decided to take it as a note of benevolence from a higher power, and settled in to watch.

Pitch number two was in more or less the same place as Burba’s first offering. Three was an 84-mph fastball down the middle that Ichiro apparently thought would be too embarrassing to hit, a decision which cost him when he was called out on strikes a few pitches later. So far so bad, a younger, more innocent me must have thought.

The 2001 Indians were a good team and could pitch. A little bit. Bartolo Colon was in his intimidating pomp, and the arrival of rookie left-hander C.C. Sabathia helped give their rotation a one-two punch which was entirely irrelevant when Burba (or anyone else — Cleveland essentially ran a AAA rotation beyond the big two) was on the mound. At his best, Burba was slightly better than pure filler, but at 34 he was no longer at his best, and he was going up against a Mariners team that was set to absolutely torch him. Now he was up against Mark McLemore, who struck out too. Then Edgar Martinez chopped out to third.

If you follow baseball, you’re probably aware of this game, at least tangentially. And therefore you’re aware that this was something more disastrous than what was threatened in the top of the first: a mediocre pitcher chewing his way through a very good lineup. That’s a bad day, but not a traumatic one. Four batters into the game, when Kenny Lofton cracked a ground ball single back through the box, and hard, I feared a bad day. How disappointing it would be to have my first televised Mariners experience be a frustrating loss!

Aaron Sele wriggled his way out of the bottom of the first, which gives me a good opportunity to drop in this still from a between-innings commercial:

I think Pontiac would have been proud of how they’ve shaped modern society.

The Mariners scored four times in the top of the second. Two ill-considered dives produced a pair of hustle doubles, sandwiched around a Mike Cameron blast which bounced off the wall but would have gone about 20 rows deep if he’d been hitting the 2019 baseball. Ichiro then plated a pair with a delicate lob to left. Seattle was rolling, and I was happy.

I was still happier after the third. That inning went something like this:

Single Single Single Double Single Single Hit By Pitch Sacrifice Fly Walk Error Single Strikeout Lineout

It was worth eight runs and took the score to 12-0. No baseball team in 75 years had come back from a 12-run deficit. The Indians, who’d already been beaten twice at home by Seattle that weekend and were starting to look in trouble in the AL Central race, were staring at a blowout. No baseball team in 75 years had come back from a 12-run deficit.

Then one did. This game is in the record books as the greatest comeback of all time, the one in which Cleveland clawed their way back from a ludicrous deficit to win the game in extras. Blowing a 12-run lead over any length of time is difficult enough, but the sheer scope of the Mariners’ collapse is extraordinary. The teams each scored two runs in the middle innings, leaving the score at 14-2 during the seventh-inning stretch. The Indians had to compress history (and, for me, misery) into three innings.

They did so without the heart of their fearsome batting order. By the time the comeback began, both lineups had seen a slew of changes. Ichiro, Martinez, and Olerud were on the bench, as were Alomar, Juan Gonzalez, and Ellis Burks. The only really dangerous bats left available to either team were Jim Thome and Bret Boone, and the latter had been given the day off anyway. Despite the two clubs sending seven hitters to the 2001 MLB All-Star game, only Mike Cameron played the full 11 innings of what was to prove one of the most memorable games of the decade.

Anyway. By the middle of the seventh, I was in a pretty good mood. I was getting to watch (not listen!) to one of the greatest teams of all time kick the ever-loving shit out of some pretty capable opposition, and although it was a little annoying that most of the big bats were out of the game, all the Mariners needed to do to ensure my evening finished happily was not blow a 12-run lead.

AN ASIDE: Whatever happened to this dude? Did we lose him during our difficult transition to being a civilization of Mango Freaks?

END ASIDE

Through six innings, Sele had given up six hits, a walk, and two runs. Russell Branyan, on for Burks, greeted him with a screaming line drive into the right centre field seats. 14-3. The comeback was on. Only, it didn’t really look it. Two batters later and the Indians needed 11 runs to tie the game, and had seven outs to do it. Solo home runs weren’t going to do it.

If we had to pick a turning point, the plate appearance which made all that followed possible, it might be Lofton’s walk. With two outs, Einar Diaz smacked a two-hopper up the middle and well out of Carlos Guillen’s reach, but Sele was still cruising and quickly got Lofton 0-2 thanks to a generous called strike and a foul ball. One more strike would have sent the Indians into the eighth inning in an (even more) impossible hole. Sele threw exactly zero more strikes.

Lofton took four straight fastballs away. None of them were close. Omar Vizquel followed that up with a four-pitch walk, and suddenly Sele, who averaged just 2.1 walks per nine innings for the entire 2001 season, had walked the bases loaded. The clouds were gathering. Lou Piniella seeded them further by going to blowout specialist John Halama.

