#We need more Plutarch love in the world | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

caesarflickermans · 2 months

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dear prof. dr. caesarflickermans (the prof dr is still so funny to me), can you please tell me more about how v sees plutarch's body? he's pretty neutral about his own body, but what's her opinion on it (his body and how he sees it)? thank you so much <3

What we need to keep in mind about bodies within the Capitol is that similar beauty standards apply to them as in our real world, but that changing one’s body comes at a much smaller cost than what we know. The dieting pills are hinting at this fact in canon, and my perception of the Capitol in terms of pharmaceuticals or plastic surgery has been shaped around the ease with which one had access to such the in-canon pills. For example, Virgilia makes frequent note of plastic surgery and Caesar, too, has had some done.

This implies a lot about Plutarch’s body even at first glance: That him being overweight is, in contrast to today, very much a choice. Paired with his movie look—that of a relatively subdued style, little makeup, receded hairline—and you get a man who does not fall into the standard Capitol appearance.

Plutarch is not unaware of his options; which indicate that he has chosen to abstain from the Capitol’s beauty industry. You and I have often referred to this as his own little rebellion inside the rebellion.

This appearance difference is an immediate fact Virgilia notices about him in the very first description we receive of Plutarch. His weight being the main signifier:

The new [Head Gamemaker] was rounder than the usual visitor, yet it suited his face, making him appear softer and kinder than the pointed sticky faces who had aged terribly and talked in long and exhausting sentences. (CH1)

The first chapter and its first half cover a relatively broad and purposefully undefined time. What pauses it all is a regular dinner with an irregular guest. Plutarch’s weight is the first irregularity within that and his interest in making watches the second. Both throw her off and both are part of the initial fascination she has with him.

Plutarch’s body is defined as the other. In the first case, it is the contrast to the usual visitors, but it’s a frequent subject with which Virgilia draws lines between her current circumstances and Plutarch. For example, we have him not fitting into the mansion:

There were barely any straight lines, except for his thick eyebrows, and he seemed so strange in the frame of a mansion who fitted right to Gratia - or Gratia to the mansion. (CH2)

But the most important comparison is that between Snow and Plutarch:

Yet, [Plutarch] was so very lovely the way he was; she pictured him less bony than her husband when embraced. What was it like to be held by him? It must certainly feel extraordinarily pleasant. (CH7)

This is the key point of why she is so drawn to his weight, especially at first, because he is the exact opposite to Snow. At first all she knows about him is the visual difference, but this visual difference is only an indicator for what comes next, insofar that Plutarch from a character level and from a relationship level is the very opposite.

For example, a frequent point within the fanfiction is that Virgilia is not good at talking and uttering her thoughts. A main reason for that is because she has never been given the momentum to speak—you cannot be good at speaking or debating if you aren't practiced in it. She is not invited to partake in any of the conversations that are, to her, also very often not part of her skill level—“They talked about the economy, or something, [...]” (CH1). In contrast, Plutarch is often noted to be waiting for her to voice her thoughts, frequently being attributed with patience as early as chapter 3. When she speaks, he doesn't interrupt her. He takes her words seriously.

Once they grow closer romantically, Virgilia begins to have a fascination with feeling his body. She wonders about what it might feel to hug him in the above quote, and once she receives a hug, she feels very positive about his body both as it is and in contrast to her husband:

Plutarch’s hug was warm and welcoming. His arms were rather strong, wrapping around her so entirely and keeping her close for only but a mere moment. But that was enough, more than enough, sensing an ubiquitous prickle spreading from her stomach as she felt him so close. Virgilia imagined hearing a pounding heartbeat—albeit it might have been her own. He was different from her husband, whose large but thin shape seemed so cold and empty. No, Plutarch didn’t slip away from her, even when her chin briefly came to rest on his shoulder. He appeared ever so real, caught in the moment in the same way the sun warmed her face after clouded days, awakening her anew in a reality that grew dense and present. (CH8)

To paraphrase, Plutarch is: warm, welcoming, strong, hugging her whole, stays with her, feels real. Her husband is thin, cold, empty. While some of it has to do with the nature of their hug—for example the length—much of it is a comparison between two bodies, and Plutarch’s being attributed a lot of positive notions. She’s fascinated by how he feels and wonders about it because she is craving that connection with him. She daydreams about him, and some of those include what his body—a foreign, unexplored entity—feels like.

I very purposefully wrote about those moments and about how she views his body. I did not want her to be detached from it, both because the difference felt important, but also because a romance with an overweight character would feel wrong if it glossed over the body. It felt important to make his weight part of her attraction, not an in-spite-of or a secretly feeling grossed out by it. Neither did I want to make her too obsessed with it in a kinky sense, because overweight people are people, not kinks. My goal was to make this part of her attraction to him without it being the sole part of her fascination—that, if he were to lose weight, she wouldn’t jump ship, but that she nonetheless likes him that way and isn’t interested in having him change for her sake.

Obviously, one of the most significant scenes in terms of Plutarch’s body and Virgilia's thoughts on it happen during the sex scene in chapter 14:

She kissed him the way that flowers looked up at the sun, desired every ray of its warmth, every attention of its light. Her hands had grown desperate in hunger, moving from the stubbles of his cheeks down the muscles in his arms to the softness of his belly. (CH14)

This is the first time she is exploring his body. She is once more affirming his softness in the first quote. Once more, Plutarch is different: Virgilia lives in a world where everything with sharp edges, poking bones, or straight lines is not safety and not love. Plutarch is, because of his otherness, safety and love.

Touching him had been different than she expected, and yet all what she had hoped for. Plutarch was not like the people in the Capitol, whose latest craze seemed to have bones poking out everywhere. Her hands trailed across his chest, led by the soft hair that adorned his upper torso. Each breath of his lifted chest and belly, bolstered his shoulders and changed the shadows cast across. Eventually, the hair was gone, far too few in between, and she had been left alone as her fingers traced to his belly button. It was then that something had tugged on the edge of her mind. (CH14)

She is making room for this interest by exploring his upper body; affirming the difference and being allowed to roam and explore at the speed she needs. In that moment, Plutarch is watching her, and he’s once more being patient as she is touching him. This quote is followed up by him asking about undoing her hair, and it’s an equal fascination on his part that Virgilia is not very much in the know about yet. They both have mysteries they wish to explore about the other that day. His body is hers.

She sunk deeper into the bed, deeper into the black fabric. Blonde hair appeared, then his thick brows, the warm gaze, and lips smudged with her lipstick. Plutarch had climbed on top of her, and what seemed a not-too-uncommon place, whenever she moved, he responded by shifting his weight; enough that she could break away if needed—except she did not want to. There was trust in the heaviness of his on top of her, and, for once her heart ached not for escaping, but for more. (CH14)

I’ve thought about this moment a lot before writing it, and I’ve worked on those lines a lot. Plutarch’s weight is a factor once more—again, I never wanted it to be mentioned once and then be ignored—and it’s one that could be very scary. It’s a fact that he is heavy. He could easily overwhelm her and sleep with her as he pleases, completely ignoring her needs while keeping her in place.

The easy solution is to switch—and have her be on top. Right before this quote, they actually have a conversation (“There were whispers exchanged, like small gusts of wind carried into the woods.”) and while I leave the exact words out because it’s more reaffirming the wants of each other, it being followed up by her sinking into the bed, and him climbing on top of her should give away at least parts of the content of their conversation.

They don’t go for the easy solution. And that is because Virgilia trusts him. I didn’t go into the depths of their sexual relationship because it did not feel like the fanfiction to do that—I really don’t like more explicit smut scenes in a work otherwise not very focused on them—but it is very much alluded to here that she enjoys the feeling of him, with all his weight, being on top of her. She likes feeling that, despite every odds technically being against her, this is a safe space, and he’s listening to her. Him moving when she does might initially be born from discomfort on his part, but it is meant to eventually become a play where both move in unison knowing the other, and this is its first act.

There is some part insecurity voiced by Plutarch at the end of the chapter. This quote happens right after Plutarch jokes about how she had not gotten a younger lover, which leaves Virgilia confused.

With an equal amount of confusion, much as if she did not understand that the sun rose every morning, he opened his mouth far before words could come out. “Most might prefer someone who is stronger or taller or younger and certainly with less grey hair.” (CH14)

She responds that she likes him and his hair. While much of her thoughts on his body are focused on weight, the other parts of it not affirming to Capitol beauty standards, such as non-grey hair, an indicator of aging, are loved, too. She likes him, and she likes his body.

To return to general ideas about Plutarch’s body—and we did somewhat talk about this recently!—his body is something daring to her. Virgilia has carved time and time again into the beauty standards. She needs to maintain them as they are closely tied with her own survival. Plutarch does not need to do the same; and Virgilia recognises it for the rebellion it is.

She will always love him regardless the body he has, but the body he has as seen in the movies is a source of comfort, love, and safety for her. She wouldn’t change a thing about him.

#inbox #beedelia #plutarch heavensbee #virgilia snow #she smelled like white roses

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artdivadej · 2 months

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Survivor's Remorse (XIX)

Part One | Part 11+

Peeta

After 30 minutes of more of his time wasted, Peeta let out a sigh so loud and deep, it shook the large table his cheek rested on.

"You brought me out of my room.... for this? Can I have my morphling and go back to my nightmares in peace now?"

"Peeta, is there something you'd like to add?", Plutarch asked chipperly.

Peeta turned his head so that his right cheek rested on the table and he was looking over the military and diplomatic officials of 13. All of which were looking at him with differing expressions., none of which he cared to decipher.

"No. Which is why I want to know why I'm here. I have no reason to be at another war mongering table, as it makes its plans, to do just what it was made to. So again....why am I here?"

"We would like to bring you in and involve you in the taking back of the Districts. Haymitch has informed us that you've agreed to become a part of the rebellion", Plutarch explains gesturing between Peeta's slumped form and Haymitch sitting directly across from him, trying not to appear as though he was sleeping for half the meeting.

"If Haymitch led you to believe I wanted any part in the planning of killing innocents, he lied", Peeta scoffed still refusing to lift his cheek from the table. "I've had my fill and unlike all of you, with your guns and bombs, it's a bit bloody and personal for my taste"

"War is never personal", the snow haired woman he'd come to know as Coin, spoke coolly.

Now Peeta was enraged and repulsed, his head lifted quickly from the table, eyes locking with the cunning leader. He hated how both she and Snow had such bright white hair, though hers had streaks of deep grey that matched her name. Peeta did not like this woman or her callous attitude towards life in the slightest.

"Murder is always personal", Peeta rumbled so lowly, it was practically a growl as his eyes held hers, refusing to break contact with their soulless depths. They were such a light grey they were almost as light as her snow-white hair. Even her lifeless eyes irritated him. "Just because you have the luxury of commanding other people to do it for you, doesn't mean it isn't personal. People aren't just numbers. Every. Single. Life. It was someone with hopes, dreams, family and love to give. You clearly have been underground with your perfect little soldier fucking fantasy world where everyone falls in line, living the life you designed for them. Come topside and join us in the real world, where the children are forced to kill each other and watch the life leave their eyes as your hands are covered in their blood, clawing at you to get just one more breath. Not with guns. Not a bomb that you can drop from miles away, to reap the fruits of your deadly gifts with no guilt as you watch it melt the flesh from women and children! No! We are forced to murder each other with our bare hands, while all of you sit here in your cozy little fuckin pods ordering us to do it for you!", Peeta roared now on his feet, having thrown his chair at the wall opposite him, Haymitch having long since ducked seeing this outburst coming.

When it hit the wall, Peeta pushed away from the table and stormed out of the room without a backwards glance, one hand in his pocket and the other tugging at his hair.

"I told you", Haymitch shrugs at the rest of the diplomats who were looking to him for an explanation. "A teenager he may be in age, but that is a man on the brink. And he is ready to burn the world to match the flames of pain it's dished out to him from day one. He doesn't give a shit about your battle plans. If it doesn't involve a way to get her, he could truly not give a damn"

"So, what do you propose we do to make him more amicable?"

"Stop wasting his time. It's only pissing him off. You want a voice for the rebellion that the people resonate with, you have it and you're wasting his time with strategy meetings about things he'll never need to know about. Use his voice. His intellect. Peeta isn't the type of person that revels in the killing of others. He wants peace, to be able to love and live free. That's all he's ever wanted for himself and everyone else. If it's not about that, he just Does. Not. Care", Haymitch shrugs, chewing on his lollipop and doodling on the paper in front of him, still not looking at the rest of the room. He was annoyed that he had to be at the meetings, he couldn't imagine what the pointless chatter did to Peeta.

