#mud mixing hopper

[curiositydooropened]

Wildfire • Ember

When Hawkins opened up and slowly slipped into the Ether, you were there on the front lines. Now, nearly two years later, after the tragic loss of your best friend, you're left without a partner and a rage building inside you like a wildfire. When you're given the option to retire or partner with your rival, Steve Harrington, you struggle to put aside your differences for the sake of the world.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Chapter Wordcount: 11,315

Warnings: enemies/rivals to lovers, second chance romance, slooooowburn, unrequited love, so much pining, blood, gore, character death, best friend!disabled!Eddie Munson, character injuries, trauma, PTSD, hallucinations, drowning, concussion, hurt/comfort, fire

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Chapter Two: Spark

---

THEN

March 1988

A strong forearm caught your waist, ripping you backward and back to reality. The ringing in your ears faded to the crackle of fire, the roar of an engine, the gut wrenching wails of heartache. You resisted the force at your ribs, rooted to your spot, slack jaw tightened, hands clenched into fists, but they were stronger. You were lifted off your feet, kicking, clawing at the air, desperate to reach the figure thirty feet in front of you. Your best friend lay there, pale skin to asphalt, shock of red hair caked in mud, a pattern of thick black veins across freckled features. Your nostrils filled with the acrid stench of charred flesh. Your mouth tasted of blood and ash and bile.

“She’s gone,” Harrington’s voice roared in your ear, chest pressed to your back as he wrestled you toward the Getaway. “We’ve gotta get out of here. We can’t risk infection. Let’s go!” He loosened his grip to hoist himself into the truck bed, extending a hand to help you up.

You had every reason to stay, every reason to hold her head in your lap and scream and sob and apologize for what happened to her, for what you did to her. 

Harrington yelled your name, drawing your attention back to him. His skin was stained black around the edges, coated in grime and oil slick with sweat. His jaw was clenched, hand still extended, and you noticed the flash of his eyes into the bed behind him.

Wheeler was there, and Byers, both staring at you wide-eyed, jaws clenched. Wheeler’s hair had never been bushier. The circles beneath Byers’s eyes never deeper. And in their arms, Robin buried her face and muffled her sobs in the crook of an elbow, blue eyes flooded, tear stains streaked through ash and char across freckled cheeks and down her chest. 

What had you done?

You swallowed.

Then, Robin reached a hand out, beckoning, commanding, begging for you to get in the truck. Her fingers trembled. 

Something deep, something hidden, subconscious, compelled you to grip Harrington’s forearm and allow him to hoist you into the truck bed, and with two slams of Byers’s fist to the roof, you were off, nearly teetering off the side as you found your seat on a wheel well. Fingers found your palm, wet, and you glanced up to gape at Robin, throat filling with too much emotion to make sound. But she held your gaze, those soulful blue eyes locked on yours so you couldn’t look away, couldn’t watch the figure of your best friend’s lifeless form fade into the horizon.

—

FIVE MONTHS LATER

August 1988

The smoke from Hopper’s cigarette wafted passed the bottle brush mustache and receding hairline until it hit the yellowed ceiling of his office and permeated the room in a thick fog. The smell, acrid and unfiltered, reminded you of your paternal grandmother’s kitchen, and it mixed with the spice of sweat from the boy perched beside you. 

Harrington sat too far forward, broad shoulders hunched, apparently fresh from the gym. You spotted the wet patch staining his t-shirt between his shoulder blades and under his arms. Beneath an elbow, his hairy thigh bounced at an unrelenting pace. You thought his sneakers might rub a hole through the linoleum flooring, clear to the Upside Down.

It took everything in your power not to slam a hand down to his knee to stop the anxious movements, your own hands clamming with sweat. You restrained, remaining poised, stoic, as you peered over Harrington’s shoulder while he rubbernecked the paperwork Hopper leafed through.

A photograph had been paper clipped to the inside cover of a forest green envelope. Two faces, pinched in stifled laughter, stared back at you, bright-eyed and bushy tailed. You recognized yourself and your best friend, full of innocence and zest and life. Hop’s meaty fingers slammed the folder shut. You swallowed.

“What’s going on, Hop?” Harrington finally vocalized, his voice a little strained. 

Hopper didn’t acknowledge him, merely stared right through the younger man to make eye contact with you, steely blue with a hint of mischief you’d maybe once appreciated. Now it made your blood run cold. “You passed your psych eval. Flying colors.”

You could feel your heart in your chest, taste the smoke on your tongue. 

Harrington’s movements stopped in your periphery.

Hopper leaned back in his seat, the metal groaning beneath his frame, and he scattered a few ashes into a full-to-the-brim ashtray. “And, as I’m sure you’ve heard, Buckley retired last week.” 

Your heartbeat halted. You wet dry lips, ventured a glance Harrington’s direction. 

He rolled his eyes, looked away, caught. A scoff spilled from his mouth.

You hadn’t known. You hadn’t spoken to Robin in months. How could you, after what you’d done? 

Hopper continued before you could respond. “So I’ve called you here with good news.” Again, mischief. The man seemed as jolly as ole Saint Nick, downright chipper. “You’re going back out there, kid.” 

You’d been asking for months, begging on bended knee, desperate for a taste of that sickly sweet air, for ash in your lungs and sweat on your brow. You’d worked your ass off for months, and yet the news, matched with the look on his face and Harrington’s presence bittered the taste of relief in your mouth. 

Again, the commander spoke before you could open your mouth to respond, his words strained through smoke blown upward. “The two of you need to log a hundred training hours starting tomorrow. After that you’ll be trialed, and you’ll undergo a double psych eval. You know the drill.” 

As his words set in, with the curl of his upper lip, your words finally burst forth, spilling from your before you could hold them back. “Are you fucking insane?” 

Slow on the uptake, Harrington’s arms swung out in front of you, and droplets of sweat from his temples splattered against your cheek with the velocity of his head shake. “No, no way. Absolutely not.” 

Hopper sighed, sitting upright again to punch out the butt of his cigarette. He shuffled the papers on his desk once more, tossing them onto a nearby filing cabinet with a hearty thwack. “Knock it off.” A meaty finger pointed directly into Harrington’s face, and the boy merely gaped at it, all sass, no action. “You two will do this because I know how bad you want back out there.”

“Besides,” Hopper made eye contact with you again, over Harrington’s shoulder, and the mischief had burned to pity, “no one else has gone through the shit that the two of you have been through.”

It hurt too much to look at him, eyes bleary and throat lumped, so instead you stared at the back of Harrington’s head, where his hair stuck up at odd angles, where it met the collar of his t-shirt. A part of you, small, wondered what exactly he’d been through, if he’d held Robin while she wept, if he cried too. A much bigger part of you tasted the anguish as it burned in your lungs. You blinked away the emotion and tried to swallow back the disdain. He’d never understand, never know what you’d been through. 

“The good news is, you’ve got a hundred hours to learn to like each other. I want you closer than the fucking Sinclairs. You hear me?” Hopper broke the tension with another groan of his chair while he reached to another stack of file folders in a little metal inbox. “Bad news is, we’ve got northbound spread and my two best Scorchers have been out for months.”

You glanced at the map behind Hopper’s head, black spreading north to the lakes, vines creeping ever closer to Chicago, Green Bay, too far. No one was safe. 

“We’ve all got work to do. So get the hell out of my office,” the receiver of his phone rang when he picked it up, pressing the plastic to his cheek while he began punching numbers. 

Harrington was up first, an exaggerated sigh falling from his lips while his slender frame made for the door. His jaw and fists tensed, brows furrowed, and he glanced at you before eliciting an eye roll that would make Wheeler envious. He turned the handle and the smoke escaped from the top of the door in a pool above the bounce of his hair. 

You matched his sigh, peeling yourself from the vinyl chair backing to exit the office. You caught a few of Hopper’s grumblings over the phone in snippets before he called your name. When you turned on your heel, he held the phone between large hands and kept a crease between his brow. 

“I know you can do this,” he nodded,  “Munson said - “ He was cut off by the voice on the phone and waved you off before he could finish his thought. 

He’d said enough to get your blood pumping. You grit your teeth and exited, ready to make a B-line from Hop’s office to the War Room to enact revenge on one Edward Munson.

Only, one meathead stood between you and the stairwell, hands poised on hips, lips upturned into the bitchiest snarl you’d seen since junior high. 

“What?” You barked, no longer having time for him when you had flatter asses to chew. You slipped past him, barely, into the well, the slap of your sneakers echoing up and down tens of floors.

“I work out in the afternoons,” Harrington responded, long legs keeping pace.

“Yeah, no shit,” you gestured to his get-up, sweat stain on his tee now dried to a normal shade of blue. 

“So, sparring mats at 2?” 

You halted your mission at the floor you needed and barred him from exiting before you. The heavy door swung closed against your hip, and you crossed your arms over your chest with a snort. “No, no way. I run in the mornings and then do weight training. We’ll spar at 5.” 

“Absolutely not,” Harrington offered a sour laugh. 

“Scorchers drop at 4.” You hoped he didn’t notice your confidence falter. It’d been so long, months, you didn’t know if they’d changed it without you, accommodated others. 

“Fine,” he seethed. “Can you swim?” 

You rolled your eyes. “Relevance? No water in the Upside Down.” 

“Seventy percent of the gates are in bodies of water. If we get stuck on the other side, our best way out is up.” 

You hated that he had a point, hated the ice that filled your stomach at the thought, hated the way your mind flashed back to that place, that time, wondering if there were any gates you missed. 

“So we should split our hours evenly between the gym, swimming, and scorch.”

Your mouth went dry, considering the heft of a fuel pack, the trigger beneath your forefinger, the acrid smell of burned flesh, the screams. 

You stumbled back against the door, but the steel didn’t sway under your weight. Harrington’s oversized hand was holding it closed, his face inches from yours, dark eyes observing your features with scrutiny. 

“How’d you pass your psych eval?” 

You blinked back at him, chill ever-present at the base of your neck. “Excuse me?” 

He stared down at you like he could see her too, like he felt her lingering thirty feet behind him, fire red hair and a crooked smile - uncanny. His nostrils flared like he smelled her too, hair on fire, skin bubbling. 

You felt frozen against the steel door, stuck under his gaze, avoiding eye contact with the nightmare over his shoulder, the expanse of grey and red just beyond. 

“Nevermind,” he sighed, releasing the door and giving you a few feet of space. 

You stumbled when the door swung wide, but caught your footing along with your breath to watch him run two hands over his face, scrubbing at tired eyes. 

“Mats at 5.” He clenched his fists and made his way up a few steps, presumably headed back to his dorm. 

“Fine,” you shot back, hating the rasp in your voice, the saliva filling your mouth. 

He halted his movements, wrapping his knuckles against a metal railing before turning back to face you. “Do me a favor? Tell Munson I’m busy tonight.”

You wanted to retort, say something childish about not being a messenger pigeon, but the words stopped at your tonsils when you saw Harrington glance once more down the corridor, down to where you’d seen her, Vicki, mouth agape, hand outstretched, before he clambered up the staircase, leaving you all alone.

—

Munson hadn’t been in the War Room, but you’d managed to distract yourself by listening to a strategy lecture being bounced off a bunch of trainees. You’d disguised yourself well-enough to be called upon to offer a few ideas, and were pleased when the instructor awarded you with praise. 

High from your distraction and the news that you’d be out there again, fighting, burning, doing what you were meant to do, you’d almost forgotten about Eddie entirely until you’d punched your meal card for dinner and found his in your cargo pocket. 

“Have you seen Munson?” You asked the girl manning the machine, and she glanced around the room with pursed lips. With a sigh, you punched his card and loaded both arms with tonight’s slop and two cold beer cans.

You took the climb to the dorms two-at-a-time and wrapped your knuckles against the cold steel of his door until you heard a muffled commotion on the other side. 

“Eddie, it’s me!” You called, shifting the weight on the orange dinner trays to be easier to hold in two hands. You heard the buzz and waited for the door to swing open before you allowed yourself to step inside, placing both trays on a rickety card table that had been set up just inside.

“Sweetheart, to what do I owe this honor?” Your friend’s walker squeaked against linoleum at his approach, and you looked up to see that Cheshire grin spread across pale features.

“Brought you dinner,” you gestured to the stew and steamed vegetables partitioned on a styrofoam plate. “We got mystery meat and I hope that’s corn, and your favorite: sawdust mashed potatoes.”

He laughed that familiar, boisterous laugh, and shook the hair from his eyes. “As delicious as that sounds… I’m going out with Steve.” 

The mention of his name sent reality spilling back into your mind. You bit back the initial sting of betrayal and moved to fill yourself a glass of water from Munson’s room sink. The countertop was piled with dirty mugs, cigarettes, nudie mags. You waited to chug an entire cup’s worth of water before you responded. “Harrington’s busy.” 

“How do you know?” He asked, voice thick with the cafeteria food you knew he couldn’t resist. 

“He told me.” You explained, crossing back to pull out his chair for him. 

Eddie didn’t move. He just stared at you, hands gripping the handles of his walker, brown gravy on the corner of his mouth. A mouthful went down with a gulp, and he blinked back at you.

“Had a meeting with Hopper today.” You elaborated, helping Munson from his walker to his chair, carrying his weight with ease. 

“If you poisoned me, they’ll know it’s you,” he pointed out, poking through the sludge with a spork. “You have a track record.” 

“Fuck off,” you growled, joining him at the table.

He held his hands up in surrender, a bit of corn careening your direction. “Okay, too soon. I’m sorry.” He snickered anyway. 

You poked at your own meal, annoyed that you couldn’t stay mad at him, despite his betrayal. He was all you had left, the only one that understood. 

“So Hopper demanded you two kiss and make up,” Eddie reached across the table to crack the tabs off each of your beer cans. “And then what happened? Don’t spare the gory details.” He clinked the two cans together, and slurped the bubbles loudly from the top of his own.

You picked yours up with a sigh, adjusting the tab to align with the printing on the aluminum. “Nothing yet. We’re sparring first thing tomorrow.” 

“Ooooh, can I watch?” He cackled.

“Absolutely not.” You took a sip, the bubbles tingling your nose with a sense of nostalgia for what once was. You remembered early mornings at the mats, dripping with sweat, pinned and pinning, Munson taking bets left and right. You’d pinned them all: Wheeler, Byers, Harrington, Buckley. You took another drink.

You nearly jumped out of your skin when Eddie touched you, a hand to your forearm, calloused fingertips and sad brown eyes. God, you hated that look. 

“How long have you known about Robin?” Your voice came out a croak, sounds your mouth hadn’t made in months.

