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vaokses · 7 months ago

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How long this love can hold its breath

Series Masterlist / General Masterlist

Pairing: Aegon x Rhaenyra's Daughter!Reader

Summary: It has been years since your mother took you from King's Landing to join her in Dragonstone. Years since you and Aegon have seen one another. Years in which he has refused, time and time again, to marry, even as you tour Westeros meeting suitors in search of a husband of your choosing. That refusal can easily be undone with a few words: it was you she chose, Aegon.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: Alicent's abuse of Aegon. Alcohol/drunkenness. Mentions of sex/prostitution. Usual Targaryen incest stuff. Arranged marriage stuff. Angst. Hurt and kind of no comfort for now.

Some AU/Setting stuff: Reader is a bastard of Daemyra (claimed by Laenor of course), firstborn child of Rhaenyra and heir to her mother's claim. She rides Vermithor. As you'll figure out thorugh this one shot, she and Aegon had a thing when she was still in King's Landing. How relevant or impactful that 'thing' was depends on who of the two you ask. I've stretched the timeline a bit. Rhaenyra spent a few years more in King's Landing (making Aegon around 16/7 when she leaves, and the Reader, the eldest of the Velaryons, around 14/5). Instead of six years in Dragonstone, the Blacks have spent around three there in this story. Viserys still lives (and is rotting slightly slower), Aegon and Helaena did not marry.

A/N: My first work in this fandom, so i'm a bit nervous. This is a bit of a prologue/alternate PoV for a series I have in the works, but I wanted to share it as a one shot since I think it also works as one. I hope you like this!

Title is from the quote "I've hoarded your name in my mouth for months. My throat is a beehive pitched in the river. Look! Look how long this love can hold its breath." - Sierra DeMulder

It feels as if he has just rested his head on his pillow when he hears the heavy doors being pushed open, and the familiar hurried steps of his mother as she enters his apartments.

He isn’t sure why he bothers by now in telling the guards not to let her in, since she insists on overruling his orders whenever she wishes.

Still half-asleep, Aegon reaches for the bedsheet covering his body, wary of any attempt she might make in her anger to pull it off him. Surprisingly, his mother stops a few steps away from the foot of the bed.

Aegon feels her piercing gaze on him, and aware the choice is between caving and chasing after her, asking her what it is she wants; or waiting for the anger at his unwillingness to follow the unspoken command -and the thrown object, or the stinging hit, that comes after said anger-; he drags his hands over his face in an effort to wake himself further and asks,

“What is it, mother?”

“Where in the Father’s name were you? Three days, Aegon,” He winces at the reprimand. In his defense, he truly didn’t think they’d notice. Helaena would, perhaps, but she wouldn’t seek him out either way. “You were gone for three days.”

“I wasn’t…far. I didn’t even leave King’s Landing.”

She starts letting out a sigh, laced with disappointment and annoyance, but stops herself short, instead turning her back to him and pacing a few steps away.

“I know where it is you go to…to satiate your vices, caring not for the shame it brings to your name and mine, behaving most unlike your station.”

“Then why did you ask?”

His mother won’t turn to look at him, her back turned to him and her hands joined in front of her.

“Your sister was here.”

His brow furrows in confusion.

“My sister is always here.”

“Rhaenyra was here, Aegon.”

“Oh. What for?”

Alicent turns on her side, considers him with eyes widened in afront and mouth curled in disgust. The question leaves her lips slowly, a threat and a dare all at once.

“Are you still drunk?”

He mulls over the question for a few moments, and realizes his thoughts are entirely too calm for him to be already sober. The numb haziness of the night before remains, a comfort.

“I think I might be,” He admits, eyes darting to the side and lingering on the pitcher of wine on a nearby table. He wonders if it is empty. “Slightly.”

When it seems his mother is intent on merely staring at him in disappointment, he motions for her to turn away and gets dressed.

He can’t help but feel unseemly, standing before his mother in rumpled clothes and disheveled hair, while she stands tall with not a strand of hair out of order, not a speck of dust on her dress. Then again, even at his best he hasn’t managed not to feel small, unsuited, by comparison.

Instead of letting those thoughts linger, aided by the comfortable haze the wine from the previous night -or nights, rather- provides him with, Aegon moves to sit on a table in one of the darker parts of the room.

Alicent follows quietly, but she doesn’t sit.

“I come here with news. You are to be married, n-…”

He shakes his head with a mocking laugh, the defiance as easy as breathing, after four years of holding the same stance. He might not have a say in much, but he does in this.

“No, I’m not.”

“Your father has approved of this union. As have I.”

He shrugs his shoulders.

“Then you are welcome to marry her yourselves. I shall hope for a long and happy marriage for you three.”

Sometimes, perhaps in foolish hope, in some hollow fantasy, he thinks his impertinence amuses his mother. He might imagine it, he’s quite certain he does, but sometimes he swears she furrows her lips to hide the faintest of smiles.

But of course, she shows no give, betrays not a flicker of amusement, of softness, of anything. Try as he might to earn any of them.

“I did not come here to entertain insolence.”

“Why did you come here, mother?” He asks, not able to reign in the restless movements of his hands, fingers tapping an irregular rhythm on the table. “My stance hasn’t changed. And it won’t.”

The restlessness building within her is betrayed in the small movements of her hands that increase in intensity the longer she looks at him. With a sudden movement, she slams a hand on the table between them and leans closer.

“You cannot go on like this, Aegon, shrinking your duty because of the denial of a caprice of your youth.”

“It was the one thing I asked for. I haven’t asked for anything since, nor did I ask for anything before.”

His mother scoffs in response, looking away.

“And that is reason enough for your wish to be granted?” She asks, derisive, almost jeering. Alicent leans back, straightens her stance again. Not too unlike Aemond adjusting his posture to strike with his sword during training, he supposes. “You have gone through your entire life doing as you please, not considering the cost to your family, to your House, to me, and you expected to be rewarded?”

But he has considered the cost, has had no choice but to consider it, when every choice, every action, it seems almost every thought, is heavy with the impact it might have on his name, on his family. He has considered the cost, but try as he might no choice, no action, has been enough.

“It would have…It would have changed things. If you had said yes,” He argues, an argument repeated, in his head if not aloud, a thousand times over in these passing years. And yet restlessness builds within him regardless, and he finds himself grasping at the table to keep his hands from fidgeting. “It was the smart choice. You know father would have been for it. You could have kept Vermithor on our side, and given them no choice but to play by our rules with their daughter here. We might have won this war you want so b-…”

“All I have wanted is to make sure your lives are not forfeit when your father dies. It is not war I want.”

“Then why did you say no?”

She shakes her head as she looks away again.

“The matter is settled. Long settled.”

“Yet you never told me why.”

He wants to hear it. More than an apology for denying him a chance at happiness, more than an admission that beyond the feelings of any involved it was the smartest choice, more than anything, he wants to hear her tell him why.

She didn’t even hear his reasons, she didn’t even consider proposing the union to your mother, or Viserys. She dismissed him, and denied him, without even a second thought.

He wants to know the reason why. If it was because she knew of you something he didn’t, and was certain you would have rejected him even at the cost of your home and life as you knew it, he wants to know. If it was because she believes him so monstrous that she wished to protect even the daughter of her lifelong adversary from him, he wants to know.

If it was because in his weakness and his failings he has made himself into something even his own mother wishes to see punished, or because there was something he did -because it had to be something he did, there cannot be so many that were supposed to love him and refuse to for it not to be something he is doing wrong, something about him that is wrong- that not only managed to make his mother’s love for him vanish, but also earned him her scorn, he wants to know. He thinks knowing that to be the truth would splinter him in a way he isn’t sure he’d be able to recover from, but he is tired, and alone, and he wants to know why.

He searches his mother’s gaze, desperate for an answer, any answer. She looks back, and yet all that is reflected back at him is contempt, disappointment, and what he fears is disgust.

“It has been years, Aegon. You are being senselessly stubborn, holding onto this…this grudge against me.”

He makes a face at her words, and grabs the pitcher in the table before him only to find it empty, the only wine remaining being that still in the half-filled cup.

“It is not a grudge, I-..”

“Weakness, then,” She sentences, and he doesn’t bother hiding the flinch at her words. His gaze lowers to the table before him. “You’re being a fool, if you think after all this t-…”

His eyes are set on the half-full cup of wine before him, and he doesn’t dare move his gaze as he interrupts, “I am not marrying, mother.”

She considers him in silence, and though for a moment he thinks a hit is to come -he doesn’t usually get away with interrupting her-, followed by her footsteps leaving the room, his mother takes a deep breath and insists,

“It is not me or your father who request this of you. It is your King who commands it.”

“The King, or his Hand?” He retorts. He grabs at the cup and downs the remaining liquid, making a face at the taste of stale wine, and presses on, “I’m guessing a Baratheon, to earn Borros’ support? Or a Tully, to secure the Riverlands?”

For the briefest of moments, when his mother’s lips press into a thin line, hands fidgeting where they rest joined before her, he thinks he finally got the upper hand. That he proved he isn’t as blind to their plots and their increasing panic at Rhaenyra’s influence as he may appear. That he proved her wrong, that he showed he isn’t as incompetent as they’d like to think, that he…

“A Velaryon,” Alicent admits, and any pride, any satisfaction, die out like flames in a room without air. His lips part, he knows not for what since all that leaves them is a choked breath, the beginning of a question, of a name. Aegon searches his mother’s gaze, attempts to find any truth, any certainty, but Alicent looks away. Her next words sound as if heard from underwater. “To keep you from certain execution when your sister ascends the Iron Throne.”

“Do not toy with me, mother,” He means for it to sound like an accusation, like a demand, like anything but a plea, and yet that is what leaves his lips. Betrayed by the waver in his voice, by the iron grip on the glass, he goes on, “She’s touring the whole of fucking Westeros in search of a husband as we speak.”

“She has made her choice, Aegon. It was you she chose,” She promises, and her voice is low and warm and almost comforting, so why does it feel wrong? Why does it make him want to crawl out of his own skin? “As for the tour, it will continue as scheduled. Rhaenyra deserted her own tour before time was due, she knows better than to repeat her mother’s mistake.”

Breathable air is lacking by this chair, in this room, and he stands up, wincing at the too-loud sound of the chair scraping against the ground.

He eyes a pitcher of wine in another table, and crosses the distance with quick strides, refilling his cup and draining half of it before turning to his mother again.

“Why tell me now? I-If the tour is to continue,” If she can still change her mind, “Why tell me now?”

“Your grandsire and I believed you might take this opportunity to amend your behaviors,” Alicent tells him, “So you might save your future wife the embarrassment, so you might protect her honor, seeing as you do not care for ours or your own.”

She hasn’t said your name yet, he notices.

Neither has he, but he has forgotten when it was the last time that he said it aloud. Intentionally, that is, he doesn’t count any time he let it slip past his lips when deep in his cups or buried inside some whore with the wrong shade of silver in her hair -and the wrong eyes, and the wrong voice, and the wrong smile, and the wrong touch-.

Aegon can’t even remember when it was that he decided he wouldn’t utter your name again, all he knows is that through the years what started out of spite, as a way to deny the wound and the absence; has become something else. It has become to him something like a secret, something to be hoarded, to be kept his alone.

Because there’s pride, and satisfaction, and something rotten but his, in having known you in ways no other did. In remembering you how he is certain -he has to be, it is of the few things he has left- no one has known you.

And so he doesn’t speak your name. Lest in sharing any of the warmth of a bond long gone he loses it, dying embers to a strong wind; lest in admitting old truths he is left behind also by the part of you that he keeps safe, a secret only his.

But now in his head resonate so loudly that they drown anything else -like thunder, like the beat of Vermithor’s wings taking you far up into the sky- his mother’s words.

It was you she chose.

Thinking of you has always meant the resurgence of the memory of the goodbye you refused to grant him, of waking to the reverberating cry of Vermithor as he took to the skies with you on his back and flew you away to Dragonstone; or the memory of your disappointment and your sorrow as he avoided your gaze and your words when you met again in Driftmark.

Yet now the memory that comes forth in his mind is another.

You smiled at him, daring and entirely too proud. But how could you not be, when you both knew he would oblige? How could you not be, when he hadn’t been able to tear his gaze from your lips since you had asked him for something as simple as a kiss? And your voice was softer than he’d expected -or perhaps he remembers it softer than it was, perhaps he sees something else when desire was all there was-, warmer than it had ever been, when you whispered, I want it to be you.

And what harm can your name do that his own mind hasn’t inflicted upon him already? What ruin can the uttering of such a familiar word bring that the memories haven’t wrought already?

So he says your name. Willingly, rationally, for the first time in years.

He thought the foolish refusal to utter your name aloud kept you distant, kept the memory of you, the idea of you, as something far from him, gone from him. But he realizes now, with the shape of your name parting his lips and the taste of memories staining his tongue like ash; that you have been a distant memory, a distant dream, for a very long time.

And the knowledge that you chose him, the helpless hope that blooms somewhere in his chest, they cannot do a thing against the horrifying certainty that the future he wanted, the future he mourned, is lost to him regardless of your choices now.

What can he give you now, that that Tyrell knight the rumors say you were so enamored with cannot? How can he not fail whatever expectations you have of him, as he has failed all others? How could you want him now, as what he has made out of himself in these years you’ve spent apart?

It was a comfort, he realizes now, thinking you lost. The comfort of knowing he couldn’t fail you, couldn’t earn your scorn when he had merely your indifference.

A bitter, wretched little laugh leaves his lips then, and he turns his head -to hide, perhaps, the tears brimming in his eyes, the weakness his mother so loathes to see from him- and looks out the window towards the distant skies.

Alicent doesn’t move, merely stands taller, prouder, and presses,

“Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Of course, this is what he fucking wanted, but nearly four years have gone by since he asked to be allowed to marry you and was refused. Even if some part of him wants it, wants you, still, it matters not.

It is what he wanted, before. Before everything got worse, before everything got louder, harder. Before he got worse. Before you forgot about him.

His mother approaches him then, and though he jumps when he sees her reach for him out of the corner of his eye, she grabs onto his forearm and speaks again, forceful, determined,

“Listen to me, Aegon. Your sister has secured her hold on the Seven Kingdoms, both through the strength of her dragons and through her eldest children’s diplomacy with the noble Houses,” His mother tells him, but he cannot hear her, not over the warring thoughts of finally, finally, finally, and too late, too late, too late. “Rhaenyra has allowed for this to happen because she wishes to extend an offer of peace, and you cannot squander this opportunity.”

He turns to her and asks, quietly, forlorning, “Why now?”

“What?”

“Why now?”

Why now, that everything is worse? Why now, that he has become this?

For a moment, a flickering moment gone in the blink of an eye, he thinks he sees sadness, sympathy, in his mother’s warm gaze. For a moment, he believes she will offer words or touch in the way she hasn’t before, in comfort or in reassurance.

But her gaze falls from his, and her grip on his arm -too tight, almost bruising, yet wanted, needed, if it is all he can get- loosens as she lets go of him.

“The betrothal will be announced when the tour is over. The wedding in a week’s time from then.” She tells him, detached, not unlike a messenger delivering a missive.

And with that she leaves his apartments. The door closing echoes in his mind, and he is left behind with a loneliness he doesn’t know where to put, and a hope he doesn’t know how not to fear.

Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it, and I would love to hear your thoughts!

I am endlessly fascinated by the greens and their deeply weird dynamics, and I hope I did them a modicum of justice, even when changed in this AU and despite the influence of fanon in my interpretations of them.

#aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii x reader #aegon x reader #aegon x you #aegon targaryen x targaryen!reader #aegon ii fanfic #fics by me

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nonbinoclard · 2 months ago

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>>> TUNES TO LOSE YOUR MIND TO <<<

KEEP IN MIND: This is a living playlist! Songs may be added and removed at times to further curate the vibe I'm going for. I'll try to keep this post updated, but you can just check out the link for an up-to-date track list.

(EDIT: Song discussions are not finished! I have a lot more to say. I'll reblog when I've updated.)

This is set in a sort of nebulous time between Harry's life right before Martinaise and the night before he lost his memory. I wanted this playlist to feel erratic-- full of manic energy one second, then slow and bleak the next, dreamy, unreal, then right back to ridiculous.

(In no particular order. Shuffle for full emotional whiplash effect.)

I Don't Like My Mind - Mitski

I don't like my mind, I don't like being left alone in a room [...] And then I get sick and throw up and there's another memory that gets stuck / Inside the walls of my skull waiting for its turn to talk / And it may be a few years, but you can bet it's there, waiting still

The days before cleaning out the rooms... also, eating an entire cake and throwing it all up again feels very harry-esque... Overindulgence

A whole cake, so please don't take / Take this job from me

End Of The World - Hether

I mean, I could just post the entire set of lyrics as evidence, tbh. Struggling to find meaning and purpose in his life in the wake of heartbreak (5 year old heartbreak, but who's counting anyway)

I wake up in the morning and I wonder / Why everything's the same as it was I can't understand / No I can't understand / How life goes on the way it does

Cane Shuga - Glass Animals

Baby, don't go / I'll stop breathing coke / No more bloody nose / No more John Does Burn through my love / Just like your drugs / I've had quite enough / Or lack thereof

This is about the last moments of Harry and Dora's relationship to me. The chorus (a kind of circular, endless, self-aggrandizing internal monologue likely fueled by stimulants, implied in the song) continuing after the second verse kind of reflects the solution for Lonesome Long Way Home.

"11 Voyager Road. You no longer live there. Those times are gone, and so are those people. Why did you come here? Why are you still here? And where’s the dealer? You have to get back to work. That’s all you have now."

Hot Venom - Miniature Tigers

Hot venom is mixing with my blood / I can feel it on my fingers and taste it on her tongue / It feels so good to fall in love with you

I've heard a lot of people say this song is about heroin addiction, which is thematically appropriate for this playlist, but also. Harry's unhealthy obsession with Dora/Dolores Dei. Adoration (and hatred) so strong it's killing him.

Her venom makes me strong / Stronger than I am on my own / Before too long, I'll wake up to it gone / Wondering how I ever was happy [...] You can't go back now; that's not how this works / And as long as she's gone, I can never be happy

Who Is She ? - I Monster

This is just straight up about Harry's recurring dream to me. Just. Gestures at the lyrics.

Oh, who is she? / A misty memory / A haunting face / Is she a lost embrace? Am I in love with just a theme? / Or is Ayesha just a dream?

I feel like it falls in line really well with the idea that Harry's mind has been affected by the Pale-- a lack of memory, or maybe mixed memories, in a misty haze beyond the boundaries of reality. (and maybe Dolores Dei has started haunting him via Pale? Like some theories I've read.)

Somewhere across the sea of time / A love immortal such as mine Will come to me / Eternally

I Don't Miss You at All - FINNEAS

Dummy - Portugal. The Man

F the World - The Northern Boys

You Stupid Bitch - Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (TV Show)

These shards are a metaphor for my soul Won't stop the self-pity 'cause I'm on a roll

This song perfectly captures the inherent melodrama of a mental downward spiral imo. Catastrophic and all-encompassing. This is what I think it sounds like in there (Harry's head).