"A voice. You want us to let him talk directly to the people? You think that would work?"

"He's had it with the bureaucratic politics. All a Victor cares about is action. Words have meant very little to any of us", Finnick tacked on, popping a sugar cube in his mouth, adding his own doodles to Haymitch's paper. "If you want all our cooperation, give us yours"

"Here, here", Beetee slapped his hand to the table in agreement.

"Then, what would you all suggest?"

****

Peeta sat on his bed and rolled the pearl he'd given you on the beach across his lips. He remembered with a deep sadness your last words to him when you'd placed it back into his hands that night of the Quarter Quell.

"Give it back to me when I come back. Remember, we protect each other?"

"Always" Peeta nodded, his hand on your hip and forehead resting against yours.

-Excerpt from

Survivor's Remorse

Chapter 19. Damn Diplomacy!

Available on Wattpad: MADDINK0318

#peeta mellark #peeta smut #the hunger games peeta #peeta mellark smut #peeta mellark x reader #peeta x reader #i love peeta #survivors remorse #thg peeta #fanfiction #survivor's remorse #hunger games fanfiction #thg fanfiction #smut fanfiction #fanfiction writer

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aschen-kiln · 2 years

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Tumblr seems to have decided to make my life more difficult than it needs to be by forbidding me from switching on the anon ask. Is this gonna stop @curiousnonny from asking me random things ? Obviously not. Neither will it stop me from answering.

Here goes !

Cinna. Cinna. I am going to go unpopular opinion on everyone by saying Cinna did not matter a lot to me, both in the books and the movies. He was obviously a mentor figure to Katniss, in the same way Haymitch was. Both were father figures to a girl who lost her father, whom she loved the most and had a very close relationship with. But where Haymitch was the relatable one (same district, same stigma, same horrors, same way of thinking, same background, potential futur, etc...) Cinna was the Opposite Attract one. So very different from her, so very Capitole (still more "subdued" than Effie was but undoubtedly Capitole) yet so very understanding, comprehensive to her when Haymitch was cynical and harsh. Cinna was meant to show Katniss and us readers that yes he was Capitole, but being Capitole doesn't mean being evil. Where Effie was droning about manners and respect to dead walking kids, Cinna was "your life is horrible and this unfair so i'm gonna do everything i can to give you an edge". He was a Capitole, therefore an enemy by nature, but he gave her a weapon to fight in war already lost.

I think the guy was already thinking about being a stylist for the Games, because he has to build his brand, you know, we all have to work to put bread on the table at some point, and the Games are a surefire way to become renowned. But perhaps he wanted it to be meaningful you know ? He is an artist first and foremost. And stand by the idea that,, yeah the Capitole is infinitely richer than Districts, but every Capitole citizen isn't born with a silver wig and gold on ever fingers. Perhaps he was born in a poorer part of the city, from an average family, and therefore knows what it means to work to go up and above your station. Which would make him more sympathetic to Districts and Tributes. Perhaps he saw the horror under the glitter. Which would make him hesitant to work for the Games unless it is meaningful.

Enters Katniss. Who was not reaped. But who was brave enough to volunteer. Like everyone he watched Twelve's Reaping znd saw a girl run from the rank of terrified kids and through lines of Peacemaker to stop her little sister from walking to her death. A girl terrified but who did not let it stop her.

Meaningful enough, I'd say. He probably volunteered straight away to Seneca Crane to be Twelve's stylist. A position no one wants because Haymitch is a monster and Effie is no better. But for this girl ? Damn, all his muses must have reared their little heads.

As for the rebellion plan... if i stand by the "poorer" Cinna headcanon, that means the guy's outlook on his world is pretty real. He knows what this is, he can recognizes a monster when he sees one and President Snow is the greatest evil he's ever seen. That makes him pretty rebellious to begin with. And perhaps he knows to keep his trap shut but perhaps he also doesn't hide his feelings that much. Which would attract Plutarch's eyes early i think. And Plutarch, for all his flaws, is a genius mastermind. He sees a volunteer from a lower District, and he sees a heroin in the making. He sees a cape and a dress made of flames on that girl and he sees a symbol. And he sees defiance on that girl's face and he sees a leader. And that girl, whom is still very much a girl with her little boys problems in spite of the very bleak future ahead of her, trusts literally nothing Capitole. Unfortunate, that. Enters Cinna who shares his beliefs. Howdy, partner ! Yeah me and my boss really like your ideas, you wanna be a key player in the underground war raging in Panem for the last 74 years ? Hop on buddy. We just need a teeny tiny thing to make it blow up, nothing much... just the girl you dressed up as a fiery goddess of war. What ? Haymitch will never let us get to her ? He's fiercely protective of this girl ? That might be a problem. Oh but wait... the guy is freaking brilliant. Let's recruit him too. One stone three mockingjays. Yay Plutarch !

#ask #the hunger games #cinna #Katniss #Haymitch

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dcbutinamrev · 3 years

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Heyyy! I love ur writing!!!!

can u do a historical lams story where Hamilton gets freaked out by a storm and Laurens has to comfort him🥺

Thank you!! Ha! Yes! The storm chapter tm! Or, in this case, the strom shot? The storm oneshot? This one's pretty long...Anyways, ask and ya shall recieve!

***

It's late in the evening once more in the aide-de-camp office. It's perhaps around seven in the evening. The sky not so dark yet not so light either. The fireplace roars and crackles in the parlor of the house General Washington and his staff are staying, to make the room a bit warmer than before. Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens and Alexander Hamilton sit side by side as always, working on translating letters and writing out corrospondences for tomorrrow's morning dispatch while the other aides around them such as Richard Kidder Meade, Tench Tilghman, Robert Hanson Harrison, John Fitzgerald and General Washington's Head of Intelligence: Benjamin Tallmadge, sits at the table around them with a map in front of them, placing markers as to wear the British could be and discusses plans of attack and whatnot. General Washington himself has retreated to his office to work privately with the Marquis de Lafayette to assist him in any matter.

Hamilton would often sneak in glances at Laurens beside him when the other aides aren't paying attention, they're too caught up in their heated argument. Hamilton smirks when he sees how deep in concentration Laurens is, his quill scratching agaisnt the parchment, his soft yet rough pink lips pressed together tightly as he clenches his jaw. His honey blonde hair pulled back into the traditional braid, secured with the usual dark blue ribbon. His brows are furrowed together, eyes narrowing down at the parchement before him and an already drafted letter beside him. Hamilton sees a fallen strand of hair in front of Laurens's ear and he so desperately wants to tuck it back behind his ear where it belongs. He curls his fingers to keep himself from doing so.

Hamilton grins as he knocks his knee agaisnt Laurens underneath the table. Laurens scoffs as he pauses his work for a moment to knock his knee against Hamilton's. Hamilton smiles sheepishly and he feels his freckled cheeks starting to warm up as he quickly glances away. Laurens notices this and smirks with triumph as he returns his focus to the letter before him.

"Major Tallmadge, mon ami?" says a very familiar French accented voice from nearby.

Hamilton and Laurens, along with Tallmadge and the rest of the aides look up sharply to see the Marquis de Lafayette standing at the end of the hallway with a kind smile on his face.

Major Tallmadge raises his eyebrow and walks around the table towards Lafayette. Hamilton keeps his eye on him. Tallmadge looks so similiar to Laurens with what his height, his blonde hair--though his blonde is more of a dirty blonde than honey--sky-blue eyes like Laurens, a handsome, muscular frame, broad shoulders squared and leveled, arms stiff behind his back, his gait is gracefull, smooth as he walks towards the Marquis, that Hamilton would often mistake him for Laurens himself.

"Yes, Marquis?" Tallmadge asks.

That's the only way Hamilton could tell the difference between Tallmadge and Laurens: their accents. Tallmadge, raised from Setaucket, a true New Yorker, will often say "Alright" as "Awright" with an W replacing the L while Laurens, raised from South Carolina, is a true southerner. His voice more country-like.

"The General would like to speak with you," Lafayette says. "He's right down that hall."

Tallmadge nods before disappearing around the corner.

"Ah, Marquis!" Meade says, standing up from his chair to embrace his old friend. "Welcome back to the world of living!"

The Marquis chuckles as he rolls his eyes fondly. "The General had me cooped up in there all day. I must confess, I am glad to be back among my family once more."

"Family?" Hamilton says, his heart stopping.

The Marquis raises his eyebrows and grins, patting Hamilton's shoulder and squeezes it. "Why yes, petit lion. We're all family here."

"Oh," is all Hamilton was able to say.

Hamilton couldn't help but smile as the Marquis's words rings through his head.

Family...

~~~

A short while later when the sky has truly darken, do the aides finally finish their work for the day and can finally retire. Hamilton gathers up the dispatches and letters that need to be sent while Laurens straightens the quills and inkpots and while Meade rolls up the map and Tallmadge finishes a last little assignment from General Washington. The others had already gone up the second floor to bed.

"Looks like it's about to rain," Lafayette says from the living room, glancing out the window, peelng the curtain back.

Hamilton freezes insantly, his eyes widening, face paling.

"W-What?" Hamilton stutters as he slowly turns to face Lafyaette.

"Rain," Lafayette says with a shrug. "I said it looked like it's about to rain."

"Just...just rain?" Hamilton says shakily. Laurens frowns at the hesitancy in Hamilton's voice. "Right?"

Lafayette nods, confused. "Mhm. Just rain, I believe..."

Hamilton lets out a breath. "Okay. Okay. That's okay. That's okay."

Laurens rests a hand on Hamilton's arm. "Hey, you alright, Hamilton?"

Hamilton swallows and nods, flashing Laurens a reassuring yet not convincing smile. "Yes, Laurens, I'm fine. I thank you for your co...concern..."

Laurens frowns as he glances over at the Marquis who shrugs before returning his gaze back to Hamilton.

A half hour later, when Hamilton and Laurens are finally alone together in their shared room was the Marquis actually right.

Hamilton lays with only his night shirt on and the blankets draped over his propped up knees. He leans agaisnt the pillows with his flaming red hair pulled out of its ponytail, surrounding his face in a sea of red. Hamilton has a book propped up agaisnt his knees, licking his finger before flipping the page. Laurens stands by the bed, shrugging off his blue Continental coat and draping it over the chair at the desk before untying his cravat to pull his white hunting shirt off. Hamilton glances up at him with small smile on his face as he watches Laurens climb inside the bed beside him, flipping the covers on his side and scoots closer to his Hamilton.

Hamilton chuckles as he rests his head on Laurens's bare chest, just below his chin, still reading the book. Laurens smiles softly as he wraps an arm around Hamilton, squeezing his shoulder as he presses a kiss to his brow. Hamilton then turns to press his lips agaisnt Laurens, once, twice, three times before settling back down onto his chest. The two stay like that together for quite some time, reading together and enjoying this domestic blissful peace they have with each other. This, Laurens thinks, has got to be the best part of his day.

"Whatcha readin' there, dear boy?" Laurens asks, breaking the silence.

"Plutarch Lives," Hamilton yawns as he flips the page.

Laurens chuckles. "Again?"

"Well, what can I say--"

Hamilton stops when he hears something clinking agaisnt the window. Hamilton tenses as he glances up at Laurens before sitting himself up.

"Jack...what's...what's that?" Hamilton says.

Laurens flips the bedsheets off as he climbs out of the bed and shirtless yet still wearing his breeches and bare foot, Laurens peels back the curtain slightly to see the window streaking with rain. Laurens curses.

"Ah, shit," Laurens grumbles. He releases the curtain and climbs back in the bed.

"What? What is it, my dear?" Hamilton asks shakily.

"It's rainin' darlin'," Laurens says, pulling Hamilton close to him and presses a kiss to his lips. "Nothin' to worry 'bout. Let's just get some rest. We both need it."

Hamilton chuckles and nods. "Yes, you're right, my dear."

Laurens presses a kiss to Hamilton's brow before blowing out the candle beside him as Hamilton closes the book.

"Night, Ginger," Laurens says with a smirk.

"Night, Jackass," Hamilton teases, closing his eyes as he rests his head on Laurens's chest.

~~~

Hamilton awakes with a sharp gasp when he hears a thunderous boom. He shoots upright in the bed, breathing hard and instantly begins to shake. He blinks the sleep out of eyes and winces when he sees the lighting--a bright white--flash. He clamps a hand over his mouth to stifle the scream as to not wake Laurens who sleeps peacefully on his side, his back facing Hamilton.