He turned back to his meal, shrugged broad shoulders. The downturn of his lips gave it away. He’d known for months. “I didn’t think she was serious.” 

The betrayal stung. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“It wasn’t my place.” He shot you a pointed look, sass that rivaled Harrington’s. “You should have heard it from her.” 

You weren’t here for a lecture. You snapped back, spooning yourself some potatoes. “But it was your place to tell Hopper to pair me with Harrington? When you know what I’ve been through with him?” 

Eddie slammed his can so hard against the table bubbles fizzed from the top. 

You startled, dropping your spork back to your plate. Gravy dribbled across your chest, up your forearm. 

“You’re the one who wanted to go back out there,” he pointed an accusatory finger your direction. “Your lucky I didn’t tell Hopper to bench your ass.” 

You scoffed, licking beefy juice from your fingertips before standing to retrieve a roll of paper towels. “Like that’d stop me.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie laughed wryly. “I know it wouldn’t, and since I can’t get my legs working enough to come after you, I had to find the next best person.” 

You looked up at him from the mess you were mopping and noticed the fondness in those big brown eyes, the crease carving itself beneath pepper speckled bangs. 

“I mean, think about it. Roles reversed, who would you partner me with?” 

Although you’d never admit it aloud, Harrington was the most capable fighter in your motley crew, second only to yourself. He was a tactical master, and his heart was unmatched. He worked with speed and precision, efficiency, and you’d never seen another person go that cold in the face of the evil you’d seen. 

“Besides, haven’t you two already fucked? Just stir up some of that old sexual tension and make peace with each other.”

You smacked him with your spork as hard as you could, just over his left eye, and he swatted your arm away with a voracious laugh. You fought back the warmth spreading up your throat and to your ears, drowning more memories in a gulp of beer before they could surface fully.

“Speaking of fucking,” Eddie changed the subject, eyebrows waggled beneath his curtain bangs. “I talked to Sandra today.” 

You smiled into your sweet corn, the gentle buzz of relief settling over your shoulders. “Don’t you talk to Sandra every day?” 

“Well, sure,” And Eddie Munson proceeded to tell you about the exciting escapades with him and one of America’s Finest. 

And although you chewed, and laughed, and swatted at his arm, you couldn’t help but feel the tug of nostalgia just behind your molars. The memories that fizzled their way to the surface, of girls touching and laughing and nose-to-nose, cheek-to-cheek. Of dares. Of too much beer and too little pizza. Of arm-wrestles turned to leg wrestles, turned to sparring matches on dorm room floors. Of the freckles that lined faces and moles that cast a constellation across cheekbones and collar bones. Of breathless laughs and wandering touches. Of heat like wildfire, that fanned your skin and spread. Spread like vines and decay and smoke and ash. 

—

Harrington beefed up, shoulders impossibly square, chest broad, centered on the balls of sneakered feet. And alongside the wall of muscles, he’d grown relentless. You swung again, and again, and again, huffs of disdain escaping your lips with each stuttered breath, and your fists were caught, forearms blocked, shoulders checked. He worked lithely, without effort, all defense, prepared, like he’d been studying, but not just the fight, studying you.

You’d sparred before, sure, dozens of times over the past two years, and you’d always managed to pin him. Your fights would end in cackles from onlookers and sweat wiped from his upper lip. You’d pull him upright with a grin on your face and pride fluttering beneath your ribcage. 

Now, all mercy had been removed, any friendliness left his dark eyes cold. His jaw flexed, arms crossed over his chest while he waited for you to take a drink of water, quenching the dryness at your throat. He even dared that signature Harrington eye roll, which had the water dribbling from the corners of your mouth and down your throat, a soothing damp.

“What?” You snapped, chest heaving, plastic water bottle crunched beneath your fingertips as you sprayed more into the back of your throat.

“I didn’t say anything,” he responded, arms still crossed. 

You swished before your swallow and set your bottle next to the oversized cushion of the grey vinyl mats. The floor had already been sneaker-marked and sweat stained. You bounced on the balls of your feet, trying to bring feeling back into the numbness of your wrists and knuckles. 

Harrington readied himself, squared his stance, but remained limp. Honestly, he looked a little bored.

You grit your teeth and rounded to the right. 

He mirrored you, arms up, patient. 

You took a deep breath through your nostrils and released with a right hook. 

He dodged, caught your wrist, shoved you to the other side of the mat. 

You stumbled, caught yourself, took another deep breath, steadied yourself. 

“Again,” he called you, gesturing for you to go again, to come at him, arm’s swinging wildly without making purchase for the thousandth time. 

You were exhausted. You’d been exhausted for months, but memories crept along dorm walls the night before, and that familiar face smiled back at you from the far corner, ever-present, watching, waiting. You hadn’t sparred since then, hadn’t struck another human, hadn’t found purchase. Not since then. 

You shook it off, rounded to the left. “What’s the matter, Harrington?” Your voice brought some life back into his eyes, interest piqued. Yes, this was better, this was safe. “Scared to hit a girl?” 

You swung left, and he dodged, but you felt the hairs on his cheek prickle your wrist. You swung right, but he’d predicted it, catching both wrists and pulling them up and over your head. 

His face was inches from yours, glistening with sweat and rough with stubble. The bags under his eyes were more prominent from this distance, and you wondered if he’d slept at all himself. “I want you on the offense before I even consider teaching you defensive moves.” He shoved you back again, readying his stance. “Again.” 

“Teaching me?” You balked, resting your hands on your hips to catch the breath that had slipped away. “I seem to recall pinning your ass on the regular.” 

He grimaced at that, upper lip upturned in disgust, and he shrugged, gesturing to the ground between you. “Feels like you’ve lost your touch.” 

You swung wide, angry, fist flying through the air toward his chest.

He caught your forearm. “Looks like I can still count on you to be hot headed.”

“Shut up,” you snapped, stepping back into a ready position. You hated that he was right, hated how he always managed to find his way under your skin. 

“Take a breath,” he took a step to your left. You countered. “Anticipate me anticipating you.” 

You kicked out, knowing he’d expect another swing, but he caught your calf at his waist and held it there, pushing you backwards until you’d nearly lost balance, hopping on one leg. 

“No,” he grit his teeth. “Come on. You’re being predictable.” 

“Let go of me,” you wrestled your ankle from his grasp, nearly falling on your ass in the process. 

“I know your moves,” he explained, voice unnervingly even. “You’re a one-trick pony.”

You released a grunt, threw elbows at his opposite side, and he managed to grab you around the ribcage, holding you tight to him, your back to his front, two feet off the ground as you struggled under a vice grip. You struggled, wind nearly knocked out of you.

“We aren’t moving on until you can take me down.”

“Fuck off,” you gasped.

He released you. 

You stumbled back to your water bottle, taking a few breaths until the blur left the peripheries of your vision. You gulped between gasps, trying to strategize, trying to ignore the heated emotion prickling at your throat, behind your eyes. You couldn’t look at him, feeling like a child scolded by a school teacher, and what gave him the right?

“Did she use it against you?” His voice came softer than before, just behind your left ear. You could barely hear it over the rushing of your pulse in your skull.

You swished, swallowed, took a moment for his words to sunk in before you turned to face him. “What?” 

“Your predictability. Did she use it against you?” Harrington stood with arms crossed over his chest again, the shield he bore.

Your mind flashed to that night, flames fanned your face, all encompassing heat, structure engulfed around you. You’d gone for a hit, frantic, not in your right mind, panic icing your veins, and she’d caught your fist, just as your new partner had. Vicki’s eyes were just as cold, just as dark, a black void where your friend used to be. 

You swallowed, blinked back tears, and tried to ignore the figure growing in the corner of your mind. Harrington came back into focus, arms folded, shoulders square, sweat staining the collar of his t-shirt a dark grey. 

With steady breaths, you crossed the mat to him until you were close enough to make out the pulse in his throat, a steady beat beneath a chiseled jaw. He stared down his nose at you, contempt across features you’d once swooned over.

You felt the emotion start to well, blinked back anything that threatened, avoided his frigid gaze for half a moment, and when you glanced back, you noticed the most minute indication that he’d softened. His shoulders relaxed, chin tilted downward to look at your properly, and you remembered that everyone has a weakness. 

You sucked in your cheeks and willed a single tear to fall, just one, a hot bead that mixed with sweat as it streaked down the plane of your nose and rested, salty on the bow of your upper lip. 

Harrington’s eyes were wide, brown, soft. His nostril flared, in pity or disgust, it didn’t matter which. You’d hooked him. 

You turned your back to him, allowed your shoulders to shake with your exhale.

A sound of indignation fell from his lips, a warm breath cast upon the small hairs on your neck that sent goosebumps down your spine, and then you felt it. The softest of touches to your wrist, fingertips to calm your pulse points.

You took the opportunity, grappled his forearm and sent him flying over your left shoulder until a large body hit the mat with a satisfying thud. While Harrington gasped to earn his breath back, you pinned his shoulder beneath the toe of your sneaker, holding him to the mat. You wiped the tear from your nose with the damp collar of your t-shirt and stared down at him.

“You’re a fucking psychopath,” he spat, shoving your foot from his chest to sit upright.

With a sigh, you grabbed your water bottle and retreated, shoes scuffing the linoleum. “Same time, same place tomorrow, Harrington. Bring your A game. ‘We aren’t moving on until you can take me down.’” You mocked him as you sauntered off to the showers. 

You paused momentarily when passing the double doors that exited the gymnasium into a gravel parking lot. Rusted vehicles were cast in the tangerine light of golden hour. And just beyond, under the cover of dense woods, you swore you could make out Vicki’s proud smile, engulfed in flame.

—

“How are things with Mr. Harrington?” Linda asked as though she knew the answer, and Hell, she probably did.

You were sure the exhaustion dulled your features, if not the dark circles under your eyes then the bruises that skated your arms and legs. One shone in browns and yellows on your temple from where you’d taken an accidental elbow. You’d been lectured for that for not ‘watching your space’. That man was lucky you hadn’t throttled him right there on the mat, pulse echoing against your skull. 

“Fine,”  you lied through your teeth, something you’d grown accustomed to in this cramped office. 

Linda, the government appointed therapist, walked from houseplant to houseplant, watering until they’d overgrown the room like vines in an alternate dimension. Blinking fluorescents cast green across the walls, painting her pale skin, making you feel more sick than you felt when you entered on a weekly basis. It used to be three times a week, but you were let off on good behavior.

“How did you feel when you learned that Ms. Buckley retired?” 

Your stomach churned, sickly green, and you shifted in the uncomfortable metal chair. It creaked beneath you. “I’m happy for her,” you maintained your voice, swallowed back a waver. “She weighed her options and chose a path that feels right for her.” 

Linda hummed from overtop a spider plant, seemingly satisfied with your answer.

You settled in your seat. 

“Did it make you question whether or not you’d chosen the right path for yourself?”

The fluorescents buzzed, and you squeezed your eyes closed, pinching the junction of your nose. Your temple began to throb again, and the muscles of your shoulders tightened. You were so tired, run-through, up too early all to get your ass kicked and up all night, contemplating whether or not you made the right choice.

“No one would fault you for wanting a little peace of your own. It’s not cowardly to want space from the things haunting you.” 

The monotone of her voice was like nails down a chalkboard.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “I won’t find peace as long as the Ether’s still spreading.” A mantra you’d repeated time and time again, face pressed into a pillowcase to avoid the screams of horror plaguing your mind, to shield your eyes from the dense, damp expanse of forest. 

“Yes, there’s no doubt you’re dedicated to your cause.” Her tone seemed clipped, almost as if she’d picked up some of Harrington’s sass in their sessions. She set her tiny watering can atop a large wooden desk and moved to sit in the rickety chair across from you. “I just think it’s healthy for you to consider a contingency plan. What would you do if it all ended tomorrow? You’re on the sparring mats and they announce it’s done, they’ve got him, the Gates are closed. Then what?” 

You stared back at her, green blurring your vision as you mulled over her question. You’d never actually considered it, never thought what you might do should the fighting cease, should the fuel in your tank run out and you’d have to put away your worries altogether.

“What do you think Vicki would want you to do?” 

That stung. Each time her name was said aloud felt like a slice, death by a thousand cuts. You closed your eyes again, tried to will away the nausea, the smell of charred flesh, the screams.

You took a deep, calming breath and imagined a simpler time, soft hands massaging the worry from your scalp, thighs around your shoulders as you pressed tired muscles into the cushions of a threadbare couch. Sweet laughter echoed around you, the wafted smell of popcorn, truths shared under the flashes of a television screen. 

Linda’s timer beeped, an alert that your hour was up. She let out a sigh as you bolted upright from your chair. “Think about it this week and get back to me.” 

“Unless it all ends tomorrow,” you promised, flashing a grin that you know exposed too much enthusiasm. 

She muttered something under her breath that sounded an awful lot like, “we can only hope.” Before she stood to usher you outside. “Have a good rest of your day.” She chimed, always the most chipper exchange of your interactions.

You saluted and B-lined for the stairwell, in desperate need of a meal and an ice pack for the knot between your shoulder blades. 

—

The dorm hallways were eery at night, the hustle and bustle of young adults silenced, lights out. Occasionally, a bluish glow would leak from beneath doors, but otherwise the halls were lit only by glowing red EXIT signs and the circle of your torch. You snuck past the common area on tiptoe, terrified of waking the occasional trainee who had fallen asleep during movie night, not interested in asking questions. You skirted around a corner instead, to the stairwell, and began your descent on the balls of your sneakered feet.

Your backpack slumped against a sore back with each step, full of supplies you weren’t even sure you’d needed, scrounged up from a supply closet Eddie snuck you in to loot. 

In your hurry downward, you took a wrong turn, exiting the stairwell too early, and stumbled upon too many offices with dust on desktops and upturned chairs. The stillness of this floor reminded you of there and then, everything twisted with vines, particles peppering the air. 

Nearly tripping yourself backwards, you kept one eye on your reflection in the glass, and made your way back to the stairwell to continue your run, a little more blind, a little more panicked. Two, three, four floors down you saw an indicator. The exit door was propped open on a brick. The window at a eye level exposed a long, pitch black hallway, and the very end sparkled in a pale blue glow. 

You swung the door open and ran, no longer minding the slap of your feet against the flooring, only wanting to be somewhere light, somewhere where you knew you wouldn’t be alone. You almost skid through double doors, humidity smacking you in the face, and you managed to stop inches from where the floor opened up, dark water rippled against aquamarine tiled walls. 