You ruined everything / You stupid bitch / You ruined everything / You stupid, stupid bitch / You're just a lying little bitch who ruins things / And wants the world to burn / Bitch / You're a stupid bitch / And lose some weight

Oleander - Mother Mother

Intermission - Scissor Sisters

Skit #2 - Kanye West

Self explanatory. He's got no money. He's got no clothes. He has no car and he has no hoes.

We broke, broke broke phi broke We ain't got it Broke, broke, broke phi broke We ain't got it Don't spend no money, ain't got no clothes Ain't got no cars, ain't got no hoes

Nobody - Mitski

My God, I'm so lonely, so I open the window To hear sounds of people, to hear sounds of people

This one is more about the feeling of the song itself rather than the lyrics specifically; I love the upbeat tempo that continues through the song (trying to remain steady, continue working), how the beat is simple at first then builds into a kaleidoscope of sound by the end of the track (overwhelmed by the world), then ending in a distorted loop (trapped in a cycle). This song has always felt really authentic to my own experience with mental spirals. The themes of loneliness tie it all into a nice bow.

I'm A Broken Heart - the bird and the bee

Not Allowed - TV Girl

Party Time - The Northern Boys

Comfortably Numb - Scissor Sisters

(Do The) Act Like You Never Met Me - TV Girl

Novocaine For The Soul - Eels

Basket Case - Green Day

Do you have the time / to listen to me whine About nothing and everything all at once? I am one of those melodramatic fools / Neurotic to the bone, no doubt about it

I just think this one fits him well during Martinaise... just shaken up and unloading trauma onto unsuspecting strangers like a can of soda (bad analogy lol), depending on the dialogue you choose.

I went to a shrink to analyze my dreams She says it's lack of sex that's bringing me down I went to a whore, she said my life's a bore So quit my whining 'cause it's bringing her down

Sometimes, I give myself the creeps / Sometimes, my mind plays tricks on me It all keeps adding up / I think I'm cracking up Am I just paranoid, or am I stoned?

Also it's just a little pathetic, which just... it fits. Sorry Harry.

Labyrinth - Miracle Musical

#disco elysium #de fanart #disco elysium fanart #de #harry du bois #my art #jams #character playlist

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sheepispink · 2 months ago

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FIX IT SIMON! ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

Pairings: Lieutenant!Ghost x civilian, baker! reader

Part 5 of Sweet As Sugar Series ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Summary: Simon’s been put on leave, much to his annoyance, and due to the Christmas period your shop isn’t even open. So he has to wait painstakingly for two days for it to reopen once more, and when it does, he doesn’t plan to leave.

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Finally, he’s been pushed on holiday, by force no less, and his first feeling is that he’s bored— extremely so. The initial plan was to sleep through the entire first day, but he could barely get more than a few hours in before he was awake in a cold sweat. At least back at base he could work it off in the gym, or with a few laps around the muddy track. Here in this apartment, he couldnt nearly do as much as he’d like to, especially with the eerie quietness about it. Usually he could hear Soap snoring next door, or at least Price’s quiet murmurs as he reads over another mission plan. It didnt help that he got let off right on Christmas Eve, which meant today and tomorrow he could barely do anything around town since nothing would be open, especially your cafe.

He could never relate to the other soldiers about the joy of returning home though. They’d groan on and on about how they missed the smell of home cooked food, plush pillows in their beds, being warm on the coldest nights and most of all being fussed over by their parents, siblings or well.. their lover. He can hardly remember where he left the spare toilet paper let alone find comfort in the scent of his ‘home’, nor actually find comfort in his bed. The sheets move around too much, pulling off the corners of his bed every time he tosses, and they're rough against his bruises, not doing anything to soothe his aches.

A few years back, he moved out of Manchester to stay in Cardiff. It didn't affect him much anyway, considering he was barely at his own apartment throughout the year, but it did make it particularly easier on the odd chance he was kicked out of base— part of the rules for the Christmas holidays. He really had tried to argue with Price, but he wouldn't have it, telling him to ‘just take a damn break’. Soap had even joked a few times about dragging him over to Scotland with him, but Ghost wasn't too sure if he could handle another Mactavish let alone just Soap. Plus, any type of family gathering was really not his thing.

So, after surviving his second restless night, he makes the impulsive decision to drive down to your town at seven am, arriving there in half an hour. The bell jingles, early regulars already filtering in and out the cafe for their coffee before their jobs start. He usually either went now or near closing time, trying his best to avoid the busiest hours— otherwise he’d never get to see you.

“Cardamom tea.” He grunts at you before placing a five pound note on the counter, eyes catching onto the mess behind the counter before he raises a brow at you.

“What the hell happened back there?”

You sigh, glancing back at the wet floor sign and the spices hastily swept underneath the cupboards. “The front sink suddenly burst this morning. I've been using bottled water but it’s starting to become an issue.”

You ring in his order though, turning around to dispense the premade tea, the large airpot keeping it warm. It was way better than any teabag, the fresh spices balancing out in his mouth in a way that makes some part of him melt.

“Have you called a plumber yet?” He watches as you strain the spices out before pouring into a cup for him, placing the lid on and grabbing your pen for your signature doodle. It’s not like he wanted to admit he liked them, but you’ve been getting increasingly creative with the mini-version of him who's been up to all kinds of things.

“Ah.. well, the closer it gets to Christmas the harder it is to find anyone. It’ll have to be fixed in the new year.” You give him a shrug as you hand over the cup, obviously looking a little down about having to deal with a dodgy sink on top of running the shop each day. It’d certainly makes your tea products a struggle to produce and he doesn't even need to ask to see you contemplating shutting it down. “Let me ‘ave a look.” There’s not much he could do to make it worse anyway, so you unlock the small swing gate, letting him walk around the corner. Usually , you would’ve helped him inspect it, but a group of regulars returned for their usual meeting and you knew this would be an order you had to handle now. Though, when you finally complete it, he’s disappeared off again.

“Hi, what can I get for you today?” Just like the first day you met, your music is blaring in the background, considering it’s half an hour till closing and many don't hang around till now. Finally you lift your head, meet with Simon’s familiar black mask and you smile, though slightly tilting your head in confusion.

“Oh— what are you doing back here? Wait- did I forget a plan?”

Your face grows into one of panic and he quickly quells it with a firm shake of his head. A soft thud rings out and you look down to see a toolkit he had just placed on the table, what looks to be plumbing supplies.

“We’ll have that sink workin’ by the end of today.”

He had gotten to work immediately, muttering to himself about how bad the previous owners had been to let it get to this state as he crouched in front of the sink cabinet. “Simon, you really don’t have to—“ He shakes his head,reaching into a carrier bag to pull out a flexi hose and other things you don't recognise. “You got a customer waitin’ for you.” You squeak, having not even realised and quickly apologise before taking the order. In no time, your sink is working again, although Simon did get a little drenched when he tested it and the water pressure was a bit too high. The sight had you in fits of laughter as you quickly searched for a towel. Besides that, you marvelled at how he had restored the sink with a bit of diy, cringing at the dirty state of the old pipes and the like.

“Thank you for everything today. I’m thinking about getting a filter attachment for the water so it’s better quality. You’ll be the first to try the new teas, of course.”

That’s accompanied by your usual emoji, that of which is a little smiley with its tongue sticking out. He has no idea why you’re so enthralled by the mini pictures but he’s made no effort to stop you, just replying back in his own usual tone.

“You’re welcome. Filtered water sounds good, tea will taste better too.”

Okay, so maybe he didnt text as nicely as you and had a bad habit of getting straight to the point— you didn't seem to mind too much though, and it’s better than leaving you on read like he’s heard some men have done. A sigh puffs out his chest as his head hits the pillows, looking at the speckles on his ceiling as he thinks over the day. It felt good to be occupied, and not in the usual ‘planning something that could end up killing people if done wrong’ way. His job helped people of course, damn every mission was always for a better cause but something was different with the way you had lit up, grinning at his handiwork. Families had thanked him before— nervously because of his heavy armour but thanked him nonetheless. Yet still he didn't get that rush, the one that made his teeth grit, eyes avert awkwardly and his fists to clench a little. One that made him a little uncomfortable, though sent him reeling all the same. ‘If i didnt fix it, I'd never get my tea for a long while..’ He concludes that must be why he ran out to the nearest home diy store, and definitely not the frown on your lips. it must be.

Despite that, he was seemingly having an internal battle with himself the longer the days continued with little sleep. He just had no excuses for what he was doing anymore, nothing was making sense. Most of all was when the next day he made his way to your shop again, muttering something about ‘The fridge made a loud noise when i was here. It’s annoying.’ before he was stalking around the counter and pulling it away from the wall. He checks all the vents, and clears the dust buildup from many years of use. You confess your parents planned for a new one but you haven't been able to afford it yet.

“I don't need it.” He shrugs as he hands you the military discount card he keeps spare, supposed to be for family members but now he’s giving it to you. It’s still early when he's done with the fridge, and decides to check out the lights in the main kitchen, where all the bakes are made. He’s been here before, when you needed to clean it at closing time and he stayed late again. One of them needs to be replaced, obviously and so he takes it upon himself to do that. Somehow he finds another problem, fixing the squeakiness of the back door.

This carries on until a third day, he had come by after munching down some dinner, and he somehow migrated his problem fixing to your small apartment upstairs. You didn't mind of course, and he hadn't pushed, in fact he sounded more awkward than you when he spoke up. “If your pipes were this rusty downstairs, I think the ones upstairs can only be worse. You should.. get that checked out.” He mutters, his arms crossed over as he crouches before the kitchen water pipes. You have to stifle a smirk, nodding along with his words instead. Whilst he worked, he’d ask the odd question and you had explained that the previous owners barely used the apartment themselves— explaining his assumption.

“Ah.. I really should get someone to check it out…”

It feels fun to act like this— you almost feel like you’re saying no to a kid about buying a toy. He’s sitting there silently but you know he wants to go up and sort it out for you. The reason? You’re not sure, but you have a few suspicions. “You’re on holiday now, right?” You glance at him as he stands from his crouched position, and he nods. “Are you doing anything for it?”

“No.” He grunts almost a little too quickly, the boredom practically agitating his soul now as he shifts, fidgeting with the tools as he places them back in the boxes. “Oh.. well, would you mind checking my pipes out upstairs then? I mean… as long as you're not too busy. You can just tell me what’s wrong and i’ll hire a plumber later—“

“I’ll fix tha’ by tonight.” So, you close up the shop, since it’s late now already, and walk up the small staircase up to your apartment. It looked far smaller on the outside, but you had planned your space well. There was a kitchenette, looking a lot more modern than the bakery downstairs. Rather than the dark mahogany, it was a lighter brown and off white walls, matching the plush leather couch before your tv. It was clear you had done some work on it yourself, or hired someone at least, to renovate the place. He takes his shoes off by the door and you take his jacket from his hands to rest it on a little hook. It was cute to him, to see how you’ve cosied up this space to be one of your own. The first thing he notices is how warm it is, not a sweaty hot but like sitting infront of a fire on a freezing day. It’s welcoming, the warm light rather than the sterile white he’s accustomed to, as well as the little picture frames among the walls of artwork you’ve grown fond of over the years. He even smiles at your key holder, the way a cat pops out as you place the key down.

He’d describe it as a home, a real one. From the small clutter of dishes that you shyly hurry him past, or the blanket still splayed over the couch from a late night movie— hell even the bin full to the brim. It’s full of life, something his apartment has never known. “Alrigh’ let’s see the damage here.”

“Will you be fine here on your own? I still need to clean up downstairs..”

He nods quickly, even going as far as to shoo you away and you laugh hurrying down again.

You come up at eight, wanting to deliver him a cup of the leftover tea from today whilst you washed out the large airpots you kept them in. “Simon?” You call out, looking around until you see him standing before the sink, finally repaired and looking a little.. dazed. “I’ll be finished in a bit, why dont you take a seat on my couch and watch some tv?”

“I should go home—“

“No! ..I mean, I can't just force you to go now after all your hard work. Stay and drink the tea please?” He cant say no to those eyes and so he grunts, letting you tug him over to the couch and sit him down. Then you hurry over to the cabinet, rummaging out a pack of nachos and some salsa. “Help yourself, okay? I’ll be done soon. Promise.”

Then he’s left alone again, sitting there quietly as he sips on the mug of tea you gave him. It’s in a mug that has prints of skulls all over it, and a ghost on the centre with a little ‘boo!’ next to it. He finds it awfully fitting, a bit curious on when you even bought this and when you planned to show him it. Like he said before, your tea is just perfect. The right mixture of sugar, spice and everything else nice. It breaks down a part of him he hadn't known existed, muscles relaxing into the plushness of the couch. He’s got a large cushion behind his back, something you must love since there’s a few more littering the couch too. The tv is quiet, on one those stupid adult cartoons that he’s never found quite funny but the ambience of this is too cosy to deny, too comforting. Has it really been that long since he’s slept? He hadn't wanted to admit it, but he’d been avoiding sleep recently just to escape those nightmares for a bit. This was comfy though, almost too comfy, but you said you’d be back soon— he’s sure the military trained him to wait that long anyway. So he sits there quietly, waiting.

When you return, you call out again, only to recieve silence in response. Confused, you walk further in, seeing him sitting upright. “Lt! Simon! …Ghost?” Still no reply, that is until you hear quiet breathing, and you step closer to see his head is slumped back a little. Carefully tiptoeing around the couch, his blonde eyelashes are pressed against the black cut outs of his mask, lips gently parted as his chest rises and falls. You can see his chin properly for once, the small curves of his lips and the pin prick of a scar near his neck. That makes you swallow sharply, only images of him being near death coming to your mind. For now, you shake it out and try to figure out what to do with the sleeping hunk of a man on your couch. Of course, you’re far from being annoyed but you’d feel extremely guilty if you didn't at least try to wake him.

What if he feels uncomfortable when he wakes?

“Si..” You whisper, the nickname unintentionally slipping out as you gently rub his shoulder. No response is heard, only a deep breath leaving his chest as he relaxes into your couch. “Si, you fell asleep.” This time, you think he’s woken but he just shifts his body, head leaning back further to press into the back of the couch. You sigh, not sure what else to do than to just leave him here until he wakes. There’s no point attempting more drastic measures, knowing damn well you likely cant even lift his arm just from the sheer muscle on it. “You gonna lie down at least? That’s gonna hurt your neck in the morning.”

It had been a murmur to yourself but he had seemed to have the same idea, head sinking a little more in search for a comfortable place to rest. He grunts in his sleep, mask crinkling near his eyes as they squeeze. You tug his arm gently to lead him, and he subconsciously follows, adjusting himself until his head rests on a cushion you placed on the armrest. His arm lazes over his stomach as he gets comfortable on his side, cheek pressing in to the pillow just slightly. Smiling to yourself, you grab the thick throw blanket from the back of the couch and tuck it around him before reaching out towards his face. Your fingers tangle on the fabric of his mask, his nose twitching until you slowly drag down the bunched fabric to his chin. “Sleep well, Si.” The couch creaks as he sinks in further, the light ahead flickering off with the touch of your fingers.

It’s late in the morning when he grunts, though today it’s not the light from the curtains annoying him, nor does he wake up to silence neither. Infact, a soft hum is heard not too far away and he’s almost positive he’s dreaming now. Quickly perking up at the unfamiliar surroundings, he whips his head around only to see you standing in an apron, teeth biting your lip as you concentrate on scooping an egg perfectly in the plate. You practically beam at your own work, finally looking up to see him stare back at you, throw blanket sliding off his shoulders. “What the–” His voice is cold, instantly reverting to his military instincts before you chuckle, the sound easing something in him. “You fell asleep on my couch, silly. Looked exhausted too– have you been sleeping well recently?” He sits up properly now, glad for the mask to cover his warming face, before walking over to the counter you stand at.

“Not my fault your couch is comfy.” He takes the plate you slide towards him, lifting his mask to his nose as he takes a bite of the sausage.

“You’re avoiding my question, Si.” His eyes flicker up, caught off guard by the nickname but any challenge he wanted to give you for having the audacity quickly dies in his throat. He’s not the man for you, but you’re so damn tempting to him. Never has he hesitated to set a boundary, yet here he is letting you call him Si. “Fine, I havent been sleeping well. Just adjusting, tha’s all.”

You don't believe him, but there’s not much you can do, not when he’s being stubborn as it is right now. Despite that, you still couldn't just let him deal with it on his own either, not after everything he’s been doing for you. So you shuffle through your cupboards, grabbing a packet of Chamomile tea and offering it to him. “Take it. It might not be perfect, but it helped me relax when I had insomnia.” Then you’re grabbing a diffuser too, and a few candles, placing everything into a small carrier bag. “If it doesn't work, then I guess you’ll just have to sleep on my couch forever.” He rolls his eyes at your cheeky words, and grabs your empty plate to stack atop his.

“Alrigh’ fine. But I'll hold you to that promise.”

He might have to start praying they dont work.

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Taglist:

@hidden-treasures21 @bieberismysoulmate @gallantys @tessakate @galactict3a @krispymagazinepizza-blog @silas-aeiou @kupids-arrow

#call of duty x reader #cod x reader #cod x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x you #simon riley x reader #simon x reader #ghost x reader #ghost x you #call of duty fic

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jamiepaige · 4 months ago

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Constant Companions Closeup #3: ROT FOR CLOUT

youtube

(also on bandcamp and spotify!)

WHAT'S going on guys, welcome back to another Constant Companions Closeup, the show where we take a DEEP DIVE into what makes these tunes tick! Last episode, we went aaaaaall the way there on Not Quite There, and today, we're making that liggity-line go up up up up up with ROT FOR CLOUT featuring VISUALEYES!! Before we get started, remember to SMASH that like button, SLAM subscribe, and FUCK the bell icon. This week's community challenge: leave your credit card info in the comments! Bet you won't!

(*cough*)

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I check my notifications way too fucking much. It's a habit I'm trying to curb, and to my credit, I am doing better lately, but being chemically predisposed to dopamine deficiencies has done a number on my ability to go five minutes without checking the funny glowing numbers on my phone. Naturally, I also very much seek more validation than I should from the opinions of strangers yadayadayada yeah that's what the song is about but none of that actually has to do with why I started writing this song in the first place.

Have you ever taken a flight with American Airlines?

This was after waking up at 4 in the morning to fly out of Houston thinking I'd be napping on a couch in Ohio by 2 pm at the latest.

I want to make one thing clear here, and that's that I made this bed for myself. Tucked the sheets in and all. You see, on the rare occasions I fly, I normally take Southwest. Southwest does not overbook flights like a lot of other airlines do, so it's a practice I am mostly unfamiliar with. So, when I received a notification on my phone promising genuinely ridiculous amounts of flight credit money in exchange for taking a slightly later flight, I thought - well, shit! That sounds nice!

This is how they trick you. I didn't really realize I'd been tricked until I was on my second flight of the day, sitting in a middle seat at the very back of the plane, heading from Dallas, a city I don't live in, to Washington, DC, a city I was not trying to get to, staring down the barrel of another flight I was destined to get on that had been delayed like two fucking hours.

I became the Joker. All I could do to remain sane was write a song about it. This is how ROT FOR CLOUT came to be.

