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nellyofthevalley · 4 months

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truths, ch.3

astarion x fem!tav rating: explicit

content: piv sex, fingering, biting/blood drinking, emotionally repressed losers who can't communicate, angst

summary: this fic is mostly an excuse to write a bunch of dialogue bouncing around in my head. astarion is a sad little idiot who turns his fears into a self-fulfilling prophecy because he never learned how to love. it may or may not turn into a tragedy

“I’m mad at you.” Tav says she’s mad, but her brows soften and she doesn’t stop him, doesn’t ask him to apologize. “I… I don’t know why I came over here.” She glances over her shoulder, uncertain, like she might leave, but no matter how much she thinks about it, she can’t. She feels stuck, as if the palm he laid on her restrains her with magic. “I do,” Astarion taunts her, gently caressing her over her clothes. “He left you wanting. I can hear your body and blood calling for me. Your heart races for me when I touch you.”

chapters: ch.1 | ch.2 | ch.3 | ch.4 | ch.5 | ch.6 | ch.7 | ch.8

read it on ao3 or below the cut

Astarion hates the way Gale looks at her, particularly because he knows it’s his doing. Of course it is—his worst punishments are always by his own hand. Cazador liked to remind him of that often.

It’s not jealousy that negs at him, it’s a sense of possession. All the time that Gale spends talking to her, making her laugh; Gods, that was his spot once, and she’s so easily replaced him. Gale hadn’t marked her like he had, can’t drink her life’s blood like he does… he knows she enjoyed it, and anyone else would leave her wanting. Her taste from a week ago still persists on his tongue like a brutal burn, to be soothed only by another visit.

Perhaps Tav has replaced his charm and wit with whatever it is that wizard has to offer, but from where he’s sitting, it’s his coat she clings to every night. Whenever Gale leans into her and inhales, it’s Astarion’s scent that lingers on her skin. That’s what he tells himself when Gale leans in and kisses her goodnight.

Tav looks over, and in spite of his best efforts to dive right back into his book, he’s sure she caught him staring. It’s fine, he shakes it off; she’s equally as guilty. To meet his eyes right after kissing another? How scandalous. How rewarding it is to know that even if her mind wanders, her body thinks of him.

Astarion’s been avoiding her, sat inside his tent with a book. He’s lost, he can’t make sense of what they’re doing—what he’s doing—or how to approach what he’d done. It’s simple, or it should be; the art of charming people is supposed to be a skill he excels at. After so many years stalking the streets for Cazador, he’s grown a tough exterior and learned how to shield himself from the atrocities he’s committed.

But she’s different. There’s something about her he can’t quite understand, and when he talks to her, it’s not him speaking; it’s some innate being that possesses him and speaks with his voice. Astarion still dreams of seeing his plan through to the end, but when they speak and their eyes meet, when he touches her, it’s as if that shield has simply disintegrated.

When Tav finally starts to gravitate towards him, he feels like he’s won. It doesn’t matter who spends all day talking to her, so long as she keeps coming to his tent at night.

“Well, hello,” he says, not looking up from his reading. “So, you and Gale?”

She kneels at the entrance of his tent, a bit shocked that he’d bring up the topic so quickly and brazenly.

“You’re jealous, aren’t you?” She’s teasing him, fishing for any hint of what he’s thinking.

“No, I feel bad for you,” Astarion says, flippant. “He must taste dreadful.” He sets the book aside and finally eyes her. A mistake.

“It just happened,” Tav explains. “I didn’t know he saw me that way.” She’s justifying herself, and he didn’t even have to ask for it. There are few things in this world better than watching Tav fumble over her words and let slip her truths.

“Ah, but you so eagerly reciprocated.”

“I—What business is it of yours? You had your chance.”

“Give me a second one, then,” Astarion asks, offering his hand. “Let me make it up to you, darling.”

“Say ‘please’,” she says, toying with him again. “Say it like you actually mean it.”

“Let me prove to you I’m more worth your time than he is,” he pleads. Tav hesitantly accepts his outstretched hand, and he takes full advantage, yanking her forward and guiding her thighs to his lap. “Please.” Already, she’s a bit flustered, and she thinks she’s in control. How fun.

“Tell me another truth,” she demands.

Perverse imagery of Tav as his spawn had continued to plague his mind; how he’d be her tutor in the ways of the sanguine, how they’d one day exchange blood, her cutesy eyes turned into a sinister shade of red. Oh, and her teeth; those pointed little things are adorable compared to the fangs she’d grow. It’s not pretty, not at all, but it is a truth.

“You’d look lovely as my spawn,” Astarion says. “I’ve been haunted by the thought ever since you did such a shit job drinking that wine.”

“Fortunate for me, then, that you can’t, isn’t it?”

She’s not harsh when she says it, but Tav’s stare on him is so fierce it cuts him like a wound. He wonders what lies behind it—a touchy subject? A warlock patron as grating as Mizora has been? She hasn’t mentioned anything about her own, not yet, and as much as he wants to know, her face is telling him not to ask.

It’s for the best. He’s already struggling with her. She needs to be another lost face to him, if he can manage it.

“Try again,” she demands.

“Oh, no. If anything, you should be telling me a truth,” he says, allowing his hand to slide further up her thigh. “I’ve given you so many already.”

“I do,” Astarion taunts her, gently caressing her over her clothes. “He left you wanting. I can hear your body and blood calling for me. Your heart races for me when I touch you.”

“Ugh,” is all Tav can muster; it’s maddening how weak she is, incapable of making him truly plead for her forgiveness, as she wants to. He broke her trust, left her bare and alone. Without a mention of it or even a sad, guilty look, she’s still a mess in his hands. All she could wring out of him was a half-hearted ‘please’.

Though the evidence of his jealousy seeping out of every sentence he speaks is a gift all on its own. He acts so polished and authoritative, but behind it is something else entirely; a man who would run away from her, yet still grows green with envy when another bids her goodnight.

“Gale kissed you and you looked at me when he did it,” Astarion continues, hand sliding down the front of her pants and taking pride in how damp he’s made her already. “What would he think if he knew what you’re doing with me right now?”