“You’re late,” a voice startled you, and you teetered further on the edge, turning to shine your flashlight directly into Harrington’s eyes. He grimaced, shadowing his face with his hand. His hair was already wet, throat beaded in water, droplets dampened and discoloring a red t-shirt. 

You clicked off the torch and let your arm fall to your side, your eyes adjusting to the darkness. The only illumination was from the depths of the pool, recessed lighting that glowed cyan. “It’s dark in here.” You voiced your grievance, shrugging your backpack off your shoulder and toeing out of your shoes. The tiles were frigid beneath the balls of your feet.

“It’s dark out there.” He explained and rounded the oversized pool to grab a handful of items from his own rucksack. “Are you ready or do you need to…?” He gestured to you, voice echoing off the rippled water, even soft.

You managed a few steadying breaths. You weren’t nervous, per se, but a certain anxiety fluttered beneath your ribcage. You hadn’t swam in years, not since summers spent at Hawkins Pool with Vicki. You thought she’d dragged you down there to gawk at Harrington in all his glory, red trunks and tank top and whistle and sun kissed skin. She admitted later it was Heather Holloway she’d always had her eye on. The memory of squirted sunscreen and the quench of lemonade on your tongue had your fists clenched. 

The splash of something heavy cutting the surface startled you back to reality, and your eyes scanned the wake to see what it was. Your heart raced in your chest. 

“We’re going to start with the shallow end,” Harrington explained, shifting your attention back to him. You watched as nimble fingers began undoing the buckle of his watch. He toed out of his sneakers. 

“I can swim,” you retorted, self-defense growing second-nature between the two of you.

He ignored you, tugging at the back of his collar to pull his t-shirt up and over his head. That soft patch of hair from his navel to the hem of his shorts stood on end beside the gnarled roots of scars that brought your own battle wounds to shame. 

He stepped to the edge of the pool, upcast in pearly blues, and dove in. The arch of his lithe frame was perfect in silhouette, minimizing the splash and the ripple as he went in fingertips first to break the surface. You watched the shape of him approach before his head broke through, hair in his eyes, mouth agape to refill his lungs. He scrubbed chlorine from his eyes and pushed wet hair back out of his eyes. 

“I dropped a brick at the shallow end, and you need to retrieve it,” he said, sidling up to the pool’s edge at your feet. “This isn’t about whether or not you can swim. You need to be able to get all the way to the Gate and all the way back up from it. This is about form and breath work.”

His voice was the softest you’d heard it, patient. It was the way he talked to the kids, without the snark and the sass of someone pretending to be irritated with them. It was unnerving.

“Can you dive?” He asked, combing his fingers through his hair to keep the front bits at bay, cowlick at the front fighting against him. 

“Yes,” you snapped, although no, you weren’t sure you ever really had. Maybe at swim lessons in the third grade, but how in the Hell were you supposed to remember the basics now? 

You took a step to the edge before remembering your clothes. You hadn’t brought extras, and you weren’t keen on sneaking back to your dorm sopping wet. With an sigh, you released the button from the fly of your pants, pausing the moment you realized Harrington was watching. “Do you mind?” 

“Sorry,” he mumbled and turned his back.

You hated the static that prickled the stubble on your legs as you pushed your shorts down broad hips and thighs. You hated that it clung to the water’s edge, buzzed in your ears, fanned your chest with warmth as you lifted your tank top from over your head. You hated the lump your felt in your throat, exposed in underpants and a sport’s bra, not having owned a bathing suit in four years. 

“Okay,” you managed, voice thick, ready for the cool plunge to your heated skin.

Harrington turned back to face you but kept his gaze at ground level, slapping a wide palm to the tiled edge. “Step all the way up here, toes over the edge. Remember you want your thighs to power you, but you need your fingertips to break the surface first. Arms over your ears. Don’t stop until you can touch the bottom.” He spouted instructions too fast, moving to the side to give you room to position yourself for your dive. “The brick’s on the far end. Once you’ve gotten it, kick until you’ve reached the surface. Your lungs won’t let you go anywhere but up.” 

You couldn’t really hear him anyway, not over the buzzing of pool filters and the rapid heat rate in your ear. He made some minor adjustments to your stance, but you were on autopilot. And when you thought you heard the word ‘go’, you dove in. 

You felt a little awkward, but determined, the third grader in you stiffening. The water hit warmer than you anticipated, the stale underground air keeping everything tepid. When you were submerged, you kicked, lungs straining in a held breath. The faint pool light shined behind your eyelids, too anxious to open your eyes to the blur and sting of chlorine. You just ventured for the bottom, the plaster and tile that you knew would come. 

Only it didn’t. You kept kicking, and it was as if the bottom had fallen out, as if the world was swallowed whole, and panic fluttered once more at your chest. You opened your eyes, searching for a bottom, but everything felt too far. Then, a black shape entered your periphery, long, hulking, slender like a vine. Releasing bubbles, a startled scream exiting your lips, you kicked for the top, the sides, seeing the sparkle of the surface and begging for relief for the ache in your chest. 

Oxygen filled you, damp and sputtering at the moment your fingertips reached the lip. Panic stricken, you clung to the wall, knees scraping against plaster as you gasped for deeper breaths.

“That was good,” Harrington called from somewhere behind you.

You peered into the dark mist against the sting of your eyelashes. You released a shaky exhale. “I didn’t get it.” 

“I know, but your survival instinct kicked in. That’s important.” 

You felt uneasy about his comforting words, tones you hadn’t heard spill from his lips in almost a year. You rubbed at bleary eyes. 

“Come to the center and tread,” he commanded, softness replaced with the sass you were used to on the mats. “No walls in a lake.”

You grit your teeth and pushed off from the wall. 

Harrington had you tread water until your muscles burned, until that familiar hatred for one another stung in your chest and bit in exchanged words, at least then you felt more comfortable. You managed to dive properly a handful of times, making it farther and farther across the pool which each go until you’d retrieved the brick without coming up for air. He took it from your proud hand and tossed it to the deep end. 

Your lungs burned and your thighs ached, and he timed your held breath from the side of the pool, feet dangled in the water, broad shoulders slumped. You felt the heat of competition, the dopamine of getting better and better each time. Your final try, brick dumped beside him to scrape against the cold flooring, you wiped water from your eyes and had to fight back the smirk of success you felt itching at the corners of your mouth. 

Harrington sighed and slid into the water beside you, bobbing with his head just above the surface. He was close, too close, and you could just make out the freckles across the bridge of his nose in the blue light, the scar etched into his lower lip.

“I’m going to pull you down.”

You blinked back at him, seriousness in his voice tickling your nerves. “What?”

“There are things in those Gates that will try to latch onto you, to pull you into them. I’m going to pull you down, and I need you to fight me off.”

You knew he spoke from experience, you’d heard stories of the things he’d done. The idea of a large, black vine sent a chill down your spine, any competitive adrenaline replaced with cold, exhaustion, fear. 

“Go tread water.” He nodded back to the center of the pool, the expanse at which you’d finally warmed up to, a challenge you’d taken so lightly turned stone cold.

You did as he asked, pushing off from the wall until you found yourself in the center once more, legs kicking and arms pushing at the water around you, keeping you afloat. Your muscles ached with fatigue. Your entire being did, eyelids weighed by the sticky atmosphere.

Harrington’s head dunked and a chill shot through you. 

You weren’t sure if it was fear, the underlying unease you’d felt around him for almost a year now, that rivalry that turned whispered truths into snapped remarks. Maybe it was this unknown, this fear that he knew who you were, knew what you’d done, and now he’d convinced you to relinquish control. You gulped, glanced around, continued to tread. You could make out the shadow of him, just below the surface, streamlined and agile. 

You thought of him enacting revenge, on pulling you down and holding you in his vice grip. Hell, you’d do it if you were him. You’d thought about it already, imagined the swift crush of lungs as you held yourself beneath the surface. 

A creak sounded in the far corner of the room, and your eyes snapped to the double doors. They swung slightly, fog from the pool seeping through the cracks where tile met linoleum floors. You swam forward to catch a better view. You thought you saw a light just down the hall, the flash of red and orange, the crackle of lightning. 

You wanted to call out, but panic had settled too deep into your bones, and all at once a thick hand had found the meat of your thigh and you were being dragged downward, down, down, down. You gasped a deep breath, but couldn’t take your eyes from the swinging double doors, from the face that stared back at you from behind a window, wide-eyed in terror, just before you were submerged entirely.

The vine had a vice grip around you, and when you kicked, your opposite ankle was also grappled. You squirmed and fought, not-enough air choking at your lungs. Your toes felt the breadth of something wide, a chest, and you tried to push off of it, but down, down, down you went. Your arms struggled toward the surface. Familiar flames fanned the shoreline in oranges and golds, the smell of acrid smoke filling your nostrils, burning your lungs, blearing your eyes. 

You fought and fought, but she was staring back at you, that sickening smile on her face, and you knew you’d fought long enough. It was time to let go. You had no other choice.

Your back hit something hard, a crack that jolted the water from your lungs. You sputtered, eyesight dark around the edges, coughing in an attempt to expel whatever remained. You rolled on your side, hair strewn in tendrils beneath your mouth, body numb, mind numb. You weren’t sure where you were, only that it was freezing, and your muscles all began to spasm in an attempt to warm up. 

“Why the fuck did you do that?” A familiar voice called out, garbled under the thunder of your pulse in your skull. 

You willed your eyes to open, to focus on the sparkling water beneath you, the cyan lights. Harrington’s face was inches from your own, eyes dark, a crease between thick brows. 

“Fuck!” He ran a hand down wet features, and you tried to regain any semblance of what had happened before he’d tossed you like a rag doll onto the side of the pool. He swam to the nearest ladder and pulled himself out. 

You rolled onto your back, stuttered breath gathering momentum again, and stared at the dark ceiling of the indoor pool. You were here, and you were training, and… You glanced sideways at the double doors. They were still, hall dark just beyond. You lifted a weak hand.

Harrington crouched at your side, pressing a wide palm to the curve of your throat, forefinger finding your pulse. He clicked the fingers of his other hand in front of your eyes, trying to get you to focus.

Annoyed, you swatted him away and tried to sit up. 

“Will you slow down? You hit your head.” He spat, pinning your shoulder gently to the tiled floor.

You did feel a pulse where his hand reached to cup your skull, and you reached back with shaky fingertips. The wetness was warmer there, knotted into the hair near the crown. You pulled your hand back to see your fingertips smudged with crimson. You winced. 

“Shit,” Harrington stood to procure something from across the room, his red t-shirt, and he shoved the material under your head, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. It just made the dull throb worse. “Can you talk?” 

His fingertips found your pulse again, large palm splayed out across your collarbone, honeyed eyes searching your own. His body was warm, ribcage pressed against your hip, and you wanted to curl into him, your teeth chattering.

“‘M cold,” you croaked, the sound producing another fit of coughs that burned like hellfire at your chest, rocketing you nearly into his nose.

He grabbed your wrist and placed your hand firmly to the t-shirt soaking your blood and stood to pull something from his bag on the floor.

Your coughs sent you sideways again, spewing more liquid onto the ground beside your head. The tiles had begun to swirl with blood.

“Hey, hey, look at me.” His grip on your shoulder rolled you back to make eye contact. The room clouded around him, and you squinted, feeling your eyelids grow heavy. “Shit. Don’t fall asleep on me.”

Your body rattled. It took too long to process that he had wrapped you in a towel and was trying to warm your arms with the friction of his hands. Exhaustion crept into your bones, a slip of warm darkness that you could find in his embrace, safety.

“Whoa, stay awake. Come on, let’s get you up. We have to take you to the Med Bay.” 

Your head throbbed as he pulled you upright, and you winced, pressure loosening on your skull. You groaned and tried to think through the fog, although exhaustion fought to win. 

Strong hands wedged themselves beneath your armpits and hoisted you upright, and you struggled to get your legs to carry your weight beneath you, but they did. Your body obeyed as your head throbbed, and you felt a trickle of warmth cascade down your spine while Harrington scrambled to grab the rest of your belongings. 

You stared back at the double doors, wincing as your torch lit up, light reflecting off of their insulated windows. “There’s someone out there.” You croaked, swaying on weak knees.

“It’s just the flashlight,” your partner snapped from beside you, one arm gripping your bicep, the other placing the ice cold metal of your flashlight into your weak hands. “Hold this.” His other hand met the t-shirt at the back of your skull to keep pressure.

“No,” you swallowed, throat raw, coughs emitting with each attempt to speak. “I saw them. I panicked.” 

“Yeah, no shit,” he scoffed, leading you slowly out of the room and into the black hallway beyond. “Hopper’s going to fucking murder me.”

You shined your light toward the stairwell, crisp white against a grey background. You saw no movement, heard nothing but the soft patter of your feet against the floor. 

“Nope, elevator. I’m not carrying you up fifteen flights of stairs.” Harrington steered you the opposite direction, toward a massive elevator on the North side of the building. It was old. The pulley system too loud against the thundering in your skull once the doors pulled themselves open.

You allowed him to lead into the square box, eyes wincing against the overhead lighting. You let him hold you upright against the railing on the back wall, relaxed easily into his hold, one hand catching on his forearm. 

He leaned forward to press a button, and just as the door slid closed, you saw a face, glowing blue in the light from the pool, eyes dark and smile menacing.

—

For the first time in two years, you’d managed to fall asleep the moment your head hit the pillow, and what would have been the best night of sleep in your life involved a nurse coming in at every hour to wake you from your slumber. Your body ached, and your eyelids were heavy, and with every soft prod, you wished you had the strength to lift your fist and strike at the woman with brute force. 

You were released after twenty-four hours, lactic acid stiffening your joints and ten times crankier than before, and you limped from the med bay up the stairs to your dorm for some peace and quiet. 

Each dorm unit contained a bed, a closet, a sink and countertop, an aluminum table and chairs. Some people had couches, others managed lazy boys and a television set. Your new room had been kept at a minimum: bedding stark white, trash can piled in the corner, belongings shoved into a green duffle bag in the corner. The only bit of personality was tucked away beneath the covers of a photo album on top of your bedside table. You hadn’t opened it in months.

You shrugged out of your military issue clothes, peering at your reflection in the mirror above the sink. Your body, though stronger than you’d ever looked, was covered in bruises and scars. A long burn mark painted your left side, puckered skin. With a sigh, you pulled a tank top and sleep shorts from your duffle and stepped in, considering a shower when you’ve woken up.