I guess the moral of the story is this: Don't go to Ohio. And to answer your question,

Yes I am

Not really

---

This is a complete sidenote but I want to mention it here: I'm genuinely overjoyed at the amount of people excitedly talking about my songwriting or the intention behind my lyrics. For a long time, it really felt like lyricism was the last thing people cared about from me, while it was always the thing I wanted to take pride in the most... So genuinely, thank you everyone for caring!! Every single fire emoji people have put next to a line I've written has extended my lifespan by multiple years

There's a brief little moment where the song's chords leave the key, doing a really stereotypically jazzy 2-5 movement, and it's one of my favorite parts of the entire song. I'm not really a music theory buff or anything, and I'm certainly not formally trained, but I've always been very passionate about more complicated harmony in otherwise poppy and accessible contexts - bo en's album pale machine really rewrote my brain when I first heard it.

On that note, there are microtones in the vocal melody - During the chorus, some of the rapidly repeated words move up in quarter tones! Possibly the simplest way I could've included microtonality, but I'm genuinely afraid if I learn more than what I already know about it I'll be lost to the darkness.

Obviously, the work of Sasuke Haraguchi was a massive influence on this song, particularly the song Igaku. I think basically everyone on the entire planet has picked up on that at this point, but I do also wanna point out some other songs that were on my mind at the time! (two for three on these posts mentioning louis cole now)

I'd also like to take a moment to spotlight the vocal samples on this! They previously appeared on エビチャーハン!, and they've honestly become some of my favorite samples to throw in things. They're also just a fucking goldmine sincerely

Finally, HUGE thanks to Visualeyes for the delightful synth solo on this!! I had put out a call on Twitter looking for instrumentalists, genuinely originally envisioning a super jazzy piano solo, but their synth playing genuinely brought the whole song together perfectly!

That's about it for this song - though again, if there are any more questions people have, I'd be happy to answer them in the replies to this post or elsewhere!! (*ahem*) THAT'S gonna do it for today's video, folks! Feel free to leave a like, comment, hit the subscribe button for more and click the bell so you don't miss any new videos. Tomorrow? I Wish That I Could Fall. it hurts.

#music #jamie paige #bandcamp #constant companions #behind da scenes #Youtube

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moonyswolfie · 1 month ago

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Study Session

A/N: So I just finished a torturously long exam session and this fic is a result of all the stress and mental breakdowns I've accumulated like Pokemons during this time. I actually wrote this piece between two of my biggest and most difficult exams, hence the N.E.W.T.s coming in to play. I hope you enjoy and if you relate, I'm so sorry! Remember that you are strong and no amount of academic stress can bring you down!

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Potter!reader

Masterlist

The table you were sat at in the Library was so crowded with textbooks and parchments that you could not see the wood any longer. Notes and cheat sheets, explanatory scrolls of parchments, quills and bottles of ink covered the entire surface. Hell, Lily even brought a dictionary. Merlin knew what use would a muggle dictionary have when it came to magical terms, but you learned a long time ago to never question her genius.

It was N.E.W.T.s season and to say that all 5 of you were stressed would be an understatement. James thought that once you passed your O.W.L.s, the N.E.W.T.s would not be as scary as everyone made them out to be. It was an exam session, a very long and tiresome and perhaps crucial exam session, but it wasn't Voldemort, right?

Wrong. The stress was growing by the hour and despite having two more weeks at your disposal to revise and memorise all you needed to, it didn't feel like enough.

But then again, was it ever enough?

You've been preparing for the N.E.W.T.s since the beginning of the school year, forcing yourself to attend every class and take a ginormous amount of notes that you knew would probably end up useless or lost somewhere at the bottom of your book bag. Still, you couldn't bring yourself to pause. Failure was not an option.

So far you tackled Charms, Transfiguration and Defence Against the Dark Arts, all of them easy and rather entertaining subjects, if you were to say so yourself. Right now however, you were stuck on the same Potions chapter for the past four hours and were just about ready to scream, cry, Avada Kedavra yourself or better yet, all of the above.

"Hey, Sirius?"

He hums and looks up, noticing your twitching eye and the exasperation rolling off you in waves.

"Y/N, are you okay?"

The concern was palpable and it caught the attention of your boyfriend in an instant, yet Remus knew better than to pester you with questions right now. He was adamant about rest and health being your first priority, but considering his own overcrowded study schedule, he would be a hypocrite to point it out at the moment. He did, however, push a goblet of water in your direction, which you eagerly accepted and gulped down in seconds. You weren't exactly allowed food or beverages in the Library, but what Pince didn't know would not hurt her.

You thanked Remus and handed the goblet back, before turning to Sirius and taking a deep breath to regain your composure.

"I have been rereading this chapter for the majority of our time here and I still don't understand the origins or the side effects of Amortentia when used for a longer period of time. No one really bothered to detail on them in any of our textbooks and I am not sure anyone ever subjected themselves to testing it out and then writing a memoir about it. However, Slughorn oh so graciously announced us that it might be included in the advanced exam topics. Do you happen to have anything on this? I know he mentioned some in class, but I didn't catch all of them."

"I think I do..."

He shuffles some parchments and knocks down some books, thus earning himself a stern look from Madame Pince, but ultimately finds the notes and hands them over.

"There you go, love."

You smile and thank him, humming while you scan the information. For such a chaotic human being, he had the neatest handwriting you've ever seen.

It doesn't take long for you to find the part about side effects, however there was nothing you didn't already write down yourself. Thankfully though, Sirius was the type of person to absently write down everything he heard so you found other helpful pieces of information. This was why you asked him for the notes in the first place, instead of Remus or James. Remus, much like yourself, only wrote the parts he was less certain of, whereas James didn't write anything at all. And Lily, Merlin bless her, she was a growing disaster when it came to writing information down. There was, contrary to her claims, no method to her madness.

You rolled up the parchment once you were done writing, yet kept it close, just in case you needed it again later. Sirius was studying for Transfiguration, so he wouldn't miss the notes anytime soon. Lily turned to you, ready to ask a question regarding a Charms lesson she was too sick to attend, but stopped and frowned, browsing the page spread out on the table in front of you.

"Y/N, why are your notes bilingual?"

You turned and followed her gaze to the margins, specifically to the terminology you borrowed from Sirius...

You unscrolled his notes again and placed them next to yours, looking from one to the other with a bemused smile. Next to the name of the potion, you drew a little arrow and wrote amour et obsession, which would have been inconspicuous, had you not added une potion délicate and l'amour impossible devient possible.

There were a few more next to the ingredients list and some corrections made regarding the mode of preparation. As you scanned the two sets of notes, you noticed that his were entirely in French, while you half translated, half copied your added bits.

You didn't know what was funnier, that you mindlessly wrote the information in Frenchglish, or that you didn't notice it was in another language to begin with.

English was your mother tongue, yet like every other pureblooded offspring, you were forced to attend a variety of language lessons to determine which ones you would be more skilled in. Romantic languages proved to be your forte, so you stuck with French, Italian and Latin. It wasn't easy in the beginning, seeing as they are all mere variations of the latter, therefore making them ridiculously easy to mix up and combine in the oddest of sentences, but you persevered and were now fluent in all four.

Regardless, slip ups like the one you were tiredly staring at now were not unheard of. You were certain it was a testament to how tired you truly were. Perhaps Remus was right, you should rest more.

But then again, this was not a simple exam session. It was the one that would determine your entire future. You could sleep when you're dead.

"You write your notes in French?"

Sirius' head shot up immediatey, confusion written all over his face.

"Yes?"

By now everyone's attention was on your exchange, which deepened his frown. James looked like he missed everything until that very moment, Remus was watching his best friend with a raised brow and Lily was silently shaking her head, smiling. She didn't know how she ended up with the lot of you, but she knew she loved you dearly.

"French is my first language" Sirius added, as if that was all the explanation you needed.

Sadly, it did nothing to clear up the confusion. When neither of you said anything, he added "doesn't everyone take notes in their first language?"

Despite Remus being the only other person in your group who wasn't a native English speaker, therefore making him the best candidate to answer his friend, you all shook your heads, your faces betraying different levels of amusement and fondness. It was a rather endearing situation.

"I don't take notes in Welsh, if that's what you're asking. I don't think I can even translate half the things correctly. Besides, the spells are in Latin, so imagine how that would look on a piece of parchment."

You chuckled at the mental image of magical notes looking more like pages taken from that muggle author's book, Tolkien. Lily followed and you both received a glare and a pointed "shhh" from Madame Pince. Honestly, it was a wonder she wasn't kicking you out at this point.

"Wait a second" James turned towards his best friend "ALL of your notes are in French?"

Sirius nods. Poor baby looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

"But don't you..." you frown, unsure how to formulate your question "I see you writing constantly. If the Professor speaks, you write. How..." you groan, burying your face in your hands and shaking your head "my brain hurts. You look as if you write down everything that is said in class, so I assumed that you do?”

You peek an eye up only to be met with Sirius chuckling silently.

“I do write mostly everything that is said in class, but first I summarize it and I guess it’s easier to summarize it in French. I find it easier if I reformulate the information because it shows I understood the concept, but to avoid learning something mechanically and forgetting it when I flip the page, I use my own words. The only issue is that sometimes I forget the word I need in English or there isn’t even a word in English for said thing to begin with. Thus French. And no one really asked me for my notes before you so I didn’t see any reason to put any effort in translating them. And you didn’t seem to have a problem with it anyway.” he adds with an amused smirk, remembering Lily’s previous comment about your notes

You mask your chuckle with a cough and glance at your notes again.

“That is actually a great idea, Pads, I might have to start doing it myself.”

“NO!”

The lot of you was startled by James’ whisper-shout. You gave him a bewildered look, raising an eyebrow in question.

“Are you alright, big brother?”

“Don’t you dare. I know you and your disturbingly brilliant mind. If you start implementing this method, you’re going to write your notes in Latin” he squints, an accusatory look in his eyes “and where am I going to get my last minute notes from then?”

That was it, you couldn’t hold it in any longer if you tried. You burst out laughing, prompting an exaggerated “SHHH” to be directed your way.

“This is your last warning, if you cannot keep quiet, I suggest you move your little study session to your Common Room.”

Madame Pince was stern, yet you couldn’t fault her this time. You were loud and you certainly disturbed a few of your peers seated at nearby tables.

“Sorry” you whisper with a sheepish look.

You returned your attention to the table just in time to catch Lily placing a sweet kiss on James’ cheek, mumbling “don’t worry, my love, I won’t leave you noteless” which seemed to lift his spirits immediately. As grossed out as you were by their affection sometimes (what are sisters for after all?), you couldn’t help but smile at the scene. You were really happy he found his better half, even if it happened to be one of your best friends.

But after all, you did return the favour, did you not?

Remus’ hand found yours under the table and he squeezed it affectionately. You squeezed right back and smiled up at him, mouthing “I love you” and delighting in the beautiful smile that took over his face for the rest of the day.

#harry potter #remus lupin #james potter #sirius black #marauders #fantasy #fiction #my writing #writers #potter!reader #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x potter!reader #james potter x lily evans #james potter x sister!reader #sirius black x potter!reader #sirius black x reader #james potter x reader #N.E.W.T.s

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coldzonkprofessorturtle · 6 months ago

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An Affair to Remember

Alright, let's get into Affair the Series, which has been giving me brainrot the past few weeks so feels like a good time to get into an analysis of why I find it so fascinating. Eventually I'd love to do a deeper dive into Thai GLs and that industry (that's a whole other thing though) but after having seen my share of them (Gap, Show Me Love, TSOU, The Loyal Pin) I've really found myself falling into the rabbit hole with Affair the Series and the way it depicts friendship, love, and acceptance.

Deep dive below and also thank you gif makers for your work 🙏🏽

(also will go over events from episodes 1-5, so spoilers ahead if not up-to-date)

So first off, I have read the novel, which is the first time I've finished one of those for a GL and quite frankly, the translation wasn't that great but the story still came through. I won't refer to it much and will base this on the show as I think they've done a fantastic job with the adaptation and fingers crossed continue to do so.

Where in most GLs the core conflict is external. The main couple can't be in love typically due to familial/cultural pressure or a man interfering (that still exists to an extent here) the main conflict in Affair is simply that Wan and Pleng love each other too much but they do so in different ways.

When we meet Wan and Pleng they're 17 years old and have spent their entire lives together. They're sisters but not and while Wan seems to have a social circle, Pleng really has no other friends outside of Wan. The spoiled rich girl and the maid's daughter. Couldn't be more different if they tried and yet by circumstance their lives are as intertwined as it gets.

At 17, they have different ideas for their futures. Pleng is musically talented, wins every contest and is financially set. She can live the life she wants. If she wants to be a musician then so be it. Her parents love and support her and there's no pressure. Wan on the other hand has an overbearing mother (and a resentful father), no prospects for her future but at least she has Pleng.

Despite her parents, Wan loves wholly and openly. She knows she loves Pleng and while she doesn't yet know it she does know that Pleng loves her too. I would argue that Wan truly knows herself, which is why she comes across as so self-assured in their younger years. She's slowly trying to guide Pleng to understand herself too.

Pleng, however, has never had to sit with her emotions in the same way. Take this as differences of personality, class and upbringing. Now that they're 17 and entering adulthood, Pleng has to start engaging with the world (and her emotions) rather than hiding behind the rich, insular lifestyle she's had up to this point.

As the idea of boyfriends comes up, Pleng starts to lash out. She's jealous, she's pushy but really she's just in love with her best friend and doesn't know it. Everything starts happening too fast. Wan meets a boy at an art gallery, Aunt Wi pushes Pleng to help Wan get with Ek, Pleng's dad is extremely stressed and she doesn't know to what extent and throughout that Pleng is dealing with her feelings that for some reason just won't go away. Feelings that Wan keeps bringing up in her over and over.

Pleng is a mess. She doesn't know how to connect with her peers, she knows something is wrong with her dad, she sees that Wan is seemingly moving forward in a way that she's not (dating a boy) and whether she realizes it she continues to isolate herself.

From Wan's perspective she couldn't care less about dating Ek. She's already completely devoted to Pleng (in ways that Pleng doesn't even know).

They're 17, hormonal, gay, and incapable of seeing each other's perspective. Wan wants Pleng to let her in. Pleng can't help but push everyone away.

As soon as Pleng starts to really come to terms with her feelings about Wan. That's when everything falls apart. Her dad kills himself, her mom goes into cardiac arrest, all of her family's assets are seized and she's now orphaned and staying with Wan's parents who clearly and vocally have no space for her. Pleng who was already struggling to find her footing before that fateful night now has absolutely nothing to stand on.

The break point is when Pleng finds out about Wan's academic achievements and that Wan had been hiding that truth about herself their entire lives. Wan has always been intelligent and capable but hidden herself behind a veil of ineptitude. Wan in loving Pleng puts her on a pedestal to her own detriment. She has no issue blighting her own light so that Pleng can shine but from the moment we meet 17 year old Pleng in the show we see her pushing Wan to better herself. Wan thinks loving Pleng means her own success doesn't matter whereas Pleng loves Wan and all of her potential.

They both love each selflessly but while Wan would burn the whole world to keep Pleng warm, Pleng loves Wan despite her own existence. So when Pleng leaves she writes,

"Your parents will feel at ease. And you'll finally get to live your life as your true self... I know you love me but I also want you to love yourself. And be proud of who you are."

For Pleng, her leaving is the ultimate way to show her love to Wan. A clean break. She runs away so Wan can thrive but here's the thing Wan needs Pleng to keep her grounded. Pleng does too but she can't see it at this point. Too much has happened and so, in her desperation she removes herself. She is her father's daughter after all.

So when 13 years pass and Wan has spent that entire time holding on to whatever she can to keep herself close to Pleng (becoming a doctor, riding a bike to work, marrying Ek, separating herself from her parents); Pleng has become a ghost of herself. Wan has imbued herself with all the things she thinks/knows Pleng would like while Pleng is stuck in a cycle that she can't get out of: play music, make a bit of money, pay rent, rest, repeat.

Pleng never reaches out to Wan because why would she? Her loving Wan means staying away and on top of that there's a sense of shame of what her life has become.

So when they finally meet again it's too much. Wan is successful but she's still clearly in love with Pleng and while it was all Wan's doing, in a way her success is a direct result of Pleng's influence. In removing herself, Pleng slowly begins to realize not just that she took Wan's smile with her but the why and how. Wan's changed and devoid of the joy and innocence that Pleng loved most.

They slowly fall back into their natural rhythms but Pleng still can't accept her own presence in Wan's life. Wan is back to pushing (albeit more aggressively then before - time was wasted) and in pushing Pleng, Pleng pushes back. If they take their relationship that one step further, what then? What if it falls apart? Why not just stay in a cycle where nothing shifts? What if there's another ringing shot in the distance and everything changes in a moment?

If there's one core trauma to Pleng as a character it's her desperation to not feel like a burden to anyone. Especially Wan. And then she finds out that Wan (though separated) is still married to Ek and she can't accept that she could have ruined Wan's potential happiness. Not understanding that Pleng herself is Wan's happiness. Pleng feels like a disruption because at the root of it the thing she wanted above all for Wan, "I also want you to love yourself. And be proud of who you are" is not something that Pleng accepts for herself.

I'll leave it there and hope the show navigates the situations that are about to come as well as they have so far but kudos as Affair manages to oh so gracefully skirt what could otherwise be an incredibly toxic relationship. Somehow they manage to give these two characters so much grace despite their flaws. And truly that's also a huge credit to Sonya and Lookmhee's abilities.

It's chaotic and messy but in coming back together these two might just realize that's how they both best shine.

#affair the series #affair #wanpleng #wan x pleng #thai gl #sonya saranphat #lookmhee punyapat #show analysis #I didn't even touch on it but these two are truly just stunning #And their acting abilities are incredible #Also this show is so wonderfully crafted despite its overuse of music cues #and there's no silly sound effects #if you haven't watched yet you really should #though don't know why anyone would have read all this otherwise #in fact #thailand is the gift that keeps on giving

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southern-gothic-comic · 6 months ago

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Page 76

Next 💜 Back 🖤 First

Patreon 💜 Art Prints 🖤Books!

(Author Notes)

Panel 1: The next morning, by the river. Imogen, sitting on a rock on the riverbank, is conjuring Dancing Lights. Laudna is standing in the water with her skirts tucked up, holding a net made out of string and sticks.

Imogen: Laudna? Is it all right if I ask . . .?

Laudna: Of course!

Imogen: After you . . . you . . .

Laudna: I died.

Imogen: Sorry, I'm still kinda grapplin' with that. But --

Laudna: It's all right, it took me a little while too. I've had thirty years to get used to it, after all. You've only had since last night.

Panel 2: Imogen's face tightens in sorrow at the thought of all that time alone.

Imogen: Thirty years . . .

Laudna: Yes. I'm sorry, I ought to have disclosed that earlier, too. But I tend to . . . forget. I haven't really changed, and the time all sort of blends together. But I'm fifty now, I think? Or thereabouts.

Imogen: You were on your own for . . . thirty years?

Laudna: Not . . . entirely on my own.