Hamilton bites his lip hard when he hears the sharp wind whistle outside, the branches dancing through the gusty wind. Hamilton squeezes his eyes shut and flinches when he sees another flash of lightning flash outside. He whimpers when he hears the boom again, clearly remembering the hurricane back in Nevis. He remembers his home being destroyed, being completely eaten up by the raging storm. Hamilton remembers, clearly, the shrilled screams of the civilians being swallowed by the waves of the flood as he runs to find shelter, to find safety. Hamilton could still hear the distant wails of infants. Hamilton hears another boom and yelps, his body trembling. His heart beating faster, his breathing sharp and labored. He squeezes his eyes harder.

Hamilton could see his younger self crouched, hidden somewhere in an abondened home, knees up to his chest as he watches with horror as his home gets destroyed, burned to ashes with the houses nearby on fire due to the lightning strikes. Hamilton yelps when he sees a lightning flash, thinking it would burn the house they're currently staying. He shakes, as if the Earth itself were shaking as well.

Hamilton tries to focus on his breathing, trying to calm himself, trying to focus on the now and on the present. Trying to remember who is and where he is.

"Alex...?" Laurens grumbles, stirring awake as he could feel Hamilton's trembles beside him and hear his whimpers.

Hamilton whimpers again when he hears the thunder, burying his face into his knees, as he squeezes his eyes shut in hopes it would keep the tears at bay.

Laurens frowns, his heart cracking when he sits up. He frowns when he sees Hamilton trembling beside him. Laurens presses his lips together as he tries to figure out what to do. He's never seen Hamilton in so much distress as this before.

"Alexander...?" Laurens says.

Hamilton yelps again and flinches when he sees the lightning flash. Hamilton presses the heel of his plam to his mouth, to stifle the whimper that escapes him. Laurens's heart cracks even more at the sight. Laurens sighs through his nose as he wraps an arm around Hamilton, pulling him closer and rubbing his shoulder up and down comfortingly.

A fear of storms, Laurens thinks. Who would have guessed?

"J-J-John...?" Hamilton whimpers, wincing at the lightning again.

Laurens nods. "Yes. It's me my dear boy. I'm here." A pause. "I'm here. You're okay...you're okay..."

Hamiltons swallows. "H-Hurricane..."

Laurens shakes his head. "There's no hurricane, love. You're with me."

"With you..." Hamilton murmurs, his head on Laurens's shoulder as he sniffs.

Laurens nods, a small smile on his face as he presses a kiss to his forehead. "With me."

Silence.

"You fear storms?" Laurens asks. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Hamilton sniffs and whimpers, gripping Laurens's arm. "I don't fear them. It's just...I...they bring me back to the Caribbean, where I was raised. When I was fourteen...a...a hurricane came and it...it..."

"Alex, you don't have to tell me--"

"No..." Hamilton sniffs and sits up. "You desrve to know..." He clears his throat. "When I was fourteen...a...a hurricane came...and it...it destroyed my home, Nevis in the British West Indies in the Caribbean. I...I...I was a clerk at the time in the countinghouse of two New York merchants...and by then...I had already lost my father."

Laurens doesn't say anything.

"He abandoned me when I was ten...and...when I was twleve...my mother fell ill and so did I. I recuperated but my mother..."

"She died," Laurens finishes.

Hamilton nods, tears in his eyes. Laurens pulls him close as Hamilton continue.

"Then...my brother and I moved in with our cousin who not long after we moved in, committed suicide..."

"Alex..."

"And then the hurricane came," Hamilton explains. "It...James, my brother, and I were...were seperated because of it. Never saw him agian..."

"Alex..."

"It destroyed everything," Hamilton mumbling. "It ate everything up. Destroyed homes, killed people. It killed chlldren. I don't understand...why...out of all people...did I survive?"

"Alex...I'm so sorry," Laurens soothes. "I--"

"Just hold me, Jack," Hamilton whispers, choking out a quiet sob. "Please..."

Laurens nods and presses a kiss to Hamilton's forehead before pulling him even closer. "Shh...of course, love. I'm right here. You're safe, Alexander. You're not back there. You're home."

Hamilton swallows as he looks up at Laurens, cradling Laurens's jaw.

"Jack?" Hamilton asks, sniffling.

Laurens smiles softly as he wipes the stray tears off of Hamilton's freckled cheeks.

"Yes?" Laurens asks, eyebrow raised.

"Promise me...just promise me, Jack...you'll...you'll never leave me...you'll stay here...with me...forever..." A pause. “Please...I love you...and I lost everyone...I can’t lose you too...just...just promise me...Jack...

Laurens inhales sharply, holding his breath as he pinches lips together. He rests his chin on Hamilton's head, wrapping both arms around him, pressing a soft kiss into Hamilton's russet curls.

"I promise."

What a lie...

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mjvnivsbrvtvs · 3 years

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hi! so we have established at this point that you have A Lot Of thoughts about antony and brutus. but how does caesar (julius, not the little bitch octavian) play into that? bc like. my knowledge and impression of them is very limited and mainly constructed from watching hbo rome and idk. i think it'd be fun to throw caesar in the mix. love all the art and writing on your blog btw! have a nice day.

Hey, okay! So this used to be over 30 pages long (Machiavelli and Caligula got involved and that's when things got out of hand), but through the power of friendship and two late night writing dates fueled by coffee, I’ve cut it way down to under 10. Many thanks to the people who listened to me ramble about it at length, and also to a dear friend for helping me cut this down to under ten pages!

Also, thank you! I'm glad you enjoy the stuff I make! It makes me very happy to hear that!

And quickly, a Disclaimer: I’m not an academic, I’m not a classicist, I’m not a historian, and I spend a lot of time very stressed out that I’ve tricked people into thinking I’m someone who has any kind of merit in this area. It's probably best to treat this as an abstract character analysis!

On the other hand, I love talking about dead men, so, with enthusiasm, here we go!

For this, I’m going to cut Shakespeare and HBO Rome out of the framework and focus more on a historical spin.

Caesar is a combination of a manipulator and a catalyst. A Bad Omen. The remaining wound that’s poisoning Rome.

Cassius gets a lot of the blame for Brutus’ turn to assassination, but it overlooks that Brutus was already inclined towards political ambition, as were most men involved in the political landscape of the time.

Furthermore, although Sulla had actually raised the number of praetorships available from six to eight, there were still only two consulships available. There was always the chance that death or disgrace might remove some of the competition and hence ease the bottleneck. But, otherwise, it was at the top of the ladder that the competition was particularly fierce: whereas in previous years one in three praetors would have gone on to become consul, from the 80s BC onwards the chances were one in four. For the senators who had made it this far, it mattered that they should try to achieve their consulship in the earliest year allowed to them by law. To fail in this goal once was humiliating; to fail at the polls twice would be deemed a signal disgrace for a man like Brutus.

Kathryn Tempest, Brutus the Noble Conspirator

The way Caesar offered Brutus political power the way that he did, and Brutus accepting it, locked them into the assassination outcome.

Here is a man who’s built his entire image around honor and liberty and virtu, around being a staunch defender of morals and the republic

In these heated circumstances, Brutus composed a bitter tract On the Dictatorship of Pompey (De Dictatura Pompei), in which he staunchly opposed the idea of giving Pompey such a position of power. ‘It is better to rule no one than to be another man’s slave’, runs one of the only snippets of this composition to survive today: ‘for one can live honourably without power’, Brutus explained, ‘but to live as a slave is impossible’. In other words, Brutus believed it would be better for the Senate to have no imperial power at all than to have imperium and be subject to Pompey’s whim.

Kathryn Tempest, Brutus the Noble Conspirator

and you give him political advancement, but without the honor needed for this advancement to mean anything?

At the same time, however, Brutus had gained his position via extremely un-republican means: appointment by a dictator rather than election by the people. As the name of the famous career path, the cursus honorum, suggests, political office was perceived as an honour at Rome. But it was one which had to be bestowed by the populus Romanus in recognition of a man’s dignitas.69 In other words, a man’s ‘worth’ or ‘standing’ was only really demonstrated by his prior services to the state and his moral qualities, and that was what was needed to gain public recognition. Brutus had got it wrong. As Cicero not too subtly reminded him in the treatise he dedicated to Brutus: ‘Honour is the reward for virtue in the considered opinion of the citizenry.’ But the man who gains power (imperium) by some other circumstance, or even against the will of the people, he continues, ‘has laid his hands only on the title of honour, but it is not real honour’.70

Brutus may have secured political office, then, but he had not done so honourably; nor had he acted in a manner that would earn him a reputation for virtue or everlasting fame.

Kathryn Tempest, Brutus the Noble Conspirator

Brutus in the image that he fashioned for himself was not compatible with the way Caesar was setting him up to be a political successor, and there was really never going to be any other outcome than the one that happened.

The Brutus of Shakespeare and Plutarch’s greatest tragedy was that he was pushed into something he wouldn’t have done otherwise. The Brutus of history’s greatest tragedy was accepting Caesar’s forgiveness after the Caesar-Pompey conflict, and then selling out for political ambition, because Caesar's forgiveness is not benevolent.

Rather than have his enemies killed, he offered them mercy or clemency -- clementia in Latin. As Caesar wrote to his advisors, “Let this be our new method of conquering -- to fortify ourselves by mercy and generosity.” Caesar pardoned most of his enemies and forbore confiscating their property. He even promoted some of them to high public office.

This policy won him praise from no less a figure than Marcus Tullius Cicero, who described him in a letter to Aulus Caecina as “mild and merciful by nature.” But Caecina knew a thing or two about dictators, since he’d had to publish a flattering book about Caesar in order to win his pardon after having opposed him in the civil war. Caecina and other beneficiaries of Caesar’s unusual clemency took it in a far more ambivalent way. To begin with, most of them were, like Caesar, Roman nobles. Theirs was a culture of honor and status; asking a peer for a pardon was a serious humiliation. So Caesar’s “very power of granting favors weighed heavily on free people,” as Florus, a historian and panegyrist of Rome, wrote about two centuries after the dictator’s death. One prominent noble, in fact, ostentatiously refused Caesar’s clemency. Marcius Porcius Cato, also known as Cato the Younger, was a determined opponent of populist politics and Caesar’s most bitter foe. They had clashed years earlier over Caesar’s desire to show mercy to the Catiline conspirators; Cato argued vigorously for capital punishment and convinced the Senate to execute them. Now he preferred death to Caesar’s pardon. “I am unwilling to be under obligations to the tyrant for his illegal acts,” Cato said; he told his son, "I, who have been brought up in freedom, with the right of free speech, cannot in my old age change and learn slavery instead.

-Barry Strauss, Caesar and the Dangers of Forgiveness

something else that's a fun adjacent to the topic that's fun to think about:

The link between ‘sparing’ and ‘handing over’ is common in the ancient world.763 Paul also uses παραδίδωμι again, denoting ‘hand over, give up a person’ (Bauer et al. 2000:762).764 The verb παραδίδωμι especially occurs in connection with war (Eschner 2010b:197; Gaventa 2011:272).765 However, in Romans 8:32, Paul uses παραδίδωμι to focus on a court image (Eschner 2010b:201).766 Christina Eschner (2010b:197) convincingly argues that Paul’s use of παραδίδωμι refers to the ‘Hingabeformulierungen’ as the combination of the personal object of the handing over of a person in the violence of another person, especially the handing over of a person to an enemy.767 Moreover, Eschner (2009:676) convincingly argues that Isaiah 53 is not the pre-tradition for Romans 8:32.

Annette Potgieter, Contested Body: Metaphors of dominion in Romans 5-8

Along with the internal conflict of Pompey, the murderer of Brutus’ father, and Caesar, the figurehead for everything that goes against what Brutus stands for, Brutus accepting Caesar’s forgiveness isn’t an act of benevolence, regardless of Caesar’s intentions.

On wards, Caesar owns Brutus. Caesar benefits from having Brutus as his own, he inherits Brutus’ reputation, he inherits a better PR image in the eyes of the Roman people. On wards, nothing Brutus does is without the ugly stain of Caesar. His career is no longer his own, his life is no longer fully his own, his legacy is no longer entirely his. Brutus becomes a man divided.

And it’s not like it was an internal struggle, it was an entire spectacle. Hypocrisy is theatrical. Call yourself a man of honor and then you sell out? The people of Rome will remember that, and they’re going to make sure you know it.