“Shut up.” For all of Tav’s good, there’s a devilish side to her, too, that she doesn’t want to face—or maybe it’s the shame that she crumbled so quickly. Both are equally enticing.

“You’re cold,” he observes, her skin prickling and shivering as he kisses all up her neck. She stays silent, though he can feel how she leans into him, practically begging him to take her.

She cries his name when Astarion penetrates her; his fingers slip inside her and curl, his teeth break her skin and draw her blood. Warmth spreads through her as he fucks her with his hand, slowly, savoring this. When she starts to claw at his hair, he regretfully separates from her neck and drags his tongue against her weeping wounds, taking care not to waste a single drop.

Tav clings to him tightly, her body involuntarily rocking against his hand, wishing for him to go faster, wishing for more. Astarion’s happy to indulge in her, pleasing her with his thumb and controlling her with only his fingers; her hands grab his face and pull him in to kiss her, her tongue eager to find his.

He smells blueberries on her again and can’t think of a word to describe it other than lovely. All of it—the touch of her hands on his face, how she kisses him like she can never get enough. Like she wants more than he is capable of giving.

Astarion curls his fingers in her again and unravels her; her nails grip his face hard, her legs tremble, her mouth sings a sweet song directly into his. When he retracts his hand and leaves her empty, she gasps and he inhales it like a drug.

“Hells,” she says quietly, recovering.

Tav reaches for his bottoms but he stops her, kissing her hand, feeling compelled to by that unknown being inside of him.

It’s that stupid, inconsequential kiss that makes him realize he can’t do this. Can’t be with her like this again. It’s awful, how his mind wants to ruin her completely, and only a moment later, he’s overcome with these emotions of self-hatred, disgust. All he knows is that he can’t lay with her again, it’s not right. It’s not fair to her, not to either of them.

Astarion has never known how to lay with someone with care or affection; if he ever had, it’s an experience long lost to the last two lifetimes of horror. All he can see is Cazador feeding from her and killing her once he’s done fucking her. How terrible he is for dragging her into this.

“I only wanted to… take care of you, too,” she says in a sad, soft voice that hurts his ears. She’s too pure. He runs his hand over the marks he’d given her like a reminder that she had, but his eyes are distant.

It’s in this moment, when he’s somewhere else, that she realizes how much she doesn’t know about him. This little game of truths and lies they play is exactly that—a game; he rarely shared anything real about himself, and she expertly dodges conversations of her own past. She’s asked him for more, but he’s never forthcoming. He told her about his former master, and how Cazador had carved the Infernal runes into his back when she noticed them.

“Astarion? Won’t you talk to me?”

Why he chose now to suddenly develop morals and some warped feeling of responsibility is beyond his comprehension. When she has that defeated look in her eyes, it’s like she’s peering right into his soul, like she can see something impossible in him. She doesn’t see him for what he knows himself to be: a monster.

“You were lovely,” he says, “but I—I think you should go.”

What he’s done settles in and makes itself cozy at home, in his brain. Maybe this is the only way he knows how to care for another, by pushing them away. When he left before, he knows he should have stayed away. Being around her is dangerous, for both of them. Self-preservation is the single piece of him left that he owns, no matter how weak it may be.

He wants to say sorry or to never have ended up here at all. He wishes any God listening would grant him the ability to do either. It never comes—they’ve never once answered him, why would they now?

“Really? Just like that? Bed me, get your fill, make me leave? Is this a joke to you? I don’t understand you.” She’s yelling, and he takes it; he earned it. “I’m… done with whatever this was.”

Tav has always been a crier, and she’s hated it for as long as she can recall. How a single tear can give you away and betray all the effort your mind puts into keeping your composure. Years ago, her brother would have been there to assure her it would all be fine, and that it’s okay to weep. This harsh, cold night is all too happy to remind her how he would never be there to do that for her again. Not until all of the water on this miserable world dries up and the sun is drained of its light.

#astarion #astarion x tav #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #tav x astarion #bg3 fanfiction #astarion fanfic #my fanfic

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cremisiusaclassii · 6 months

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In the back of my mind lives a fancy party quest or maybe even post game what are your thoughts regarding your two little guys

OH BOY HOWDY

Kel:

is not well versed in the Fancy Party Scene considering his former job as Homicidal Maniac, do not count on him to know the right forks or use or who to bow to in what order. if left unsupervised, will probably cause a diplomatic incident but will smooth it over in the same conversation bc he's so charming

he does clean up REAL good when he isn't dressing like a goofy ass loser, like seriously when he isn't dressing in stupid yellow and blue armor and dresses up for a Fancy Ball for the first time everyone in camp basically starts drooling

Gale and him slow dancing to something is literally hurting my heart UGH the idea of them being so gentle with each other

he may have left the lute at home but he will find a new one by the end of the night and it will end with him on a table, getting the whole crowd singing Sweet Caroline, no one is really sure how it happened

Woe:

also not extremely versed in the Fancy Party Scene, but has a fair amount of cobbled together knowledge on basic social etiquette, but will absolutely get in a brawl in public however if they witness a noble being snobby to the servants, regardless of how important they are

has absolutely been thrown out of/had to flee several parties that the gang were at for picking fights with people

Astarion leads on the dance floor, Woe has ZERO experience there but is enthusiastic

I like the idea of the two of them sneaking out of the party early though, it really isn't Woe's scene and Astarion probably just thinks about all the people who used parties like this to seduce and take back to Cazador

#god bless it bens

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everlark-your-own-adventure · 6 years

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Powder Keg - Ch 4

Welcome back, everlarkers! Last week’s gripping installment of Powder Keg found our heroine, Katniss, reluctantly sharing ski school duties with Peeta, her nemesis. And though she might have found a loophole to get out of spending the entire day with him you, everlarkers, kiboshed that idea and voted for them to work together.