You crawled from the foot of your bed to the pillow, sheets just as scratchy as those in the medical ward, but the mattress was far squishier. Your muscles begged for the rest, too stiff around the shoulders and thighs. You sighed and buried your face into the pillow, the throb in your skull only slightly subsided. 

Then, you heard a knock at the door.

The red numbers of your alarm clock indicated you’d slept for three hours. The ruckus in the hall indicated everyone had finished their breakfast. You groaned and rubbed the sleep from your eyes, grabbing your second pillow to shove over your head, blocking the sun pouring in from an overhead window and the squeak of sneakers outside.

Knuckles wrapped a little harder. Your name was called along another few words muffled under the fluff of your pillow. 

“Go away!” You called into the abyss, and something in the back of your mind reminded you of the gruff man with the oversized mustache. You groaned and rolled, painstakingly, out of bed. 

The knocking returned, and you limped as fast as you could, calling over their yells for you to hurry up. You grit your teeth past the pain in the back of your head and swung the door open to expose Eddie Munson, hair pulled back into a ponytail, grin etched across sunken features. “Morning, Sunshine!” 

You had half a mind to slam the door back in his face. 

However, he raised his hand, shaking some poppy seeds off an everything bagel, and your stomach growled in response. 

You snatched the bagel from his hand and stepped aside to let him stumble in, walker almost too wide for the doorways. 

“Rumor has it Harrington carried you into the Med Bay in your underpants,” he said loudly before you had a chance to shut the door.

You caught the snicker of trainees, and you shot them death glares before slamming the heavy panel into it’s place. 

“Glad to see you two made up.” He pulled a cup of cream cheese from his pocket, and it clattered on your table beside a plastic knife. You helped him sit, both of your legs shaky on the descent. The table teetered under his weight, but he managed to remain upright in his chair. “Did he have to pound a concussion into you though?” 

You rolled your eyes, tried not to imagine a world in which his teasing could be factual, and shoved your thumb into the seam of your bagel to open it. “As much as I hate to pop your little fantasy bubbles, Edward, that’s about the farthest from what actually happened.” You seated yourself across from him and popped the top of the cream cheese container to start your spread. 

“So tell me what actually happened.” Eddie said, voice eerily even, “Because overhearing a total stranger say something about your best friend being held over night in medical is not how I wanted yesterday to go.”

You looked up from your spread and into big, brown eyes. Eddie Munson was known for his jokes, his pleasant demeanor, his incredible ability to strategize. He wasn’t known for his temper, but you’d seen it a handful of times, patience tested, that burn behind his eyes. 

You shirked under his stare, sealed the lid back on an empty container, took too big of a bite. You wedged the creamy goodness into one cheek, licking the corner of your lip to respond, hoping to sound more nonchalant than you felt. “It really wasn’t a big deal. We were training in the pool.” 

“This place has a pool?” He leaned forward, brows creased, arms folded across a slender frame.

You shrugged, swallowed. “Yeah, lower levels. Anyway, we were underwater, and…” You thought for a moment about what happened, everything blurred under the waves, the pressure in your chest, Harrington’s large hands gripping your thigh, the face staring back at you from the doorway. 

“And what? You went bonk?” Eddie snapped.

You blinked back to him and shrugged. The taste of garlic had turned to ash in your mouth. You tossed the remnants onto the tabletop and wiped poppyseeds off on bare thighs. They rolled onto the chair, the ground around you.

“You didn’t do it on purpose, did you?” His voice was quiet now, and when you snapped to meet his gaze, he was staring at the scrapes in the linoleum tabletop, knife wounds that had peeled through styrofoam. “Because I get it, you know? I’ve been there, too. After all those people I hurt…” He trailed off.

You reached across to grip his knuckles in your hand, pulling him to look at you. “Eddie, that wasn’t you. That was him. We all know it.” 

“And what happened to Vicki wasn’t on you.” He responded, nostrils flared, strong hand gripping your own. 

You swallowed back the lump growing in your throat. “I didn’t do it on purpose,” you said, and you wondered if you’d meant hitting your head in the pool or getting lost in the woods, getting Vicki flayed, pulling the trigger, watching the flames dance, hearing the screams.

You thought of the face above the water, the glow beyond the doors, this fear building in your chest like an ember of something you couldn’t put your finger on, this dull pulse you felt when everything else went away. You looked at your friend, dark hair and dark eyes and made a choice. “Eddie,” your voice shook. “I can still see her.” 

He squeezed your hand, nodded. “That’s normal. It’s a trauma response, I think, like a phantom limb.” He patted his thigh, and you recalled the mechanics of a prosthetic ankle beneath the hem of his pant leg. “What did Linda tell you?” 

You picked up your bagel again and tore it into halves. “I haven’t told Linda.”

Eddie breathed your name like a warning. “What do you mean you haven’t told Linda?” 

You dropped your bagel again and buried your face in your hands. The back of your head had begun to throb, and your eyes ached and crusted with sleep. “Eddie, come on. I had to get back out there, and you know I wouldn’t have passed my psych eval if the shrink knew I was hallucinating on a regular basis.”

“Jesus fucking Christ…” 

“Eddie, you can’t tell anyone,” you reached out to grip his hand again. “Please, please. I’m sixty hours from reassignment. I just got a new partner.” 

“Does he know?” 

You scoffed, tried to mask your eye roll by throwing your entire head back into a stretch. The pounding on your head increased, and you had to cradle your head in your hands once more.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Why have you now dragged me into this?” Eddie hissed, and when you peered through your fingers, you saw his stance mirrored yours, hands in his hair, annoyance stretched across thin features. 

And you debated keeping it from him, hiding that fear that had fanned the flames in the back of your mind for months now, but it was surfacing, each day coming closer and closer to having you by the throat. “Because I saw something else at the pool, someone else was there with us,” you let out a ragged breath. “And I don’t think it was…” Your throat caught on her name. “Her.” 

His expression dropped, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. He glanced around your dorm room, crossing his arms over his chest before he looked back at you. “What are you talking about?” His voice trembled.

You shrugged, shook hair from your eyes. “I don’t know, Ed. There was someone else down there. I saw the door swing open. I could see a face staring back at me from over the surface. There was someone in that room, and when I came to, they were gone.” 

“Did Steve see them?” Your friend frowned, leaned toward your once more.

As if on cue, a loud knock wrapped at your bedroom door. You both startled upright, your heart beat racing in your chest. “Who is it?” You called, hands gripped the tabletop to stop them from shaking. 

“Steve,” came the short response, muffled through the thick door. 

“Steve who?” Eddie joked, lifting himself from his chair with some difficulty, any worry or hurt erased from the expression on his face. You hurried to help him before using one hand to open the door. 

“Sorry, I can come back,” Harrington’s features were etched in that signature scowl, dressed in uniform, bright orange breakfast tray loaded under one arm. 

“No, no,” Eddie waved him off. “I was just leaving. You can have her.” He leaned to press his lips to the shell of your ear before whispering, “we’ll finish this later.” 

You squirmed under the heat of his breath, and Harrington stepped aside to let Eddie through and into the hallway. 

“Be gentle with her this time, will ya?” Eddie’s mouth split into a grin.

Your eyes nearly rolled back into your skull, and you flipped him the bird. “Fuck right off.” 

Once your best friend had cackled his way down the hall, sneakers and walker squeaking, and a familiar, anxious buzz had settled into your bones, you gestured for Harrington to enter your little apartment. You closed the door behind him and felt suddenly self conscious of the trash piling up and over the can, the dishes dirty in the sink, the cream cheese smeared across your tabletop. 

“You should be resting,” he chided, sliding the orange tray onto the table beside your breakfast.

“Eddie brought me food,” you explained, as though you needed an excuse.

“A bagel isn’t food. You need protein and electrolytes, vitamins.” 

You glanced at the plate he brought: bacon and eggs, roasted potatoes, a glass of milk, a small orange. “Thanks, Dad.” You rolled your eyes and crossed your arm over your chest, suddenly aware of the breeze against your bare thighs, the pebbling of your nipples beneath a thin tank top. You swallowed.

“How’s your head?” He asked after a long moment’s pause, vowels stilted like he’d forgotten how to be nice to you. You suppose you both had. It’d been so long. 

You swallowed back an innuendo, shrugged, reached to itch at the bruised skin around the scab. “She said it just a minor concussion. Should be good to get back to work by Monday.” You felt yourself shift on uncomfortable feet, the air buzzing with that odd static you felt in the pool.

Harrington nodded, hands shoved into the pockets of his tactical pants, rocking on the balls of his feet. 

You felt sick, knowing it’d come to this, that you’d been brought to awkward conversations and niceties. You used to be close, dangerously close. You used to be able to reach out and touch him, to push that stray hair out of his eyes. You used to make jokes, to laugh. You released a scoff, shook the memories from your pounding head. “Look, we don’t have to do this.” 

He looked up at you then, jaw clenched, broad chest steadily rising and falling. 

“You don’t have to pretend to care about me. They partnered us up because we both want to get back out there. We have sixty hours of training left. The rest of the time doesn’t need to be spent together. You can be my drill sergeant and after training, we go our separate ways.” You confirmed, crossing to your duffle bag to retrieve a sweatshirt. You shoved it aggressively over your head and put your arms through, sick of feeling scrutinized under his gaze.

“Drill sergeant?” He seethed, rounding the table to meet you near the foot of your bed. 

“Oh come on, Harrington,” you rolled your eyes. “You’ve been chewing my ass like fucking beef jerky since we left Hopper’s office. You’re acting like you’re training me for the Olympics, and I’m letting you, by the way, because it’s easier to keep the peace and take your bullshit than argue with you.” 

“Oh, right,” he scoffed. “You’ve been ‘keeping the peace’. Please, explain to me the fight-back I get on everything I say. Enlighten me, princess.” 

“Don’t call me that,” you shoved at his chest.

He didn’t budge. “Push through me.” He instructed.

You grit your teeth and did as he asked. The heels of your hands made contact and had him stumbling back a good five feet.

He caught himself on your chair. It creaked under his weight. “Good.” 

“Shut up,” you stood at full height, clenched your fists at your sides, ready to swing.

“Did you ever consider that I’ve been bossing you around because I don’t know if I can trust - ” He swallowed, broad chest heavy, eyes scanning your features.

“What?” You narrowed your eyes, fear crawling up your esophagus, burning in your throat. 

“…you.” 

All of your fears confirmed, that you couldn’t be trusted, that it was all your fault Vicki got lost, all your fault she was flayed, all your fault you couldn’t handle her, couldn’t take her, all your fault she died. All your fault your friends abandoned you. All your fault you lost him, too.

Flames fanned your skin. Your eyes glazed over, your hands trembled. You tried to reason with him, with yourself. “I didn’t mean for… any of it. I didn’t ask for it to happen.” 

“But it did.” His tone was dark, low, unyielding. 

You glanced back at him in time to see his hand run through his hair. 

He released his shoulders in a deep breath. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we’re better on the field than off. I was really just coming to see when you’d be ready to get back on your feet.” He wrapped his knuckles against the tabletop.

You shivered under his frigid monotone. 

“We should start with Scorch on Monday. I think we’re supposed to get a heatwave, so let’s try for the evening again.” He was commanding, cold, walking to your bedroom door. 

“Okay,” you managed. Your neck ached from the whiplash of the encounter, of the last week of your life, the last year. 

“Get some rest.” He said before exited, a command. 

When the door clicked closed, you let out a yell of frustration, swatted at a nearby chair until it tipped to the ground, clanging loudly as the metal bounced.

---

Chapter Two: Spark

[A/N: I've honestly been working on this fic for so long. It's my baby. I've grown too attached. And I honestly cannot wait to share it with the world. Thanks so much for reading xo]

[eriquin]

The Trolley Problem, Part 65

Wayne's truck may not look like much, but she's got it where it counts.

(master post)(also posting to ao3)

Brimborn Steelworks was south of Hawkins, which meant that they either needed to go through the town to get there, or go the long way around. Wayne was wary of both. The long way around was probably safer in terms of not getting caught, but he didn’t like Steve sitting on the floor while they drove, no matter what Hopper said. At least El was buckled in. They’d spent the day listening to Steve tell them stories about what had happened in the version of everything that he’d lived through, and too many of those times the story was accompanied by the caveat of, “But I’m not sure what happened then because I had a concussion.” He thought that the boy might be accident prone. 

Still, he just had to drive carefully and they’d be all right. He took the long way, which went past lots of farmland and only skirted the edge of the suburbs. He even drove agonizingly slowly to make sure that he wouldn’t have to stop suddenly and knock Steve’s head against the dash.

It was going well until he passed one of those suburban streets and a white van turned onto the road to follow him.

He glanced in the rearview mirror. It was following at a safe distance, even though he was going a bit slowly and there was plenty of room to pass. That was suspicious on its own. Then, a second van pulled up to the next cross street and waited for them to pass. He was sure that he saw it pull in behind the first one. “Aw, hell,” he muttered. 

“What is it?” Steve asked from the floor.

“Two vans behind us. No, don’t get up and look. They’re both those white vans from the lab. I’ll take the turn for Cobb farm and see if they follow. Ain’t no reason for them to be out that way.” 

Steve propped himself up against the seat with his elbows and peaked over the edge of the window to see where they were. “Oh, this is close to Weathertop. There’s nothing out here.”

“Weathertop? Ain’t that that place in Lord of the Rings?” 

“I have no idea. It’s what the kids call the big hill outside of town.” 

“Hm. Suits it. Hold on, taking a turn.”

He swung onto the side road, which was a bit bumpier than the one they’d been on. Cobb farm was the first of a couple of farms and fields along this way, but nothing much else until you got to 135. There were groups of trees, but the corn fields were all harvested now and laying bare, so there wasn’t much cover, either. Sure enough, in his rearview mirror he saw the two vans turn after him. 

“Yep, definitely following us,” Wayne said. “Hell.”

“How are we gonna lose them?” Steve asked. He sounded on the verge of panic.

“I got a plan,” Wayne said, shifting into a higher gear to try to put some distance between his truck and the vans. He jerked his thumb at the seat. “Get your ass up here and buckle yourself in first.” 

“But Hopper said—”

“To hell with that. Don’t matter if they see you now. Buckle in both of you and keep Miss Elly safe, you hear?” 

The vans were speeding up to match him. Steve did as he was told and climbed into the seat. El leaned into his side and he buckled both of them in with the one belt, which might not have been the safest, but it was better than nothing. Wayne was keeping an eye on the fields off to the side. They were some mix of flat and muddy, and hilly and muddy. It was perfect. 