After this certain men at the elections proposed for consuls the tribunes previously mentioned, and they not only privately approached Marcus Brutus and such other persons as were proud-spirited and attempted to persuade them, but also tried to incite them to action publicly. 12 1 Making the most of his having the same name as the great Brutus who overthrew the Tarquins, they scattered broadcast many pamphlets, declaring that he was not truly that man's descendant; for the older Brutus had put to death both his sons, the only ones he had, when they were mere lads, and left no offspring whatever. 2 Nevertheless, the majority pretended to accept such a relationship, in order that Brutus, as a kinsman of that famous man, might be induced to perform deeds as great. They kept continually calling upon him, shouting out "Brutus, Brutus!" and adding further "We need a Brutus." 3 Finally on the statue of the early Brutus they wrote "Would that thou wert living!" and upon the tribunal of the living Brutus (for he was praetor at the time and this is the name given to the seat on which the praetor sits in judgment) "Brutus, thou sleepest," and "Thou art not Brutus."

Cassius Dio

Brutus knew. Cassius knew. Caesar knew. You can’t escape your legacy when you’re the one who stamped it on coins.

Caesar turned Brutus into the dagger that would cut, and Brutus himself isn’t free from this injury. It’s a mutual betrayal, a mutual dooming.

By this time Caesar found himself being attacked from every side, and as he glanced around to see if he could force a way through his attackers, he saw Brutus closing in upon him with his dagger drawn. At this he let go of Casca’s hand which he had seized, muffled up his head in his robe, and yielded up his body to his murderers’ blows. Then the conspirators flung themselves upon him with such a frenzy of violence, as they hacked away with their daggers, that they even wounded one another. Brutus received a stab in the hand as he tried to play his part in the slaughter, and every one of them was drenched in blood.

Plutarch

For Antony, Caesar is a bad sign.

Brutus and Antony are fucked over by the generation they were born in, etc etc the cannibalization of Rome on itself, the Third Servile War was the match to the gasoline already on the streets of Rome, the last generation of Romans etc etc etc. They are counterparts to each other, displaced representatives of a time already gone by the time they were alive.

Rome spends its years in a state of civil war after civil war, political upheaval, and death. Neither Brutus or Antony will ever really know stability, as instability is hallmark of the times. Both of them are at something of a disadvantage, although Brutus has what Antony does not, and what Brutus has is what let’s him create his own career. Until Caesar, Brutus is owned by no one.

This is not the case for Antony.

You can track Antony’s life by who he’s attached to. Very rarely is he ever truly a man unto himself, there is always someone nearby.

In his youth, it is said, Antony gave promise of a brilliant future, but then he became a close friend of Curio and this association seems to have fallen like a blight upon his career. Curio was a man who had become wholly enslaved to the demands of pleasure, and in order to make Antony more pliable to his will, he plunged him into a life of drinking bouts, love-affairs, and reckless spending. The consequence was that Antony quickly ran up debts of an enormous size for so young a man, the sum involved being two hundred and fifty talents. Curio provided security for the whole of this amount, but his father heard of it and forbade Antony his house. Antony then attached himself for a short while to Clodius, the most notorious of all the demagogues of his time for his lawlessness and loose-living, and took part in the campaigns of violence which at that time were throwing political affairs at Rome into chaos.

Plutarch

(although, in contrast to Brutus, we rarely lose sight of Antony. As a person, we can see him with a kind of clarity, if one looks a little bit past the Augustan propaganda. He is, at all times, human.)

Antony being figuratively or literally attached to a person starts early, and continues politically. While Brutus has enough privilege to brute force his way into politics despite Cicero’s lamentation of a promising life being thrown off course, Antony will instead follow a different career path that echoes in his personal life and defines his relationships.

Whereas some young men often attached or indebted themselves to a patron or a military leader at the beginning of their political lives,

Kathryn Tempest, Brutus the Noble Conspirator

3. During his stay in Greece he was invited by Gabinius, a man of consular rank, to accompany the Roman force which was about to sail for Syria. Antony declined to join him in a private capacity, but when he was offered the command of the cavalry he agreed to serve in the campaign.

Plutarch

To take it a step further, it even defines how he’s perceived today looking back: it’s never just Antony, it’s always Antony and---

It can be read as someone being taken advantage of, in places, survival in others, especially in Antony's early life. Other times, it appears like Antony himself is the one who manipulates things to his favor, casting aside people and realigning himself back to an advantage.

or when he saw an opportunity for faster advancement, he was willing to place the blame on a convenient scapegoat or to disregard previous loyalties, however important they had been. His desertion of Fulvia's memory in 40, and, much later, of Lepidus, Sextus Pompey, and Octavia, produced significant political gains. This characteristic, which Caesar discovered to his cost in 47, gives the sharp edge to Antony's personality which Syme's portrait lacks, especially when he attributes Antony's actions to a 'sentiment of loyalty' or describes him as a 'frank and chivalrous soldier'. In this context, one wonders what became of Fadia.19

Kathryn E Welch , Antony, Fulvia, and the Ghost of Clodius in 47 B.C.

Caesar inherits Antony, and like Brutus, locks him in for a doomed ending.

The way Caesar writes about Antony smacks of someone viewing another person as something more akin to a dog, and it carries over until it’s bitter conclusion.

Caesar benefits from Antony immensely. The people love Antony, the military loves Antony. He’s charming, he’s self aware, he’s good at what he does. Above all of that, he has political ambitions of a similar passion as Brutus.

Antony drew some political benefit from his genial personality. Even Cicero, who from at least 49 did not like him,15 was prepared to regard some of his earlier misdemeanours as harmless.16 Bluff good humour, moderate intelligence, at least a passing interest in literature, and an ability to be the life and soul of a social gathering all contributed to make him a charming companion and to bind many important people to him. He had a lieutenant's ability to follow orders and a willingness to listen to advice, even (one might say especially) from intelligent women.17 These attributes made Antony able to handle some situations very well."1

There was a more important side to his personality, however, which contributed to his political survival. Antony was ruthless in his quest for pre-eminence

Kathryn E Welch , Antony, Fulvia, and the Ghost of Clodius in 477 B.C.

None of this matters, because after all Antony does for Caesar

Plutarch's comment that Curio brought Antony into Caesar's camp is surely mistaken.59 Anthony had been serving as Caesar's officer from perhaps as early as 53, after his return from Syria.60 He is described as legatus in late 52,61 and was later well known as Caesar's quaestor.62 It is more likely that the reverse of the statement is true, that Antony assisted in bringing Curio over to Caesar. If this were so, then he performed a signal service for Caesar, for gaining Curio meant attaching Fulvia, who provided direct access to the Clodian clientela in the city. Such valuable political connections served to increase Antony's standing with Caesar, and to set him apart from other officers in his army.63

Kathryn E Welch , Antony, Fulvia, and the Ghost of Clodius in 477 B.C.

Caesar still, for whatever reasons, fucks over Antony spectacularly with the will. Loyalty is repaid with dismissal, and it will bury the Republic for good.

It’s not enough for Caesar to screw him over just once, it becomes generational and ugly. Caesar lives on through Octavian: it becomes Octavian’s brand, his motif, propaganda wielded like a knife. Octavian, thanks to Caesar, will bring Antony to his bitter conclusion

And for my "bitter" conclusion, I’ll sign off by saying that there are actual scholars on Antony who are more well versed than I am who can go into depth about the Caesar-Octavian-Antony dynamic (and how it played out with Caligula) better than I can, and scholarship on Brutus consists mostly of looking at an outline of a man and trying to guess what the inside was like.

At the end of the day, Caesar was the instigator, active manipulator, and catalyst for the final act of the Republic.

I hope that this was at least entertaining to read!

#i cut out A Lot and its thanks to the patience of Friends that i got it down to the length that it is #like i cannot stress enough that i worked machiavelli into this and started dissecting the whole #brutus-cassius conflict with the framework that it was orchestrated by caesar #typically tho i tend to treat caesar as a symbolic device. a representation of something Very Wrong #this is a tag for asks

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mairalynnwrites · 3 years

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The 5 Times Johanna Mason Thought She Met Her Soulmate and the 1 Time She Was Sure Of It

The first time Johanna Mason met her soulmate, she was being sent to her death. It was a glance as she walked to her place in line for interviews. A glance at an older mentor, a handsome man whom she recognized from the gossip she had heard about him from the moment she got on the train. Finnick Odair, walking sex on legs, according to the capital. She groaned a little in the back of her throat. Of course she would meet her damn soulmate just before she died. And of course he had to be the prostitute of the capital. What was odd was that she did not see the flashing colors her childhood friends had described to her, merely shades of brown. That meant that this could be some sort of mistake, right?

Their eyes locked, and she noticed that she still couldn’t make out the color of his eyes. Odair’s back turned to her, saying a few words to his tributes before marching straight past her and out the door. Asshole. The second time Johanna Mason met her soulmate was after she had won her games, covered in the blood of more people than she wished to count. When she came back to after being healed in the hovercraft, he was sitting in the corner of the room.

“How’re you feeling?” He asked, standing and put his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels.

“You’re not my mentor”

“Duly noted,” He smiled a wry grin before continuing. “I pulled a few strings with your mentor, she’s waiting for you on the ground, no worries.”

“Oh, so you slept with her?” Johanna raised her eyebrows, her lips pulling into a smirk.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business” He noted, making sure the door was closed. Her hackles rose, and she stiffened on the bed she was sitting in, survival instincts more present than ever. He put his hands up as if to placate her, saying “There’s no lock, if you want to leave, you will have no difficulties from me, I just thought you might prefer to have this discussion in private.”

“What, you think that since I’m your soulmate, I’m just going to jump your bones?” Her eyes searched the tables near her, looking for anything that could be used as a weapon by or against her. He said that he meant no harm, but so had a lot of people in her life, and that sentence never ended up being true.

Odair chuckled under his breath, moving to sit on the end of her bed, his hands still raised to the sides of his head. “No. As my soulmate, there’s some things you should know, before you accidentally say anything in front of the people.” He moved even closer to her, and motioned to a scalpel that had been accidentally left on the table beside her by the people who healed her. “Grab it. It will make you feel safe and we need to be as close and quiet as possible in order to not be overheard on cameras” He whispered, moving his upper body closer to her as she hurriedly grabbed the scalpel next to her, holding it against his throat in silent saying of ‘don’t get any closer’.

He took a long breath, looking out the partially obscured window. “You can’t say anything about us being soulmates. You have to know, I’m not a capital prostitute by choice. You know better than anyone else that the capital is willing to do everything in their power to keep people controlled.”

She did know. She had just killed children, of course she knew. But there was something glinting in his eyes as he watched warily out the window, a bead of blood rising on his neck from where the scalpel was pressed to it. Oh. They had threatened him in some way. That’s what he meant. Then why did he say that- “You don’t mean that he’s going to want me to fuck half the Capitol.” She whispered to him, her eyes widening.

“You can’t tell anyone or they’ll kill us both. He sees the same thing in you he saw in me. Please.” His eyes looked back at hers, his voice dipping on the last word, ending in a silent plea.

“I just won these damn games and now you’re telling me I have no choice but to become a prostitute?” She glared at him, careful not to raise her voice as much as she wanted to.

“He’ll give you an ultimatum. Your life or your family’s. It’s just an illusion of a choice. But I’m not here to tell you what to do. I’m here to tell you that you need to say that you need to say that you can’t see any color. You’ve never met your soulmate. I came here to talk to you about what is expected from you as a victor if anyone asks.”

“God, this is such bullshit” She whispered, a small tear slipping down her cheek. He reached up and wiped it with his thumb, the scalpel still against his throat. Though she had no intention of using it, it felt good to have a defense against the older man.

“I know. I’m sorry.” He put his forehead against hers, and for once in her life, she felt still.

The third time Johanna Mason met her soulmate, she was once again being sent to her death, but with a plan this time. Although technically her and Finnick had talked briefly over the years, they had never discussed their situation, never discussed the feeling in their chests the longer they were apart from each other. Johanna’s family was dead, and she wasn’t willing to let the Capitol kill her soulmate too. The first night at the tribute building was haunting. She took to the roof, the cold air waking her. For a moment she entertained the thought of jumping, but she knew the Capitol would never let a tribute kill themselves. Where was the entertainment in that?

She didn’t even hear the boots walk up behind her. Damn it, she was so distracted by her thoughts she completely missed Odair walking up beside her. “Before my games I almost tried to kill myself by jumping off this building.” He said, a lilt in his voice. “I suppose it’s good I didn’t in a way, I did get to meet my soulmate after all.” He said with a smile evident in his voice, nudging his shoulder against hers, sending shocks from where he touched her.

“Damn, Odair, I didn’t know we were that close” She snarked, but with a smile on her face. Somehow, even with the possibility that she could die in the next few days, it was hard to be upset around Finnick.

“I’ve got a question for you, Mason.” He teased, leaning against the railing, facing her. “Did you really strip in the elevator in front of Haymitch, of all people?”