What happens next? Does Katniss shove our cinnamon bun off the chairlift? Are the slopes not the only thing frozen at Mt. Mockingjay? Let’s find out! This week’s chapter was written by the lovely and talented @thegirlfromoverthepond

As always, you have 48 hours to vote, until noon, Wednesday, November the 29th. Remember, vote in the comments or reblogs, not in the tags! And as always, share with your friends, more voices = more fun! Ready? Here we go…

I should have called Gale. I would have made up for ruining his day off by giving him half of my days off. I would even have taken over teaching the old lady from the Capitol, the one he desperately wants to get rid of. I should have. But it’s too late now.

We’ve been on the bunny hill for two hours, and it’s obvious I can’t teach to save my life. I’ve always known that I don’t have much patience for little kids. I just didn’t need Peeta to be the one shoving it down my throat.

How he can handle twenty-two kids and their overly handsy teacher practically on his own is beyond me. All I’ve done is fetch the tennis balls that the kids drop on orange cones to practice their balance, or help the ones that fall get back up on their skis. Hell, the most exciting interaction I’ve had with any of them is when they were lining up to ride the magic carpet up the hill and some of the boys were whining about how they were too big for it.

They fell off, of course.

And where I would have gone with “I told you so”, Peeta was all, “Third time’s the charm!” He even offered them candy from who knows where.

I can’t wait to get out of here, to go home, pour myself a glass or five of wine, and forget about this day.

“This is not at all how I envisioned the end of the afternoon,” Peeta screams against the howling wind at the top of Mt. Mockingjay.

“Me neither!” I yell back, looking around for tracks in the blowing snow. Where would a fearless, obnoxious little brat decide to ski on his own?

Because, of course, one of the kids took off, escaped the bunny hill, which is why we find ourselves on the top of the mountain, ready to go off-piste to look for him. Having both grown up on these slopes, Jo figured we’d know all of the spots a naughty nine-year-old might hide. She’s right, of course, but I’d been hoping to be gone now, home, in front of the fire, forgetting about this wretched long day.

Peeta glances back over his shoulder, to the North, and makes a concerned face. I follow his line of sight and sure enough, there’s a very dark, very threatening gray cloud over Panem Peak. In two hours, or probably less, it will be over us, and bring a nasty snowstorm with it.

“There’s a storm coming!” I yell at Peeta, before pulling my ski mask on.

“Always stating the obvious, Everdeen. We need to find Elgish before it hits us!”

“What?” I must have misheard.

“We have to-”

“Not that, Mellark! What’s the kid’s name?”

“Elgish something?” He shrugs, as if he doesn’t know more. “But look who’s talking…” He points at his chest with his gloved hand. I appreciate that he’s bringing attention to his own strange name, instead of mine.

Our radios start to screech, and Jo’s voice echoes in the cold air. “Brainless? Bread boy? Do you copy?”

She’s so funny, Johanna with her nicknames.

“Roger, Jo, it’s Peeta. We’re about to head down the east slope of Mount MJ to try and find the kid.”

“Well, save yourselves. Thom found him. He was bribing Sae for a hot chocolate.”

“What?” We both shout at our radios. We’ve been looking for the kid for a solid hour and a half now, taking every shortcut and roped-off route we could think of.

“Yeah. You two need to come in now. And quickly. Panem Peak signals a snowstorm is coming.”

“Roger that, Control. We’re heading down,” Peeta says, before turning his radio off. We both heave a sigh of relief.

“Fancy a race, Everdeen?” I can feel his smirk. I really can. And I really, really shouldn’t answer him, or take any bait he gives me.

But I’m weak, especially where he’s concerned. I should hate him with all my being, but my being has apparently other ideas. I can’t help remembering all of the times we raced these slopes when we were younger. Before.

We’re standing at the top of my favourite run, the double diamond Powder Keg. Sixteen hundred vertical feet of tight twists and stomach-swooping plunges. And at this time of the evening, after a full day of people on the slope, it glitters with ice. It’ll be breathtakingly fast.

“You never were able to keep up with me on skis. Now that you’re a boarder, it won’t even be a challenge for me to beat you.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Sure. See you down there, Loser.”

I don’t wait for him to put on his mask, or check his gloves. I just want to go down the slope, ski it now that it’s free of kids and tourists, I just want to enjoy the feel of the snow under my skis, I just want to feel the wind on the little uncovered bit of my face, so cold yet so good. I just want to feel my hair dancing in the first flakes of snow, small dots of white in my dark mane.

I just want to forget the problems waiting for me down there. Just be Katniss, skier, and nothing else.

“Dammit Katniss!”

Of course, I’m not alone. I sigh, as I cut to the right, I glance back over my shoulder at the orange helmet just above me.

“What, Mellark? Afraid to lose?” I taunt.

“Katniss!!!” I hear him scream and then - blackness.

My leg hurts. That’s all I know when I open my eyes to the grey-white sky above me.

It’s snowing a lot more heavily now. Fat flakes are falling on the ground, covering it with a layer that will be a pleasure to ride tomorrow. My skis are by my head, planted firmly upright in the snow, along with Peeta’s, our poles laced together at the top.

But he is nowhere to be seen.

“Damn!” I hear Peeta’s voice from behind me. I sit up, turning towards his voice, and frown. My knee really hurts, and that’s never a good sign.

I try to stand up, being careful not to put weight on my left leg but even still it hurts, and my head is spinning too. I can’t believe I fell. I never fall when I ski. Never. He distracted me on purpose, all to win the race.

“You!!” I point at him. “Happy now? You’re going to win!” All of the frustration of the day, week, year bubbles over. I’m furious at him.

“Win? What?” Peeta looks at me as if he doesn’t understand what I’m saying.

“You- you distracted me, and I banged up my leg, all so you’d be the first one down and-”

I shift my weight, gesturing at him, and my knee decides to let go at that precise moment. I feel myself falling, again, see the snow rushing up… when something stops me. Two strong arms catch me, then haul me upright. I refuse to look up at Peeta. I know my eyes are filling with tears, and that if I see pity in his I will break down.

“Sit down.” Peeta carefully lowers me back to the ground before he continues talking. I don’t look at him, slumping forward, avoiding his concerned blue gaze. “I’m going to feel your leg, check for swelling.”