Halama, part of the return for Randy Johnson in 1998, was a terrible pitcher, AAA no-hitter aside. He somehow logged 110 innings for the 2001 Mariners, which is remarkable considering he didn’t strike anyone out and got absolutely blitzed by opposing hitters. The ‘01 Mariners had one of the strongest bullpens ever assembled, headlined by Kazuhiro Sasaki, Arthur Rhodes, and Jeff Nelson. Even the best bullpens, however, have their fair share of dreck. With an 11-run cushion and someone named Jolbert Cabrera at the plate, dreck should have been fine.

It was not fine. Cabrera took a big swing on a changeup away, and yanked the ball into left. That fooled Martin, who froze, took a step backwards and then charged in, allowing the ball to drop a step or two in front of him. Two runs would score, and the seventh inning ultimately ended, 14-5.

The Mariners’ bats seem to have considered their job done. After the fifth, they went a combined 3-18, with three singles. Having scored 14 runs in that early blitz, they quite reasonably went into cruise control. They’d never come back out.

Meanwhile, the Indians were treating Halama like a piñata. Thome, whose two-run home run in the fourth got Cleveland on the board, flipped a 2-1 “fastball” into the left field corner for another homer. 14-6. Marty Cordova joined him in the home run parade after a Branyan hit-by-pitch — 14-8. Suddenly the game was within reach, and after a pair of singles Halama was done. Norm Charlton was called in from the pen.

Charlton wasn’t one of the big three Mariners relievers, but he wasn’t bad either, and Piniella would have been expecting him to hold down a six-run lead even in a tricky spot. He probably should have, too. Vizquel was jammed on a 95-mph fastball away, but he somehow kept it fair and the ball looped down the left field line for a double and a 14-9 score. The Mariners then got a break in this breakless of games — Lofton misread a ball which bounced off Tom Lampkin’s right leg and was thrown out trying to score, which allowed Charlton to escape to the ninth with a five-run lead.

I didn’t yet know to be nervous. Eighteen years ago, the Seattle Mariners were not the Seattle Mariners™. They had not yet become the unbridled force for misery which has shaped the way I look at sports. Their playoff drought was zero years. They had reached the ALCS in 2000, they would again in 2001. They were phenomenal, and I expected them to win more or less whenever they played, whatever the situation. And when they lost ... well, that happened. I suppose. Infrequently.

Ed Taubensee led off the bottom of the ninth with a single. With Thome and Branyan next up, the situation looked perilous, but Charlton made quick work of them. Two outs, down five, and a runner on first? That should have been game over. Then the wheels really came off.

I hadn’t watched this inning since I saw the calamity unfold live, but it’s seared into my memory regardless. Cordova absolutely crushed a pitch off the left-field wall to knock Charlton out of the game. Nelson was summoned. He got Wil Cordero to 3-2, then struck him out looking on a wicked slider:

Well, he should have struck him out with that slider. Instead was called ball four. Missed calls have been more egregious, of course, but this one had a profound effect on my young psyche, for six pitches later Nelson himself was knocked out of the game by a line drive into left off Diaz’s bat — 14-11. Suddenly it was a save situation, and it was clear to teenage me that something had gone terribly wrong.

I was ‘watching’ with my hands over my eyes as Lofton scooched a single past David Bell to bring up the go-ahead run in Vizquel. Not a soul in Jacobs Field was sitting down. This was it. Sasaki started Vizquel off with a splitter that he swung over for strike one. A second splitter followed, well out of the zone. The battle would end up lasting some time.

Baseball is a sport devoted to tension. Stress is the soul of the game and has been since the foul-ball rules were finalized. In a sport with a clock, key moments are just that: moments. They come, they go, they are finished with and done in a flash. Baseball stretches its moments and its fans to a breaking point. I am reliably informed that during Vizquel’s at-bat I was having what looked like a small seizure. All I really remember is the creeping horror, every pitch promising redemption or catastrophe but only serving to prolong the moment and ratchet up the stress.

Sasaki’s fifth pitch to Vizquel was a 91-mph fastball down the middle and at the knees, called a ball for reasons I suspect are related to the will of some malevolent deity. Pitch six was just about fouled off, an emergency swing sending a splitter trickling off behind home plate. Pitch seven was popped into the stands on the third base side. And then pitch eight was guided by the despotic hand of fate onto the label of Vizquel’s bat.

The subsequent weak grounder was perfectly placed, right down the first base line. Ed Sprague was a) playing in and b) not John Olerud, so his desperate dive ended in failure. Lofton was 34, and not as fast as he once was, but the ball was so well-placed — and the Mariners’ defense so thoroughly depleted — that he scored from first with 40 feet to spare. 14-14. Tie game.

For some reason I watched to the bitter end, even though extra innings were essentially and entirely denouement. Cleveland had already won the game by drawing level, and the Mariners had already lost it by blowing the biggest lead in MLB history. Cabrera’s walk-off single in the bottom of the 11th marked only the final blow in a disaster that had already unfolded.