Just as the first van started riding his bumper, he jerked the wheel into a quick turn into the neighboring field. The first van blew right past them, but the second one managed to follow. It didn’t much matter, though. It couldn’t keep up with Wayne’s truck in the mud and dirt, and it stopped when its wheels got stuck. 

Steve had one arm wrapped around El and the other braced against the roof of the truck. “Holy shit,” he yelled. “You got ‘em.”

“That’s one,” Wayne said. “Now let’s see if the other one’s just as stupid.” 

The other van doubled back and followed Wayne onto the field, obviously wary of losing him through some other backroad. That wasn’t his plan, though. He’d spotted a long ditch with only one narrow spot that was level, clearly something the tractors used. From a distance, the ditch itself was invisible. He spun around to take a run at it as the van came up behind him. Steve saw what he was going to do and stuck his legs out to press against the floorboards. He could hear the boy muttering something to himself. It was either swear words or a prayer. El kept quiet. 

Wayne floored it and swerved just enough to keep his wheels on the narrow bridge. The van wasn’t so lucky, and it took a nosedive into the ditch. There was a crash and a bang, and then the long wailing of a broken horn. Steve let out a whoop, and both he and El turned to look behind them.

“God damn,” Steve said. “Where’d you learn to drive like that?”

“You think you kids invented mudding? I’ve been doing this since I was younger than you.” He grinned and headed back towards the road. He shifted back into high gear, ready to get back to the main road as fast as they could. In his rearview mirror, he saw a plume of smoke coming from the crashed van. The other one was still stuck and spinning its wheels. They were home free. 

Steve let out an alarmed shout, calling Wayne’s attention back to the road. Another van was headed straight for them. It jerked to the side, blocking the road, but even as Wayne slammed on the brakes, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop in time. 

Time seemed to slow as they careened towards the side of the van. Wayne flung his hand out to the side to brace the kids against the impact. Steve was curling around El, too. And El was staring with deep concentration at the oncoming disaster. 

The van shook in place, like it was shuddering in anticipation of being hit, and then flew up into the air over their heads. Wayne’s truck screeched to a stop, leaving skid marks on the road as it slid through the space the van had occupied. Behind them, it landed upside down, shattering all its windows in an explosion of glass.

They turned and stared at it. Wayne’s heart was thundering in his chest. El had a serious nosebleed and looked a little faint. 

“Good job,” Steve said, hugging her against his side. He was putting up a strong front, but Wayne could hear the way his voice was shaking. He looked up and nodded at Wayne. “We should go.”

“Yep,” Wayne said. He got the truck back into gear without another word, and focused on getting them to their destination.

Tagging: @neonfruitbowl

[sohannabarberaesque]

So what is it exactly ...

that motivates Claude Hopper's crazy cousins (Rock, Mud and Pond) into returning to Hog Waller every summer for a mix of musical hootenanny and ursine mating orgy?

as drives Ruff and Reddy to the open road in that rebuilt Cushman scooter of theirs, managing not to have much of a care for the world?

as explains the fascination of the Three Wolves and the Divin' Wolf Pups for the underwater side of things, feeling quite satisfied about the experience?

behind the ursine sexual curiosity of the Hair Bear Bunch and Emmy Lou and Jenny Lee every mating season such as fascinates their sexual desires without embarrassment?

explaining Crazy Claws' attraction unto Wisconsin Dells?

[ivy-meshle]

You could probably make some sort of block sorter to sort out clay from mud in a clay-drying farm, right? Since mud isn’t a full block, a hopper beneath it would pick up a dropped item, which could be detected, while a clay block wouldn’t let the hopper pick it up. I don’t have the capacity for figuring the rest out myself but you could automate a clay farm to be actually 100% clay and not a mix of clay and mud.

[nehamanglani-102002]

Common Types of Texture Coating

Texture coatings are used to add visual interest, hide imperfections, and protect surfaces. Here are some of the most common types of texture coatings:

1. Stucco

Description: A traditional exterior finish made from cement, sand, and lime.

Appearance: Smooth or rough, depending on application.

Uses: Commonly used on exterior walls for a durable and weather-resistant finish.

Benefits: Highly durable, fire-resistant, and provides good insulation.

2. Venetian Plaster

Description: A decorative finish made from slaked lime, marble dust, and pigments.

Appearance: Smooth, polished, and marble-like.

Uses: Interior walls and ceilings for an elegant and sophisticated look.

Benefits: High-end appearance, breathable, and can be polished to a high sheen.

3. Sand Texture

Description: Paint mixed with sand to create a gritty texture.

Appearance: Rough, granular surface.

Uses: Interior and exterior walls to add a rustic or natural look.

Benefits: Easy to apply, hides imperfections, and adds a unique tactile feel.

4. Knockdown Texture

Description: A method where the texture is applied and then "knocked down" with a trowel.

Appearance: Mottled and uneven, with flattened peaks.

Uses: Ceilings and walls in residential and commercial settings.

Benefits: Adds depth and dimension, hides imperfections, and is relatively easy to apply.

5. Popcorn Texture

Description: A bumpy texture created by spraying a mixture of drywall mud and Styrofoam or other materials.

Appearance: Rough, popcorn-like surface.

Uses: Ceilings, particularly in older homes and commercial buildings.

Benefits: Excellent for sound absorption and hiding ceiling imperfections.

6. Orange Peel Texture

Description: A texture that resembles the skin of an orange, applied with a spray gun.

Appearance: Fine, dimpled surface.

Uses: Interior walls and ceilings.

Benefits: Hides imperfections, easy to clean, and provides a subtle texture.

7. Slap Brush Texture

Description: Created by slapping a brush or sponge onto the surface of wet drywall mud.

Appearance: Random, spiked pattern.

Uses: Interior walls and ceilings.

Benefits: Adds a unique pattern and depth, easy to apply with basic tools.

8. Skip Trowel Texture

Description: Applied with a trowel, where the trowel is "skipped" across the surface.

Appearance: Uneven, with smooth areas and raised texture.

Uses: Interior walls and ceilings.

Benefits: Elegant and unique look, hides imperfections, and adds visual interest.

9. Rosebud Texture

Description: Created by pressing a brush or roller into wet drywall mud.

Appearance: Circular, rose-like patterns.

Uses: Interior ceilings.

Benefits: Decorative and interesting, relatively easy to apply.

10. Splatter Knockdown Texture

Description: Similar to knockdown texture but applied with a hopper gun, then flattened with a trowel.

Appearance: Splattered and then smoothed.

Uses: Interior walls and ceilings.

Benefits: Adds dimension and hides imperfections, widely used in modern homes.

Benefits of Texture Coatings

Aesthetic Variety: A wide range of textures to suit different design preferences and styles.

Durability: Many texture coatings add an extra layer of protection to surfaces.

Imperfection Concealment: Effective at hiding surface imperfections and flaws.

Acoustic Properties: Certain textures, like popcorn, can improve sound absorption.

Easy Application: Many textures can be applied with basic tools and techniques.

Texture coatings offer numerous options for enhancing the look and feel of spaces, providing both functional and aesthetic benefits. Whether aiming for a rustic, elegant, or modern finish, there is a texture coating to meet the needs of any project.

[buggytron]

Okay, basics on Bug A.U? and Who’s a yandere?

Okay basics. You got,

Lost Light Colony

Rodimus: Glow bug

Drift: Orchid Pray Mantis

Minimus Ambus: Ampid that wears beetle armor

Getaway: Metallic Jewel Beetle

Megatron: Bullet Ant

Ratchet: Worker Ant

Ambulon: Cotton Stainer bug

First Aid: Velvet Ant

Velocity: BagWorm Moth

Nautica: Purple Fungus Beetle

Night beat: Graphocephala

Rung: Orangetipped Butterfly

Whirl: Eupholus bennetti Beetle

Tailgate: Light Emerald Moth

Cyclonus: Violet Ground Beetle

Chromedome: MilkWeed Assassin Bug

Rewind: Eight-Spotted Forester Moth

Swerve: Garden Snail

Skids: Grasshopper

Riptide: Water Glider

ThunderClash: Red Speckled Jewel Beetle

Prime Colony

Optimus Prime: Fire Ant with Beetle armor

Prowl: Black Widow

Arcee: Grass hopper

Bumblebee: Bee

Bulkhead: Green June beetle

WheelJack: Ladybird Johnson Beetle

Jazz: Eyed Click Beetle

Ultra Magnus: Hercules Beetle

Smokescreen: Moth

Knockout: Ladybug

Breakdown: Stinkbug

DreadWing: Soldier Beetle

Elitas Colony

Elita: Pink Leaf Beetle

Arcee (G1): Pink Katydid

FireStar: Atteva aurea Moth

Chromia: Bkue Mud Dauber

Windblade: Faithful Beauty Moth

Strika: Goliath Beetle

Black Arachnia: Purple Tree Tarantula

Starscreams Colony

Starscream: Cecropia moth

ThunderCracker: Hufnagel Moth

SkyWarp: Erebid moth

Buster: Peacock Spider

Sunny and Sides

Sunstreaker: Orange Barred Sulphur Butterfly

Sideswipe: ViceRoy Butterfly

Bob: Jumping Spider

SoundWave

SoundWave: Centipede

Rumble: Blue Jewel bug

Frenzy: Red Jewel Bug

Ravage: Rosy Maple Moth

Lazerbeak: Hummingbird HawkMoth

Buzzsaw: Hummingbird HawkMoth

Ratbat: Bat Moth/ Black Witch Moth

SteeJaws Colony

SteelJaw: Wolf Spider

SaberHorn: Rhinoceros Beetle

ThunderHoof: Deer Beetle

Fracture: Purple Orchid Mantis

Clampdown: Pseudoscorpion

Underbite: Titan Beetle

DJD colony

Tarn: Orb Weaver Silk Spider

Pharma: Leaf Cutter Ant

Koan: Lightning bug

Vos: Helmeted Squash Bug

Helex: Wolf Spider

Tesasurus: Giant Milipede

The Pet: Sweet Neon Hopper Nymph

Rougue Insects

Arachnid: Huntman Spider

Deathsarus: Dragon Fly Beetle Mix

Swindle: Hornet

Lockdown: Fiddler Beetle

Overlord: Blue Flower Beetle

Trepan: Estigmene Tiger Moth

Trantulus: Trantulus

Blitzwing: Monarch Butterfly (wings change with personality)

Lugnut: Blister Beetle

Waspinator: Wasp

Scraplets: Baeus

Most likely to go yandere.

Anyone can go Yandere as long as you request. Most likely to do so are,

Lost Light Colony: Rodimus, Drift, Brainstorm, Megatron, Getaway, Whirl, and Cyclonus

Primes Colony: Knockout, Breakdown, Prowl, and WheelJack

Elitas Colony: Elita, Arcee and Strika

SoundWaves Colony: Rumble and Frenzy

SteelJaws colony: All of them

DJD: All of them.

Rogue insects: All of them

[dcbicki]

24 and 97 for mileven! can't wait to read

Keep in mind I haven’t written anything substantial for Mileven in well over two months so this is a kind of rough head-first dive to get me back in the mix but… I’m back, nonetheless! And I come bearing fluff and feels aplenty!

polychrome and sweetness; sweetheart you’re perfection

24. “I know it’s the middle of the night but can you come over, please?” & 97. “How do you always manage to look so perfect?”

“I know it’s the middle of the night,” El speaks into her com, soft voice muffled by what Mike can only assume is her pillow, the orange one with the frills around the edges, “but can you come over, please?”

He knows he probably shouldn’t. He’s got school – last day of eighth grade – first thing in the morning, and his mom’s still pissed at him for skipping math last Friday. (But, you know, Hopkins was a dick teacher so Mike feels it’s totally justified).

Besides, he can just rush back home in the morning and take a page from Steve’s book and climb up a drainpipe… that is if Hopper hasn’t already found him and kicked him out on his ass by then. Which, yeah, that’s likely what’s going to happen.

“Mike?”

El sniffles, voice breaking on the ‘e’, and he’s putty then. His girlfriend –and he doesn’t think he’s ever going to tire of getting to call her that – sounds sleepy. He should probably just tell her to get some rest, tell that he’ll see her tomorrow once school’s let out for summer and they’re free to spend every waking hour together. But, really, he knows she’s not a great sleeper, and she’s been having nightmares of late that she doesn’t want to trouble the chief with.

So what kind of boyfriend would he be if he didn’t immediately toss his comic book aside (and Peter Parker was just about to kick ass!) to slip his sneakers on, all before picking up his intercom to reply and almost knocking a lamp over in the process.

“I’ll be right there, El.” He tells her, gentle, with a flick of his hair from out of his eyes, “Don’t start reading without me.”

Sometimes he thinks Lucas has a point. “Man, you’re so far gone,” his friend likes to tell him, at least twice a week. Mike usually retorts with something in kind, reminding Lucas that he’s just as taken by his own girlfriend, and then they usually argue over who’s the more lovesick of the two until someone intervenes.

But maybe Lucas knew something he didn’t. Maybe what Mike thought was chivalry was actually just a desperate need to please, and he did like to please El.

(It’s not like he was waiting on her hand and foot, anyway. He knows where to draw the line between love and obsession, and he’s just a teenage boy on the verge of actually falling in love for the first time, if he hasn’t already. So… maybe he is too far gone, and he’s been too blind to see it, but he doubts that whatever he’s feeling for her is anything but pure adoration.)

He makes it to the cabin within twenty minutes, backpack in tow and new bike parked up around the right side of the building so Hopper doesn’t see it. It’s eight o’clock and Mike knows he leaves work early on Thursdays. He taps on El’s bedroom window softly, knuckles rapping against the dirtied glass. There’s still a couple of heart shapes drawn in the dirt where she and Max had flung mud at the window last weekend, hands covered with grass and flowers in their hair. Mike smiles, eyes flickering up to her face when she draws her curtains open, arms outspread from behind the glass.

She’s got a blanket lazily thrown over her shoulders, and the faintest traces of a grin are playing on her face.

“Mike,” the girl draws the window up, fists still clutching at her curtains, “That was fast.”

He shrugs his backpack off, drops it inside her room from over the frame. “Guess I’ve just got the hang of it,” he says. It takes a minute, but he lands on the rug in her room with the softest of thumps, long legs catching on the carpet. El stifles a laugh, and she extends a hand to help him up.

“El?” Hopper’s voice rings out from the living room, and a chair scratches against the wooden floor then.

“I’m fine!” She rushes to her door, peeking her head out to make sure he’s not coming in closer. He’s still sitting at their small kitchen table, a cigarette in one hand and the sports section in the other, but he’s got a leg sticking out as though he’s ready to leap out of his seat at any second. “Just… fell off my chair.”