The mandatory first aid training all instructors take comes back to me. Swelling… meaning a potential fracture. I can’t have a fracture now, it would mean the end of my season and no pay.

I nod slightly, but apparently enough for Peeta to take off his gloves and start feeling through my ski pants for any broken bones. His hands are gentle and precise, checking my leg before moving to the knee. As soon as I feel his fingers on the joint, the pain makes me straighten, and I find myself face to face with my archnemesis. The very one who just happened to make me fall.

Twice.

I can’t hold them back anymore. The tears fall free, dripping down my cheeks. Maybe I’ve held them in for too long. For three years.

I find myself drawn into a warm embrace, into the once-familiar smell of cinnamon, into the warmth of once-tasted skin that my body still yearns to feel.

“Shh,” is all I can hear. My hands clutch his vest, as if it is the only thing they could possibly hang onto. After a moment, I try to pull away, not wanting to remember. But a warm arm encircles me, preventing me from escaping.

“You’ve got me right where you want me,” I mutter. “You’ve got me broken.”

“I never wanted to see you broken, Katniss. I don’t understand why you hate me so much… I thought…” he hesitates before ending in a whisper. “I thought we had something, you and me… and then… you shut me out.”

I straighten up at his words, pushing him away. His arms fall uselessly to his sides. I shut him out? He must be kidding!

Peeta looks around at the rapidly escalating storm. Already, it’s getting difficult to see the trail markers, and the slope lights don’t reach this high. “We can’t stay here, Katniss. Do you think you can ski down to the lodge with my help?” he asks, eyeing my leg doubtfully. “Or we could try to walk up to Old Hans’ cave and wait for the ski patrol?”

Though I haven’t poked around in there for years, I know the cave is nearby, no more than a hundred yards. But if we head there, we’ll be stuck there until the storm quiets. There’s no way that Johanna will send the ski patrol up here in a storm. But if we go slowly enough, and he helps, I just might be able to make it down the hill on my own skis before the worst of the weather hits.

What should I do?

#everlark #EYOA #powder keg #what a choice!!#I have no idea what she should do!#but you do dear readers #don't you?#so tell us #what should Katniss do now?#vote vote vote!

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litlifelover · 7 years

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Misadventure

Drabble-time! :D

This is - distantly - part of my "Tuscany"-universe. A short outtake somewhen before the "epilogue" of the story. Hope you enjoy!

Thanks to beta extraordinary @honeylime08 for always putting up with my english. You're wonderful!

Have fun! :)

Read on AO3

The call comes at half-past two in the morning.

She's groggy when she picks up, but wide awake when she hears the reason for the call. "He did what?!"

Forty minutes later Katniss steps into the bar. The lights are dim; the air is heavy with the smell of stale beer and sweat. The jukebox plays some 70's rock song. A couple of heads slowly turn in her direction when she enters, but that's all the attention she gets. The crowd is focused on four guys in front of a dartboard.

At least until Finnick Odair spots her.

"Kitty!" he calls and stretches out his arms in a wide gesture. "Look, Peet! Kitty's here. Told you she'd come." His speech is slightly slurred, his eyes a little glassy, and his grin so wide, it nearly splits his face in two.

He's drunker than he sounded on the phone.

"Of course, she's here! She loves me. You doubt my girlfriend?" Peeta chips in now. He clumsily pushes people aside to make it over to her.

When he reaches her, he ignores (or simply doesn't appreciate) her crossed arms and the raised eyebrow, as he throws his own arms around her. He presses his lips under her ear, and she smells the beer on his breath when he exhales contently.

He's way drunker than Finnick made it sound over the phone.

"You've got to be kidding me!" another, unfamiliar, voice snorts. "No chance Missy here can do this!"

Peeta turns around sharply, nearly knocking her over in the process. Finnick gasps dramatically. Eyebrows knitted, they glare at the man. "Watch it, man!"

Katniss steps forward, in between the stranger and her boyfriend, palms raised to ease the situation. "Ok, boys. Let's calm down and settle this, ok?"

She can't believe she's here. In a shabby bar. On a Thursday night, when she's got a shoot for Cosmopolitan in the morning. With her drunken boyfriend and his slightly less drunken best friend. To settle a bet.

Sometimes she wants to strangle Finnick. Katniss loves him to bits and pieces, but his ability to get Peeta and himself in trouble at the most inconvenient times is extraordinary.

Like when the guys celebrated Ava Odair's birth and got stopped by the police because Finnick and Peeta danced half-naked in the bed of Gale's truck, the former loudly singing "I've got a beautiful baby-girl". Thank god they got away with a warning.

Or when they went to Six Flags and got thrown out of Johnny Rockets after Finnick announced a Hamburger eating contest and one of the other guys started a brawl, accusing him of cheating. Peeta was the one who ended up with a black eye when he defended his best friend.

And now this.

"He got the ESPN Deal. We're heading out for a celebratory drink tonight, and we’ll party with you girls on the weekend. He's planning a big barbeque," Peeta announced that evening before at dinner, after Finnick had called him. Katniss knew that his best friend had hoped to land this job. As a former athlete, and with his charm and good looks, Finnick was made to be a sports commentator. She was excited for him, really.

What she didn't expect was the celebratory drink to turn into one of his misadventures. Although, now that she thinks about it, she could have guessed that it would end like this.

"You know the deal, sweetheart?" the stranger interrupts her thoughts, bringing her back to the situation at hand. His friend beside him snickers at his address.

She doesn't like the condescending look that asshole gives her, nor his sarcastic tone. It rubs her the wrong way and makes the competitive part of her rise like a phoenix from the ashes.

Katniss once again crosses her arms in front of her, and eyes him from head to toe.

"Bulls Eye Shootout. Taking turns. The first one to miss it three times loses. Winner gets the pot," she nods to a pile of stuff on the nearby pool table. Among other things Peeta's precious vintage Omega watch is part of the pile, and also the reason why Katniss agreed to come in the first place. "Loser also has to pay the open tab," she raises an eyebrow provocatively, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's not rocket science, sweetheart."