Eighteen years later, this still haunts me. Not like it did then, when it was merely a humiliation, a nationally televised scandal of a game in what was otherwise an enormously successful season. But now, with the Mariners mired in year after year of pain, when the organization considers mediocrity aspirational, it’s hard not to see this as a harbinger of the misery to come, an early visitation of the Mariners in their true colors.

Sometimes I wonder if the current incarnation of the team, the one slowly draining the hope out of my fandom since 2004, is somehow inhabited by the ghost of Aug. 5. It’s ridiculous, of course — a single game, record books or not, has no bearing whatsoever on the standings 18 years later.

But. Still. What if?

Correction: This article originally stated that no team in history had ever come back from a 12-run deficit. In fact, it had happened twice prior to 2001, most recently in 1925.

This article originally ran before Secret Base launched, but it’s a very us story, and we like to think it’s worth reading. So here it is again!

[magneticseparators-blog1]

Industrial Magnet, Permanent Magnetic Equipments, Magnetic Separators, Material Handling Eqiupments, Rare Earth Magnet

An separator can be a device which utilizes a magnet to eliminate impurities and different materials from metal. Separators can be corrected to attract unique kinds of magnetic materials and might be utilized before, during, and after production of a material. Though their usage is industrial in character magnetic separators are used for a variety of applications. Magnetic separators may vary in size in the table top variation to your heavy drum that is used in recycling and different software and could be either ferromagnetic or paramagnetic.

How a Magnetic Separator Works A magnetic separator is made up of powerful magnet that is either laid down or suspended from a ceiling or apparatus. Materials may be passed over a tabletop separator in order to extract its own impurities, while suspended separators encounter above a material. Magnetic separators are also cylinders that objects are passed through. The material that a magnetic separator purifies may take the kind of a product, parts, or liquid metal.

Applications Magnetic separators are often used for industrial purposes such as recycling and manufacturing. They're also utilized in scientific labs which often require metallic substances that are without any impurities (and true in chemistry). In cases like this, the separator is by forcing either all or any of the substances in one substance into a container a cylinder or flask that averts cross-contamination between two substances.

Advantages Magnetic separators tend to be powerful, mobile, and can be corrected to remove varying sorts of magnetic substances from a solid or liquid. They are most reliable when applied to a liquid, even though removing impurities is possible. Magnetic separators are exceptionally simple and quite versatile in design. A basic separator could be constructed using a clamp and a potent magnet to keep down the stuff.

Disadvantages The principal disadvantage of Magnetic Separators Manufacturer will be that they must be always maintained. The magnetic separator has to be discharged or spilled down as a way to remove whilst oil has to be inserted to some moving parts materials which have collected. In the case of an electromagnetic separator, the electro magnet needs to be in a position to be turned off in any moment in case of an emergency.

The past week had been particularly angsty, and I broke my self-imposed Kathmandu sobriety in order to down a bottle of red at a Bollywood-themed party. I woke up tstill able to taste the menthol cigarettes I had greedily sucked down, and I was dangerously close to being hungover.But not so close that I was willing to break my plans for some Saturday morning yoga. I stood amidst the crowd of people and waited for a few minutes, until an American man came blustering into the studio. “Sorry guys!” Magnetic Handling He announced. “So sorry I am late!” I was really confused. What did he mean, late? It was still fifteen minutes before the class was scheduled to start!We all headed into the room, and I set my handbag down and popped over to the loo to take a quick pre-yoga pee (always important). When I returned I noticed something strange. The others were sitting on blankets and bolsters. No yoga mats, and the teacher, Frank, was already instructing despite the fact that it was only 9:20. What in the holy hell was going on?!The first word I registered Frank saying was “death.” It slowly started to dawn on me. This was not a yoga class. This was a meditation class.I glanced over at the schedule on the wall and it was confirmed: This was the 8:50am Saturday morning meditation. The “9:30″ class that I had viewed online was indeed taking place…. all the way in Patan at one of Pranayama’s other studios. I had misread the website, and ended up in a meditation. Exactly the place I was most scared to be.My error was not the only factor that led to this fateful coincidence. On any other Saturday, had I made the same mistake I would have arrived at the studio and been faced with a locked door, the class half-completed. I would have checked the posted schedule, realized my mistake and left. However, this week, the one week that it mattered – Frank was late. He arrived 25 minutes late, seconds after I myself had arrived.When I put all of this together in my head and realized that we were about to do one of the meditations I find most meaningful — death meditation — tears sprung into my eyes. “What a wonderful karmic surprise,” I thought, “and how fucking terrifying.”See, karma or fate or God or pure chance — however you want to look at it — something got me on that cushion today. Some kind of wheel turned and set into motion the weird series of coincidences that led my sore post-trekking ass onto the floor of the yoga studio to sit and watch my breath and confront my own mortality.The purpose of vivid death visualizations are to remind you that at any moment you could die, and so you should never put off the important things in life. You should apologize to people you’ve wronged. You should forgive everyone who has wronged you. You should do things you love. You should pray to whatever you believe in. And most importantly, death meditation reminds you that you should fucking meditate.I tried to hide from the cushion, from the meditation — but it found me. Thank god. Thank Frank. And thank me.I arrived at the yoga studio at 9:10 that morning. The class wasn’t due to start until 9:30, so I was a little bit surprised to see a small clutch of people waiting outside the studio door. “Pfft. Eager!” I thought, a brief moment of irritation flickering in my mind.