Panel 3: Imogen juggles the lights in her hands.

Imogen: But you're here now. What . . . happened in between, there?

Laudna: Quite a bit, given it's been so many years, though not as much as you might think. A lot of walking, mostly. Some modest home repair. Getting chased from place to place by angry villagers. The usual dead girl activities.

Imogen: But I mean . . . what brought you back?

Panel 4: Laudna starts to look a little uncomfortable. There is a familiar silhouette in the foliage behind her.

Laudna: Oh . . . {hahaha} Well, we have Lady D to thank for that. It was her magic that brought me and the rest back to life.

Imogen: She did that.

Laudna: Yes. She'd--she'd promised to help me, and so she did. And in return I . . . gave her a place to stay. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement, really.

Panel 5: Imogen casts the lights out over the water while Laudna prepares her net. Imogen looks indignant.

Imogen: Seems like she could've made things a li'l easier for you if she'd brought you back a bit more . . . well . . .

Laudna: Fresh? Lifelike? Undecayed?

Imogen: I was gonna say “like you were before,” but . . .

Panel 6: A fish leaps out of the water, attracted by the dancing lights. Laudna eagerly holds the net under it.

Laudna: Well, to her credit . . . I am in roughly the same shape that I was thirty years ago. She didn't really have a lot to work with. And I think her power mingling with my own made me come back a little . . . off.

Panel 7: Misaiming, Laudna is smacked in the face by the fish.

Imogen: And how does she fit into all of this? I mean . . . I get it, I got other people's thoughts up in my head all the time, but none of them have ever . . . taken up residence.

#critical role #critical role fanart #critical role comic #imogen temult #laudna #southerngothic #imodna #imogen x laudna #comics #webcomics on tumblr #mintywolf #a long road home #hey there delilah

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peekofhistory · 1 month ago

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Do you have a favourite c-drama, either historical, modern or fantasy? I really enjoyed watching Everlasting Longing

I absolutely have a favourite, along with 3 other that come really close 😃 These 4 shows I've watched for almost 30 years now and I still keep re-watching them because of how amazing they are.

a) 1994 Romance of the Three Kingdoms (三国演义) b) 1986 Journey to the West (西游记) c) 1987 Dream of the Red Chamber (红楼梦) d) 1998 Water Margins (水浒传)

These 4 series were based off of the classical novels of the same names. They were produced by CCTV, the central broadcasting network in China, so we call them 央视版 (central broadcast version) because there are many other adaptations.

Romance of the Three Kingdoms, out of these 4 series this one is my ABSOLUTE favourite. Not only for Chinese drama, this is my favourite show historical, modern, Chinese, English, the top spot in my heart.

This story is set in the Three Kingdoms period of Chinese history. Out of all 4 classics, this one is the most historical, but the story DOES contain many fictional aspects. Many people say it's 70/30 (70% based on history, 30% made up/tweaked from history). The characters themselves ARE all real in history, and the general direction of the story follows history as well.

Near the end of the Han Dynasty, local warlords started gaining power, eventually splitting the country into 3 Kingdoms. That's pretty much the basis of the story. It goes into strategies used in warfare, psychology of using strategies, famous battles, etc. People also use it to discuss some philosophical questions like, honor, right vs wrong (kill an innocent person to calm an entire army, is that justified? etc.), what is acceptable as a leader, being faithful to your country, not giving up, etc.

I've watched this series no less than 20 times over the past 30 years and every time I still laugh and cry. I also know enough about the background when they were filming to know how difficult it was. The series is 84 eps long, they filmed in 5 groups for 3 years (so basically all 5 groups were filming at the same time to save time), even utilizing the military for some of the larger battles. Main character roles were paid 250 yuan/episode (about $34 USD today), which was fairly good for salary back then but nowhere near the outrageous amounts actors get today compared to average worker. The first few months before filming all actors went through training, horseback riding, fighting, going over the novel with experts, learning etiquette and mannerisms, etc.

This series also has my favourite historical figures, Emperor Liubei and his Prime Minister Zhuge Liang. After researching the actual history of this period, these two are my top historical Emperor/advisor pair. An Emperor who trusted his Prime Minister with his Kingdom, and a Prime Minister who fought to the last breath to fulfill the dream they had together T___T 为什么我的鱼水君臣要 BE...😭😭😭

If you're interested in watching this series, @hanchaozhilang is doing English subs for the whole series

Putting up 2 MVs for them here (combined into 1 video), 我家昭烈帝和武侯有排面！！

Srcs: 一知半解书【悬溺一响，诸葛亮登场】 https://www.bilibili.com/video/BV1nP411W7tA/

博文儿吖【刘备|正史燃向】翻译翻译什么叫昭烈！ https://www.bilibili.com/video/BV14r4y1m7rs/

Journey to the West is based off of a true event in history, during the Tang Dynasty. A monk went on a journey from Chang'an (now Xi'an) to India for Buddhist scriptures. I'm not too familiar with the actual history, but I can imagine back then it would've been an incredibly difficult journey to make.

The novel took that journey and expanded it. They wrote in 3 disciples for the monk (technically 4...the horse who's the son of one of the Dragon Kings is also one), and put 81 "tests" along the way. The monk and his disciples had to overcome these attempts to thwart their journey to finally reach their goal.

The main character of this series isn't actually the monk but his eldest disciple, the Monkey King (top right). The Monkey King (named Sun Wukong) was birthed from a rock, and learned skills like how to transform into various objects, how to fly, etc. At one point he trashed the Jade Emperor (Emperor of the Heavens) palace and was sentenced by Buddha to be trapped under a mountain, but was tasked to assist the monk on his journey 500 years later.

When they filmed this series they were desperately short on funding, only had 1 video camera to use xD Every single main actor took on several roles (some of the smaller monster roles, once all the makeup was on you couldn't tell anyway). The actor who played the Monkey King, Liu Xiao Ling Tong, he came from a family of Peking Opera performers who specialized in the Monkey King role, so he excelled in it.

The novel Dream of the Red Chamber is originally called Story of the Stone (石头记). It centres around several large, rich, powerful families interconnected through marriage, with members serving in the court and one of the daughters even being a concubine to the Emperor. Although the story doesn't specify a dynasty, most people speculate it's likely set in Ming (the author was from the Qing Dynasty).

There are numerous storylines throughout the story, but the main one is between a young man, Baoyu, and his cousin, Daiyu (top left). This novel is incredibly complicated, with an entire profession dedicated to studying just this book (called "Redology" 红学). It can be viewed as telling the rise and fall of a family, but can also be viewed to describe a society and the rise and fall of dynasties. There are many, many characters in this book all with different story arcs. When I was a child, watching this show was just pretty clothes and hair, but as I grew, every time I re-watched the show I found reflections of life in this story. Family relationships, friendships, colleagues, bosses, this story touches on all of them, so whatever age you read this book/watch this show there's things to think about.

Many of the actors for this show were not actors by profession, literally plucked from the crowd. For two years prior to filming, all of them lived together, learning the script, reading the novel, going over it with experts, learning mannerisms, how to write calligraphy, poetry, etc. Their roles weren't immediately set, so during those two years they all tried out different roles, memorized lines, basically like living in a giant dormitory together, so once filming did start their "acting" was very natural.

Water Margins is set in the Song Dynasty. This story, to me, is darker than the other 3. The story depicts a court that is very corrupt and unjust, which forces a lot of otherwise good people to resort to criminal activity. Over 100 of them gather on a mountain in the middle of a lake, called Liangshan, where they essentially become a gang.

The traditional view of them tended to be kind of like Robinhood, raiding local cities and distributing the wealth to the people but if you actually read the book it's darker. Before joining the group, some of them would kidnap women and **** them, or one person had a restaurant where she murdered customers and made them into meat buns O.O;; So...yeah, dark stuff.

But anyway, the story goes into how this group take on the courts, lots of fighting, lots of bloodshed, the ending's really tragic T_T

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unlosts · 6 months ago

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hi !!

i'm pretty sure it was me w the perfume request! (my brain is so scattered i barely remember what i asked for but!! i'm so so excited to read it when you're done <33) (btw i'm loving the spencer fics and i'm psyched for more, your writing is so beautiful 🥹🫶🏼)

A/N: Thank you so much for your request! It was exactly the one I lost. Hope you like it, I had a lot of fun with it 🫶🏼.

Also no one asked but I'm a firm believer that Hotch is a Grey Vetiver by Tom Ford guy, or he should be!

At exactly 9:18 the sound of the elevator opening interrupts the quiet morning, Aaron Hochner walks out heading briskly towards his office, coat over his shoulders and briefcase in hand, nodding in greeting to the rest of the team who collectively turn to stare at him with various degrees of confusion plastered on their faces.

“I was about to call a S.W.A.T team,” Says Emily, stopping him in his tracks “again.”

At that Hotch finally turns to face them, his usually pristine white shirt wrinkled like he had picked it off the floor that morning.

“Excuse he?” He asks, brow arched.

Derek lets out a laugh at this, languidly spinning his chair from side to side but before he can say anything JJ, ever the mediator, interrupts “You’re just not usually this late, we were starting to worry.”

“Yeah, cuz y’know you have a bad track record” Says Penelope with a grimace, she’s perched by Morgan's desk toying with a feathery pink pen while she talks.

“They were worried, I just knew you were maybe having some fun for once” Derek chimes in with a smile, letting out a huff when Pen pokes his side with her pen.

“There’s no need to make a scene out of it, I’m sure I've been late plenty of times before” He tries to say in a stern enough tone that they’ll hopefully drop the subject.

It would be easy to classify it as merely teasing but Hotch knew the entire team worried about him, namely about his lack of a social life outside of work. And usually he would entertain their banter for longer but he really is late today and he can already feel the beginning of a headache forming.

“Actually," Spencer adds without looking up from his paper“this year, you were only late three times, the last one being about two and a half months ago on July when you had a flat tire and had to wait for triple A”.

“Thank you for that, Spencer” Hotch says, shooting him a look.

“No problem”

“Nothing happened, I just got stuck in a bad pile up on my way there and I was already cutting it close beforehand, so if you all could focus back on your files that would be great, we have to present our consults before 5 today” He says trying, and failing to regain a modicum of authority.

Just when he thought that they had tired themselves out, the elevator opens up again and you spill out of it, carrying with you the floral scent of your perfume and a dazzling smile that spells nothing but trouble for him. The kind that makes him stay up until 2am in the middle of the week and turns what was meant to be a quick shower into a half hour delay.

“Hello hello, sorry for being so late, there was a bad bad pile up on my way here” You speak without pausing once for breath, your heels click clacking on your way to your desk where you unceremoniously dump your coat and purse on top of your desk. Heading for the kitchen to brew a new pot of coffee.

On your way there you playfully ruffle Spencer’s hair and wink at Pen, who can’t help but comment on your good mood “Well aren’t you happy this morning missy”

You make eye contact with him for a split second and Hotch can feel his throat dry up, he always felt like you breathed life into any room you walked in, the sun patterns following your steps whenever you went. So it makes sense that even now in the middle of fall he feels something warm settle over him even with such a brief look.

He thinks he’s been staring at you for hours when it couldn’t have been more than a couple of seconds, by the time he snaps out of it he finds Emily regarding him with a quizzical eye and a smile that does nothing for his brewing headache.

“Well, I’ve just been having a very nice week” You reply pointedly “even went and got myself a new perfume” He did, actually, but it’s not like you can say that.

Seeing an out in the conversation he starts once more to go towards his office before he’s interrupted, once again, by one Emily Prentiss.

“Huh” She says, pinning him down with a perfectly arched eyebrow

“What?” He asks exasperated, quickly losing his patience.

“Aren’t you testy today?” She teases “I was just thinking about the fact that you both got stuck in traffic, despite coming from opposite sides of the city, that’s all” And with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders that’s anything but, she turns to work on her files.

You pop out of the kitchen carrying with you two expertly done mugs of coffee, and even better timing, hastily sitting by Emily’s desk and leaving one mug in front of her.

“I was hoping you could look over one of my cases with me? I’ve been stuck for ages and I could use a fresh set of eyes?”

“So this is bribery coffee?”

“No, the bribe is the very nice bottle of red I have back at my place that’s all yours next girls night, the coffee is just because I’m a delight to be around” You reply grinning at her.

Emily huffs a laugh and with everyone distracted Hotch finally makes his escape, shutting his office door and basking in the blissful quiet of his office.

He spends the next hour and a half failing to fill expense reports, his mind wandering to your hair splayed on the pillows this morning; you staring up at him in the shower, a droplet of water running from the bridge of your nose to rest on your lip being kissed away by him. The exact dazzling smile from this morning but all his to keep.

The lost twenty minutes after dressing he spend with you pressed against the entrance door, your hands running over his back.

With an hour left to go before lunch and a creek in his neck from leaning his head on his palm all morning he gives up and goes to get himself his second coffee of the day.

In the kitchenette right by the vending machine is his headache personified, getting herself a bag of skittles.

While he makes his coffee Emily pauses next to him and extends the bag of candy in a silent offer that he declines with a shake of his head, right before leaving she says “I do love the new cologne, very summery fresh, but just a heads up, I do think she wears it better than you”

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner imagine

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stevie-petey · 1 year ago

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episode eight: the upside down

You know you shouldn’t, but you laugh. Honestly, after everything you’ve been through tonight with Steve, how can he possibly think the two of you aren’t friends? “Why are you laughing?” Steve mumbles, confused. “Sorry,” you wheeze out, still uncontrollably laughing. “It’s just–I mean, dude! We almost died together, of course we’re friends now!” “We are?” He looks like a little kid on Christmas day being given the gift he’s always wanted. Your heart warms. “Yes, idiot.”

Summary: drinking game time ! take a shot every time jonathan tries ditching you or every time you almost die at the byers house, you find out that steve really is an athlete and tbh it's hot, but you know what's even hotter ? saving hawkins and reaching a tentative compromise with steve after he loans you $5 for snacks. after, jonathan makes a promise you really hope he can keep.

Rating: general, cursing and slight scary violence

Warnings: violence, use of fire and weapons, guns, use of fem!reader and use of y/n, slight mentions of blood and death

Words: 13.7k

Before you swing in: the final chapter ,,, my heart </3 please enjoy my child, i put so much into this chapter. action scenes scare me, they're hard and i'm weak, so i hope this lives up to everything you guys wanted n more ;) i cannot believe we're at the end (but i do have another chapter planned that's set in season 1, so shhhh). thank you so so so much for all your support. i never thought this silly lil fic would get that much attention, but i'm insanely flattered and grateful for each and every one of y'all. i'm so proud of what i've created and you guys are my beloveds ,,, anyways, enjoy !!!

You almost miss Jonathan and Nancy sneaking off.

You had been explaining a comic book that had been in your bag to El when you noticed a shift in your periphery. Turning your head, you see Jonathan stand, offer Nancy his hand to help her up, and then walk towards the main doors together.

What the fuck.

“They wouldn’t dare…” You excuse yourself and run out the gym and into the hallway to follow them, absolutely furious. You’re so sick of their bullshit, of Jonathan’s bullshit and putting Nancy first. This isn’t even a petty jealousy thing, this is about the years of friendship between the two of you that has just suddenly disappeared within a damn week all due to circumstances completely out of your control.

The slam of the main door is the only warning Jonathan gets before you’re yanking him by his coat and flinging him back, forcing him to look at you. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

You’ve never, ever yelled at him like this before. Not even earlier this week when he’d given you that bullshit apology after screaming at you for being in his room, for saying the two of you weren’t family. You didn’t yell at him for hiding Nancy’s pictures from you, for going off without you to find the monster. Despite everything, you’ve never been this cruel to him, even if he may have deserved it at times.

Jonathan’s wide eyes stare down at your hand that’s still clutched around his coat, frightened. “Bug, we were just–”

“Just what? Sneaking off without me?”

“It’s not like that, Y/N.” Nancy now steps in, her hands held up as if you’re some rabid dog she wants to calm down. “We just figured we’d help Joyce and Hopper.”

“‘We’? Are you fucking kidding me? You two talked about this, had an entire conversation, and still somehow came to the conclusion that ditching me was a great fucking idea?” You scoff, deeply hurt by the fact that the two of them had an entire conversation without thinking to include you in it.

“Bug, can we talk about this one on one?” Jonathan asks, his voice lowered. You can see the genuine upset in his eyes and for a moment your grip on him lessens, but then you see Nancy behind him and your anger only returns.

“No, we can discuss this right here.”

He sighs and tries to grab the hand not clutching his coat, but you slap it away. “Bug–”

“You’ve lost that privilege.”

“Bug–I mean, Y/N,” His voice falters. “Look, my mom and Hopper are out there right now trying to find Will while that monster is still out. Nance and I… We want to finish what we started.”

“Without me?” You don’t mean for it to happen, but your voice catches at the end.

Jonathan’s gaze softens and this time he succeeds in grabbing your hand. You let go of him and allow him to pull you in, weak against him as always. “I’m doing this to protect them, to protect you, Y/N. I’m always trying to protect you. You know that, right?”

You used to think that you did, but now? You’re not so sure, and it terrifies you.

Nancy has stepped away from the conversation, now kicking at rocks while you’re with Jonathan, and you can’t help but think about how wrong all of this feels.

Throughout this entire week it’s felt like someone has given you a photo of Jonathan, smeared its lines and edges, removed his moles and his crooked smile and made it neater, altered so that if you squint you can see the boy you grew up with underneath it all… But it’s fuzzy, almost too unclear to really see.

Now he’s standing in front of you, his smile once more crooked and cunning and his moles faded underneath the moonlight and for a second you can see him. There he is, clear and untouched and him in a way that’s never quite been yours.

“I know,” you tell him. “But how many more times do you expect me to forgive you for lying and ditching me? If you want to protect me, you need to talk to me.”

Jonathan winces. “I know, I know it sounds stupid and I know I’ve fucked up more than enough this week, I just get caught up in wanting to make sure you’re safe. It’d kill me if I let anything happen to you… I just, I can’t lose you, bug.”

“So pushing me away is your grand plan of keeping me?”

“I’ve always been an idiot.” He manages a smile, and you can’t help but laugh.

“That’s true, but if you attempt to ditch me one more time I swear to god I’ll pour tar all over your car.”

The boy laughs and for a brief moment everything feels okay again, but it doesn’t last very long. “In our defense, we figured you’d be better off with the kids since you’re not really a fighter, ya know?”

You drop his hand. “Excuse me?”

Jonathan’s smile is gone. “What?”

“I’m not really a fighter? You’re kidding, right?”

“Hey, no I didn’t mean it like that–” Jonathan fumbles over his words, clearly taken aback by your sudden mood change.

You step away from him. “How many times did I defend you against Lonnie? Better yet, remind me how we became friends in the first place. Wasn’t it because I threw milk at a bunch of idiots bullying you? Huh?”

“Y/N–”

“God, I can’t believe I almost let you get away with it again! I mean, do you even hear the bullshit that comes out of your mouth?” You deepen your voice, now doing a poor impersonation of him. “‘Hey, bug! You know I love you, right? Cool! Now, I’m gonna go do fuck all and ignore you and ditch you and then somehow turn it into me being a good guy because duh! I can never do any wrong!’”