Hopper doesn’t look at her, but she catches the small smile tugging at his mustache (and, oh, she still hasn’t gotten used to that). He turns the page of his paper, licking his thumb and forefinger, voice gruff, “Say hi to Mike for me.”

El’s innocent façade drops, and her shoulders slump, “Will do.”

“Door open.”

El pulls it to an almost-close then, leaving only an inch of space between the door and the frame. She twirls back around to find Mike sat cross-legged on her bed, “Anne of the Island” open to page 204 in front of him.

She unwraps the blanket from around her shoulders then, plopping down next to him on the bed. El nestles into her pillows, moving to place the frilly one behind Mike, slotted between his back and the wall.

“How do you look like that?”

She’s flushed red cheeks from fatigue or the warm summer air, Mike isn’t sure which. She’s brown curls with sunkissed highlights, pink lips chapped from too much time in the sun and a lack of chapstick. She’s all hazel eyes and baggy borrowed shirts, polychrome and sweetness, and Mike Wheeler is absolutely smitten, certain beyond his years that he’s never ever going to find her more adorable than he does right now.

El’s brows furrow at his words, confused. She glances down at her outfit, plucking at the hem of her old shirt, “I–”

“No, you’re,” Mike starts, and he stretches his legs out in front of him with a breath and a shake of his head, “I meant, how do you…” He turns to face her properly, eyes wide and amusement clear on his face, “You always look so perfect.”

“Oh.” El’s lips part, the smallest of noises catching in her throat as a blush rises to her cheeks. She gets it. “I don’t know.” She pulls her pillow closer to her face then, peeking up at him through her lashes, and Mike can tell how sleepy she is now. “I’m just like you.”

“Like me?” Mike blinks.

She nods, a strand of brown hair falling from past her ear to fall in her face, “You’re perfect, too.”

He smiles, his head ducking but his eyes remaining focused on hers. He’s not entirely sure what to reply to that without sounding like a complete cheeseball. “Then I guess we’re perfect.”

(Yeah, that was definitely cheesy. Way to go, Wheeler.)

(But maybe cheese is allowed when your girlfriend’s an ass-kicking, genetically gifted, beautiful fourteen-year-old. She’s basically a superhero. She’s like the real-life lovechild of Jean Gr–)

“Mike?”

He snaps to then, realising it’s been a moment, and that she’s just been sat patiently waiting for him to drop back down to Earth, to remember why he’s there.

El grins, teeth flashing as the corners of her eyes slowly crease into an all-knowing beaming, smile, “Can we read now?” She asks, voice smooth as honey.

(Oh, he’s putty.)

“Yeah!”

tagging: @fatechica @janeswheeler @dustinhendrsn @elhoppers @mikewheeler @calpurnias @caseyk112

[yurtletheturtlehenderson]

S.T REWRITE - S1:E3; Chapter Three, Holly, Jolly - [Pt.5 - FINAL PART]

A Will Byers x Reader Series

With the help of their new friend, Y/n, Mike, Dustin, and Lucas set out to search for Will. Joyce is convinced her missing son is trying to talk to her.

||3rd Person POV||

Nancy slammed the front door behind her.

"Hey! You're home early! How was the game?" Karen Wheeler asked, never looking up from her mixing bowl.

When Nancy didn't reply, Karen looked up. She found her daughter standing in the hallway, clearly fighting tears.

"Nancy? What's the matter?"

Nancy couldn't hold back her tears any longer.

"It's Barb. I think... something happened. Something terrible." Her voice came out in a hoarse whisper and Karen stared at her daughter worriedly.

× × ×

"I don't know, Chief." Powell sighed.

The two men were seated at one of the tables at the library.

"What don't you know?"

"This lady Terry Ives, sounds like a real nut to me. Her kid was taken for LSD mind control experiments? She's been discredited. Claim was thrown out--"

"Okay, forget about her." Hopper interjects, swiping the newspaper clipping aside and pulling up a different one.

"Take a look at this."

Hopper points the man in the lab coat and tie from the column he found earlier.

"Dr. Martin Brenner."

"Who?"

"Brenner. He runs Hawkins Lab."

"Okay."

Hopper scoffs, and leans back in his chair.

"You don't find that interesting?"

"Not really." Powell states, clearly still confused. "He was involved in some hippie crap back in the day, so what?"

"No, this isn't hippie crap. This is CIA-sanctioned research."

"Doesn't mean he had anything to do with our kid." Powell offers.

"Come on. Look at that. Hospital gowns. All of 'em. Now that piece of fabric that the teacher found by the pipe. That sure looked like a hospital gown to me, huh? Am I wrong?" Hopper pressed.

"I don't know, Chief."

Hopper sighed deeply. "Come on, man. Work with me here. I'm not saying that there's some grand conspiracy. I'm just..."

Hopper pauses, sighing once more. "I'm saying maybe something happened. Maybe Will was in the wrong place at the wrong time and he saw something that he shouldn't have."

Powell considered this. "It's a reach."

"It's a start."

Suddenly the crackling of the comms interrupted their thoughts. Callahan's voice crackled on the other end.

"Hey, Powell, is the chief with you?"

Before Powell could respond, Hopper leaned forward with a sigh and picked up. "Hopper here. What do you got?"

The library doors slammed open and Hopper and Powell ran out to the car in a hurry. The sun was setting by now, and they hopped in the car. The vehicle roared to life as the sirens began blaring.

||Reader's POV||

We were still walking, my feet grew sore and darkness had already set in. El was at the front, taking confident strides, the boys and I following eagerly behind. That's when it hit me.

I know this road. This is Will's house.

'What are we doing here?'

She stopped and turned around, facing all of us.

"Here."

"Yeah, this is where Will lives."

"Hiding." She said.

I blinked a few times, unsure.

"But... I-I don't understand." My heart fell.

"No, no, this is where he lives. He's missing from here. Understand?"

Lucas and Dustin had finally caught up, the two of them dropped their bikes in frustration. Something in Lucas snapped, and he spoke up, clearly frustrated.

"What are we doing here?"

"She said he's hiding here."

"Um... no!"

Anxiety began to take over my body as the boys began to argue. I wanted to defend El but, truthfully I was having a hard time with it myself.

"I swear, if we walked all the way out here for nothing--" Dustin began, but he was quickly cut off by Lucas shouting.

"That's exactly what we did. I told you she didn't know what the hell she was talking about!"

Mike, who was looking less and less patient, turned to El.

"Why did you bring us here?"

El seemed to lose the ability to speak properly. She stuttered, clearly nervous.

"Mike, don't waste your time with her."

As the boys continued fighting, I brought my hand up to my chin. Nervously scratching my wound, just so my hand could be occupied. A nervous habit of mine.

"What do you want to do then?"

'Wait a minute.'

"Call the cops, like we should have done yesterday."

'That's not possible.'

"We are not calling the cops!"

'My wound. It's... It's gone. Completely gone.'

My face contorted out of confusion and bewilderment. But before I could register 

what was happening, Dustin began shouting to get out attention. I looked to him, waiting.

"Hey, guys?"

"What other choice do we have?"

"Guys!"

We all turned and watched as Dustin stepped forward. His eyes on the nearby road. We all fell silent.

And that's when I heard it.

'No. No, no, no.'

The daunting sound of sirens grew louder with every second. A few police cars zoomed by.

'That could be anything. Right?'

An ambulance was in close pursuit.

My stomach plunged.

"Will..." the words left my mouth without me realizing. I ran for my bike and the boys followed.

We sped off into the night, my bike tires sprayed mud all over me, soaking my socks as we zipped through puddles and over hills, but I didn't care.

'I have to get to him.'

He has to be okay.

He has to be.

||3rd Person POV||

Joyce set down the paint can and looked to wall of letters, shaking. "Okay. Okay, baby, talk to me." She shifted on her feet nervously rubbing her hands together. "Talk to me. Where are you?"

'R'

"'R.' Good, good, good, good. That's good. Come on, come on."

'I'

"'I...G...H...T...H...E...R...E.''Right here.' 'Right here?' I-I don't know what that means. I need you to tell me what to do. What should I do? How do I get to you? How do I find you? What should I do?"

'R'

'U'

'N'

The strange sound of crunching and chomping can be heard before every light in the house begins to flicker violently. She turns around in silent terror and sees the massive figure push it's way through the wall. It tears through the wall like fabric and staggers in. Joyce sprints for the back door.

||Reader's POV||

The chase felt like it lasted for hours. Normally I would be exhausted by now, but I was too worried about Will. I was much farther ahead of everybody but not enough that we couldn't communicate..

Time seemed to stretch on forever as we rode through the fog. It was harder to recognize the area at night, but I was fairly certain we were near to the quarry.

'Oh, no. Please, no.'

||3rd Person POV||

Joyce hasn't stopped running since she left the living room. Her legs grew tired as she ran down the concrete road but she refused to stop. She spares a second to look behind her as she runs and when she looks back a car comes to a halt barely missing her.

"Mom?" Jonathan calls, scrambling out of the car to his startled mother.

"Mom, what happened?"

Joyce only whimpered as she held her son tight.

||Reader's POV||

"Oh, God no." I whined.

We made it down to the quarry and there were at least three police cars, a fire truck and an ambulance. A bunch of firemen and paramedics were standing just knee deep in the water.

We came to a grinding halt behind the firetruck and I abandoned my bike as soon as my feet touched the ground.

I ran to the end of the firetruck, peeking out from the side. I knew that if I made myself known they would shoo me away.

I watched in horror as they pulled a lifeless body from the water, and placed it on a water rescue stretcher.

Tears were brimming in my eyes, making it harder to tell who it was. I don't want to believe it, I really truly don't, but some were deep down I knew.

"It's not Will. It can't be." Mike said, disbelieving.

My heart was in my throat as I fought back the tears which were now stinging my eyes.

But then I saw it. The small, lifeless body. He was wearing the same red vest he wore on that night. I was speechless. Tears streaked down my cheeks as I lost my breath. It made me shrink into Lucas, I buried my face in his shoulder and he wrapped an arm around me.

"It's Will. It's really Will." Lucas whispered.

The noise I made was incoherent. I let out wail and tore myself away from Lucas's embrace.

"Will? Will!" I called. Lucas and Dustin pulled me back. I fought and screamed my throat raw. I wanted to get to him. To see if it was really true. But I was too weak. Defeat set in and I went limp, collapsing onto the ground and I hugged my knees.

"Mike..." El choked out. She reached a hand out to Mike's shoulder in comfort and slapped her away.

"'Mike'? 'Mike,' what? You were supposed to help us find him alive! You said he was alive!"

I couldn't stop my tears. I feel confused, angry, frightened. I feel heartbreak.

"You said he was alive! Why did you lie to us? What's wrong with you? What is wrong with you?"

"Mike..."

"What?"

She stared at Mike, at a loss for words. She turned to me, but all I could do was look up at her. I hugged my knees and cried more. Panic consumed her as she looked at me and then back at Mike.

"Will..." I whimpered.

"Mike, come on. Don't do this man. Mike." Lucas voice broke.

I didn't care he was leaving. It didn't even completely register. I just sat there, mourning my best friend.

"Mike, where are you going? Mike!"

I sat there, numb as I watched them pull Will out of the water. I watched as Will's lifeless, pale body was carried off by strangers.

'Why? Why him? Why now?’

Another sob wracked my body as I watched completely helpless as my best friend was being carried away in body bag.

||3rd Person POV||

Mike swung open his front door and slammed it just as fast. He stood frozen in front of his parents who looked to be comforting Nancy.

"Michael?" Karen called. "What's wrong?" She strode swiftly towards her weeping son who hesitantly held his arms out. She enveloped him in a hug and he collapsed into sobs.

× × ×

Taglist: @fuckwaad @aimee-lucass

DM me if you want to be added to my permanent taglist!

[your-iron-lung]

wip whenever?

i was tagged by my dear friend ples @eloarei, and if im understanding it right, im meant to just post some snippets of some wips im working on? maybe say some words about em?

shrugs,

anyway heres wonderwall some wips

no shade chappie 16 wip:

“What’s the situation?” Hopper asked breathlessly as Powell stepped in with him.

“Not sure exactly,” Powell responded, snapping a thin branch out of the way as they passed through the bramble to access the small clearing, “but it’s all kinds of fucked up.”

And it was. 

All around the small, handmade log cabin was destruction. Trees with trunks that had a diameter larger than his arms could encircle had been felled in such a way that made them look like twigs, snapped in half as easily as Powell had just done. Large, ugly scratches lined the splintered trunks in such a way that, to a novice tracker’s eye, they may have resembled a bear’s marked territory. Huge swathes of snow had been displaced into dirty, scattered drifts that seemed to mark a small arena of combat, if the prints in the mud and what remained of the snow was any indication.

Initially confused by what he was seeing, it took Hopper a moment to realize that what he’d originally thought was dirt mixed in with the snow was actually days-old, dried brown blood.

so my interest in st kinda dwindled at the release of s4 (whiiiich i didnt even watch, lol), and then i got really hardcore into star trek. i havent given up on this story, its just.... gonna be simmering on the backburner for a lil bit longer. i never plan for the interim between chapters to be so long but, yknow. sometimes it do be like that

speaking of star trek......

But as he explained it to the genius minds on the bridge, they conclusively found that it didn’t make any sense, even as the computations were handed over to Spock to assess. When asked what it was he could make of Scotty’s experimentations, all he had to initially say was, “Fascinating.”

“Fascinating, yes, of course,” Scotty replied, reading along over Spock’s shoulder as he scrolled through the contents of the PADD. His superior was seated at his science console on the bridge with Jim situated to his left, leaning against the paneling. Kirk had his thumb pressed to his lips in thoughtful concentration. “But we’re going after him, aye? Retrieving the lad?”

“To my knowledge, the dog in question is not a Labrador,” Spock intoned stoically. His eyes flickered through the lines of research quickly, moving back and forth at a speed that Scotty could not keep up with. 

Scotty laughed uncertainly then, glancing at Jim who was also reading over Spock’s shoulder. In the captain’s case, he at least was able to keep up with the Vulcan’s speed-reading, his blue eyes skimming rapidly back and forth as Spock scrolled.

im not gonna give too much away on that one bc i want it to be an EMOTIONAL SURPRISE, but i will say that the working title for it is 'ARCHERS BEAGLE', and it will be set in AOS. probably genfic, but if i can get away with some spirk i will lol

heres another star trek wip i can talk a bit more about.

working title, 'OVERHEAD, THE ALBATROSS' or 'ECHOES'

The away team hadn’t been gone for more than two hours, and had only been sent to perform a rudimentary exploration of the planet’s surface. Initial scans had proven it to have a breathable atmosphere with no sentient humanoid life-forms; on all accounts, it should have been safe. Routine, even, as the away team had completed the first check-in without issue only a half-hour before, but even as Kirk considered this, he’d known planetary scans to be wrong in the past.