This was my first yoga class in months, and I was eager to stretch and sweat. I had, admittedly, been a pretty epic slacker in regards to my spiritual practice lately. In November and December I spent six weeks at Kopan Monastery and during this time I was immersed in Dharma, convinced that I would never, ever EVER let myself fall off of the meditation wagon again.  After all, I would be living in Kathmandu, a city so steeped in Buddhism that I couldn’t possibly abandon my practice… This, it would seem, was overly optimistic.

The yoga class was described online as a magnetic destoner, which was good – I kind of needed something to kick my ass. For the past month I have only been meditating once a week, at the FPMT centre in Thamel and I will be honest: a lot of those sessions have been spent thinking solely about my favourite restaurant across the street.

Since moving to Kathmandu the previous month, I had been battling some minor depression and anxiety. I had been trying to get settled in this chaotic city, and despite making a lot of great new friends and doing rewarding work, I have been wracked with homesickness. This pining for Vancouver has been coupled with racing remorseful thoughts about the break-up of a five-year relationship – that ended 18 months ago. My mind has just been looking for scabs to pick, and the cushion has felt unreasonably scary. I decided that the yoga mat might be a more suitable place to ease back into mindfulness, a place to drag some of the demons out of my head and battle them physically instead.

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Overband Magnetic Separator (OBMS)

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Hopper Magnet

Trap Magnet / Magnetic Filter

Hand Magnet

Hump Magnet

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Belt Type Magnetic Separator / Belt Concentrator

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Electro Magnetic Vibratory Feeder

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Vibro Seprator

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Spiral Concentrator

Electro Static Separator

The past week had been particularly angsty, and I broke my self-imposed Kathmandu sobriety in order to down a bottle of red at a Bollywood-themed party. I woke up tstill able to taste the menthol cigarettes I had greedily sucked down, and I was dangerously close to being hungover.

But not so close that I was willing to break my plans for some Saturday morning yoga. I stood amidst the crowd of people and waited for a few minutes, until an American man came blustering into the studio. “Sorry guys!” He announced. “So sorry I am late!” I was really confused. What did he mean, late? It was still fifteen minutes before the class was scheduled to start!

We all headed into the room, and I set my handbag down and popped over to the loo to take a quick pre-yoga pee (always important). When I returned I noticed something strange. The others were sitting on blankets and bolsters. No yoga mats, and the teacher, Frank, was already instructing despite the fact that it was only 9:20. What in the holy hell was going on?!

The first word I registered Frank saying was “death.” It slowly started to dawn on me. This was not a yoga class. This was a meditation class.

I glanced over at the schedule on the wall and it was confirmed: This was the 8:50am Saturday morning meditation. The “9:30″ class that I had viewed online was indeed taking place…. all the way in Patan at one of Pranayama’s other studios. I had misread the Vibratory Motors Manufacturer ended up in a meditation. Exactly the place I was most scared to be.

My error was not the only factor that led to this fateful coincidence. On any other Saturday, had I made the same mistake I would have arrived at the studio and been faced with a locked door, the class half-completed. I would have checked the posted schedule, realized my mistake and left. However, this week, the one week that it mattered – Frank was late. He arrived 25 minutes late, seconds after I myself had arrived.

When I put all of this together in my head and realized that we were about to do one of the meditations I find most meaningful — death meditation — tears sprung into my eyes. “What a wonderful karmic surprise,” I thought, “and how fucking terrifying.”

See, karma or fate or God or pure chance — however you want to look at it — something got me on that cushion today. Some kind of wheel turned and set into motion the weird series of coincidences that led my sore post-trekking ass onto the floor of the yoga studio to sit and watch my breath and confront my own mortality.

The purpose of vivid death visualizations are to remind you that at any moment you could die, and so you should never put off the important things in life. You should apologize to people you’ve wronged. You should forgive everyone who has wronged you. You should do things you love. You should pray to whatever you believe in. And most importantly, death meditation reminds you that you should fucking meditate.

I tried to hide from the cushion, from the meditation — but it found me. Thank god. Thank Frank. And thank me.