“Please, just–”

“Did I get it right? It was a pretty good impersonation in my opinion. I mean, I am the one who has had to deal with this shit all fucking week. I think I'm an expert on this topic now.”

Jonathan looks pained but you don’t fucking care anymore. You’ve reached your limit, you’re sick and tired of being treated like some delicate creature that’s incapable of taking care of itself. You literally slapped Tommy Hagan this afternoon in order to help Jonathan, yet here he is basically calling you weak.

And yet Nancy is the fighter. She’s the one who gets to go along on the adventure while you’re sidelined because for some damn reason you’re always the second option. Never taking matters into your own hands, always the one left behind to clean up the mess and take care of those also discarded.

You’re sick of it.

You step closer to Jonathan again, so that you’re nose to nose, and whisper, “I’m tired of never being good enough.”

And with that, you reach into his coat and snatch up his keys, a game you’ve always played with him but now has turned into a bitter taste in your mouth, and run back into the gym. Someone has to inform the kids of the plan, make sure they’ll be okay on their own.

Dustin sees you approach and smiles, but when he notices the angry pace in your steps, he frowns. “Uh oh.”

“Yeah, uh oh.”

“Jonathan again?”

You nod, still too angry to trust your words. “Yeah.”

He notices the keys in your hand. “Where are you going?”

Mike and Lucas look over now, curious as to what’s happening.

You sigh. “I’m going with Nancy and Jonathan to the Byers house, we’re going to kill the monster.”

“Why the hell are you going?” Dustin exclaims while Mike shouts “sick!” and Lucas mumbles “great, alone again”. El remains quiet, still resting.

You flick your brother’s hat. “I have to, Dustin.”

“For Jonathan?” He shakes his head. “I like him, but aren’t you mad at him right now?”

“Is it just me, or is she always mad at him these days?” Mike whispers over to Lucas, who simply shrugs.

“Girls, man.”

You ignore them and focus on Dustin. “It doesn’t matter. He needs my help, and no one in the party gets left behind. Remember?”

“Y/N–”

“I love you,” you kiss the top of his head. “I promise I’ll be safe, just be careful, okay? I’m putting you in charge, so don’t let me down. If everything goes according to plan, I’ll see you in a few hours tops!”

Dustin tries to argue some more, but you quickly run back outside before he can get another word in. You feel horrible leaving him behind, but you know this is the right decision. If you can kill the monster, there’s less of a chance of the kids or Joyce and Hopper getting hurt. Jonathan and Nancy may be fine on their own, but there’s always power in numbers and they’ll need all the help they can get.

You just… you have to help. You know this is what you’re supposed to be doing, even if it pains you to do so. Dustin and the kids are smart; as long as they stay at the school, they’ll be fine.

In theory, that is.

Nancy and Jonathan are waiting for you outside. You push past them and march towards Jonathan’s care; they awkwardly follow after you. You unlock it, throw yourself into the backseat, and promptly dig through your backpack to make sure you have everything.

The two teens get in a few minutes after you. Not one word is spoken as Jonathan starts the car and the three of you drive off, leaving Hawkins Middle behind.

–

You thought the car ride with Nancy and Jonathan from the funeral home had been tense, but this one? Downright painful.

Jonathan has a tight grip on the steering wheel and keeps trying to catch your eye through the rearview mirror but you avoid his gaze. You’ve spent the last five minutes arranging and rearranging your backpack to give you something to do while Nancy has tried three times to make conversation to make this car ride bearable.

“El seems nice.”

“You said four words to her, Nancy.” You retort, switching open your switchblade once more to watch the moonlight dance off of its blades.

“Right.”

Nancy shifts uncomfortably in the passenger seat. You know she realizes she’s once again upset the balance in your relationship with Jonathan. It was only an hour ago that she tried getting you to admit your feelings for him before convincing the boy to up and leave you. Sure, Jonathan made his own decision in the end, but damn. She could’ve at least pretended to want you around.

She notices your knives and tries to spark conversation again. “I love the color of the handle, it’s beautiful.”

“Thanks,” you switch the blades closed and sit up in your seat. “Anyways, you geniuses have a plan or were you just counting on ditching me and winging it from there?”

“Y/N–”

“No, Nancy. I insist, let’s talk about a plan. We’re here to kill a monster, right?”

She closes her mouth and frowns, turning to Jonathan for help, but he’s no use. He’s busy tapping his fingers against the wheel and praying that the world will just swallow him up whole. Too bad for him you’re a stubborn pain in the ass and would simply pluck him back up so you can torture him some more.

Nancy sighs. “Well, Jonathan and I were thinking we use the supplies we got earlier and lure the monster to his place, then we kill it.”

“Awesome plan, guys!” You say, your voice dripping with sickly sweetness that leaves them both feeling even more uncomfortable. “But may I suggest some actual details or shall we just bank off of this wonderfully dull and vague plan?”

“Sure, Y/N. Tell us what you had in mind.” Nancy rubs her face tiredly, knowing she deserves this.

“Great! I’m assuming we’re luring the monster with blood?” They nod at you, so you continue. “Okay, so before we lure it I think we should completely booby-trap Jonathan’s house. Nail the bear trap down onto the floor, make sure the floor is cleared of anything that could trip us up. Then, once we’ve got the house secured, we knick ourselves to draw some blood and pray to whatever god is up there that we can kill the thing.”

You pause for a moment, remembering how all the Christmas lights had been unscrewed by Joyce earlier. “The lights, we need to fix them. The monster communicates through the lights so if we have them, then we can track it.”

“That all sounds great, bug.” Jonathan finally speaks up, ass kissing.

“Thanks, pal. Still don’t have the bug privilege back, but I’m sure you simply forgot.”

He gulps, once more going back to being silent as he drives you and Nancy to his house.

Nancy again tries to diffuse the tension. “How do we even kill the monster though? I mean, will my bullets be enough?”

“I have this idea, but it’s… well, it’s out there.” You bite your lip, now feeling your cocky demeanor slipping. “If we can safely set fire to it, I think that’s our best bet.”

“Fire?” Jonathan exclaims, but Nancy shushes him.

“I think you’re right.”

“Y/N, I know you’re mad at me but do we really have to set fire to my house–”

Now it’s your turn to shush Jonathan. “This isn’t about that. I wouldn’t burn your house down, I already told you I’d just pour tar on your car whenever I get the chance. For now, I really do think the best thing to do is burn the monster alive. In every horror movie and book, fire always gets the job done.”

Despite herself, Nancy lets out a soft chuckle as Jonathan parks the car, now at his house. “She’s right, Jonathan. And who burns down houses these days? Tar really is the best form of revenge.”

“I’m flattered, Wheeler. At the rate you’re going, you’ll be off my shitlist in no time.” You tell her, patting her on the shoulder before getting out of the car. You quickly open up the trunk and gather the monster hunting supplies while Jonathan and Nancy take their time getting out.

You let yourself into the Byers home using your own key to the place. It’s been nestled in between the key to your house and the spare key to Jonathan’s car on your keychain for a few years now.

The first thing you get started on are the lights. There’s hundreds of them to get through, but you drop your supplies and begin screwing them in one by one. Nancy and Jonathan come in soon after and silently begin to help.

No conversation is made besides the necessary comments about the prep work. You’re all too focused on the possibility of what could happen next; the danger of the situation has finally set in. After the lights have all been fixed, you instruct Jonathan to begin nailing the bear trap down while you and Nancy discuss where to pour the gasoline. You both agree to make a path from the living room to Will’s room.

As Nancy pours the gasoline, you follow behind her and pick up any flammables. You weren't lying to Jonathan earlier, you really don’t want to burn his house down. While the house is wrecked, it’s still a home despite everything that’s happened in it. You practically grew up within its walls, you’d do anything to keep it as protected as possible.

When you’re done, you watch Nancy load her gun. A shiver runs down our spine; she looks at ease with it, which you figure should be reassuring, but the gravity of everything leaves you feeling on edge. You leave her alone and walk into the kitchen where Jonathan is, now hammering a ton of nails into his bat.

You begin to sharpen your blades next to him, still finding that you only feel secure by his side. The rhythmic sound of his hammering calms you, in a sense. It serves as a distraction. You know you insisted on coming, you don’t regret it and you know you’re stronger than everyone seems to give you credit for, but you’re also terrified. This isn’t just some adventure in the woods; this could kill the ones you love dearly.

Once you’re both done preparing your weapons, the two of you walk to Will’s room and rig up a simple snare. Jonathan grabs a yo-yo and you pull up a chair to set it on. The idea is that when the string gets pulled, it’ll alert you that the monster has sprung the bear trap. It’s not the most efficient warning system, but it’ll have to do.

The last thing to do is set the bear trap, which takes all three of you to achieve. Jonathan and Nancy hold down the edges with their body weight and you very carefully set the trap with your hand. You shake a bit as you do so, but you force your nerves down. You remind yourself that Jonathan thinks you’re too weak, too cowardly, you have to prove him wrong.

When the bear trap clicks into place, you let out a harsh exhale and sink against the wall, your heart still pounding. Jonathan and Nancy copy you and the three of you sit in silence. You’re still shaking a bit, and Jonathan is next to you just as tense, but for the first time since you’ve met him you can’t reach out to grab his hand to steady yourself. He’s too far, both literally and figuratively. Even with him next to you, you couldn’t be more far apart.

In the back of your mind, you hope the kids are alright. Hopefully they’re having a better night than you currently are.

“C’mon,” you say after a few minutes, getting up to walk over to the living room. “We’ve done all we can, now we just have to draw some blood and be the prettiest bait in Hawkins.”

–

Nancy and Jonathan decide to cut the palm of their hands, but you respectfully would rather die than have a matching scar with them. The idea makes you so uncomfortable you visibly cringe when Jonathan tells you the idea. “Yeah, no thanks. I think I’ll find somewhere else to cut.”

He looks hurt by what you’ve said but doesn’t voice it. Instead, the three of you stand in the living room in a triangle facing each other and he begins reciting the plan. “Remember…”

Nancy goes first. “Straight into Will’s room and–”

“Don’t step on the trap.” You finish.

Jonathan nods. “And then?”

“Wait for the yo-yo to move.” The girl says.

“Then…” Jonathan flicks the lighter on.

You whistle low. “Let there be light…”

“Right. Light.” The boy nods again. “Alright, we ready?”

“Ready.”

“Scar time.”

Jonathan and Nancy bring their hands up and place their knives flat against their palms. You roll up your sleeve and place your own knife against the upper part of your arm, just below your shoulder, and take a deep breath.

“On three,” Jonathan says. He begins counting and you all can’t seem to stop shaking. He senses your unease and looks up at you and Nancy. “You guys don’t have to do this.”

Nancy glares at him, her own voice shaky. “Jonathan, stop talking.”

You nod. “Yeah, what she said.”

Jonathan tries to argue, but Nancy squeezes her eyes shut and yells, “Three!”

You close your own eyes and slice at your arm, the pain immediate. You gasp out, never having been good with pain, but you know you have to do this for Will. The blood trails down your arm, dripping from your elbow onto the ground, and you watch as blood from Jonathan’s and Nancy’s own cuts falls onto the ground too.

Well, at least it’ll be an easy scar to hide compared to theirs.

“Fuck, that stings.” You say to break the silence, and Nancy nods her head in agreement.

“Not the most pleasant feeling.”

Jonathan guides the two of you over to the couch and grabs the first aid kit that you had prepared on the coffee table. He sits in the middle, leaving room for both you and Nancy on each side of him, but you’re still pissed at him and opt to sit on the floor in front of the couch.

Nancy begins to patch up his wound, and it takes everything within you not to reach over and help him yourself. It feels unnatural to watch someone else taking care of him, but the space between you still feels too vast to cross.

You patch up your own cut while the two of them talk quietly. You wind a bandage tight around your arm, ensuring you won’t bleed through, and Jonathan watches above you with guilt in his eyes. Nancy is trying to reassure him that everything will be okay, but as he watches you struggle to tie the bandage he wonders if he’s fucked up more than just your friendship.

“Bug, let me help with that.” He leans down and ties your bandage before you can stop him.

You glare at him, still having not said anything to Jonathan besides what was needed for preparation. Nancy distracts herself by cleaning up around his cut and your stomach twists into knots. This is all so miserable.

“Y/N, I know you’re upset with me and you can go whenever. I won’t blame you, you’ve done enough for me.” Jonathan says, trying to catch your eye.

You turn away and inspect your bandage, still reeling over the fact that he tied it for you. “I’m here for Will, and only Will.”

“Y/N…” There’s a hurt in his voice that almost makes you turn around to throw your arms around his neck and whisper a million apologies to him. To tell him everything, that you love him and that you’d do anything for him and that’s why you’re so terrified of how you feel. You know you’d burn yourself up if it meant he’d be taken care of, if it meant he was safe and happy and far away from anything that could harm him. You know you’d use up everything within you to love him.

Instead, you remain silent.

After getting no response from you, Jonathan clears his throat and begins to say something about how the lights will serve as an alarm for the monster, trying to pretend that everything is okay, but he’s cut off by a sudden pounding on the door.

You all jump and your fingers tighten around your switchblade, ready to open it. As your heart pounds you think of all the possible ways the plan could go wrong. When you’re on possibility number twelve, a voice calls through the door.

“Jonathan?”

“Is that… Steve?” You say out loud, in complete disbelief.

Steve continues to pound on the door. “Are you there, man? It’s… It’s Steve! Listen, I just wanna talk!”

You’re the first to react, standing up to run over to the door. You fling it open and step outside, making sure Steve won’t be able to see inside the house. When he sees you, he stumbles back a bit. “Henderson?”

His face is still bleeding from earlier and his hair is a mess, and yet there’s a softness to him that you haven’t seen before with him. “Steve, now isn’t really a good time.”

“Can I just talk to Jonathan real quick? I just… I want to apologize about what happened earlier, see if we can maybe–” His eyes land on your bandaged arm. You curse and roll down your sleeve, feeling like an idiot for forgetting to hide the wound before going outside.

Steve reaches out to touch it, a hint of worry on his face and his voice is now full of concern. “Hey, are you okay?”

You shiver at his touch, it’s gentle as he skims along the bandage and inspects it for any other problems. You pull away, now hiding the wound. “It’s nothing, but you should really go.”

“I want to help you, Y/N. Do you need me to get you anything?” His face is so full of worry for you that it makes you ache. Then a thought occurs to him. “Wait, where’s Byers? Why isn’t he here to help you?”

You’re about to make up a lie, but Nancy flings the door open. “Steve, listen to me.”

He looks between the two of you in complete shock. “Okay, what–”

“You need to leave.” Nancy orders.

Steve looks at you. “I’m not trying to start anything, okay?”

“I know, but–” You get cut off by Nancy.

“I don’t care about that. You need to leave.”

Steve begins to plead with the girl and you step away a bit, not wanting to intrude. You feel bad for him, he looks so beat down by what’s happened today and you suppose that you can’t really blame him. After spending maybe a total of ten hours with Nancy and Jonathan, you also have come close to losing your mind.

If you were with Jonathan, if you truly had him, you’d react the same as Steve. Begging for the girl he loves to listen to him, to give him another chance with the promise of him changing.

“I just want to make things right.” Steve says, impressing you with his vulnerability. He’s openly admitting to his mistakes and taking accountability mere hours after the situation has occurred, leaving you both in awe of him and also saddened for him. He loves Nancy more than anything, you can hear it in his voice.

He deserves better.

As you’re thinking this, you see his eyes flicker down towards Nancy’s bandaged hand and his brows furrow. “What happened to your hand? Is that blood?” His eyes now flicker over to you again. “Why are you both hurt?”

“We’re clumsy?” You say as Nancy yanks her hand away from Steve.

“It was an accident.” She agrees.

Steve looks between the two of you, now sensing that something else is wrong. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” Nancy insists, but something in Steve’s demeanor shifts.

“Wait a second, did he do this to you? To Y/N?” His once soft voice is now filled with anger and you step in front of him.

“Steve, it wasn’t Jonathan. You need to go, I promise I’ll explain everything later–”

He grabs you by your side and gently moves you so that he can get past and shove through the door. Nancy yells at him to stop and tries to push him out, but she’s useless against his strength. When he manages to break in, he stumbles inside and scans over the house.

“Shit!” You follow after him, your brain running a million miles a second trying to figure out how to explain everything to him.

“What the fuck?” Steve mumbles, eyeing the bat with nails in it. “Y/N, what’s going on here?”

He’s looking to you for reassurance and you guess he assumes that the two of you are allies in this Jonathan and Nancy situation. You really wish you could explain, but Jonathan has grabbed him by the shoulders and is trying to push him outside. The two stumble around for a few seconds and you just helplessly watch.

“Steve, there’s no time to explain, please just listen to Jonathan and get out of here!” You’re helping Jonathan now, trying to get Steve out the door and away from harm’s reach, but he’s still fighting back confused and lost as ever and you pity him.

You hear a click and turn around, gasping when you see Nancy holding her gun up to Steve. “Woah, what the fuck Nancy?”

“What! What is going on?” Steve yells, now more panicked than anything else.

While Jonathan has stepped away, you find yourself standing in front of Steve as if to somehow block the bullet. You can’t let him get hurt, he doesn’t have any part of this, he can still have a normal and happy life if he just leaves now. “Nancy, put the fucking gun down, this isn’t helping!”

Steve pleads with her as well and the two of you scream at the girl to just listen and not swing around loaded weapons, but Nancy remains firm in her stance. “You have five seconds to get out of here. I’m doing this for you.”

“Because holding a gun to his head is any better than telling him the truth?” You exclaim, entirely over the situation.

As the four of you are arguing, the lights begin to flicker. Steve and Nancy don’t seem to notice, but you do. You look at Jonathan and say your first real words to him in hours. “Jonathan…”

He hears you and he runs over to your side, grabbing your hand as the two of you stand shoulder to shoulder. You feel your heartbeat race and you can feel him shaking beside you. He’s terrified, so are you, but his hand around yours manages to steady you.

“Nancy!” Jonathan tries to get the girl’s attention, but she’s too busy counting down to hear him.

He shouts at her again and the lights start to flicker more wildly and you draw your switchblade out, adrenaline coursing through you. It’s time.

Jonathan yells once more and finally catches Nancy’s attention. “The lights!”

She whips her head around and curses, Jonathan, still tightly holding your hand, tugs you along so that you follow him as he secures his weapons and grabs the bat. “It’s here.”

“What’s here?” Steve is flailing around, utterly lost.

You all ignore him and now stand back to back in a triangle. Nancy holds up her gun, Jonathan wields his bat, and you flick your wrist to bring out your knives. “Where is it?”

“I don’t know!”

The lights flicker rapidly and you feel overwhelmed. They were supposed to serve as a guide towards the monster, but there's no possible way to see which direction it’ll come from and for a fleeting moment you think you’ve made a huge mistake.

Steve is still screaming, demanding answers, but you’re too busy scanning your surroundings to offer him some information. “Hello? Will someone please explain to me what the hell is going–”

The roof opens up, cutting Steve off, and you scream as the monster attempts to come down right above you. Jonathan shields you from the fallen debris and you cling onto him in utter fear. This isn’t real. This cannot be happening.