Gothos, among others, came to mind. Some days it felt as though a simple smoke and mirror could have fooled a Federation’s sensors, for all they were worth. 

“Kirk here, away team; we read you.” He paused in his return transmission, his initial confusion giving way to concern, and then, alarm.  “Away team, you beamed down with six; only three returning?” 

“Three critically wounded in need of medical,” she reiterated urgently. She coughed wetly, indicating her own injury before she said, “Please, Captain. Hurry.”

“Acknowledged. Hang in there ensign, help is on the way. Uhura will maintain contact with you, and I’ll meet you in transporter. Kirk out.” 

A restless energy overtook him as he cut communication with the wounded crewmember. Uhura immediately hailed the ensign as Kirk began to rally back against the manic thoughts that threatened to overturn his rationality, trying not to think of all the ways the mission could have gone wrong.

Had they stumbled upon a secret, hostile civilization? Were there omnipotent beings lying in slumber that the away team had disturbed, thus earning their ire? A slow-acting toxin they hadn’t scanned for in the otherwise breathable atmosphere? 

Snapping open his personal communicator, Kirk cast his discorded thoughts aside and hailed the transporter room. He spoke brusquely with the chief working the console, relaying the urgency with which the ensign had conveyed unto him to get the three back on board as quickly as possible. 

The bridge crew (with the exceptions of Uhura, who was keeping in touch with ensign Anders, and Spock, who was not there at all) had all grown static as their individual concerns began to coalesce into a near tangible thing, circling ominously overhead like a vulture scouting an already dead thing.

Jim felt its distracting pressure and chose to ignore it.

this one is gonna set in TOS, and will be full of spirk. spock gets injured on an away mission and kirk gets to help him heal, but his injuries arent something he sustained in a physical sense

i even have a (very short) playlist set up for this one, too

anyway yep, those are my big three rn, but i am also stewing on.... some star trek horror......that i have ideas for, but havent written anything about yet

i really dont have any writing friends besides YOU WHO TAGGED ME, so uh...

yep, thats all folks (smile)

[surplusoilfieldequipment]

700hp Spencer Harris 7000 Trailer Mounted Drilling Rig in Good Condition

Watch video on YouTube here: https://youtu.be/BiKYTcHlHmY 700hp Spencer Harris 7000 Trailer Mounted Drilling Rig https://inventory.freeoilfieldquote.com/product/700hp-spencer-harris-7000-trailer-mounted-drilling-rig- Name : 700hp Spencer Harris 7000 Trailer Mounted Drilling Rig For Sale Code : 98165048 Type : Standard Brand : Spencer Harris Category : Rigs subcategory : Onshore Rigs Price : $275,000.00 Unit : Each (Each) In Stock : Yes Location : Oklahoma City, OK Condition : Good Available Quantity : 1

700hp Spencer Harris 7000 Trailer Mounted Drilling Rig For Sale Drawworks : Ideco Hydrair H-35 single drum drawworks with 1 1/8 inch drill line, Parmac Triple 15 inch hydromatic brake, Torque Tite make-up and break-out catheads, Rotary drive attachment & clutch

Drawworks engines: (2) Detroit 14.0L Series 60 665hp diesel engines with electric start, Twin disc torque converters, 2 engine compound, 2 Quincy 325 air compressors

Derrick: Spencer Harris 150ton 100 Feet H, hydraulic raised, wireline scoped with Crown block, racking board, standpipe & vapor proof lighting. All on Spencer Harris triple axle trailer, S/N 111

Substructure: Spencer Harris double skidded, 12 Feet tall with Gardner Denver 17 1/2 inch rotary table, stairs, top doghouse, handrails & vapor proof lighting

Rotary beam clearance: 9 Feet 3 inch with Spencer Harris Back-On ramp 62 inch Height, 8 inch Width & 31 Feet 5 inch long

Mud pumps: (2) F-1000 Emsco Style powered by Cat 398 engines

Pits: (2) 300bbl pits with mixing hopper, agitators & (2) square style shakers

BOP: 11 inch/5000 LWS style Annular and Double

Combination trailer: 53 Feet combo trailer with 330bbl freshwater, 6,000 diesel tank and tool room

from Oilfield Equipment Manager https://rignetwork.wordpress.com/2023/03/15/700hp-spencer-harris-7000-trailer-mounted-drilling-rig-in-good-condition/

[concretewaybc]

An Insight Into Concrete Pumping Vancouver

For a long time, all industries have experienced growth, which has doubled their productivity. However, this is not the case for the construction industry, as productivity and growth have stagnated for a long time. The industry has developed innovative technology, such as concrete pumping Vancouver, to save itself from this situation. Here are more insights into this development in the construction industry. What is concrete Pumping? This is a method used to layer concrete in a specific place. The process involves the transfer of liquid concrete from a mixing truck to a pump. The liquid continuously churns to prevent pre-mature solidification of the concrete.

How does the Pump Work?

This pump uses the differentials of hydraulic and atmospheric pressure. After the concrete liquid is placed on the hopper, the pump kit uses cylinders to gather and discharge concrete in the system using a rock valve.

What are the benefits of a concrete pump?

Concrete pump Vancouver comes with a lot of benefits for your project. They include;

Maximum efficiency: The pump turns more loads in a short time compared to truck dumping

Increased productivity: It increases placement rate, which utilizes labour more efficiently.

Environment protection: Concrete pumps prevent soil erosion by localizing mud and dirt from traveling.

Safety: There is an unintended surcharge on the residential basement walls when using red-mix trucks, especially when they are too close to open excavations.

What are the available types of concrete pumps?

There are two types of pumps, and they vary according to placement.

Line pumps: These are made of conjoined pipes and hoses that enable concrete placement.

Boom pumps: These have connected boom sections that hold the piping for instant reach without establishing a line system.

Using the line system and boom pumps together is an advantage that optimizes the concrete placement.

Concrete pumping Vancouver is a newer and more efficient concrete placement method compared to truck placement. Consult with an expert for your next project.

[washoutbags]

What Are Washout Bags

Do you work with concrete and need a safe way to store your washout waste at the job site? A concrete washout bag is what you need. It will help you keep the area clean and a much easier way to move the waste from one spot to the next. You don’t have to worry about things spilling or needing to be cleaned up again.

What Are Washout Bags Used For?

You can use washout bags for multiple things, not just for concrete waste. If you have to dispose of drywall mud, wet waste, mortar, stucco, paint, or any other dry or wet materials you have.

They make it great for easy cleanup and keeping stuff floating off in bad weather.

Having something that you can use for multi-use is very helpful to many people on the job site. It helps make cleanup easier and move things around the area easier. If there is anything that can make your job easier, why not?

Best Way To Use Them

After you use all the concrete you need, there is typically a little leftover in the chutes of the ready-mix trucks. The tubes and hoppers of the pump trucks must be washed out and all remaining concrete removed before hardening. If you use wheelbarrows or hand tools, they also need to be cleaned.

If you don’t have something to pour the remaining concrete into, it will leave a huge mess. You don’t want to leave the area a mess like that for your clients. Your clients are going to talk about your overall work. So if you leave a massive mess for them to clean up after you are gone, they aren’t going to like that.

What Are They Made Of?

A washout bag is made of woven polypropylene that is tear and puncture-resistant. They are typically bulky bags. It is 18 cubic feet, about 130 gallons, and rated to hold 3,300 pounds of material, wet or dry. That is a lot of material!

They are lightweight but extremely strong and portable. Having a washout bag capable of holding environmentally harmful products is helpful for all. You don’t have to worry about tearing once the concrete or mortar hardens in the bag.

Setting Up A Washout Station

A washout station aims to prevent the discharge of contamination to the stormwater from concrete waste. You do this by creating a washout off-site and performing an on-site washout in a specific area. All employees and subcontractors should know where this area is.

It can be hard to keep things clean when you are working, especially if working in construction. The more you can clean up as you go, the easier end of the day and the job will be to clean up. The less work you have to do, the better it is for you.

Keelie Reason blogs at Tape Direct Corp. about wholesale supplies, and specifically focuses on washout bag sales. She is passionate about writing and helping others learn more about wholesale supplies. When she's not writing, she can be found spending time with her family over dinner.

[dcbicki]

Mileven and... red wine stained lips (18)?

booze and her kiss; these are drugs that do not mix // 1.2k words

She’d only been away from him for a couple of minutes.

They’d been casually talking about their plans for the weekend when Karen had politely dragged her son away and handed him a glass of expensive red wine. Mike had simply joined her circle of conversation with slumped, disinterested shoulders, and he’d glared down at the drink for the longest time before forcing himself to take a swig.

But judging by his expression, the way his nose scrunches and his lips purse in what El can only assume is distaste, she’s almost certain he would rather not be drinking any alcohol at all.

It’s because, maybe, she thinks, this is the first glass he’s ever had. His parents—Karen especially—probably encourage social drinking; a small glass of red wine at Christmas dinner with extended family never hurt.

The deep red liquid continues sloshing around in his glass, a couple of droplets trickling down over the rim where Mike’s lips had just been pressed.

(Suddenly, she wishes she were made of glass; fragile and pure and kissed by one Mike Wheeler.)

Nancy appears at his side then. She’d been a couple feet away from him to start with—on the other side of their mother who was lost in conversation with someone across the room. Walking around their mother with a sheepish grin on her face, Nancy cuts in between Mike and their ever-talkative cousin from Florida.

Her right arm is folded over her chest, fingers wrapped tightly her left bicep, and there’s a wine glass in her hand, too. Only hers is mostly empty, and before Mike can even try to force another sip down, his sister’s prying the booze from his hands and tipping its content into her own glass.

The older Wheeler sibling glances around nonchalantly as she does so, but there’s a slight smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. Glass practically overflowing, Nancy hands Mike’s back over to him, and she takes off after placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Mike mouths after her with a grateful look on his face, earning a smile. He quickly mutters an apology to his cousin, proceeding to discard his glass on a nearby table and hurriedly make his way over to El.

Lucas has gone off somewhere with Max by now, so she’s been silently stood alone by the desert table. Dustin is nearby; she can hear him arguing about the star power of one Judd Nelson from somewhere behind her, and Will is off in the corner talking to her dad, Hop with a fatherly, reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Sorry.”

Mike is in front of her now, hands slid into the front pockets of his cords. His wiggles his brows, mud brown eyes gazing down at El with a dazed look.

“My mom likes it when we entertain our guests.” His voice drips with disdain, and when he shakes his head, black hair falls in his eyes and El reaches up to sweep it back. She tucks it behind his ear, smiling.

“It’s okay,” she says, hand shifting from the curve of his ear to the side of his face. She cups his left cheek in her palm, unintentionally making Mike arch down to lean into her touch.

Lashes fluttering a couple of times, El glances down at the flowers of her dress; they’re blue and yellow and they stand out beautifully against the forest green velvet, and the green and black stripes of Mike’s knitted sweater.

“You entertain me.”

“I do?” Mike asks, slightly confused. His nostrils flare and his eyes widen when she lowers her hand down to his chest, pushing up on her tiptoes. Voice low, Mike rasps, “How?”

Her left hand comes to join her right then, and she presses up on the tips of her small heels until she’s almost eye-level. “Your face.”

Mike’s face flushes then, a light rose tint rising to his cheeks. His lips part, dry and stained, “Oh.” He nods, twice, thinking he’s understood.

El brings her hand up to his face, and she smooths the tip of her index finger along his bottom lip, brows furrowing in concentration when he shivers beneath her touch.

“What are you doing?” He asks, words ricocheting against her skin.

The girl simply smiles, and she digs her teeth into her own lip with the smallest of squelches as she sucks in a breath. “They’re red,” El says, looking up into his eyes.

Mike’s eyebrows pull together in curiosity, and he brings a hand up to his mouth. He bends his thumb, runs the tip slowly along his top lip, “My lips?”

Nodding, El feels him place his hand on her waist. She shuffles closer, neck craning back as she melts into him, “From the wine.”

“Yeah,” Mike scoffs, “it’s not the best.”

Having never tasted it herself, El can’t agree nor disagree. And she doubts Hopper would ever let her try it until she’s at least sixteen. So, instead, she settles for the next best thing.

“Kiss me.”

Wide eyes practically bulging out of his head, Mike almost gasps, “here?”

El nods, a grin of her face, and she pushes up on her toes again to lessen the height difference between them. She blinks once, twice, before Mike dares to press his lips against hers.

They’ve only done this a handful of times, but most of those kisses were innocent and done when there was no one else around. The Snowball doesn’t count, obviously, nor does that one time Hopper walked into the cabin to find Mike pressed up against a wall by a levitating El.

But this; kissing in front of a crowd of grown-ups, Mike’s family, and people who are probably more than a little bit curious about the Wheeler boy’s connection to the Chief’s strange daughter? Definitely new.

Eyes closing, Mike sinks into the kiss after a moment, mostly encouraged by the soft mewls coming from his girlfriend’s mouth.

Her palms are flat against his chest, fingertips digging into his collarbones, just past the neck of his knit. There’s a low heat growing in the pit of her stomach, and El’s hazel eyes flutter open when the boy tilts his head and kisses deeper, hungrier.

Five seconds into it, El can feel her small heels lift off of the carpet, and she’s floating a half inch above the floor before she can stop herself. And so she has to pull away to ground herself, fingers tightly clawing at Mike’s shoulders to find her footing.

She digs her shoes into the thick carpet, ankles twisting as she sways in front of Mike. El looks up at him with a smile on her face, flushed and blushing as she licks her lips to taste them, “Not so bad.”

The black-haired boy snorts, lips pulling into a smirk, “Me?”

“The wine,” she says, watching as his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows, “You’re perfect.”