The crowd is amused at her spunk, some even laughing openly. Peeta snorts in approval, and Finnick starts to chant her name.

"Ladies first," the guy growls, irritation and anger now radiating off of him. Katniss just smirks and accepts the darts from a girl to her right.

Ten minutes later she slips the watch in her purse and grabs the rest of the things on the table.

"You whipped his ass!" Finnick hollers, but shuts up quickly when he sees Katniss' angry scowl. The night was long enough, she doesn't need to have it ending with a bar brawl.

"Let's go," is all she says, her tone leaving no room for argument, before she turns around and marches outside. Peeta and Finnick dutifully follow.

After bringing their friend safely back to his family (Annie simply shook her head and rolled her eyes before she guided the now totally exhausted man into their house), Peeta and Katniss finally arrive at their apartment. When Katniss sees the time a loud sigh escapes her. Twenty minutes past four. The alarm will go off in less than two hours.

Arms wrap around her from behind, lips press to her neck.

"You beating that guy was so hot," Peeta whispers, his speech still a little slurred. "It made me all worked up."

Katniss steps out of his arms, having no problem escaping him in his tipsy condition. Half a smirk is on her face and she wiggles her finger. "Then get comfortable with that feeling, my friend, because it’s not going away for the next couple of days."

She's met with utter confusion. "Sweetie?"

He's adorable, and his confusion makes her laugh out loud once. Nevertheless she shakes her head. "Uh-uh, Sweetie won't help you out of this one, Darling. I hope you enjoy sleeping on the couch."

Confusion turns to desperation. Peeta knows he's in trouble, but tries everything to soften the punishment. "Katniss? Baby?"

"Maybe next time you’ll think twice before putting your grandfather’s watch on the line. I'm off to bed. Good night, babe."

Even though she's still angry with him, it doesn't mean she’ll abstain from her good night kiss. Therefore she presses her lips quickly to his cheek before turning around and marching to their bedroom, leaving him standing in the middle of the living room.

When the surprise finally wears off, a long sigh escapes him.

Man, he thinks. I've got a lot of groveling to do.

He flops onto the couch and settles in for the night.

#LitLifeLovers stories #drabble #everlark #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #finnick odair #Tuscany-verse

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bibhabmishra · 4 years

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Ferris Bueller’s Day Off The Impact of Social Class

The eighties, goes the general thinking, was the decade of venality. No one in America—heck, in the WORLD—had been interested in making money before the 1980s came along and corrupted us all. It was, apparently, the era in which everyone walked around in gold lamé and regarded Ivana Trump as the last word in understated chic. Seriously, you couldn’t take the dog for a walk in the eighties without tripping over a giant Versace gold logo. And a pair of giant shoulder pads. And a massive pile of cocaine. And cocaine plays absolute HAVOC with one’s Armani stilettos. Maybe it was—far be it from me to cast aspersions on lazy descriptions of an era—but a little-remarked-upon truth is that this is not, in fact, the mentality depicted in many mainstream eighties movies. Many Hollywood movies ar- gued for, if not actual class warfare, then certainly a suspicion of wealth. Re- peatedly, wealthy people are depicted as disgusting, shallow, and even mur- derous, while working-class people are noble and good-intentioned, such as in not exactly niche films like Wall Street,I Beverly Hills Cop, Ruthless People, Rais- ing Arizona, and Overboard.

Contrast this with today’s films like Iron Man, in which the billionaire is the superhero (and is inspired by actual billionaire Elon Musk), and the deeply, deeply weird The Dark Knight Rises, in which the villain advocates the redistribution of wealth—HE MUST BE DESTROYED. But the eighties films that were the most interested in issues of class were, of all things, the teen films. The motivating force of almost every single classic eighties teen film was not, in fact, selling soundtracks, watching an eighteen-year-old Tom Cruise try to get laid, or seeing what ridiculous hairdo Nicolas Cage would sport this time round. It was social class. There’s The Karate Kid, in which the son of a single mother unsuccessfully tries to hide his poverty from the cool kids at school who make fun of his mother’s car; Dirty Dancing, in which a middle- class girl dates a working-class boy, much to her liberal father’s horror; Can’t Buy Me Love, in which a school nerd gains popularity by paying for it; Valley Girl, in which an upper-middle-class girl dates a working-class boy; Say Anything, in which a privileged girl dates a lower-middle-class army brat and her father turns out to be a financial criminal; The Flamingo Kid, in which a working-class kid is dazzled by a wealthy country club and starts to break away from his blue-collar father; and all John Hughes’s teen films. Of course, issues of class can be found in the undercurrents of pretty much any American movie, from The Philadelphia Story to The Godfather. The differ- ence with eighties teen films is that they were completely overt in their treat- ment of it: class is the major motivator of plot, even if it’s easy to miss next to the pop songs and Eric Stoltz’s smile. All these films stress emphatically that the money your family has determines everything, from who your friends are, to who you date, your social standing in school, your parents’ happiness and aspirations, and your future. They, to varying degrees, rage against the failure of the American Dream. They stress that true class mobility is pretty much impossible, and certainly interclass friendships and romances are unlikely, for the simple reason that rich people are assholes and lower-middle-class and working-class people are good. Which was unfortunate because according to the vast majority of eighties teen movies, the only way a teenager could truly move up out of their socioeconomic group was if they dated someone wealth- ier than them, Cinderella-style. The one exception to this rule is Back to the Future, which definitely does