“Did you see my dress? It was hideous. I simply couldn’t stand to be in it anymore.” Her eyebrows raised, a small chuckle easing past her lips. “I’m surprised that you didn’t do the same, that net sure didn’t look comfortable.”

Finnick groaned, “Don’t remind me.” She laughed, the first time in a long time that she actually meant it. “Wow, if I knew that my misery caused you to laugh like that, I should have made myself miserable earlier.”

“Are there cameras on the roof, Mr. Secrets?” Johanna asked, taking a step closer to him.

“No. We aren’t supposed to be up here.” He replied, glancing around to make sure of his statement.

“Good.”

Her lips were on his. She didn’t care that she could die in a few days. Didn’t care that she was risking her life for a whiny District 12 girl. She only felt.

The fourth time Johanna Mason met her soulmate, she had barely made it onto the hovercraft in time to be rescued. Finnick was waiting in the main room, and without even thinking about it, she started running. She had just seen him minutes ago, but she was so full of relief that he had made it, that he wasn’t dead or captured, that she kissed him. Right there in the middle of the hovercraft, not even caring that Plutarch and Katniss’ other boy toy were trying to have a conversation. She placed a hand on his cheek, smoothing her thumb over the scabbed up cut on his face.

“We’re okay.” She whispered, for once allowing herself to be vulnerable.

“For now.” He whispered back, his own hands coming up to cradle her face.

“We can do this. She can do this.” Johanna whispered, saying what they both knew to be true.

The fifth time Johanna Mason met her soulmate was when they were gathering to leave for the capitol. She reached her hand out to his, grasping two of her fingers in her own. “If we both make it out of there in one piece, I’ll marry your sorry ass.” She said, trying to use sarcasm to cover her fear. It didn’t work.

“When we make it out of there, we will have the biggest wedding the world has ever seen.” He said, emphasizing the first word.

“I’ll make Annie my bridesmaid, I think.” She could barely say the words now. Her fear overtook her.

“She’d like that. You think Betee would mind being my groomsman?” He questioned, a smile in his voice.

She laughed sharply. “We really do love the crazies, don’t we?”

“Crazy attracts crazy, love.” He told her, taking her hands in his, noticing that they were both slightly shaking. “I love you. When we make it out of there, I promise I’ll never let anything get in our way again. We waited so long to have our share of happiness. We deserve a lifetime of peace.”

“Peace sounds nice.” She sniffed, trying and failing to stop her tears from falling. “And I love you too, I have for a while now.

“I know.”

The one time Johanna Mason was sure she had met her soulmate was in the capitol sewers, watching as her soulmate was being eaten alive by mutant beasts. “Katniss, you know what you need to do” She said, not being able to take her eyes off of Finnick's body. She listened to the quiet whispers of Nightlock and watched as her soulmate was granted a quick death, instead of a torturous death.

Her colors faded.

The world was black and white again.

#Johanna x Finnick #Johanna Mason #Finnick Odair #Johanna Mason x Finnick Odair #Hunger Games #The Hunger Games #Katniss Everdeen #Peeta Mellark

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posthungergamessyndrome · 3 years

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so here’s my long overdue review of The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes that no one asked for. I finally read the book, well listened to the audiobook, coz i dunno how to read a book anymore.

This book was everything I expected it to be and also not. Definitely the first two parts was easily predictable, we all kinda assumed that was the general arc that story would take. So while I found the first two parts enjoyable, learning more about the history of the games and learn more of Capitol, i wasn’t really hooked until the third part.

But let me say this first tho, Ms. Suzanne Collins, you never disappoint. Also I have questions and I hate that she wasn’t able to go on a book tour (I haven’t read her Q&A tho).

I still have the same qualms as i did about the prequel as i did before I read it. While I get the early records of the games were shoddy, and the 10th Hunger Games was erased but for one copy hidden in some vault, that doesn’t matter, what matter is Snow knows.

So If Snow had that relationship with the Games and Lucy, the first victor of d12, a lot of the decisions he made in the trilogy made no sense.

I get it, he wanted to forget, it’s decades until Katniss came along. While there might be parallels, Lucy and Katniss are very different characters. But all I can think off is the reason he didn’t kill Katniss sooner, was it really because she would end up a martyr or rallying cry for the district, which happened anyways, or he was practically disassociating the moment Katniss was reaped?

Were Katniss and Peeta unintentionally triggers to so many of his hidden traumas that’s why he made so many misteps? Katniss singing the meadow song to Rue, triggered. Peeta mentioning the Valley song, triggered. Mockingjay, triggered. The Hanging Tree, triggered.

Was he so busy crying in the shower that he wasn’t able to stop Seneca Crane from making bad calls during the 74th Games? Two winners from the same district, would Snow really okay’d that himself?

And also, I’ve always thought that anything he did towards Peeta was coz he wanted to hurt Katniss. But no, he wanted to hurt that boy. Peeta reminds him of his young self, at least the young person everyone saw him as, charming, smart, and loyal. And in a way, had Peeta been born in the Capitol and was among Snow’s contemporaries, Snow would have seen him as his ultimate rival.

Coz Snow was smart and knows how to manipulate people, but Peeta does it a lot better and a lot more successfully. With Snow, it’s right in front of his face and he still misses it. Often he is so close to getting it. How could he not have thought of the star-crossed lovers angle? How?? When one Peeta Mellark thought of it?

Which idk if there’s fanfics of that yet, but I need to read them asap, Katniss and Peeta and teen Snow, make it happen.

(But I was looking at my notes and I wrote probably the reason Snow didn’t think of the star crossed lovers angle because it was about his survival not about Lucy’s. Lucy was at best, seen as his possession. Even at the moments he was honestly in love with her, he still saw her as someone belonging to him only. )

Snow had two relationships going on: with Sejanus and with Lucy. I did find his relationship with Sejanus more interesting, because I think it’s that relationship that shaped him more that his relationship with Lucy.

I did like and even at some points enjoyed their Slytherin-Hufflepuff BFFship going on, coz despite how Snow let us know what he really thinks versus what he actually says, he was drawn to protect Sejanus, even though he’s reluctant about it or insist that he was made to do it or it’s also to benefit himself.

And I’m not saying there’s queerbaiting in this book, but certain pairings in this book makes more sense to ship than Johanna and Katniss.

With Lucy, i know many were wary or didn’t want Snow to have a relationship with her. For me i was open to it, at least intrigued to see where it will go or how will it be handled.

Honestly while it is still better written than most YA romances, I found it very insta-love. Again, my sense of timeline in this novel might be different coz I was listening to the audiobook instead of reading it, but they fell in love pretty quick.

While listening to the audiobook, i thought, if their relationship is at this point it must have been weeks since the reaping and the games haven’t started yet, and then Snow says it’s just been five days. They were making out I think by day 3 or something.

Maybe because I knew they relationship was doomed from the start and we know how Snow ends up, I was amused by certain moments in their relationship, coz all I can think about it is, oh honey no.

but also, I am mad that Ms. Collins is capable of writing amazing fluff moments in the midst of a dystopian world, and she wastes them on Snow and Lucy? Where was all that for Katniss and Peeta? i was given crumbs in the trilogy, Snow and Lucy made out so many times, at one point I even thought they were going to sleep together, like how dare you Ms. Collins.

For the many years we debated the meaning behind The Hanging Tree, Ms Collins, said no hun, this is what the songs means, let me tell you it’s origin story. And omg Suzanne, that was fucked up. Thanks.

One of the things I was worried about for this prequel is that while it is set in the future, the messages in it will seem outdated because a lot has changed since the trilogy came out.

But she wrote this book well before it was announced in 2019, before it was released in 2020, but she still made it very relevant for today and I think the messaging of this prequel would be more resonant in the future, like the trilogy is.

She touched upon how we really value children, and that immediately reminded me of school mass shootings and how we haven’t done anything about it. She lives in Sandy Hook when the shooting happened so this makes sense she makes a statement about it. And now we are sending kids to school in a middle of a pandemic for political reasons not because we are concerned about their education.

And there’s also mentions of a pandemic in a middle of a war, let’s say it was a whole mental experience alternating between listening to the audiobook and watching the news on January 6.

I also loved the lines: “why do people think the only thing they need for a revolution is anger?” and “we pour money into industries not people.”

While it’s almost unbelievable that the modern hunger games was merely a student group project by a bunch of privileged rich kids and one person who thinks slavery is okay ended up writing the whole thing anyways, that’s basically how this country and our system of governance was founded.

Dr. Gaul is also every Security and Development professor I had in grad school who teaches that war never ends and it’s not about winning it’s about control to a class of future leaders at the state department, white house, and pentagon. i mean, it’s the cornerstone of US foreign policy since end of WW2.

While also listening to this book, I am dead sure that Suzanne could write a different version of Catching Fire where Katniss and Peeta were mentors and they uncover the hidden 10 hunger games tape, and it still will be a be hella of a story.

It also makes sense that the two characters that could possibly tell us or Katniss the connection of Snow to Lucy were the ones who can’t talk: Mags and Tigris.

obviously lucy ended up in 13, possibly related to Alma Coin coz where else will she get that personal hatred against Snow?

Snow could have at least picked Clemensia or Lys, but Livia? i guess make sense since her offspring ended up being Plutarch’s assistant.

I feel like if i read the prequel before the trilogy, it would be a different reading experience. But at the same time, Snow, while he had his moments, is an unlikeable character even as an anti-hero, and his moral stand point is something i dont agree with, coz you know, he’s basically a republican. it’s like reading a book about a young Mitch McConnell, doesn’t matter if the system hurt him sometimes, as long as it hurts others more and keeps him in control, and i gag. I don’t think i would finish reading the prequel if i started with it instead of the trilogy.

but it does solidifies my theory that Snow’s evil is not because he is out of touch with the rest of panem, he knows suffering that’s why he knows how to exploit it. He is not oblivious to the problems, but he arrived at different conclusions or convictions, because again he supports the system that controls his enemies, even if the system is cruel to him too. Again, a Republican. Don’t be one, don’t date one.

I do wonder tho if he made good with champagne tuesdays when he became president.

I don’t see how this prequel works as a movie adaptation tho, even if turned into three parts. It makes more sense for it to be a series, so if lionsgate hasn’t declared bankruptcy before they can adapt this into screen, maybe with the state of movies right now due to the pandemic, they will be more convinced to make this into a series for Netflix or to launch their own streaming service.

#the ballad of songbirds and snakes #coriolanus snow #the hunger games

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ears-awake-eyes-opened · 3 years

Text

Intoxication (Part 3)

(Hayffie 🔥. Sexual content. NSFW. As I reread Mockingjay, I’ve started again writing fics about what life might be like for them in 13. In this part, Haymitch and Effie set boundaries for sex — after they’ve already had it. I view Hayffie with a strong tendency towards enmeshment. They try to set boundaries in an effort to not get too close, not get hurt, and not hurt each other. When their relationship becomes sexual, I imagine certain boundaries are nearly impossible for them to keep up regardless of their motivations and intentions.)

Her mouth moved softly with his, like a slow dance after the band stops playing. “You’re bleeding...” She kissed him where her tooth had caught his lip.

“I’ll live.” The moment was surreal, like a dream he’d woken up from a hundred times with nothing beside him except empty sheets. Only this time he was awake with Effie.

Her body was warm but shaking. Or maybe the shaking was coming from him. He reached for the blanket at the foot of the bunk and pulled it over them. “Are you sure you’re alright?” He asked, holding her loosely, uncertain what would come next.

She closed her eyes and focused on the sensations. Her hips ached where he’d gripped them so hard. Tomorrow she’d have bruises there matching his fingerprints; she could tell that much. She was a bit sore inside. She’d seen him naked before — drunk naked, not fully aroused. She hadn’t anticipated him filling her so completely.

“Haymitch... we had sex.” It was all she could think to say. She was feeling some shock about it.

“Yeah. I noticed.” He chuckled. Static electricity on the pillow caught strands of her hair like a magnet. She was more wild than he’d expected. There was much more to her than she showed on the surface. Under the blanket he traced the path of her tattoo with his fingertips, following it by memory from below her breast to her sacrum and back again.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted you like this?” she asked openly. The question itself was a confession.

He knew the answer. He’d always known. “Since you held up that paddle at that ridiculous picnic.”

“You spoke about running home, and you looked right at me as you said it. I’ve never forgotten the feeling. I thought I might have a spontaneous orgasm right then.”

“Flickerman would have had something to say about that. He loves an orgasmic audience.”

“My mother would have had something to say about that! Choice words for sure.” Effie laughed. “If she could see us here together, she’d lose her shit!”

Her laughter rang through him like chimes in the wind. His father used to make them out of scraps of metal. Even after he was dead, and time had rusted them all the way through, they always sounded like home.