Nancy begins to shoot at the thing while Jonathan guides you to safety. He brings you to the edge of the living room and holds your face in his hands, forcing you to really look at him for the first time all night. “Listen to me, stay here while I get Nancy.”

He kisses your forehead and then leaves, rushing over to Nancy to pull her away and guide her towards Will’s room. Steve stands next to you, frozen, and it forces you back to reality. The plan, you have to stick to the plan.

You grab Steve’s hand and yank him so that he follows. The monster has dropped down now, a horrible creature on all fours that opens its gaping mouth to let out a horrible screech that you feel deep within your bones. This is what killed Barb.

The four of you run to Will’s room and you only just barely have enough time to warn Steve about the bear trap. You look over your shoulder and shout, “Jump!” right as your ankle catches on its chains.

You fall. Hard.

Pain sears through your ankle and you try to get up, but any pressure on it sends flames through your entire body and you let out another scream. The monster catches up, looming over you, and you brace for your death. There’s no fucking way you’re getting out of this.

You squeeze your eyes as the monster stalks close to you, its ugly mouth open and ready to kill you. Jonathan is screaming at you to get up, but Nancy is holding him back from helping. You’re relieved by this, knowing that someone has to be there for Will once this is all done. He’ll need his brother, and Nancy seems to understand this. You catch her eye and nod at her, sending a silent thank you.

“Bug! No, let go of me! I have to help her, Nancy!” Jonathan’s voice becomes hoarse by how loud he screams, his voice breaking with fear and desperation.

Then, right before the monster lunges at you, you feel a familiar pair of arms slide underneath your legs and pick you up. “What–”

Steve Harrington has swooped in to save you, picking you up as if you weigh nothing, ever the athlete, and swiftly jumps over the bear trap while screaming his head off. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!”

You’re so delirious from the pain in your ankle and the adrenaline pumping through your veins that you can’t help but let a laugh escape you. No fucking way is any of this real. Steve Harrington is carrying you bridal style into Will’s bedroom with Jonathan and Nancy as witnesses.

What a life.

Once you’re both secured in the room, Steve sets you down gently right as Nancy yells at him to shut up. As soon as Steve lets go of you, Jonathan is at your side and pulls you into a crushing hug.

“Bug.” He breathes out against your ear, relief heavy.

“I’m okay.” You tell him, threading your fingers through his hair. He’s shaking harder than ever, and holding onto you as if he’s scared he’ll lose you again. “I’m okay, bee.”

He pulls away and his hands are all over you, checking everywhere for any other injuries. “Did it hurt you, are you bleeding? There should be a first aid kit–”

You grab his hands and kiss his knuckles, which seems to calm him down a bit. “I’m fine, just twisted my ankle. If you help me up, I’m sure I’ll be able to stand again.”

Jonathan quickly helps you to your feet and you lean against him for the extra support. While you put on a brave face for Jonathan, you’re terrified out of your fucking mind. You almost died. Jonathan is still holding your hand and he’s looking at you as if seeing you for the first time and you force yourself to look away. It’s the same look from the field days ago, when you thought he’d kiss you.

You have to focus on what’s at stake.

How the hell are you guys supposed to kill this thing?

The monster screeches, breaking the moment between you and Jonathan, and he flicks his lighter on and forces you to stand behind him. Nancy holds up her gun and you bring your knives closer to your face, Steve standing weaponless behind you.

You all wait, tense, for the monster. It stalks closer to the room, its awful growls alerting you of its proximity, but it doesn’t appear.

“What’s it doing?” Nancy asks, frustrated.

“I don’t know.” You respond, equally as frustrated and scared.

Another few agonizing seconds pass, and you stare at the yo-yo and hope that it remains still. Then, the lights stop flickering and it becomes quiet. All you can hear is your blood roaring in your ears.

Nancy looks around. “Do you hear anything?”

“No,” Jonathan shakes his head, inching closer to the door.

“Wait!” You tug at your still interlocked hands. You pick up his bat that had been thrown on the ground and hand it to him. “Be careful. Please.”

He gives your hand one last squeeze before letting go, accepting the bat.

As Jonathan pokes his head out to see if the monster is outside, Steve bends his head down and whispers in your ear, “Romantic.”

“Shut. Up.” You hit him in the chest, fearfully watching your best friend to make sure he doesn't die. When he motions an all clear, Nancy follows him outside, then you, then Steve.

The house is silent and your heart sinks when you see that the bear trap has been left untouched. You realize with a horrible gut wrench that the monster is smarter than the three of you had anticipated.

So much for your plan, then.

“It’s smarter than we thought.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan agrees with dismay.

He stalks against the wall towards the living room and you all follow in a single file line. You do your best to stick close to the wall but you limp with every step. Your ankle is definitely out of commission for now. Great.

All of you are on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It couldn’t have been that easy, there’s no possible way that the monster simply up and left. You enter the living room, which has gotten even more wrecked due the monster. The wallpaper has been torn off of some parts of the wall and you see papers scattered everywhere.

“Shit…” you mumble, kicking at a shredded wallpaper strip.

In the corner, Steve has started to hyperventilate and mumble to himself. “This is crazy, this is so crazy, this is fucking crazy.”

You limp over to him and grab his shoulders, making him face you. “Steve, hey. It’s okay, I’m here.”

“Y/N, what the hell just happened?”

“It’s… complicated. For now, can you trust me that everything will be okay?”

“Of course I trust you, it’s just…” He nods, his eyes softening. You lessen your hold on him and give him a smile, he seems to be calming down. Then, he looks around the room and seemingly remembers where he is. “This is crazy!”

Steve lunges for the phone on the wall and tries to call for help.

You stumble after him, the pain in your ankle slowing you down. “Steve, wait–”

Nancy gets to him first, grabbing the phone out of his hand and throwing it across the room. He looks at her, shocked. “What are you doing? Are you insane?”

“It’s going to come back!” Nancy yells at him, and you wince at the way she treats him. You know Steve will only listen to her, but she could at least be nicer about the whole situation. The three of you have had some time to process everything happening, Steve was thrown into the deep end.

“You could be a little nicer,” you mumble, and Nancy sends you a glare. You raise your hands up in surrender. “Sorry.”

“Steve, you need to leave. Right now.”

He looks so overwhelmed and you give him a pitying look. He stares at you, reminiscent of the way he looked at you earlier in the alley, silently begging you to say something, anything, but again you can only shake your head at him. You won’t force him to stay, it wouldn’t be fair.

“Y/N, please…” He tries one more time to get you on his side, but you can’t. Frustrated by your lack of response, Steve groans. “Fuck it!”

He runs out the door.

You’ll admit that you’re a bit disappointed, but you also understand. Who in their right mind would stay?

You and Nancy share a look before the lights begin to flicker again. Dread fills you. “Fuck…”

Jonathan is back by your side and he and Nancy again form a triangle with you, all your backs pressed together as you desperately try to locate the monster. You all stumble in a circle, searching for any sign of the thing, but there’s nothing.

“Where is it?” Nancy gasps out.

“Just fucking show yourself!” You shout, just wanting this all to be over with. Your body is drained from living in a state of fear for so long.

“Come on you son of a bitch!” Jonathan echoes your taunts.

Suddenly the lights turn off and you’re left alone in complete darkness. Faintly you can hear the monster’s familiar growl approaching from behind you. The hair on the back of your neck stands up, the air stands still. It’s back. Before you can react, it pounces on Jonathan.

“Jonathan!” You scream alongside Nancy. Desperation takes over you and before you can even process what’s happening, you ignore the pain in your ankle and jump onto its back, stabbing repeatedly at it.

Your blades only bounce off of its thick skin and the monster struggles to get you off. You hold on as tight as you can, shouting and kicking at it so that it can’t hurt him, but then it opens its mouth and for a horrifying moment you’re afraid that Jonathan will die.

“No!” You scream even louder than before and double down on your effort, stabbing and slashing as much as you possibly can to try and create some damage, but your arms are starting to ache and your ankle now feels like it’s on fire.

“Nancy, its skin is too thick!” You sob out, nearing complete exhaustion. Then, just as you’re about to collapse from exhaustion, gunshots fill the room.

Nancy begins to shoot at the monster and with the help of your blades, the two of you manage to pierce its skin, but even then the damage is minimal. It’s not enough, it won’t be enough. Tears stream down your face and the monster only gets closer to Jonathan, so you do the only thing you can think of: you crawl onto the top of its body and stab at its mouth.

The monster lets out a blood curdling scream and flings you off of its back. You go flying across the room and land against the wall with a groan. All the air has been knocked out of you and your ribs are definitely going to be bruised tomorrow. Every part of you aches, but you manage to lift your head up and blearily process the monster now approaching Nancy as she continues to shoot at it, but it remains unphased.

You crawl over to Jonathan, who is still laying on the ground. He’s motionless, and you fight everything within you not to break down and sob. You have to keep going, he has to be alive. As you reach Jonathan and frantically check for a pulse, the monster has now cornered Nancy and her gun seems to be out of bullets.

It’s over. You know it is.

Right as you’ve accepted your fate, a screaming Steve Harrington wielding Jonathan’s bat once again manages to save the day.

He hits the monster with the bat, effectively saving Nancy and you’re so impressed with his batting skills that you almost find him attractive with how easily he hits and dodges the monster. However, you file those thoughts away for later and finally manage to wake Jonathan up. He startles with a gasp and you check over his chest, scared he may have gotten pierced by the monster’s claws.

“I’m fine, we need to help.”

You help each other up and you have to lean heavily against him due to your ankle. You bull riding the monster has only made the sprain worse; you’re too afraid to look down and see the damage that’s been done.

As the two of you hobble over to Nancy, Jonathan looks at you. “Is Harrington really here right now?”

“Yes.”

“Lovely.”

Steve manages to lure the monster closer and closer to the bear trap and you watch him in awe. He’s quick footed and so sure of himself, the complete opposite of the boy from only ten minutes ago who had run out of the house screaming his head off. Now, Steve is swift with his hits and even twirls the bat in his hand to show off. The small act causes you to smile despite the horrible circumstances.

By the time you and Jonathan are up and recovered, Steve has successfully led the monster straight into the trap. It clamps around the monster’s foot and it screeches, flailing around in the trap. Steve still has his bat held up, now frantically looking over to everyone else. “He’s in the trap! He’s stuck!”

“Jonathan, now!” Nancy screams, motioning over at him to use his lighter.

Jonathan listens, using his free hand to flick the lighter on and then drops it onto the ground, right into the trail of gasoline. Immediately the monster goes up in flames, letting out horrible noises. You all shield your faces from the flames and Jonathan pulls you closer into him, still having yet to let go of you; you feel yourself sink into his side as you watch the monster wither away.

“Bug, I have to get the fire extinguisher, do you think you can stand on your own?” Jonathan asks you, his voice soft but urgent.

You quickly nod and brace yourself for his departure. “Yeah, go.”

He lets go of you as gently as possible before running to grab the extinguisher. When he has it, he orders everyone to get back and then smothers the flames. It takes a couple seconds, but eventually the fire gets put out, leaving behind an awful stench that makes everyone cough and gag.

“Holy fuck,” you wheeze out, hunched over. “Burnt monster smells horrible.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Steve coughs out.

Nancy covers her face with her jacket. “Where did it go?”

“It has to be dead.” Jonathan pants against the wall, looking like he’s three seconds away from passing out. “It has to be.”

“It fucking better be dead.” You mumble, hobbling closer to see what exactly was left behind. When you get closer and see the giant lump of melted skin all over the bear trap, you gag. “Oh god. Yeah, okay. It’s dead.”

Everyone sighs with relief.

Then, you notice a Christmas light above you flicker on. Your heart stops, terrified that the monster has somehow survived, but then a second one turns on, then a third, until a path seems to be guiding you towards the living room.

You all follow, cautious but curious, but these lights don’t feel threatening. There’s an energy to them, a comforting one that leaves you breathless. When you get to the living room, tears form in your eyes, now understanding what this all is. You look at Jonathan, who also seems to be thinking what you are.

It’s Joyce, you know it is.

“Mom,” he breathes out.

You limp over to him and grab his hand. He turns to you, his eyes shining with an appreciation that he only ever has for you. He seems to be drinking you in, as if now realizing just how close the two of you came to dying tonight. You’re doing the same, thankful that he’s alive and standing next to you despite everything. There’s so much the two of you want to say, but as always the words aren’t needed. You understand each other perfectly, the balance between you centered once more.

You put your head on Jonathan’s shoulder and he brings his hand to your hair to softly stroke it. The two of you stand like that for a second, breathing each other in and enjoying the tenderness after such a miserable day, before you slowly break apart and follow the lights going outside.

The porch light flickers and Nancy stands next to you, watching it with uncertainty. “Where’s it going?”

“I don’t think it’s the monster.” Jonathan tells her.

“It’s Will.” You don’t know how you know this, or what makes you feel so certain that you’re right, but somehow you know that you are. Somewhere deep within you, you feel the faint outline of hope flicker.

A new silence surrounds the four of you at your words, and for once there’s hope between you all. Then, after a minute or so of silence, everyone begins to head back inside. Steve first, then Nancy, and finally Jonathan, leaving you alone with the crisp early winter air.

You take a deep breath, the cold air serving as a reminder that you’re alive. You let it fill your lungs until you can’t breathe in anymore, then you release the air through an exhale and feel your body settle into its exhaustion. This is the first time you’ve had a moment to yourself, so you let the exhaustion weigh upon you like a warm blanket.

Will is safe, you can feel it. Despite everything, he’s safe and alive. Jonathan is too, still your best friend regardless of all the unspoken words between the two of you. Dustin is at the school with the kids, away from danger. Everything is okay, it’ll be okay.

You let the moment wash over you, incredibly grateful to be lucky enough to have survived it all. Everyone you love and hold close to you is safe. You didn’t fuck up this time. God, you did it.

Jonathan comes running out after a while, his face alight with joy and he crashes into you and picks you up to twirl you around. You laugh, loud and freely, and bury your face in his hair as he continues. “Bee, stop! Put me down, you dummy!”

He does as he’s told, but doesn’t let go of you once your feet are on the ground. “My mom just called, they saved Will. He–he’s in the hospital, he’s okay.”

You squeal and throw your arms around Jonathan again, squeezing him so hard that you’re afraid you'll hurt him, but he simply laughs and squeezes you just as tight. Tears come again, but this time they’re happy ones, and if it weren’t for your ankle you’d be jumping up and down right now.

Jonathan’s laughter dies down and he cups your chin around his fingers so that you look up at him. “You did it.”

“We did it, bug.” You softly push against him. You can’t take all the credit.

His eyes are shining again, you haven’t seen him this happy in so long, you get lost in it. His face is lit up and his smile is back and you’re so in love with him that it claws against your throat and threatens to spill out in excess.

A beat of silence passes and Jonathan just soaks your presence in. You can’t quite read his face, but for once this doesn’t frighten you. You enjoy it, you relish in the fact that he’s still yours yet now forming into someone new and lovely and wonderful.

“You never gave up.” He whispers at last, adoration in his voice.

“Never.”

“You never left me.”

“Never.” You breathe out, the word so simple with such heavy weight behind it.

The moment is so raw, so tender, and Jonathan is giving you that look again, the one that leaves you feeling like the sun itself has settled upon you and kissed your cheek. His eyes flick down to your lips and you smile, taunting him to lean in. He seems to understand, giving you his own teasing smile before leaning in. You lean in as well, every part of you buzzing, and right before your lips touch his, Steve bursts through the door.

“Jonathan, dude, do you have like, any food in the house?” He asks, completely oblivious to what he’s just interrupted.

You and Jonathan break apart, laughing the tension away. He ducks his head down, clears his throat, and turns to Steve. “Sorry, man. Been a little busy this week for grocery shopping.”

Steve’s eyes bulge out of his head. “Oh shit, right. Sorry, okay. Uh… Well, I’ll be inside, I guess.”

“We’ll be in shortly.” You tell Steve. You want to be frustrated by his timing, but something tells you that you’ll have all the time in the world to tell Jonathan how you feel. Now just isn’t the time.

–

The moment you arrive at the hospital, Jonathan sprints out of the car and straight towards the front desk to find out where Will is. You and Nancy follow behind, figuring you won’t be able to see Will for a while since you’re not blood related, so the two of you wish Jonathan goodbye and head towards the waiting room.

Steve lags behind, obviously unsure where to go. Nancy immediately walks inside, but you notice his hesitation and nudge his shoulder. “I’m sure that the cut on your eyebrow needs to be looked out. Let’s go sit, okay?”

He sighs deeply. “Yeah, sure. Totally. Let’s go sit in a room full of people who probably hate me. No biggie.”

“Either come or don’t.” You shrug. “But the way I see it, you can start mending some metaphorical wounds while you wait in there.”

You don’t wait for Steve to figure out what to do, you know that Dustin is somewhere inside the waiting room and you’re buzzing to see him and the rest of the kids. You hobble inside, still very much in pain due to your injuries, but the moment you see your brother it all fades away.

He runs into your arms and almost knocks you down with the force. Dustin clings onto you, mumbling over and over again how sorry he is.

“Hey, wait a second,” you pull him away and crouch down, groaning a bit at the pain. “What are you sorry about? What happened?”

You look around the room and see everyone there. Nancy, Hopper, the kids, Steve, even Nancy’s parents, but there’s someone missing…

“El,” you breathe out.

Dustin’s lip trembles and he begins to cry. You soothe him, grabbing his hand to bring him over to the seats and sit between him and Mike. Lucas is to the left of Dustin and you can’t help but notice how all the boys have dried tears in their eyes.

When they’re ready, you have the kids explain what happened, and the more they tell you, the more guilty you feel. You should’ve been there for them, you left them all alone with that monster. You got Will back, and yet you’ve lost El as a result. It seems that no matter what you do, it’ll never quite be enough in the end.

“It’s not your fault.” You tell Dustin, who still keeps apologizing. It was you who had left him in charge, you’re why El ended up vanquished by the monster. “You did everything you could. I shouldn’t have left you guys all alone, but I’m proud that you all took care of one another, okay?”

He sniffs and nods his head, but you know he doesn’t believe you. All the boys are somber; you know it’ll take time for them to recover. So, you do what you do best, you console them. You hold their hands and rub their backs and offer your spare comics in your bag. You do whatever you can to comfort them, to reassure them that they’re safe now and that no one will hurt them, but the light in their eyes has dimmed.

They’ll never be the same again.

And El… she had been so young, you don’t think you’ll ever not feel the heavy weight of guilt whenever you think of her. She had been so sweet and had trusted you.

You should’ve been there, you wish you could’ve saved her.

Steve watches from his seat across from you. He listens in as you comfort the boys, taking care of them in such a natural way. He admires this softer side of you, one he hasn’t quite seen before. Sure, you’ve always been gentle and sincere, but watching you with the kids is something special in itself. You manage to get them to laugh, you offer them your shoulder to cry or sleep on, and you read aloud to them stories from your comics and Steve finds himself drawn towards your interactions with the kids.