not rage against the American system; instead, it concludes that, yes, money does buy happiness and that’s just great. When Marty returns from 1955 to 1985, he realizes that he has inadvertently changed history so that now his par- ents, formerly poor and therefore miserable and barely on speaking terms, are now rich and therefore happy and cheerfully smack each other’s backsides: “I remember how upset Crispin [Glover, who played George McFly] and Eric [Stoltz, who was originally cast as Marty] were about the ending of Back to the Future: now that they have money they’re happy,” recalls Lea Thompson, who played Lorraine Baines McFly. “They thought it was really outrageous. It went right over my head, of course. Maybe because I was poor and when I got wealthy I was happy!” This is indeed a subject that still riles Glover enor- mously. For decades he has spoken out against what he describes as “corpo- rate movies”—that is, studio movies—that peddle “propaganda” and he is cur- rently writing a book on the subject addressing, he says, “the Back to the Future issue in great detail.” “The main idea was that the family was in love and I felt that if there was any indication that money equals happiness, that was a bad message to put out,” he says, the exasperation still palpable in his voice thirty years on. “I was not given the screenplay before we shot the film because Universal and Spielberg were at the time making it apparent that they needed to keep their movie under wraps. Which I understand but as an actor you have to investigate the psy- chology of the character, and you can’t do that until you’ve read it. Now I would be very insistent [about reading a script before committing to a film], but I was twenty years old at the time and it was a Universal movie; of course I was glad to be in it. So I wasn’t given the opportunity to read it before I was hired and so it was fair for me to be asking these questions but they did not think it was fair. When you raise questions people say ‘You’re crazy, you’re weird,’ because you’re questioning the authority that people have been brought up to think is the only correct way to think, when there are many correct ways to think.” Ultimately, Glover says, he was so disgusted with the message of Back to the Future he refused to be in the sequel.II, III “The point [of making the McFly family wealthy] was that self-confidence and the ability to stand up for yourself are qualities that lead to success,” says Bob Gale, cowriter of Back to the Future. “So we showed George and Lorraine had an improved standard of living, we showed them loving toward each other, and we showed that George was a successful author. It was the way to show the audience that George had indeed become a better man. And, of course, in the beginning, we depicted George as a loser, Lorraine as a drunk, with a ter- rible car and a house full of mismatched and worn-out furnishings.” Back to the Future is such a charming film that it’s easy to be swept along by it and not notice this equation of lower-middle-class status with being a “loser.” But it does echo precisely the same message that other eighties teen films sent: the class you are born into dictates every aspect of your life. “Class has always been the central story in America, not race—class,” says Eleanor Bergstein, the writer and producer of Dirty Dancing. “And when you’re a teenager you really start to notice this.” And there was no teen filmmaker who felt this as deeply as Hughes. David Thomson complains in his majestic Biographical Dictionary of Film that in Hughes’s teen films “the fidelity of observation, the wit and the tender- ness for kids never quite transcend the general air of problem solving and putting on a piously cheerful face. No one has yet dared in America to portray the boredom or hopelessness of many teenage lives—think of Mike Leigh’s pictures to see what could be done.” The first thing to say is that to complain that John Hughes isn’t enough like Mike Leigh is like getting annoyed that a chocolate cookie is not trying hard enough if it’s not a roast chicken. But it isn’t fair to dismiss Hughes’s movies as devoid of “hopelessness” since his repeated depiction of class issues in his films definitely shows the “hopelessness” in these American teenagers’ lives. Pretty in Pink (lower- middle-class girl falls for wealthy boy) and Some Kind of Wonderful (lower- middle-class boy falls for lower-middle-class girl who has gained acceptance among the rich kids through her looks) are the most obvious examples of Hughes’s teen films that were obsessed with class injustice and how difficult it is for kids from different classes to connect (Hughes, despite his inherently romantic nature, apparently thought they couldn’t, really). But it’s there in all his teen films, including Sixteen Candles (Jake’s house is notably bigger and flashier than Samantha’s) and The Breakfast Club (Bender’s somewhat implau- sible-sound-ing home lifeIV is compared to pampered Claire’s world, in which she can give out diamond earrings on a whim). But the film that really empha- sizes how unfair he thought the system is is Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. There are many reasons to love Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, and I’ve gone through all of them. As I said in the introduction, this was the first what I called REAL MOVIE (that is, neither animated nor a musical) I was allowed to see and it instantly became my first love and Ferris my first crush. It represented every- thing to me, everything I wasn’t and didn’t have and wanted: teenagehood, freedom, coolness, sexiness. Every day after school, for a whole year, I would come home, go straight to the TV room, carefully close the door to keep out my dorky parents and Jeanie-ish younger sister, and watch Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Every. Single. Day. I carefully transcribed the script into my diary, which I still have, and at some point I decided my sister was sufficiently acceptable to allow her to reenact scenes from the movie with me, using my transcribed script. That summer, I taught my sister about making out, using the scene in which Ferris makes out with Sloane in the museum as a guide, and the two of us would duly writhe around on the living room, making out with our imag- inary boyfriends (Ferris for me, Marty McFly for her), while our parents, watch- ing from the doorway, wondered what new game their innocent little nine- and seven-year-old daughters had invented. This is perhaps the only time in my sister’s and my lives that our parents underestimated us. As a kid, I loved the film and Ferris because I thought Ferris was so cool— he was cute, he was funny, and, most thrillingly of all, he could drive a car. I fantasized about him driving me to school, holding my hand all the way. (Yes, that was my sexual fantasy. Like I said, I had a pretty sheltered childhood.) When I finally, and contrary to all my expectations, became a teenager and realized driving a car wasn’t quite as rare a skill as I’d believed as a nine- year-old, I decided that the real reason to love this film was that it was so weird. Like all of Hughes’s teen films, it has a simple premise (boy skips school and brings his best friend, Cameron, and girlfriend, Sloane, along for the ride) and takes place over a tiny period of time (like The Breakfast Club, Fer- ris Bueller’s Day Off doesn’t even cover twenty-four hours). But it is a much stranger beast than anything else Hughes ever wrote. While all Hughes’s other teen films deal with the emotional minutiae of being a teenager, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off doesn’t make even the slightest pretense to realism. The characters are all surreal exaggerations of recognizable characters—the teenager, Ferris, is just that little bit too cocky, the principal, Ed Rooney (Jeffrey Jones), is defi- nitely too demented—and the situations it depicts are, quite clearly, impos- sible.