Haymitch caressed her cheeks in the spots where the laughter crinkled her skin. “Such language coming from the pristine mouth of Euphemia Rosalind?”

“I’m not sure whether Mother would be most appalled right now by the unflattering wardrobe strewn about the floor, my conjugating with rebels, or your semen running down my thigh.”

“Conjugating. Is that what we’re doing?” Haymitch clasped her right hand with his and pulled their arms out from under the blanket. Their purple tattoos matched for ‘22:00–Bathing’. “It looks like Coin has scheduled you and me to shower together,” he teased.

“Sharing a military shower with a guard at the entrance does NOT sound romantic.”

“Are we being romantic now? I thought you just wanted this rough and impersonal.” He said it with their fingers still entwined.

She sighed. “I’m trying to be practical. I’m expecting you to pull away like you always have. Should I expect something different?”

“Hell, I don’t know, Effie. We’ve never done this before.”

He held her hand so tightly that her fingers turned pale. “How long have you been wanting ME like this?” She needed to know.

“Since that same day. ...How many years ago was it?”

“Fifteen.” She knew exactly.

It’s a long time to want somebody.

“If my parents hadn’t kept me from leaving the house that night to meet you, do you think this would have happened way back then?”

“If it did, it wouldn’t have been like this.”

“Define THIS?”

“You want an itemized list?”

“If we’re going to be doing this, I think we need some ground rules.”

“More rules?! Don’t you think Coin’s rule book for society and Plutarch’s play book for a revolution are enough to contend with?”

Effie glanced at the ink imprinted on their arms. He had a valid point, but... “What’s happening in this bed has nothing to do with Coin or Plutarch or society or a revolution. This is between us. We need to know where we stand, so we can draw a line and stay on this side of it.”

“You know, for someone who’s so free when she fucks, you’re goddamn controlling.”

“Haymitch, if we don’t control this, what’s going to happen?”

He thought of fire. The question was sobering. “Okay. Rule 1, I’m not going to fall asleep with you. Ever.”

“Why not?”

“My rule, my business.”

She could live with that. She didn’t like to be seen in the morning before she’d put herself together. “That’s fine.”

She surprised him by agreeing so readily.

“Rule 2,” she said, “When we do this again, you won’t be taking all my clothes off.”

“Why the fuck not!?”

“My rule, my business.”

He’d only just had a taste of nakedness with her. He was feeling it now, the sensuality of her skin against his. He’d been starving for it, and she already wanted to take it away. “Are you saying that to spite me for not wanting to fall asleep with you? Because I have legitimate reasons.”

“So do I. I told you I don’t usually do this naked. Not totally. The truth is I never do. ...except this time.”

He held her tighter, feeling the whole of her body while he had the chance. He didn’t want this rule, but he acquiesced, hoping he could change her mind. “Fine. Rule 3, no kissing during sex.”

“No kissing??”

“I’ve got no problem with before and after, but no kissing on the mouth when my dick is inside you. Kissing then, it’s just... it’s too personal.”

She heard a quiver in his voice. He was afraid of getting attached to her. He’d always been afraid of that. Over the years he’d conveyed his reasons, which were mostly logical. Despite them having sex, or maybe because of it, his fear was very present.

“I can work with that. Rule 4, this relationship can’t be exclusive.”

Every muscle in Haymitch’s body tensed. “Are you fucking somebody else here?”

“No. But as long as you’re reluctant about getting attached, then I can’t get too attached to you either. I’m not willing to find myself suddenly stuck in this alone.”

He didn’t want to think about her being with someone else. He’d never liked thinking about that. Now after being with her like this... No way. “Not here. I want a bottle all the time, Effie. Without liquor, how am I supposed to handle knowing you’re fucking some other guy? Once we’re out of 13, fine, but for now that’s off the table.”

Effie breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “Then you won’t be having sex with anyone else here either?”

“Who else would I have sex with?!”

“I don’t know. ...Coin is pretty. If only she’d do something about that hair!”

“Coin?! Coin gets off on saying no. I’m surprised she doesn’t regulate the number of breaths we each get to take! Why would I want to screw her?”

“I just said she’s pretty. Moving on. Rule 5?”

He thought about how delicious it felt to have her hands in his hair and his forehead against her chest, stroking her, then trying to hold back and make it last. It was all so good. Too good. If they we’re going to be doing this again...

“Slow is dangerous. Rule 5, sex has to be quick.”

“Sex has to be slow enough to make me come, and I’ll agree.”

He moved his thumb back and forth across one of her nipples, feeling her respond to his caress. “I’ll make you come every time.”

“Is that Rule 6?”

“We don’t need a rule for that one. It’s just gonna happen.”

“We’ll see.” She rolled on top of him and gently bit the skin along the side of his neck. She was careful, tender, making up for cutting the hell out of his lip.

He wrapped her in his arms. The weight of her felt better than any blanket ever could. His eyelids were heavy, but the swelling of his dick was a more pressing need than sleep.

“What about birth control?” he asked, while he was still thinking clearly.

“Aren’t you asking that a little late?”

“Effie...”

“Relax. I had a shot in June. Sometimes those can last six months.”

“Sometimes? This world’s a shithole for a kid. Rule 6 has got to be not having any.”

“We’re covered for now, and we can find out what these cave dwellers do to prevent pregnancy.”

“The docs downstairs said an epidemic left a lot of these people infertile. If they have birth control in 13, then they probably keep it under lock and key.”

“Then we’ll just have to be resourceful! Let’s cross that bridge if we come to it. I don’t want to be pregnant any more than you do.”

Reassured, he moved his hands over her body, committing every texture of her to memory. The curves of her ass filled his palms and the most sensitive parts of her brushed against him without hurry.

“What’s happening now is still our first time, right? So the rules aren’t official yet?”

“Semantics. But you’re still naked, so yeah, sure. What are you thinking?”

“I want us to kiss while you’re inside me. Just once, Haymitch. ...Because I need to know.”

“Need to know what?”

“That intimacy.”

A siren sounded in his chest as she kissed his forehead, his eyelids, the bridge of his nose, then the divot above his lip as she nestled against him and enfolded the tip of his dick.

“After all these years,” she whispered, “Don’t you want to know too? Just one kiss, while you’re fucking me...”

Yes. Hell, yes. He thrust inside her, and she claimed his mouth. He threaded his fingers through her hair and held the back of her head when she might have pulled away. ‘Just one kiss’ was going to last as long as he needed to get her out of his system.

This time there was no roughness, no swearing, just fluid motion and murmured consent. He felt her weaving through him like the ribbons inked along her rib cage. Effie was in his system so deep, it occurred to him that he might never get her out. There was no detox for this.

She came twice before he spilled inside her. Their mouths were still dancing slow, long after the band stopped playing.

“Ohh.” Now I know.

“Damn...” I’m so fucked.

#HayffieFics #hayffie #hayffie fanfiction #effie x haymitch #haymitch x effie #haymitch abernathy #effie trinket #thg #thg fanfiction #district 13 #intoxication #the hunger games #hunger games #effies mother #haymitchs father #alma coin #setting boundaries #enmeshment

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mahayanapilgrim · 4 years

Text

50 Positive Quotes

1 Nothing is impossible, the word itself says “I’m possible”! —Audrey Hepburn

2 I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel. —Maya Angelou

3 Whether you think you can or you think you can’t, you’re right. —Henry Ford

4 Perfection is not attainable, but if we chase perfection we can catch excellence. —Vince Lombardi

5 Life is 10% what happens to me and 90% of how I react to it. —Charles Swindoll

6 If you look at what you have in life, you’ll always have more. If you look at what you don’t have in life, you’ll never have enough. —Oprah Winfrey

7 Remember no one can make you feel inferior without your consent. —Eleanor Roosevelt

8 I can’t change the direction of the wind, but I can adjust my sails to always reach my destination. —Jimmy Dean

9 Believe you can and you’re halfway there. —Theodore Roosevelt

10 To handle yourself, use your head; to handle others, use your heart. —Eleanor Roosevelt

11 Too many of us are not living our dreams because we are living our fears. —Les Brown

12 Do or do not. There is no try. —Yoda

13 Whatever the mind of man can conceive and believe, it can achieve. —Napoleon Hill

14 Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do, so throw off the bowlines, sail away from safe harbor, catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore, Dream, Discover. —Mark Twain

15 I’ve missed more than 9000 shots in my career. I’ve lost almost 300 games. 26 times I’ve been trusted to take the game winning shot and missed. I’ve failed over and over and over again in my life. And that is why I succeed. —Michael Jordan

16 Strive not to be a success, but rather to be of value. —Albert Einstein

17 I am not a product of my circumstances. I am a product of my decisions. —Stephen Covey

18 When everything seems to be going against you, remember that the airplane takes off against the wind, not with it. —Henry Ford

19 The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don’t have any. —Alice Walker

20 The most difficult thing is the decision to act, the rest is merely tenacity. —Amelia Earhart

21 It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light. —Aristotle Onassis

22 Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds that you plant. —Robert Louis Stevenson

23 The only way to do great work is to love what you do. —Steve Jobs

24 Change your thoughts and you change your world. —Norman Vincent Peale

25 The question isn’t who is going to let me; it’s who is going to stop me. —Ayn Rand

26 If you hear a voice within you say "you cannot paint," then by all means paint and that voice will be silenced. —Vincent Van Gogh

27 Build your own dreams, or someone else will hire you to build theirs. —Farrah Gray

28 Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck. —Dalai Lama

29 You can’t use up creativity. The more you use, the more you have. —Maya Angelou

30 I have learned over the years that when one’s mind is made up, this diminishes fear. —Rosa Parks

31 I would rather die of passion than of boredom. —Vincent van Gogh

32 A truly rich man is one whose children run into his arms when his hands are empty. —Unknown

33 A person who never made a mistake never tried anything new.——Albert Einstein

34 What’s money? A man is a success if he gets up in the morning and goes to bed at night and in between does what he wants to do. —Bob Dylan

35 I have been impressed with the urgency of doing. Knowing is not enough; we must apply. Being willing is not enough; we must do. —Leonardo da Vinci

36 If you want to lift yourself up, lift up someone else. —Booker T. Washington

37 Limitations live only in our minds. But if we use our imaginations, our possibilities become limitless. —Jamie Paolinetti

38 If you’re offered a seat on a rocket ship, don’t ask what seat! Just get on. —Sheryl Sandberg

39 Certain things catch your eye, but pursue only those that capture the heart. —Ancient Indian Proverb

40 When one door of happiness closes, another opens, but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one that has been opened for us. —Helen Keller

41 Everything has beauty, but not everyone can see. —Confucius

42 How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world. —Anne Frank

43 When I was 5 years old, my mother always told me that happiness was the key to life. When I went to school, they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wrote down “happy”. They told me I didn’t understand the assignment, and I told them they didn’t understand life. —John Lennon

44 The only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be. —Ralph Waldo Emerson

45 We can’t help everyone, but everyone can help someone. —Ronald Reagan

46 Everything you’ve ever wanted is on the other side of fear. —George Addair

47 We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light. —Plato

48 Nothing will work unless you do. —Maya Angelou

49 I alone cannot change the world, but I can cast a stone across the water to create many ripples. —Mother Teresa

50 What we achieve inwardly will change outer reality. —Plutarch

#quotes #positivevibes #positive #buddha #buddhism #buddhist #enlightenment spiritualawakening reincarnation tibetan siddhi yoga naga buddha

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caesarflickermans · 10 months

Note

Which The Hunger Games characters :

1. Do you relate the most?

2. Do you think missunderstood by fandom?

3. Do you want to know better?

Please give reasons for your answers. And you can pick more than one character for each question.

Thank you :)

@curiousnonny

1. Do you relate the most?

On a personal level I'd say Peeta for his difficult home life. I find it inspiring that he's not let it change him for the worse. In that regard also Caesar, not relate but feel inspired by him. The way I write him, he's so optimistic and kind and cheerful.

On a world view level, Plutarch. My interest in polsci is similar, but also his view on the ends justifying the means (not as much as him, but:) His final statements on Katniss and he doesn't regret having put her through it? Yeah. In a non-war situation, we'd think ourselves as idealists who would save everyone they can, but I don't think that is realistic. Sacrificing the wellbeing of one person to save the many? Sounds like a good outcome for a whole nation. Morally sad, but whatcha gonna do.

2. Do you think missunderstood by fandom?

Not by everyone, I see a lot of nuanced takes on him, but Gale.