It’s sweet, something delicate and lovely, and Steve admires everything that you are. When he sees you awkwardly stand up and stumble over to the vending machines in the hall, Steve finds himself following after you.

“Bitch!” You slam the palm of your hand against the vending machine in vain. The bag of chips hangs by the little spiral, taunting you.

“That’s not a very nice word, Henderson.”

You turn and see Steve, leaning against the wall with a fond expression. “You stalking me?”

“Nah, just wanted to watch you fight against a vending machine.”

“Ha,” you snort, turning back to the machine. “Unless you can help me get this last chip bag, you’re free to go sit back down.”

You mean it to be a joke, not expecting Steve to actually listen, but he’s at your side within a second. “Step back, let Steve handle her.”

“What–”

Steve motions for you to move, so you reluctantly do as you’re told. Once you’re out of the way, Steve claps his hands, stretches out his neck, and then begins to aggressively shake the vending machine.

“That is so not what you’re supposed to do–”

Suddenly the bag drops down from the hook and into the retrieval slot. Steve reaches inside, grabs the bag, and then dangles it in the air. “Tada!”

You laugh and grab the bag from him. “Okay, I’ll admit, that was impressive.”

“What can I say? I’m charming like that.”

“Sure,” you smile at him, neither of you have moved yet. He’s still standing in front of you with that cocky smile on his face that’s slowly started to warm on you. You truly do understand why so many girls have fallen for him. If you ever saw Steve on the street, a stranger passing by, you’d fall a little bit in love with him yourself.

The thought startles you. “Well, uh…”

“Yes?” Steve raises his eyebrows at you, smiling.

“Thank you for the chips. The kids haven’t eaten anything in hours, so…” You wave the three bags in your arms. “Gotta keep 'em fed.”

“Wait a second, there’s only three bags there. Aren’t you going to eat anything?”

“I only had enough money for the boy’s chips.” You say, feeling suddenly sheepish. “It’s fine, though. I’ll just eat a few pieces from them and wait until we get home.”

Steve scoffs. “Yeah, no.”

You frown at him, confused as he rustles through his jean pocket and pulls out his wallet. “I don’t want your money–”

He doesn’t listen and simply puts the cash into the vending machine and punches in a few numbers. Slowly, one by one, multiple different bags of sweets and chips come falling down within the machine. Once the last one has dropped, Steve bends down and offers the huge stash to you.

“A feast, on me.” He winks at you and you can’t help but blush.

“T–thanks, I guess.” You now carefully balance the rest of the snacks in your arms, the mound almost blocking your view. You’re not sure how much Steve just paid, but with all these snacks you and the kids will surely be well fed.

Steve shrugs, and if you weren’t so tired you’d think the blush on his face was a real one. “It’s the least I can do, all things considered.”

His words give you pause. You know he’s referencing earlier today, back in the alley where fists slammed against skin and he had dragged you away from your best friend, but the memory feels like years ago. So much has happened since then, Steve has saved your life since then.

“Steve…” Your ankle is starting to sting again from standing for so long, so you adjust your footing and try to figure out what you want to say. “I never got to thank you back at Jonathan’s.”

“Thank me?” His face scrunches in confusion in a sickeningly cute way that it almost distracts you.

“Yes. You saved my life tonight, Steve. I won’t ever forget that.”

“Oh…There’s no need to thank me. I mean, what are friends for?” Steve freezes and clears his throat. “I mean, shit. We aren’t friends, you keep saying that. Sorry. You know what I mean.”

You know you shouldn’t, but you laugh. Honestly, after everything you’ve been through tonight with Steve, how can he possibly think the two of you aren’t friends?

“Why are you laughing?” Steve mumbles, confused.

“Sorry,” you wheeze out, still uncontrollably laughing. “It’s just–I mean, dude! We almost died together, of course we’re friends now!”

“We are?” He looks like a little kid on Christmas day being given the gift he’s always wanted.

Your heart warms. “Yes, idiot.”

Steve starts moving around in what you can only guess is a happy dance. “Sweet! Does this mean I get a cool nickname, too?”

“A nickname?” A bag of chips threatens to fall from your arms, but Steve catches it before it can land on the ground and takes a few more snacks off of your hands.

He readjusts the snacks he now has so that he can carry them easier. “Yeah, I mean. Byers has one, why can’t I?”

You don’t think you’ll ever stop feeling so thrown every time Steve mentions a small detail about you that he’s somehow come to notice. He has a habit of doing that, surprising you by how much he seems to pay attention to you. You thought that no one ever had before, but Steve continues to prove you wrong.

“I’ll tell ya what,” you begin to walk back towards the waiting room, careful to step carefully to not drop anything or upset your ankle. “Let’s see how this ‘friends’ thing works out, then I’ll decide what nickname fits you best. Deal?”

Steve thinks for a moment and follows. “Hmm. I don’t know, I think I’ll need some type of precaution to make sure you give me a nickname in the end. I want one, Y/N. I’m so serious right now.”

You laugh at his pleading tone. “I can add you to my baking list. Whatever I bake, you’ll get a piece of it. Is that better?”

“God, yes!” Steve punches the air and cheers.

You’re smiling so much that your face aches. You haven’t felt this light and carefree in so long, you’d almost forgotten what it’s like. The two of you don’t say anything else as you walk back to the waiting room, though Steve seems to slow down so that you don’t hurt your ankle keeping up, though you still let out a few winces and groans.

When you’ve arrived back at your seat, Steve sets down the snacks and runs off without another word. You’re confused by his sudden departure but don’t think much of it. Instead, you wake the boys up and show them your array of snacks, which wakes them up immediately.

You’re mediating a fight between Mike and Lucas over who gets the bag of Chips Ahoy when a nurse interrupts. “Excuse me, ma’am. This young man over here told me I should come over and check out your ankle?”

The woman smiles and you look past her and see Steve sheepishly waving from his seat across from you. You’re stunned. Had he really gone out of his way to ensure your ankle gets treated?

You shake the thoughts out of your head and inform the woman all she needs to know. You tell her how you’d fallen and what type of pain you feel when you stand up. She inspects the ankle, her fingers cold but kind, and within a few minutes has diagnosed you with a sprained ankle.

“All you can really do is stay off of it for a few weeks while it heals. I can go and get you some crutches, if you’d like?” She asks, rolling her gloves off and tucking them back into her pocket.

You nod. “If you wouldn’t mind, that’d be great.”

The nurse leaves with the promise of being back soon. In the meantime she instructs you to keep your ankle elevated, so you prop it against the coffee table and wait. You’re annoyed that you even have to have crutches, but then you think of Barb, of El. You’re luckier than you should be.

–

After an hour or so, Jonathan opens the door to the waiting room. He spots you and Mike talking softly with each other and whistles over to catch your attention. When Mike looks up, Jonathan nods at him and the boy scrambles out of his seat.

“Guys! Guys! He’s up, Will is up!” Mike shakes awake Lucas and Dustin, who had been cuddling on the seats fast asleep. “Will’s up!”

Once they’re awake, they quickly follow after Mike and the three boys are gone in an instant, sprinting down the hall towards Will’s room. Clearly they’re eager to see their friend.

You do your best to get up as fast as possible, but your new crutches serve more as a nuisance rather than an aid. As you struggle to get up, somehow knocking over the mountain of snacks, Steve rushes over.

He grabs the crutches and offers you his hand. “Here, careful.”

“Thanks,” you awkwardly accept his hand and get up. Jonathan watches from the doorway, a curious look on his face. Nancy does the same from her seat, not saying a word as she watches Steve gently help you navigate the waiting room with your injury.

Jonathan holds the door open for you and takes over once you’re out the door. He grabs the crutches from Steve and is now the one to hold your hand, balancing you. “I can take it from here, Harrington.”

“Right, yeah.” Steve scratches the back of his head and coughs. “I’ll just… yeah.”

He heads back inside and you and Jonathan watch as he leaves. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Jonathan turns to you. “Are you two friends now or something?”

“We almost died tonight, bee. I think it’s safe to call Steve a friend now.”

Jonathan bites his lip, though there’s a far off look in his eye that leaves you feeling like you’ve missed something in the conversation. “Guess that’s true. Anyways, let’s get you to Will.”

By the time you make it to the room, the boys have swarmed around Will and are telling him everything he’s missed this week. He’s listening eagerly as they’re telling him about El, but when he sees you enter the room, his eyes light up and he tries to sit up.

“Y/N!” Will calls out, pure excitement in his voice.

You practically fall over in your haste to get to him. The second you’re close enough, you collapse onto his bed and give him the tightest hug you possibly can without hurting him. He feels so small against you, smaller than he’s ever felt before, and his sunken eyes and pale skin make you want to cry.

But he’s alive and here and in your arms once again, happy and wonderful and safe.

“Little bee,” you try not to cry, but tears are thick in your voice. “I missed you.”

Will manages a weak smile and shrugs, trying to play off the gravity of the situation. “Took a little detour home.”

You laugh and ruffle his hair. “At least you came home, that’s all that matters.”

“Ahem,” Mike obnoxiously clears his throat, effectively ending your moment with Will. “You’re hogging Will, move over.”

You laugh again and move away, allowing the boys to resume their millions of updates. You maneuver your crutches and walk over to Jonathan, who is standing by the door. He’s looking at the boys and Will with a soft smile on his face and you join him, standing side by side as you watch your boys finally come together again.

Then, you feel a pair of eyes on you and you turn around. Nancy is leaning against the doorway behind you; she looks frail and distraught. There’s a sadness in her eyes as she watches the kids. You know that watching the boys reunite with their friend must remind her of Barb. She never got her happy reunion.

You feel awful for the girl, so when her bittersweet smile drops and she turns to leave the room, you nudge Jonathan to make him aware of the situation. He sees her fleeing and begins to follow after her, but he stops.

“What are you waiting for? Go.” You tell him, knowing it’s for the best.

He shifts his weight, uncertain. “Are you sure?”

You’re not sure how to decipher the hidden meanings underneath those three words, but you find that you’re exhausted trying to keep reading between the lines. The feelings you’ve kept buried bubble to the surface, but you remind yourself that he loves Nancy, despite your weird moments of almost with him. There’s something there between you and Jonathan, you both can feel it, but it feels too raw and fragile to bring into the light.

Without having to ask, you know that Jonathan will choose her.

It breaks your heart, but you look over at Dustin and Will, who are laughing about some joke while Joyce gazes at them fondly, and you know that you can’t lose this. Maybe Jonathan knows this, too. The small family you’ve built together, it’s too precious to ruin.

Joyce and your boys, you can’t lose them. They’re yours, and Jonathan is yours in a way that you can’t quite keep to yourself forever, but for now it’s enough. You approach Joyce, grab her hand and give her a tired smile, and the smile she returns to you reminds you that this is more than enough for you.

You turn to Jonathan, pushing down your feelings once more in favor of appreciating the fact that Will is looking at you again, alive. “Go, bee.”

Jonathan gives you one last look. You study his face for a moment, watching as it shifts from confusion, to hurt, then finally into acceptance. You’ll never be sure of what exactly he’d been thinking in that moment, but it seemed to have been enough for him, too.

He smiles, lets out a deep breath, and then leaves.

The door closes softly behind him.

–

A month later you find yourself in the passenger seat of Jonathan's car, tired from your shift at Bookstrordinary but excited to pick up your brothers. Somehow, even after missing three consecutive shifts last month, Mrs. Waters refused to fire you.

But Jonathan? He hadn’t been so lucky. His boss fired him from the Hawk, but he hadn’t been too upset. He still drives you to and from work, so you suppose things could be worse.

It’s late, but the two of you take your time driving to the Wheeler’s. Nothing much has changed between you two following Will’s reappearance. Sure, maybe you’re at his house more just to make sure Will is adapting well, but besides that everything seemed to go back to normal.

Well, almost normal.

Steve appeared at your job a few days after your conversation in the hospital. He had surprised you when you walked in, and when you asked what he was doing in a bookstore, Steve simply shrugged and said, “You can’t figure out my nickname if we don’t hang out, right? So, I’m here.”

He had become a regular at the store, stopping by whenever he could, and slowly the two of you became good friends. You’ve come to enjoy Steve’s presence, something that you never thought would ever happen. But he keeps you company as you work, he wanders around and explores the comics and books you recommend to him, and it’s nice having someone to goof off with.

Plus, you did promise to add him to your baking list, so he’s also become your taste tester who happily eats any creation you bring in for him.

As for Nancy…

That was more of a sore subject for Jonathan.

There was a few weeks following Will’s reappearance that you thought Jonathan and Nancy would get together, but it never happened. You’re not quite sure why, maybe it had something to do with Jonathan’s hesitation of approaching her, but it had crushed him when you and he saw Nancy and Steve making out in the hall as if nothing bad had ever happened.

The way Jonathan’s face crumbled when he saw the couple only solidified that he’d never be yours, but you comforted him anyways. You told him he deserved better and then dragged him away. It’d taken him a few days, but eventually Jonathan was able to fake a smile again.

You haven’t spoken about it since that day, but you leave your window open most nights for him to crawl in. The nightmares from that night fighting the monster plague you both, and the loneliness feels a little heavier than usual, but at least you have each other.

“Jonathan! Y/N! Come in, the boys are downstairs.” Mrs. Wheeler answers the door, letting the two of you in. “And Y/N, I love that sweater on you.”

You thank the woman. “It was a gift from my mom. She claims I need to up my wardrobe, whatever that means.”

“Well, I think she has lovely taste.”

“I’ll let you know you think so!” You open the basement door and motion for Jonathan to go down first.

When he reaches the bottom of the steps, Jonathan makes a face. “Woah, what’s that smell? Have you guys been playing games all day, or just farting?”

“My vote is farting.” You say, hopping down the last step. Your ankle has mostly healed by now, but sometimes if you land on it wrong it makes a weird clicking noise followed by some pain, but you choose to pretend that it’s normal.

The boys laugh and Lucas points at your brother. “Oh, that’s just Dustin. He farted.”

He begins making fart noises with his mouth and you and Dustin share a look. “Very mature, Lucas.”

The boy continues to sing and make fart noises and you can’t believe that this is your life. You’re standing in a smelly basement while picking up your stubborn brother all while simultaneously enjoying the fact that you get to call this your life.

Jonathan calls over to Will to grab his things, so you follow suit and gently berate Lucas. “Alright, that’s enough. I gotta get Dustin home.”

“What, I thought I got to stay–”

“Jonathan is our ride and I made cookies, so let’s go.”

The moment the word “cookies” leaves your mouth, Dustin hops up and collects his things without any further argument.

Once he’s ready, he and Lucas play wrestle as they say goodbye. While they’re distracted, you walk over to Mike and discreetly hand him a container full of double fudge brownies. You’d specifically made them for him, knowing they were his favorite, because you noticed how hard it’s been for him to adjust to El being gone. He really cared about her, anyone could see that.

Mike’s eyes widen and he throws his arms around you. “Thanks, Y/N.”

You pat his back. “Anytime, Wheeler.”

Dustin breaks away from Lucas and runs up the stairs, so you take that as your cue to leave.

Upstairs, Jonathan and Will are talking to Mrs. Wheeler. When they see you enter, the woman turns to you and asks if you’ll be bringing over your usual round of holiday treats. “Of course, I’ll get started on them tomorrow. You guys still like the sugar cookies?”

“If you make them, I think I’ll die of happiness.” Mrs. Wheeler informs you, and you laugh and tell her that you’ll have them ready as soon as possible.

You bid her goodbye, Dustin now by your side, and you follow Jonathan and Will to the front door. Right before you open the door, Nancy calls Jonathan’s name from the top of the stairs.

“Hey, Jonathan, wait up!”

You, Dustin, and Will stand awkwardly in the back while Nancy hands Jonathan a wrapped gift and wishes him a merry Christmas. They share an awkward exchange since Jonathan hadn’t gotten her anything, but Nancy assures him that it’s fine. The interaction is painful to watch as Nancy doesn’t spare you a single glance. Dustin and Will look at you uncertainly when she kisses Jonathan’s cheek, but you ignore them and pretend to be interested in a Christmas decoration on the table.

This will never get any easier.

“You ready?” Jonathan turns back to you guys, a blush on his face, and all you can do is silently nod.

In the car you sit in the back with Dustin, who squeezes your arm in reassurance. He’s come to understand your complex feelings for Jonathan and has pieced together Nancy’s involvement. While he’s never outright consoled you, he’s shown his support in other small and wonderful ways.

“Thanks,” you whisper, and Dustin smiles.

“We all buckled up?” Jonathan asks as he starts up the car.

“Yes, captain.” You mock salute.

Will giggles at you before he sees the gift and looks up at Jonathan. “Can I open it?”

“Yeah, sure.”

You and Dustin lean forward so you can see what’s in the box. When Will unwraps a beautiful, and no doubt expensive, camera, you gasp. The bitterness and hurt from moments ago vanishes. This gift is from Steve, you know it is, and something warm settles deep within your bones.

You think about last month, how you’d told him not everyone can just afford a camera.

Seems like Steve listened.

Maybe he isn’t so bad after all.

–

A week later you knock on the Byers’ door, a giant container of your annual holiday cookies in your arms.

“Bug!” Jonathan answers the door with an excited smile on his face. His new camera is in his hands and before you can even process what’s happening, he’s already taken a photo of you with your crooked earmuffs and oversized box of cookies.

He’s been using the camera ever since he got it. There’s now multiple pictures of you, always unaware or caught off guard, now hanging in the kitchen. It makes you blush to think about.

“You didn’t even give me a chance to smile.” You complain, shoving your way inside. It’s snowing and you’re freezing.

Joyce grabs the container to help you as soon as she sees you. “Here, honey. I’ve got it.”

You thank her and walk over to Will, who is drawing at the kitchen table. “Hey little bee. Whatcha drawing?”

“Hi, Y/N.” He slides over his picture and you’re shown a quick sketch of you and the party, this time fighting what appears to be a misshapen dog. “It’s a Dire Wolf, we’re fighting it in our latest campaign.”

“Ah, I see. Looks fluffy, though. Can’t possibly be a dangerous creature.”

Will rolls his eyes at you. “This is why you don’t play with us.”

“Careful, you’re sassing the girl who has just bravely ridden her bike through the snow to deliver her famous Christmas cookies.”

Will is out of his seat in an instant, running over to his mom, who has just placed the container on the counter. “Did you make the oatmeal raisin cookies?”

“Duh,” you snort.

“And the chocolate chip?”

“I sure did.” You stand next to him and point at a new cookie you’re trying out this year. “This batch is a caramel banana one. Steve seemed to like it and I think it’s pretty good, so I hope you do too.”

Jonathan swoops over and kisses your head. “Of course we’ll like it, bug.”

“He’s right, you know. We always love whatever you make us, honey.” Joyce informs you, her mouth now full of cookies.

“I’d hope so, this is like my fifth year making these for you guys. It’d be awkward if you hated my baking.” You say, now securing your earmuffs back on your head. “Anyways, I should get going. It’s Christmas, my mom won’t want me out too long.”

Joyce looks out the window and frowns. “Did you really bike here in this weather?”

“It wasn’t too bad, I’ll be fine–”

“No. Jonathan, grab your keys and drive Y/N home.” She stares you down, daring you to argue with her, but you don’t. You know better than to argue with Joyce Byers.