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illtalktoyoureyes-blog · 7 years

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PODCAST BROS. AU

I. Bros being bros and podcasting about nerd shit.

II. The podcast has approximately four listeners, the most dedicated among them being Mike's mom. (Mike has repeatedly told his mother not to listen because it "makes him nervous.") This number fluctuates depending on the time of day, the weather, and the amount of disparaging remarks Dustin makes about the DC cinematic universe.

III. There is much discussion of comic books, superheroes, table top games, film adaptations, sci-fi and fantasy authors, ethics in journalism, cosplay, the Nintendo switch, what the hell is taking George R. R. Martin so long does he understand his readership will probably be dead before he publishes another book? and other topics salient to college-age nerds under the impression their dedication to their hobbies could someday pay their bills.

IV. Following in the illustrious footsteps of Matt Bessar, they live-stream their Saturday night D&D games. (Dustin: Hey guys, just wanted to give you a quick update. Mike's basement is still disgusting.") The results range from palatable mediocrity to hitherto unseen levels of chaos. The comments page would be a mess...you know, if people left comments.

V. Their first guest is an amazing, unbelievable get. El Ives has written four volumes of the Wizards of Gale series- a staggering, gorgeous epic chronicling the coming of age of a young psychically gifted warrior traversing a galactic wasteland in search of her true purpose-in the last three years. She's gone on national tours, topped sci-fi best-seller lists, and was proposed to roughly thirty-seven times at New York comic-con. Naturally, the dudes freak out, but Mike's is the most memorable melt down. He talks to himself in the mirror in a pre-interview hype session, he drops his note cards, stares for inappropriate lengths of time, and generally makes everyone ridiculously uncomfortable.

VI. After the stress of her tour, the casual atmosphere of the podcast (with the exception of the host who makes tense, terrifying eye contact with her before avoiding her gaze for the rest of the day) is a novelty El is reluctant to relinquish. This explains hanging around Hawkins ("You're welcome to stay at our place." Dustin volunteers before Mike can open his large, endlessly stupid mouth.) despite having deadlines, and interviews and a whole life in Manhattan. They take her to all their lame hang-outs and Mike dies several deaths due to sheer embarrassment (Humiliate Wheeler To Death Tour 2017!)

VII. This is the thing. The thing is this: despite the fact that they've been doing this for like, four months, and no one is even really listening Mike is still absurdly nervous on air? Lucas and Dustin are naturals and Will chimes in when he really wants to make a point (he's often drowned out by the intensity of Dustin\Lucas debates but whenever he manages to incline his chin toward the mic and deliver his statements in the softest, least antagonistic voice ever created, his points are salient and logical and even occasionally border on poignant) but it take s Mike at least fifteen minutes to get comfortable uttering opinions he has no trouble voicing off air. It's disconcerting and weird, and he's envious of the casual way his friends interact on air. They're natural, as if there aren't any disparities between their on air personalities and their real life ones. They're completely comfortable, Mike has to calm down, close his eyes, remember his pre-air inspirational speech, really center himself before he can engage in way that's even close to natural. (Even then, his voice is a touch too high, his sentences come out blunt and semi-intelligible, and his jokes feel more like passive aggressive indictments of other people's moral characters than "ha ha" funnies. These delightful and attractive flaws are only exacerbated by the prolonged presence of one of his literary heroes who, in addition to being funny, clever, sincere, brutally honest, and genuinely down for anything re: appearing on a D&D role-playing channel with four losers, has the audacity to love Ray Bradbury and Farscape as much as he does. It's the fucking rudest.)

VIII. To make matters worse, she loves his friends. Lucas is the most charming mother fucker alive (dude has a certificate!) and Mike hates him for the ease with which he makes El laugh so hard she cries. He then hates himself for hating Lucas, up until the asshole does it again and El looks happier than a ten year old who was just informed she gets to live at Disney Land. Witnessing the vast depths of El's joy is probably the purest experience Mike ever has. Said joy is a product of Lucas recounting any number of stories starring himself as the witty, amazing, bad ass of their high school tenure. So, dilemma. She and Will exchange book recommendations, karaoke Fridays at Lester's is forever altered the moment she and Dustin duet on a gentle, soul-melting rendition of Head Over Heels (they're terrible singers, but the power man, the subtle emotive, power) and Lucas, Lucas is everywhere, buying her drinks, and talking about how there are certain paragraphs in book three he wants to live in, and complimenting her buzz cut, and constantly and at all times making her laugh so long, and hard and with her entire body and it's so fucking unfair Mike can't actually-

IX. In local news, Lucas and Dustin are living in a shoebox across the river from Mike's house. Will is over so often he is repeatedly mistaken for a piece of furniture. He has his own shelf in the fridge (the middle), his own snacks in the cabinet (fig newtons are more than fruit and cake) and coconut shampoo he's neglected to take home and which is become the official property of the estate. Dustin likes to think of his abode as a sovereign nation, wants desperately to draw up a constitution and design a flag. Lucas likes to think of his casa as a Dustin-free zone, and is disappointed upon opening his door and finding reality has very much crushed his hopes and dreams. There is very little sleep, the occupants are lucky to claim several consecutive hours of unconsciousness. Instead, there are twitch marathons, Netflix binges, LOTR re-watches, and intense, lengthy debates over the merits of Zack Snyder being shot into space verses the efficiency of simply setting him ablaze.

X. Will is fond of lying on the couch, or on the window seat or on the floor next to Lucas' mattress and telling him all the ideas that his ridiculous brain ushers forth when he can't sleep. Lucas gently reminds him of the graphic novel he's kind of, sort of, a little bit working on-the thing he starts last year and politely but stubbornly refuses to show him any more pages once Lucas becomes a living, breathing reminder that Will could maybe think about possibly publishing it because It's Good. To be fair, saying the words aloud, letting them take shape in the air is almost like working on it. It's very, very close.