From my (uniquely?) political science perspective, I think we need to acknowledge the reality of warfare and the realist worldview within. I think there's a lot to be gained from Katniss'/Peeta's perspective that really aid in explaining why conflicts based on hard power have failed in the past, but I think we are too idealistic if we kid ourselves in believing that Gale's worldview is wrong and an incorrect way of solving a conflict.

THG as a book series is idealistic insofar that Katniss' methods succeed and Gale's lead to failure, but in reality I don't think Katniss would be all that successful as a revolutionary.

That is of course to say that Gale's actions are morally wrong. But I just don't think we can kid ourselves in believing that "the good side" never uses inhumane tactics. We literally see this happening right now.

And we also see that wars cannot be won on diplomacy and not all conflicts can be avoided by diplomacy. In the cases that diplomacy does not succeed, we would have a problem if we entirely disregard realism. It's what we are literally witnessing right now in my country, which was wholeheartedly unprepared for Russia's military actions and is now struggling to position itself properly against it--aside the fact that it lacks defensive properties if this conflict were to escalate.

Of course I wish everyone was peaceful, of course I wish we could all sniff dandelions in the spring, but the harsh truth is that it's not how the world works.

I'd also add that outside of all of this, Gale is an oppressed kid who has been withheld a decent and peaceful life ever since he was born. The first time his anger is recognised and listened to, it is enabled by adults who know exactly how to misuse it.

And I'd say a lot of us are in very comfortable situations where we can kid ourselves in being adequate judges on this character.

3. Do you want to know better?

The usual suspects: Caesar Flickerman and Plutarch Heavensbee. Though, at the same time my ideas on them over the YEARS have shaped the way I perceive these characters so strongly that almost any deviation will lead to a disappointment.

Other than that, Mr. Everdeen and his love story with Mrs. Everdeen. I adore those kind of love stories!

#inbox #thg meta #curiousnonny #lol the awkwardness of opening my inbox and seeing #I forgot to answer previous questions of yours #I will get to them... eventually

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hockeysweetheart · 4 years

Photo

When I was in need of Help you were there

When You left I cried Tears

When You said you couldn’t hold on you did

When You speak in front of a crowd everyone listens

When You almost died I knew I couldn’t let go

When You gave your blessing to move on I couldn’t without you.

When I needed someone to hold on to you where there

When I wake up in the night from horriable dreams your arms to comfort are close by.

When You see me fall you pick me back up

When you saw me for who I am you still loved me

When you were taken away I was broken

When we kiss it feels like nothing us is in this world but us.

When you smile I smile.

When you cry I am the shoulder you can lean on

When I fail your always supporting me

When I lost everything you were still there

When you said you loved me I loved you to.

When you bake or paint its you create something speical

When you talk about me you make me feel like your the one

When I told you I am expecting you were overjoyed I know I said I’d never Bring Kids into this broken world but you showed me those wounds can be fixed when we have each other. I feel like if I was to bring kids into the world it would be with you no one else.

Below are moments where Katniss Notices Peeta

. I watch him as he makes his way toward the stage. Medium height, stocky build, ashy blond hair that falls in waves over his forehead. The shock of the moment is registering on his face, you can see his struggle to remain emotionless, but his blue eyes show the alarm I've seen so often in prey. Yet he climbs steadily onto the stage and takes his place.

The mayor finishes the dreary Treaty of Treason and motions for Peeta and me to shake hands. His are as solid and warm as those loaves of bread. Peeta looks me right in the eye and gives my hand what I think is meant to be a reassuring squeeze. Maybe it's just a nervous spasm.

But this seems an odd strategy for Peeta Mellark because he's a baker's son. All those years of having enough to eat and hauling bread trays around have made him broad-shouldered and strong. It will take an awful lot of weeping to convince anyone to overlook him.

I don't know why, but this rubs me the wrong way. "What about you? I've seen you in the market. You can lift hundred-pound bags of flour," I snap at him. "Tell him that. That's not nothing."

"He can wrestle," I tell Haymitch. "He came in second in our school competition last year, only after his brother."

What on earth does he mean? People help me? When we were dying of starvation, no one helped me! No one except Peeta. Once I had something to barter with, things changed. I'm a tough trader. Or am I? What effect do I have? That I'm weak and needy? Is he suggesting that I got good deals because people pitied me? I try to think if this is true. Perhaps some of the merchants were a little generous in their trades, but I always attributed that to their long-standing relationship with my father. Besides, my game is first-class. No one pitied me!

It's weird, how much he's noticed me. Like the attention he's paid to my hunting. And apparently, I have not been as oblivious to him as I imagined, either. The flour. The wrestling. I have kept track of the boy with the bread.

"Thanks for keeping hold of me. I was getting a little shaky there," says Peeta. "It didn't show," I tell him.

Finally, I fill a plate with rolls and sit at the table, breaking oil bits and dipping them into hot chocolate, the way Peeta did on the train.

Peeta looks striking in a black suit with flame accents. While we look well together, it's a relief not to be dressed identically.

Peeta takes off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. I start to take a step back, but then I let him, deciding for a moment to accept both his jacket and his kindness. A friend would do that, right?

"I do the cakes," he admits to me. "The cakes?" I ask. I've been preoccupied with watching the boy from District 2 send a spear through a dummy's heart from fifteen yards. "What cakes?" "At home. The iced ones, for the bakery," he says. He means the ones they display in the windows. Fancy cakes with flowers and pretty things painted in frosting. They're for birthdays and New Year's Day. When we're in the square, Prim always drags me over to admire them, although we'd never be able to afford one. There's little enough beauty in District 12, though, so I can hardly deny her this.

"Peeta?" I whisper. "Where are you?" There's no answer. Could I just have imagined it? No, I'm certain it was real and very close at hand, too. "Peeta?" I creep along the bank. "Well, don't step on me." I jump back. His voice was right under my feet. Still there's nothing. Then his eyes open, unmistakably blue in the brown mud and green leaves. I gasp and am rewarded with a hint of white teeth as he laughs. It's the final word in camouflage. Forget chucking weights around. Peeta should have gone into his private session with the Gamemakers and painted himself into a tree. Or a boulder. Or a muddy bank full of weeds.

Oh, right, the whole romance thing. I reach out to touch his cheek and he catches my hand and presses it against his lips. I remember my father doing this very thing to my mother and I wonder where Peeta picked it up. Surely not from his father and the witch.

I fumble. I'm not as smooth with words as Peeta. And while I was talking, the idea of actually losing Peeta hit me again and I realized how much I don't want him to die. And it's not about the sponsors. And it's not about what will happen back home. And it's not just that I don't want to be alone. It's him. I do not want to lose the boy with the bread.

I make Peeta put his jacket back on. The damp cold seems to cut right down to my bones, so he must be half frozen. I insist on taking the first watch, too, although neither of us think it's likely anyone will come in this weather. But he won't agree unless I'm in the bag, too, and I'm shivering so hard that it's pointless to object. In stark contrast to two nights ago, when I felt Peeta was a million miles away, I'm struck by his immediacy now. As we settle in, he pulls my head down to use his arm as a pillow, the other rests protectively over me even when he goes to sleep. No one has held me like this in such a long time. Since my father died and I stopped trusting my mother, no one else's arms have made me feel this safe.

I make room for him in the sleeping bag. We lean back against the cave wall, my head on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around me.

Peeta's a whiz with fires, coaxing a blaze out of the damp wood. In no time, I have the rabbits and squirrel roasting, the roots, wrapped in leaves, baking in the coals.

I also want to tell him how much I already miss him. But that wouldn't be fair on my part.

Catching Fire...

Words. I think of words and I think of Peeta. How people embrace everything he says. He could move a crowd to action, I bet, if he chose to. Would find the things to say. But I'm sure the idea has never crossed his mind.

"So what's wrong?" he asks. I can't tell him. I pick at the clump of weeds. "Let's start with something more basic. Isn't it strange that I know you'd risk your life to save mine ... but I don't know what your favorite color is?" he says. A smile creeps onto my lips. "Green. What's yours?" "Orange," he says. "Orange? Like Effie's hair?" I say. "A bit more muted," he says. "More like ... sunset." Sunset. I can see it immediately, the rim of the descending sun, the sky streaked with soft shades of orange. Beautiful. I remember the tiger lily cookie and, now that Peeta is talking to me again, it's all I can do not to recount the whole story about President Snow. But I know Haymitch wouldn't want me to. I'd better stick to small talk. "You know, everyone's always raving about your paintings. I feel bad I haven't seen them," I say. "Well, I've got a whole train car full." He rises and offers me his hand. "Come on." It's good to feel his fingers entwined with mine again, not for show but in actual friendship. We walk back to the train hand in hand. At the door, I remember. "I've got to apologize to Effie first."

I go to my compartment and let the prep team do my hair and makeup. Cinna comes in with a pretty orange frock patterned with autumn leaves. I think how much Peeta will like the color.

Peeta, who spends much of the night roaming the train, hears me screaming as I struggle to break out of the haze of drugs that merely prolong the horrible dreams. He manages to wake me and calm me down. Then he climbs into bed to hold me until I fall back to sleep. After that, I refuse the pills. But every night I let him into my bed. We manage the darkness as we did in the arena, wrapped in each other's arms, guarding against dangers that can descend at any moment. Nothing else happens, but our arrangement quickly becomes a subject of gossip on the train.

I don't want to dance with Plutarch Heavensbee. I don't want to feel his hands, one resting against mine, one on my hip. I'm not used to being touched, except by Peeta or my family, and I rank Gamemakers somewhere below maggots in terms of creatures I want in contact with my skin. But he seems to sense this and holds me almost at arm's length as we turn on the floor.

When I open my eyes, it's early afternoon. My head rests on Peeta's arm. I don't remember him coming in last night. I turn, being careful not to disturb him, but he's already awake. "No nightmares," he says. "What?" I ask. "You didn't have any nightmares last night," he says. He's right. For the first time in ages I've slept through the night. "I had a dream, though," I say, thinking back. "I was following a mockingjay through the woods. For a long time. It was Rue, really. I mean, when it sang, it had her voice." "Where did she take you?" he says, brushing my hair off my forehead. "I don't know. We never arrived," I say. "But I felt happy." "Well, you slept like you were happy," he says. "Peeta, how come I never know when you're having a nightmare?" I say. "I don't know. I don't think I cry out or thrash around or anything. I just come to, paralyzed with terror," he says. "You should wake me," I say, thinking about how I can interrupt his sleep two or three times on a bad night. About how long it can take to calm me down. "It's not necessary. My nightmares are usually about losing you," he says. "I'm okay once I realize you're here." Ugh. Peeta makes comments like this in such an offhand way, and it's like being hit in the gut. He's only answering my question honestly. He's not pressing me to reply in kind, to make any declaration of love. But I still feel awful, as if I've been using him in some terrible way. Have I? I don't know. I only know that for the first time, I feel immoral about him being here in my bed. Which is ironic since we're officially engaged now. "Be worse when we're home and I'm sleeping alone again," he says. That's right, we're almost home. "No, I'd have told you," I say. I pull his hand up and lean my cheek against the back of it, taking in the faint scent of cinnamon and dill from the breads he must have baked today. I want to tell him about Twill and Bonnie and the uprising and the fantasy of District 13, but it's not safe to and I can feel myself slipping away, so I just get out one more sentence. "Stay with me." As the tendrils of sleep syrup pull me down, I hear him whisper a word back, but I don't quite catch it.

Peeta comes by every day to bring me cheese buns and begins to help me work on the family book. It's an old thing, made of parchment and leather. Some herbalist on my mother's side of the family started it ages ago. The book's composed of page after page of ink drawings of plants with descriptions of their medical uses. My father added a section on edible plants that was my guidebook to keeping us alive after his death. For a long time, I've wanted to record my own knowledge in it. Things I learned from experience or from Gale, and then the information I picked up when I was training for the Games. I didn't because I'm no artist and it's so crucial that the pictures are drawn in exact detail. That's where Peeta comes in. Some of the plants he knows already, others we have dried samples of, and others I have to describe. He makes sketches on scrap paper until I'm satisfied they're right, then I let him draw them in the book. After that, I carefully print all I know about the plant.

It's quiet, absorbing work that helps take my mind off my troubles. I like to watch his hands as he works, making a blank page bloom with strokes of ink, adding touches of color to our previously black and yellowish book. His face takes on a special look when he concentrates. His usual easy expression is replaced by something more intense and removed that suggests an entire world locked away inside him. I've seen flashes of this before: in the arena, or when he speaks to a crowd, or that time he shoved the Peacekeepers' guns away from me in District 11. I don't know quite what to make of it. I also become a little fixated on his eyelashes, which ordinarily you don't notice much because they're so blond. But up close, in the sunlight slanting in from the window, they're a light golden color and so long I don't see how they keep from getting all tangled up when he blinks.