Once Jonathan has his keys, you say goodbye to everyone and wish them a merry Christmas. Jonathan throws your bike in his trunk and soon you’re off on the road. The drive is quiet but cozy. The snowflakes fall in a pretty spiral and there’s a soft song playing on the radio.

Sometimes, if you close your eyes, you can pretend that the events from last month never happened. Will never disappeared. You never discovered that you love Jonathan. Nancy Wheeler never became friends with Jonathan, possibly something more had there been more time. When you close your eyes and sit still, you can imagine that your brother never has nightmares that wake him up screaming. That your heart doesn’t hurt when you make your best friend laugh.

For a moment, you can forget.

“Can we always stay like this?” You ask Jonathan softly, almost as if you’ll disturb the peace that winter has brought with its quiet snow.

“Like what?”

You’re not sure how to express what you’re feeling. “This, us. Together.”

“Of course we’ll always stay like this.” He grabs your hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss it. He says this like it’s a fact, the most obvious thing in the world.

“Pinky promise me.” You hold your pinky up. You know it’s silly, but you need him to hear you, to understand what you’re saying.

Jonathan looks over at you. “Y/N–”

“Please, promise me, bee.”

He’s silent for a moment, seeming to understand the weight of everything between, around, and within the two of you. Then, he extends his pinky finger and wraps it around yours. “I promise, bug.”

And you believe him.

[END OF SEASON ONE]

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⌑ thank you for reading ! feel free to like, comment, reblog, or send in an ask so we can chat <3

#steve harrington x henderson!reader #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #stranger things #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things rewrite #slowburn #angst #wdtai #m's writing #im so tired n happy and full of love for u all #cannot believe its done :')#pls pls pls enjoy <333

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hms-no-fun · 4 months ago

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Hi! I just read your post about your opinion on "AI" and I really liked it. If it's no bother, what's your opinion on people who use it for studying? Like writing essays, solving problems and stuff like that?

I haven't been a fan of AI from the beginning and I've heard that you shouldn't ask it for anything because then you help it develop. But I don't know how to explain that to friends and classmates or even if it's true anymore. Because I've seen some of the prompts it can come up with and they're not bad and I've heard people say that the summaries AI makes are really good and I just... I dunno. I'm at a loss

Sorry if this is a lot or something you simply don't want to reply to. You made really good points when talking about AI and I really liked it and this has been weighing on me for a while :)

on a base level, i don't really have a strongly articulated opinion on the subject because i don't use AI, and i'm 35 so i'm not in school anymore and i don't have a ton of college-aged friends either. i have little exposure to the people who use AI in this way nor to the people who have to deal with AI being used in this way, so my perspective here is totally hypothetical and unscientific.

what i was getting at in my original AI post was a general macroeconomic point about how all of the supposed efficiency gains of AI are an extension of the tech CEO's dislike of paying and/or giving credit to anyone they deem less skilled or intelligent than them. that it's conspicuous how AI conveniently falls into place after many decades of devaluing and deskilling creative/artistic labor industries. historically, for a lot of artists the most frequently available & highest paying gigs were in advertising. i can't speak to the specifics when it comes to visual art or written copy, but i *can* say that when i worked in the oklahoma film industry, the most coveted jobs were always the commercials. great pay for relatively less work, with none of the complications that often arise working on amateur productions. not to mention they were union gigs, a rare enough thing in a right to work state, so anyone trying to make a career out of film work wanting to bank their union hours to qualify for IATSE membership always had their ears to the ground for an opening. which didn't come often because, as you might expect, anyone who *got* one of those jobs aimed to keep it as long as possible. who could blame em, either? one person i met who managed to get consistent ad work said they could afford to work all of two or three months a year, so they could spend the rest of their time doing low-budget productions and (occasionally) student films.

there was a time when this was the standard for the film industry, even in LA; you expected to work 3 to 5 shows a year (exact number's hard to estimate because production schedules vary wildly between ads, films, and tv shows) for six to eight months if not less, so you'd have your bills well covered through the lean periods and be able to recover from what is an enormously taxing job both physically and emotionally. this was never true for EVERYONE, film work's always been a hustle and making a career of it is often a luck-based crapshoot, but generally that was the model and for a lot of folks it worked. it meant more time to practice their skills on the job, sustainably building expertise and domain knowledge that they could then pass down to future newcomers. anything that removes such opportunities decreases the amount of practice workers get, and any increased demand on their time makes them significantly more likely to burn out of the industry early. lower pay, shorter shoots, busier schedules, these aren't just bad for individual workers but for the entire industry, and that includes the robust and well-funded advertising industry.

well, anyway, this year's coca-cola christmas ad was made with AI. they had maybe one person on quality control using an adobe aftereffects mask to add in the coke branding. this is the ultimate intended use-case for AI. it required the expertise of zero unionized labor, and worst of all the end result is largely indistinguishable from the alternative. you'll often see folks despair at this verisimilitude, particularly when a study comes out that shows (for instance) people can't tell the difference between real poetry and chat gpt generated poetry. i despair as well, but for different reasons. i despair that production of ads is a better source of income and experience for film workers than traditional movies or television. i despair that this technology is fulfilling an age-old promise about the disposability of artistic labor. poetry is not particularly valued by our society, is rarely taught to people beyond a beginner's gloss on meter and rhyme. "my name is sarah zedig and i'm here to say, i'm sick of this AI in a major way" type shit. end a post with the line "i so just wish that it would go away and never come back again!" and then the haiku bot swoops in and says, oh, 5/7/5 you say? that is technically a haiku! and then you put a haiku-making minigame in your crowd-pleasing japanese nationalist open world chanbara simulator, because making a haiku is basically a matter of selecting one from 27 possible phrase combinations. wait, what do you mean the actual rules of haiku are more elastic and subjective than that? that's not what my english teacher said in sixth grade!

AI is able to slip in and surprise us with its ability to mimic human-produced art because we already treat most human-produced art like mechanical surplus of little to no value. ours is a culture of wikipedia-level knowledge, where you have every incentive to learn a lot of facts about something so that you can sufficiently pretend to have actually experienced it. but this is not to say that humans would be better able to tell the difference between human produced and AI produced poetry if they were more educated about poetry! the primary disconnect here is economic. Poets already couldn't make a fucking living making poetry, and now any old schmuck can plug a prompt into chatgpt and say they wrote a sonnet. even though they always had the ability to sit down and write a sonnet!

boosters love to make hay about "deskilling" and "democratizing" and "making accessible" these supposedly gatekept realms of supposedly bourgeois expression, but what they're really saying (whether they know it or not) is that skill and training have no value anymore. and they have been saying this since long before AI as we know it now existed! creative labor is the backbone of so much of our world, and yet it is commonly accepted as a poverty profession. i grew up reading books and watching movies based on books and hearing endless conversation about books and yet when i told my family "i want to be a writer" they said "that's a great way to die homeless." like, this is where the conversation about AI's impact starts. we already have a culture that simultaneously NEEDS the products of artistic labor, yet vilifies and denigrates the workers who perform that labor. folks see a comic panel or a corporate logo or a modern art piece and say "my kid could do that," because they don't perceive the decades of training, practice, networking, and experimentation that resulted in the finished product. these folks do not understand that just because the labor of art is often invisible doesn't mean it isn't work.

i think this entire conversation is backwards. in an ideal world, none of this matters. human labor should not be valued over machine labor because it inherently possesses an aura of human-ness. art made by humans isn't better than AI generated art on qualitative grounds. art is subjective. you're not wrong to find beauty in an AI image if the image is beautiful. to my mind, the value of human artistic labor comes down to the simple fact that the world is better when human beings make art. the world is better when we have the time and freedom to experiment, to play, to practice, to develop and refine our skills to no particular end except whatever arbitrary goal we set for ourselves. the world is better when people collaborate on a film set to solve problems that arise organically out of the conditions of shooting on a live location. what i see AI being used for is removing as many opportunities for human creativity as possible and replacing them with statistical averages of prior human creativity. this passes muster because art is a product that exists to turn a profit. because publicly traded companies have a legal responsibility to their shareholders to take every opportunity to turn a profit regardless of how obviously bad for people those opportunities might be.

that common sense says writing poetry, writing prose, writing anything is primarily about reaching the end of the line, about having written something, IS the problem. i've been going through the many unfinished novels i wrote in high school lately, literally hundreds of thousands of words that i shared with maybe a dozen people and probably never will again. what value do those words have? was writing them a waste of time since i never posted them, never finished them, never turned a profit off them? no! what i've learned going back through those old drafts is that i'm only the writer i am today BECAUSE i put so many hours into writing generic grimdark fantasy stories and bizarrely complicated werewolf mythologies.

you know i used to do open mics? we had a poetry group that met once a month at a local cafe in college. each night we'd start by asking five words from the audience, then inviting everyone to compose a poem using those words in 10 to 15 minutes. whoever wanted to could read their poem, and whoever got the most applause won a free drink from the cafe. then we'd spend the rest of the night having folks sign up to come and read whatever. sometimes you'd get heartfelt poems about personal experiences, sometimes you'd get ambitious soundcloud rappers, sometimes you'd get a frat guy taking the piss, sometimes you'd get a mousy autist just doing their best. i don't know that any of the poetry i wrote back then has particular value today, but i don't really care. the point of it was the experience in that moment. the experience of composing something on the fly, or having something you wrote a couple days ago, then standing up and reading it. the value was in the performance itself, in the momentary synthesis between me and the audience. i found out then that i was pretty good at making people cry, and i could not have had that experience in any other venue. i could not have felt it so viscerally had i just posted it online. and i cannot wrap up that experience and give it to you, because it only existed then.

i think more people would write poetry if they had more hours in a day to spare for frivolities, if there existed more spaces where small groups could organize open mics, if transit made those spaces more widely accessible, if everyone made enough money that they weren't burned the fuck out and not in the mood to go to an open mic tonight, if we saw poetry as a mode of personal reflection which was as much about the experience of having written it as anything else. this is the case for all the arts. right now, the only people who can afford to make a living doing art are already wealthy, because art doesn't pay well. this leads to brain drain and overall lowering quality standards, because the suburban petty bouge middle class largely do not experience the world as it materially exists for the rest of us. i often feel that many tech CEOs want to be remembered the way andy warhol is remembered. they want to be loved and worshipped not just for business acumen but for aesthetic value, they want to get the kind of credit that artists get-- because despite the fact that artists don't get paid shit, they also frequently get told by people "your work changed my life." how is it that a working class person with little to no education can write a story that isn't just liked but celebrated, that hundreds or thousands of people imprint on, that leaves a mark on culture you can't quantify or predict or recreate? this is AI's primary use-case, to "democratize" art in such a way that hacks no longer have to work as hard to pretend to be good at what they do. i mean, hell, i have to imagine every rich person with an autobiography in the works is absolutely THRILLED that they no longer have to pay a ghost writer!

so, circling back around to the meat of your question. as far as telling people not to use AI because "you're just helping to train it," that ship has long since sailed. getting mad at individuals for using AI right now is about as futile as getting mad at individuals for not masking-- yes, obviously they should wear a mask and write their own essays, but to say this is simply a matter of millions of individuals making the same bad but unrelated choice over and over is neoliberal hogwash. people stopped masking because they were told to stop masking by a government in league with corporate interests which had every incentive to break every avenue of solidarity that emerged in 2020. they politicized masks, calling them "the scarlet letter of [the] pandemic". biden himself insisted this was "a pandemic of the unvaccinated", helpfully communicating to the public that if you're vaccinated, you don't need to mask. all those high case numbers and death counts? those only happen to the bad people.

now you have CEOs and politicians and credulous media outlets and droves of grift-hungry influencers hard selling the benefits of AI in everything everywhere all the time. companies have bent over backwards to incorporate AI despite ethics and security worries because they have a fiduciary responsibility to their shareholders, and everyone with money is calling this the next big thing. in short, companies are following the money, because that's what companies do. they, in turn, are telling their customers what tools to use and how. so of course lots of people are using AI for things they probably shouldn't. why wouldn't they? "the high school/college essay" as such has been quantized and stripmined by an education system dominated by test scores over comprehension. it is SUPPOSED to be an exercise in articulating ideas, to teach the student how to argue persuasively. the final work has little to no value, because the point is the process. but when you've got a system that lives and dies by its grades, within which teachers are given increasingly more work to do, less time to do it in, and a much worse paycheck for their trouble, the essay increasingly becomes a simple pass/fail gauntlet to match the expected pace set by the simple, clean, readily gradable multiple choice quiz. in an education system where the stakes for students are higher than they've ever been, within which you are increasingly expected to do more work in less time with lower-quality guidance from your overworked teachers, there is every incentive to get chatgpt to write your essay for you.

do you see what i'm saying? we can argue all day about the shoulds here. of course i think it's better when people write their own essays, do their own research, personally read the assigned readings. but cheating has always been a problem. a lot of these same fears were aired over the rising popularity of cliffs notes in the 90s and 2000s! the real problem here is systemic. it's economic. i would have very little issue with the output of AI if existing conditions were not already so precarious. but then, if the conditions were different, AI as we know it likely would not exist. it emerges today as the last gasp of a tech industry that has been floundering for a reason to exist ever since the smart phone dominated the market. they tried crypto. they tried the metaverse. now they're going all-in on AI because it's a perfect storm of shareholder-friendly buzzwords and the unscientific technomythology that's been sold to laymen by credulous press sycophants for decades. It slots right into this niche where the last of our vestigial respect for "the artist" once existed. it is the ultimate expression of capitalist realism, finally at long last doing away with the notion that the suits at disney could never in their wildest dreams come up with something half as cool as the average queer fanfic writer. now they've got a program that can plagiarize that fanfic (along with a dozen others) for them, laundering the theft through a layer of transformation which perhaps mirrors how the tech industry often exploits open source software to the detriment of the open source community. the catastrophe of AI is that it's the fulfillment of a promise that certainly predates computers at the very least.

so, i don't really know what to tell someone who uses AI for their work. if i was talking to a student, i'd say that relying chatgpt is really gonna screw you over when it comes time take the SAT or ACT, and you have to write an essay from scratch by hand in a monitored environment-- but like, i also think the ACT and SAT and probably all the other standardized tests shouldn't exist? or at the very least ought to be severely devalued, since prep for those tests often sabotages the integrity of actual classroom education. although, i guess at this point the only way forward for education (that isn't getting on both knees and deep-throating big tech) is more real-time in-class monitored essay writing, which honestly might be better for all parties anyway. of course that does nothing to address research essays you can't write in a single class session. to someone who uses AI for research, i'd probably say the same thing as i would to someone who uses wikipedia: it's a fine enough place to start, but don't cite it. click through links, find sources, make sure what you're reading is real, don't rely on someone else's generalization. know that chatgpt is likely not pulling information from a discrete database of individual files that it compartmentalizes the way you might expect, but rather is a statistical average of a broad dataset about which it cannot have an opinion or interpretation. sometimes it will link you to real information, but just as often it will invent information from whole cloth. honestly, the more i talk it out, the more i realize all this advice is basically identical to the advice adults were giving me in the early 2000s.

which really does cement for me that the crisis AI is causing in education isn't new and did not come from nowhere. before chatgpt, students were hiring freelancers on fiverr. i already mentioned cliffs notes. i never used any of these in college, but i'll also freely admit that i rarely did all my assigned reading. i was the "always raises her hand" bitch, and every once in a while i'd get other students who were always dead silent in class asking me how i found the time to get the reading done. i'd tell them, i don't. i read the beginning, i read the ending, and then i skim the middle. whenever a word or phrase jumps out at me, i make a note of it. that way, when the professor asks a question in class, i have exactly enough specific pieces of information at hand to give the impression of having done the reading. and then i told them that i learned how to do this from the very same professor that was teaching that class. the thing is, it's not like i learned nothing from this process. i retained quite a lot of information from those readings! this is, broadly, a skill that emerges from years of writing and reading essays. but then you take a step back and remember that for most college students (who are not pursuing any kind of arts degree), this skillset is relevant to an astonishingly minimal proportion of their overall course load. college as it exists right now is treated as a jobs training program, within which "the essay" is a relic of an outdated institution that highly valued a generalist liberal education where today absolute specialization seems more the norm. so AI comes in as the coup de gras to that old institution. artists like myself may not have the constitution for the kind of work that colleges now exist to funnel you into, but those folks who've never put a day's thought into the work of making art can now have a computer generate something at least as good at a glance as basically anything i could make. as far as the market is concerned, that's all that matters. the contents of an artwork, what it means to its creator, the historic currents it emerges out of, these are all technicalities that the broad public has been well trained not to give a shit about most of the time. what matters is the commodity and the economic activity it exists to generate.

but i think at the end of the day, folks largely want to pay for art made by human beings. that it's so hard for a human being to make a living creating and selling art is a question far older than AI, and whose answer hasn't changed. pay workers more. drastically lower rents. build more affordable housing. make healthcare free. make education free. massively expand public transit. it is simply impossible to overstate how much these things alone would change the conversation about AI, because it would change the conversation about everything. SO MUCH of the dominance of capital in our lives comes down to our reliance on cars for transit (time to get a loan and pay for insurance), our reliance on jobs for health insurance (can't quit for moral reasons if it's paying for your insulin), etc etc etc. many of AI's uses are borne out of economic precarity and a ruling class desperate to vacuum up every loose penny they can find. all those billionaires running around making awful choices for the rest of us? they stole those billions. that is where our security went. that is why everything is falling apart, because the only option remaining to *every* institutional element of society is to go all-in on the profit motive. tax these motherfuckers and re-institute public arts funding. hey, did you know the us government used to give out grants to artists? did you know we used to have public broadcast networks where you could make programs that were shown to your local community? why the hell aren't there public youtube clones? why aren't there public transit apps? why aren't we CONSTANTLY talking about nationalizing these abusive fucking industries that are falling over themselves to integrate AI because their entire modus operandi is increasing profits regardless of product quality?

these are the questions i ask myself when i think about solutions to the AI problem. tech needs to be regulated, the monopolies need breaking up, but that's not enough. AI is a symptom of a much deeper illness whose treatment requires systemic solutions. and while i'm frustrated when i see people rely on AI for their work, or otherwise denigrate artists who feel AI has devalued their field, on some level i can't blame them. they are only doing what they've been told to do. all of which merely strengthens my belief in the necessity of an equitable socialist future (itself barely step zero in the long path towards a communist future, and even that would only be a few steps on the even longer path to a properly anarchist future). improve the material conditions and you weaken the dominance of capitalist realism, however minutely. and while there are plenty of reasons to despair at the likelihood of such a future given a second trump presidency, i always try to remember that socialist policies are very popular and a *lot* of that popularity emerged during the first trump administration. the only wrong answer here is to assume that losing an election is the same thing as losing a war, that our inability to put the genie back in its bottle means we can't see our own wishes granted.

i dunno if i answered your question but i sure did say a lot of stuff, didn't i?

#sarahposts #ai #ai art #chatgpt #llm #genai #capitalism #unions #labor #workers rights #capitalist realism #longpost #sarahAIposts

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