XI. Eventually, Mike realizes that contrary to initial reports, he's actually jealous of two people. Yes Lucas making El laugh is fairly fucking infuriating, but so is the knowledge that Lucas is trying so hard to make someone laugh, and that that someone (for reasons he is painfully, intimately familiar with) is NOT him. Pre-graduation, post-two a.m. silent, sexuality-specific realization that takes place in an Arby's parking lot, Mike and Lucas are the most accurate visual representation for best friendship that has ever, or will ever live. Their bond is unshakable, the stuff of Census Bearu legend, the canniest, most argumentative, absurdly affectionate, gleefully contrary pairing so robust and unrelenting it caused even the most patient members of their tight-knit Indiana State study circle to routinely throw up their hands and avert their eyes, yelling, "That's enough! Put it away!" One sunny, late-fall afternoon, they're picking up the thread of an ongoing Alien vs. Aliens debate (Lucas: I'm so glad your mom's not here to listen to her son humiliate himself like this. It would break her heart.") which has ascended to the intensity level that warrants standing very close and screaming as though they are not standing very close, when quite suddenly, they are no longer arguing. The discovery of another item in a long list of things they are hopelessly good at when they combine their talents, takes up the entire afternoon and most of the evening. The surprised, but strong, and ultimately righteous sense of joy\awe is conflated by the subdued, giddy knowledge that what has been in the past for Mike a rare and somewhat lackluster experience, and for Lucas, a little less rare but equally mediocre 'event' currently feels like the wide expanse of potentiality specific to scientific exploration. So there's that.

XII. It doesn't last too long, when he allows himself to think about it Mike abjectly refuses to liken the duration of the event to anything stupid, like a metaphor about supernovas. That would be dumb. And crass. And in poor taste. Plus, he hardly ever thinks about it ever, so there's that. Anyway, Mike dropping out of Indiana state and returning to the cocoon of his mother's basement is a completely unrelated event that never ever needs to be recounted, not even for posterity, except to say that it's unrelated to anything going on in his life at the moment. And it's okay, because he and Lucas are still ridiculously close friends and it's never even awkward except for the few occasions wherein Mike succumbs to jealously, before becoming confused about exactly whom he's jealous off. After he figures it out, he's moody and distant and the podcast gets Weird in only the way Mike can make it. El is confused, 'cause once the dude stops staring and actually says a few words to her, he's kind of cool in this completely doofy way. Lucas eventually plops on the end of Mike's bed, allows Mike to put his dirty, uncivilized sneakers all over his fairly expensive pants and makes a fumbling preamble that might as well be called Intro to Awk Con. It goes okay. Mike's just tired and Lucas co-signs with a sigh, and a story about his sister, and they talk around it because it's still-they-can't-There's grumbling about the complete absence of something that could even be mistaken for a fan base, and Dustin's rants, and a general consensus on the awesomeness of El and they both feel better after that.

XIII. Lucas might have a supremely underdeveloped thing for Will? It's like, super embryonic, not even worth thinking about much less trying to explain out loud to Will's face while he stands there looking cute and curious and hesitant about the stupid notebook he's been doodling in for like a year, even though what little bits Lucas has seen of the novel that Will's mortified about having written is so good he'd buy it tomorrow if Will would only deign to finish the damn thing. Yeah. So El hangs around Hawkins, after slaving away in his emotional garden wearing a wide-brim hat and too much sunscreen, Mike manages to grow the courage necessary to ask her to dine at his mom's house (yes, his mom has had El over for dinner roughly a thousand times, and yes her laugsana with the signature sauce has become one of El's favorite dishes, but owing to the fact that Mike has spent ninety-five percent of those roughly thousands of evenings in his room melting down and wishing he was a person who could handle this shit, they don't actually count.), Will finishes his summer drawing course at the learning annex, because his phone storage is unable to contend with the sheer volume of photos he takes of and with El in the last couple of weeks\months (?) Dustin gets Instagram and instantly gains a thousand followers, and Lucas comes to the conclusion that's actually amazing at this podcast thing? Like honestly, he's very talented. And he's never taken one communication course!

XIV. El heads back to New York, promising to visit when she can. Mike admirably hides his heartbreak, and gallantly takes his frustration out on a pacman machine during their afternoon at the arcade. (Mike Wheeler: Frustrated Bisexual) A couple months later, they all receive signed copies of the next Wizards of Gale book with special messages scribbled on the inside covers. A couple of weeks before that, they post their El interview, and the site it takes Dustin two, painful, sleepless weeks to build experiences a significant amount of traffic for the first time in its uneventful little life. Everyone freaks out and facetimes El who's mid interview on the Teresa Watkins show, and that's how they attain their first television interview. (El: I'm sorry, this is so unprofessional. Do you mind?)

XV. Bros being bros, podcasting about nerd shit. (Dustin: How were you received by the dudebro cheeto dust contingent? I assume they're treating you well? They're super classy individuals.)

XVI. Oh, and Hopper is El's manager\literary agent? Okay? Okay.

#weird occurrences #I'm fairly certain this will be story number iii.

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fenton-bus · 6 years

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PODCAST BROS. AU

I. Bros being bros and podcasting about nerd stuff.

XV. Bros being bros, podcasting about nerd stuff. (Dustin: How were you received by the dudebro cheeto dust contingent? I assume they're treating you well? They're super classy individuals.)

XVI. Oh, and Hopper is El's manager\literary agent? Okay? Okay.

#modern woe aus #outlines and outliers #stand by goonies: the extraterrestrial #Hellscapes for Kids!#in media res #junior mystery inc

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magnaturbaestinurbe-blog · 6 years

Text

PODCAST BROS. AU

I. Bros being bros and podcasting about nerd stuff.

XV. Bros being bros, podcasting about nerd stuff. (Dustin: How were you received by the dudebro cheeto dust contingent? I assume they're treating you well? They're super classy individuals.)

XVI. Oh, and Hopper is El's manager\literary agent? Okay? Okay.

#featuring: Newberry Award-Winning New York Literary Darling El #Slowly Realizing He's Found His Vocation Lucas #Mike Wheeler: Frustrated Bisexual #Benevolent Taste-Making Nerd Lord Dustin #and Coming To Grips With The Fact That He Possesses Actual Talent Will #outlines and outliers #ordinary stuff #junior mystery inc.#Stand By Goonies: The Extraterrestrial #in media res #modern woe aus

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