(y’all like fluff so… @dustinhendrsn @mikewheeler @fatechica @girls-are-weird @eleven-n-mike  @proud-princess-el-wheeler @janes-mike)

[rax-writes]

Title: Mitigation Fandom: Stranger Things Characters: Jim Hopper x Reader Word Count: 2,230 Warnings: Smut Notes: Request from anon for “Somebody asked for a hopper smut so: maybe he's been having the shittiest week of his life. He's been stuck in mud, got elbowed in the nose by some punk, and Callahan even ate his favourite doughnut! So, he gets home on the Friday night and the reader is just humming away at the kitchen counter, making dinner which smells GORGEOUS, and hopper just instantly gets in /the mood/ 😏😏💕”

There are just some days where you can’t win. The days where everything that could possibly go wrong does go wrong, and you can’t catch a single break. For Jim Hopper, today was one of those days.

It had started off the moment Hopper woke up. He had somehow managed to completely sleep through his alarm (he fully blames it on the fact that he had been snuggled up beneath the warm covers with you in his arms), and then when he got into his truck and headed to the station, he realized that he’d forgotten his cigarettes. It was far too late to turn back for them, even by his standards, so he just resolved to buy a new pack at lunch.

When Hopper arrived at the station, he let out a contented sigh of relief upon seeing a box from the best donut shop in town setting on the front desk. When he flipped open the lid, he found that the box was empty.

A glowering pair of eyes fell upon Callahan, who had just shoved half of the last donut in his mouth.

“Sorry, Chief,” Callahan managed to mumble through the donut packed into his gob, and Hopper just grumbled something under his breath and made his way to his office.

Unfortunately, a lunchtime break for cigarettes never came for Hopper. He got called off to help a panicked mother of six, who thought she’d lost one of her kids in the mall – but turns out, the little shit had just been hiding in a clothes rack. And on his way back to the station from that little excursion, he had to swerve to miss a dog crossing the street, which sent him into the mud off the side of the road. Due to the torrential downpour from the day before, there was just enough mud that his tires got stuck.

A half hour and a mud-covered pair of khakis later, Hopper made it back to the station, where he found Callahan and Powell trying to placate some angry young burnout outside. He let out a sigh and made his way over, hoping to put an end to the little confrontation. Just when he reached the scene, the tweaked-out jackass reared his arm back to swing at Callahan, only to punch Hopper straight in the face.

Before the kid even knew what happened, he was slammed against the hood of the nearest patrol car, Hopper firmly holding him down by the back of his neck. Callahan rushed to put him in cuffs and take him inside, and Powell stared at Hopper’s bloody nose and eerily calm demeanor with an expression that could only be described as a mix of bewilderment and concern.

“I need a cigarette,” Hopper said slowly, his tone low and serious. Quickly and wordlessly, Powell retrieved a pack from the front pocket of his uniform, and gingerly handed it to Hopper. After Hopper took one and went to hand it back to Powell, the latter shook his head.

“Keep it. You look like you need ‘em more than I do.”

Hopper muttered a “Thanks,” then took a seat on the bench on the side of the building, pulling long drags off a couple cigarettes until he felt relaxed enough to go back inside. That was when he remembered that his pants were covered in mud. Letting out a few curses under his breath, he checked his watch – 5:38 PM. Deeming it late enough to head home, he poked his head in the station just long enough to announce his departure, and then left.

He had expected you to be gone when he got home. While you occasionally stayed over, it was always just at night – usually after sex, or if your movie marathon ran too late. But when he parked the truck, trudged up the stairs, and did the special knock on the front door, he was delightfully surprised to hear your voice calling, “It’s unlocked!”

Hopper found you in the kitchen, multitasking effortlessly as you monitored a couple of pans on the stove, as well as whatever was in the oven – and it all smelled better than anything he’d ever encountered in his life. And the simple fact that you were in his house, wearing nothing but your underwear, one of his flannels, and a pair of slippers, cooking him dinner just because you wanted to – it all instantaneously turned him on beyond belief.

“Jane is at the arcade with her friends, and Joyce is picking her up afterwards for a sleepover with Will,” you explained absentmindedly, so focused on your cooking that you didn’t even turn around as Hopper kicked off his shoes by the door, and came to stand behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your neck. “I’m really glad that they’ve been getting along so well. I think being friends is good for them both; shared experiences and whatnot. Anyway, I was at the store and saw these pork chops. I figured that sounded good, so I decided to make dinner with them.”

“I love you,” was his only response, gently brushing the hair away from your neck and peppering kisses along your skin.

“I love you, too,” you said, and he could hear the smile in your voice. You turned your head to kiss him, and your eyes widened when you saw the bit of dried blood on his nose. “Jesus, what happened?”

“Just some punk-ass kid,” Hopper stated dismissively, pulling you into a kiss before you could reply.

Normally, you would have just given him a quick kiss and returned to pestering him about what happened to his nose, but the way he kissed you was so deep and dizzying that you managed to forget about it entirely. One of his hands cradled your head, while his other arm remained wrapped around your waist, your back pressed firmly against his chest.

You were just about to fully lose yourself in the kiss when the kitchen timer went off.

But he didn’t seem to mind one bit, showing no intention of halting the kiss. You pulled away from him to murmur, “Jim, the food,” against his lips, smiling at his fervor. He let out a little humph, chasing after your lips as he kissed you once gain. You kept this one quick, however, pulling away again and giving him a falsely stern expression.

“At least pause while I finish up dinner.”

“Fine,” Hopper grumbled sarcastically, a slight grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He moved to lean on the counter next to you, watching you intently as you removed the food from the oven and off the stove. He’d always adored the way you looked when you were focused on something.

You pulled your oven mitts off as you turned to him, putting your hands on your hips as you smiled playfully at him.

“Do you want to eat now, or later?” you inquired, and a smirk spread across Hopper’s lips.

“Now. But not the food.”

Before you could even blink, he was on you in one swift step forward, his arms wrapped securely around your waist, pressing your back into the counter and his lips against your own. This kiss was more feverish and desperate than the last. It was as if he needed to kiss you, to touch you – and that was precisely how he felt.

It wasn’t long before Hopper’s hands wandered down to the backs of your thighs (not without lingering on your ass, of course), and he hoisted you up onto the counter, without ever breaking the kiss. Instinctively, your legs wrapped around his waist to pull him closer to you – but that apparently wasn’t what he had in mind. His hands found your knees, gently pushing them apart; just enough for you to get the hint that he wanted you to remove them from encircling him. He wasted no time in pulling your underwear down your legs and heedlessly tossing them over his shoulder, before kneeling in front of you. The position would likely be disadvantageous to most, but all six-foot-three of Jim Hopper put him at eye-level with your core – which was exactly where he wanted to be.

The second you felt his tongue against you, an involuntary moan escaped you, as one of your hands grabbed a fistful of his hair, while the other remained on the counter, the only thing keeping you upright. He ate you out like a man starved, progressively getting more intense and vigorous. He knew just how to build you up to the point that you were a mewling, writhing mess, one of his hands holding your hips down to steady you. And when he used his free hand to slip two fingers into you, curling them in a ‘come hither’ motion, you were a goner.

You were still coming down from your high when you felt his arms around you, and he began showering you with kisses, across your neck and face, as you leaned against his broad chest, panting slightly as you regained your breath. Hopper gave you time to relax a bit, before pulling you into a deep kiss. You could still taste yourself on his lips, and the combination of passion and tenderness in his actions stole every thought from your mind besides him.

Hopper gently patted your knees again, and you got his hint, wrapping your legs around his waist as his hands returned to their spot beneath your thighs. He effortlessly carried you to his bed, then laid you down and removed his clothes, your eyes hungrily watching his every move. He quickly retrieved a condom from the drawer on his bedside table, before crawling on top of you and kissing you with that same tame desperation.

You pushed against his shoulder, and he did as you bade him, moving off of you and leaning against the headboard as you quickly followed, straddling his hips. Your hair tickled his face as you grinded down on him, a sharp intake of breath leaving his lips at your actions. Your hand found his and you took the condom from him, purposefully taking your time to slide it over his length. He groaned softly against your lips as your hand surrounded him, and Hopper’s grip on your waist tightened when you used his cock to tease your entrance, a low moan escaping him.

“C’mon, baby, don’t be mean. Just… fuck, I need you.”

You were more than happy to oblige his request, sinking down onto his length, as the two of you let out simultaneous moans. You rested your head on his shoulder, breathing slowly as you took a second to adjust to him. His hands migrated to your hips as you began to move, raising up before sinking back down on him again. Low groans fell from his lips like a mantra as he watched you move with lust-clouded eyes, occasionally joined by quiet curses.

It wasn’t long before Hopper could tell that you were nearing your end, and in truth, he was thankful for it – he wasn’t entirely sure how much longer he could last. Watching you ride him – the way your eyebrows furrowed together, the breathy little moans that fell from your kiss-swollen lips, the way your nails dug into his shoulders, undoubtedly leaving little crescent-shaped imprints on his skin – it was all drawing him towards his climax at an expedited rate. He snaked a hand between the two of you and began rubbing fast, little circles on your clit. More lascivious moans tore their way from your throat, which were quickly swallowed by his ravenous kiss. Your hands began to grip his shoulders even tighter, fingertips digging into him as your walls tightened around him, arriving at your climax once again. The frequency of his cursing increased, and he let out a delicious, low moan as he followed suit.

Your arms wrapped around Hopper’s neck and you rested your forehead against his, as his arms encircled your waist in a languid embrace. You were both breathing heavily, eyes closed as you both enjoyed the post-coital bliss. You were the first to move, kissing him softly before you rolled off him, lying on your back while still attempting to catch your breath. He leaned down to press a lingering kiss your forehead, then got up and left the room for a bit. He returned with a glass of water in hand, which he gave you to take a drink from, before setting it on the nightstand and lying down next to you, pulling you into his arms. You laid your head on his chest and snuggled into his side, neither of you saying a word.

After about ten blissful minutes, you groaned.

“What?”

“We’ve still got to either eat dinner, or put it in the fridge,” you complained.

“We’ll go eat in a little bit. Just lay with me for a minute,” Hopper murmured drowsily, kissing the top of your head. You nodded and nestled back into him.

More time passed by, then you rested your chin on his chest to look up at him. He opened one eye and peered down at you, and you smiled.

“So… how was your day?”

Hopper smiled before kissing you softly, and you could feel him smile against your lips.

“Definitely much better now.”

@whoarumancek @gertrudyorkes @v-writings @shirostellations @babiijayla @suckmysweetsweetsweetass @not-a-glad-gladiator @myblackwings5 @queen-of-the-pineapples @myfriendmagislit  feel free to let me know if you’d like to be tagged / untagged ♥

[nilkanthengineeringworks]

Concrete batching plants for infrastructure construction

Concrete plant stands for batch plant that is conjointly addressed as concrete batching plant. It is instrumentation that mixes numerous ingredients to make concrete.

Inputs embodied in concrete mixing are the combination of water, air,  sand, rock, gravel, silicon dioxide fume, cement, ash etc.

These are mixed and combined together in a perfect ratio with the different types of mixers such as cement batchers, mixture batchers, conveyors, radial stackers, mixture bins, cement bins, heaters, chillers, cement silos, batch plant controls, and mud collectors.

Important part of concrete plant

The important part of this plant is its mixer. There are many sorts of mixers which are used to make concrete  such as Tilt Drum, Pan, Planetary, Single Shaft, and the dual shaft mixer. These will guarantee a fair mixture of concrete through the employment of high HP motors, whereas the lean combineer offers a relatively giant batch of concrete mix.  The aggregate batching stores and batch the sand, crushed stone or gravels and thus known as aggregate bins of the concrete plants.

There also are many sorts of mixture batchers, however most of them measure mixture by deliberation, some use the deliberation hopper, some use the deliberation belt. Ready mix concrete (RMC) is concrete that’s factory-made in a very batch plant, in line with a collection designed combine style.

Premix concrete is generally delivered in 2 ways in which :

First is the barrel truck or in–transit mixers. This kind of truck delivers concrete in an exceedingly plastic state to the positioning.

The second is the meter machine. This delivers the prepared combine in an exceedingly dry state and so mixes the concrete on the site.

Working of concrete batching plant

Concrete batching plants work with the help of a machine control system. Concrete batch plants use computer-aided management to help in quick and correct mensuration of input consist or ingredients. With concrete performance these are obsessed on correct water mensuration, systems typically use digital scales for building materials used in construction and aggregates, and wetness probes to live mixture water content because it enters the mixture batcher to mechanically catch up on the combination style water/cement quantitative relation target.

Several producers realize wetness probes work well solely within the sand and with marginal results on larger sized mixtures the system regulates the operating of the machine.

Some facts to keep in mind for concrete batching:

Method of batching a concrete should completely depend upon the size of project you have.

The method should depend  upon the production rate required on a daily basis.

Choose a concrete method wisely which is sustainable, durable and economical.

These above facts are much more important to consider while choosing the right concrete batching plant manufacturers for constructing your site.

Nilkanth engineering works provide you with the best quality work for the same with appropriate mixing and expertise. So that you can always get satisfaction for the concert products you get from us simply with no wastage and less costing.

[surplusoilfieldequipment]

Used Open Top Mud System With Shale Shaker in Good Condition

Watch video on YouTube here: https://youtu.be/30rookjAXzE https://inventory.freeoilfieldquote.com/product/used-open-top-mud-system-with-shale-shaker-for-sale Name : Used Open Top Mud System With Shale Shaker For Sale Code : 69986182 Type : Standard Brand : Unknown Category : Mud Equipment subcategory : Mud Systems Price : $65,000.00 Unit : Each (Each) In Stock : Yes Location : Austin, TX Condition : Good Available Quantity : 1

Used Open Top Mud System With Shale Shaker For Sale Mud Systems

Conditioning the drilling fluid with the goal of dramatically lowering maintenance cost, avoiding excessive chemical treatment and maintaining mud systems volume will decrease the chance of equipment failure, unnecessary high mud costs, hole and drilling problems.

In the early oil industry open earthen pits were used as settling area to separate solids and mud thereby acting as a solids control equipment. Now, with the stringent environmental regulations and high mud costs, the economics of an effective mud system come into consideration. Different solids control companies introduce zero-discharge systems, closed-loop systems, \”quick move\” technology, screening technology, disposal options etc.

Major Components of Mud Systems

• Mud Gas Separator • Shale shakers • Sand Trap • Desander • Desilter • Degasser • Mud cleaner • Decanting Centrifuge • Mud agitator • Tanks/Compartments • Mud Guns • Mixing Hopper • Centrifugal Pumps • Mud Pumps • Others • Mud Ditch • Trip Tank • Water Tanks • Atmospheric Degasser • Cutting Driers • Screw Conveyor

from Oilfield Equipment Manager https://rignetwork.wordpress.com/2023/02/01/used-open-top-mud-system-with-shale-shaker-in-good-condition/