One afternoon Peeta stops shading a blossom and looks up so suddenly that I start, as though I were caught spying on him, which in a strange way maybe I was. But he only says, "You know, I think this is the first time we've ever done anything normal together." "Yeah," I agree. Our whole relationship has been tainted by the Games. Normal was never a part of it. "Nice for a change." Each afternoon he carries me downstairs for a change of scenery and I unnerve everyone by turning on the television

I order warm milk, the most calming thing I can think of, from an attendant. Hearing voices from the television room, I go in and find Peeta. Beside him on the couch is the box Effie sent of tapes of the old Hunger Games. I recognize the episode in which Brutus became victor. Peeta rises and flips off the tape when he sees me. "Couldn't sleep?" "Not for long," I say. I pull the robe more securely around me as I remember the old woman transforming into the rodent. "Want to talk about it?" he asks. Sometimes that can help, but I just shake my head, feeling weak that people I haven't even fought yet already haunt me. When Peeta holds out his arms, I walk straight into them. It's the first time since they announced the Quarter Quell that he's offered me any sort of affection. He's been more like a very demanding trainer, always pushing, always insisting Haymitch and I run faster, eat more, know our enemy better. Lover? Forget about that. He abandoned any pretense of even being my friend. I wrap my arms tightly around his neck before he can order me to do push-ups or something. Instead he pulls me in close and buries his face in my hair. Warmth radiates from the spot where his lips just touch my neck, slowly spreading through the rest of me. It feels so good, so impossibly good, that I know I will not be the first to let go. And why should I? I have said good-bye to Gale. I'll never see him again, that's for certain. Nothing I do now can hurt him. He won't see it or he'll think I am acting for the cameras. That, at least, is one weight off my shoulders. The arrival of the Capitol attendant with the warm milk is what breaks us apart. He sets a tray with a steaming ceramic jug and two mugs on a table. "I brought an extra cup," he says. "Thanks," I say. "And I added a touch of honey to the milk. For sweetness. And just a pinch of spice," he adds. He looks at us like he wants to say more, then gives his head a slight shake and backs out of the room. "What's with him?" I say. "I think he feels bad for us," says Peeta. "Right," I say, pouring the milk. "I mean it. I don't think the people in the Capitol are going to be all that happy about our going back in," says Peeta. "Or the other victors. They get attached to their champions."

Peeta would lose it if he knew I was thinking any of this, so I only say, "So what should we do with our last few days?" "I just want to spend every possible minute of the rest of my life with you," Peeta replies."Come on, then," I say, pulling him into my room.It feels like such a luxury, sleeping with Peeta again. I didn't realize until now how starved I've been for human closeness. For the feel of him beside me in the darkness. I wish I hadn't wasted the last couple of nights shutting him out. I sink down into sleep, enveloped in his warmth, and when I open my eyes again, daylight's streaming through the windows."No nightmares," he says."No nightmares," I confirm. "You?""None. I'd forgotten what a real night's sleep feels like," he says.We lie there for a while, in no rush to begin the day. Tomorrow night will be the televised interview, so today Effie and Haymitch should be coaching us. More high heels and sarcastic comments, I think. But then the redheaded Avox girl comes in with a note from Effie saying that, given our recent tour, both she and Haymitch have agreed we can handle ourselves adequately in public. The coaching sessions have been canceled."Really?" says Peeta, taking the note from my hand and examining it. "Do you know what this means? We'll have the whole day to ourselves.""It's too bad we can't go somewhere," I say wistfully."Who says we can't?" he asks.The roof. We order a bunch of food, grab some blankets, and head up to the roof for a picnic. A daylong picnic in the flower garden that tinkles with wind chimes. We eat. We lie in the sun. I snap off hanging vines and use my newfound knowledge from training to practice knots and weave nets. Peeta sketches me. We make up a game with the force field that surrounds the roof - one of us throws an apple into it and the other person has to catch it.No one bothers us. By late afternoon, I lie with my head on Peeta's lap, making a crown of flowers while he fiddles with my hair, claiming he's practicing his knots. After a while, his hands go still. "What?" I ask."I wish I could freeze this moment, right here, right now, and live in it forever," he says.Usually this sort of comment, the kind that hints of his undying love for me, makes me feel guilty and awful. But I feel so warm and relaxed and beyond worrying about a future I'll never have, I just let the word slip out. "Okay."I can hear the smile in his voice. "Then you'll allow it?""I'll allow it," I say.His fingers go back to my hair and I doze off, but he rouses me to see the sunset. It's a spectacular yellow and orange blaze behind the skyline of the Capitol. "I didn't think you'd want to miss it," he says."Thanks," I say. Because I can count on my fingers the number of sunsets I have left, and I don't want to miss any of them.We don't go and join the others for dinner, and no one summons us."I'm glad. I'm tired of making everyone around me so miserable," says Peeta. "Everybody crying. Or Haymitch ..." He doesn't need to go on.We stay on the roof until bedtime and then quietly slip down to my room without encountering anyone.The next morning, we're roused by my prep team. The sight of Peeta and me sleeping together is too much for Octavia, because she bursts into tears right away. "You remember what Cinna told us," Venia says fiercely. Octavia nods and goes out sobbing.

Peeta's in an elegant tuxedo and white gloves. The sort of thing grooms wear to get married in, here in the Capitol.

We walk down the hallway. Peeta wants to stop by his room to shower off the makeup and meet me in a few minutes, but I won't let him. I'm certain that if a door shuts between us, it will lock and I'll have to spend the night without him. Besides, I have a shower in my room. I refuse to let go of his hand. Do we sleep? I don't know. We spend the night holding each other, in some halfway land between dreams and waking. Not talking. Both afraid to disturb the other in the hope that we'll be able to store up a few precious minutes of rest.

I rush over to where he lies, motionless in a web of vines. "Peeta?" There's a faint smell of singed hair. I call his name again, giving him a little shake, but he's unresponsive. My fingers fumble across his lips, where there's no warm breath although moments ago he was panting. I press my ear against his chest, to the spot where I always rest my head, where I know I will hear the strong and steady beat of his heart. Instead, I find silence.

Peeta and I sit on the damp sand, facing away from each other, my right shoulder and hip pressed against his. I watch the water as he watches the jungle, which is better for me. I'm still haunted by the voices of the jabberjays, which unfortunately the insects can't drown out. After a while I rest my head against his shoulder. Feel his hand caress my hair. "Katniss," he says softly, "it's no use pretending we don't know what the other one is trying to do." No, I guess there isn't, but it's no fun discussing it, either. Well, not for us, anyway. The Capitol viewers will be glued to their sets so they don't miss one wretched word. "I don't know what kind of deal you think you've made with Haymitch, but you should know he made me promises as well." Of course, I know this, too. He told Peeta they could keep me alive so that he wouldn't be suspicious. "So I think we can assume he was lying to one of us." This gets my attention. A double deal. A double promise. With only Haymitch knowing which one is real. I raise my head, meet Peeta's eyes. "Why are you saying this now?" "Because I don't want you forgetting how different our circumstances are. If you die, and I live, there's no life for me at all back in District Twelve. You're my whole life," he says. "I would never be happy again." I start to object but he puts a finger to my lips. "It's different for you. I'm not saying it wouldn't be hard. But there are other people who'd make your life worth living." Peeta pulls the chain with the gold disk from around his neck. He holds it in the moonlight so I can clearly see the mockingjay. Then his thumb slides along a catch I didn't notice before and the disk pops open. It's not solid, as I had thought, but a locket. And within the locket are photos. On the right side, my mother and Prim, laughing. And on the left, Gale. Actually smiling. There is nothing in the world that could break me faster at this moment than these three faces. After what I heard this afternoon ... it is the perfect weapon. "Your family needs you, Katniss," Peeta says. My family. My mother. My sister. And my pretend cousin Gale. But Peeta's intention is clear. That Gale really is my family, or will be one day, if I live. That I'll marry him. So Peeta's giving me his life and Gale at the same time. To let me know I shouldn't ever have doubts about it. Everything. That's what Peeta wants me to take from him. I wait for him to mention the baby, to play to the cameras, but he doesn't. And that's how I know that none of this is part of the Games. That he is telling me the truth about what he feels. "No one really needs me," he says, and there's no self-pity in his voice. It's true his family doesn't need him. They will mourn him, as will a handful of friends. But they will get on. Even Haymitch, with the help of a lot of white liquor, will get on. I realize only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies. Me. "I do," I say. "I need you." He looks upset, takes a deep breath as if to begin a long argument, and that's no good, no good at all, because he'll start going on about Prim and my mother and everything and I'll just get confused. So before he can talk, I stop his lips with a kiss. I feel that thing again. The thing I only felt once before. In the cave last year, when I was trying to get Haymitch to send us food. I kissed Peeta about a thousand times during those Games and after. But there was only one kiss that made me feel something stir deep inside. Only one that made me want more. But my head wound started bleeding and he made me lie down. This time, there is nothing but us to interrupt us. And after a few attempts, Peeta gives up on talking. The sensation inside me grows warmer and spreads out from my chest, down through my body, out along my arms and legs, to the tips of my being. Instead of satisfying me, the kisses have the opposite effect, of making my need greater. I thought I was something of an expert on hunger, but this is an entirely new kind. It's the first crack of the lightning storm - the bolt hitting the tree at midnight - that brings us to our senses. It rouses Finnick as well. He sits up with a sharp cry. I see his fingers digging into the sand as he reassures himself that whatever nightmare he inhabited wasn't real. "I can't sleep anymore," he says. "One of you should rest." Only then does he seem to notice our expressions, the way we're wrapped around each other. "Or both of you. I can watch alone." Peeta won't let him, though. "It's too dangerous," he says. "I'm not tired. You lie down, Katniss." I don't object because I do need to sleep if I'm to be of any use keeping him alive. I let him lead me over to where the others are. He puts the chain with the locket around my neck, then rests his hand over the spot where our baby would be. "You're going to make a great mother, you know," he says. He kisses me one last time and goes back to Finnick. His reference to the baby signals that our time-out from the Games is over. That he knows the audience will be wondering why he hasn't used the most persuasive argument in his arsenal. That sponsors must be manipulated. But as I stretch out on the sand I wonder, could it be more? Like a reminder to me that I could still one day have kids with Gale? Well, if that was it, it was a mistake. Because for one thing, that's never been part of my plan. And for another, if only one of us can be a parent, anyone can see it should be Peeta. As I drift off, I try to imagine that world, somewhere in the future, with no Games, no Capitol. A place like the meadow in the song I sang to Rue as she died. Where Peeta's child could be safe.

push people aside until I am right in front of him, my hand resting on the screen. I search his eyes for any sign of hurt, any reflection of the agony of torture. There is nothing. Peeta looks healthy to the point of robustness. His skin is glowing, flawless, in that full-body-polish way. His manner's composed, serious. I can't reconcile this image with the battered, bleeding boy who haunts my dreams.

I'm light-headed with giddiness. What will I say? Oh, who cares what I say? Peeta will be ecstatic no matter what I do. He'll probably be kissing me anyway. I wonder if it will feel like those last kisses on the beach in the arena, the ones I haven't dared let myself consider until this moment. Peeta's awake already, sitting on the side of the bed, looking bewildered as a trio of doctors reassure him, flash lights in his eyes, check his pulse. I'm disappointed that mine was not the first face he saw when he woke, but he sees it now. His features register disbelief and something more intense that I can't quite place. Desire? Desperation? Surely both, for he sweeps the doctors aside, leaps to his feet, and moves toward me. I run to meet him, my arms extended to embrace him. His hands are reaching for me, too, to caress my face, I think.

At a few minutes before four, Peeta turns to me again. "Your favorite color...it's green?" "That's right." Then I think of something to add. "And yours is orange." "Orange?" He seems unconvinced. "Not bright orange. But soft. Like the sunset," I say. "At least, that's what you told me once." "Oh." He closes his eyes briefly, maybe trying to conjure up that sunset, then nods his head. "Thank you." But more words tumble out. "You're a painter. You're a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces." Then I dive into my tent before I do something stupid like cry.

He looks well. Thin and covered with burn scars like me, but his eyes have lost that clouded, tortured look. He's frowning slightly, though, as he takes me in. I make a halfhearted effort to push my hair out of my eyes and realize it's matted into clumps. I feel defensive. "What are you doing?"

"You're still trying to protect me. Real or not real," he whispers. "Real," I answer. It seems to require more explanation. "Because that's what you and I do. Protect each other." After a minute or so, he drifts off to sleep.

"Leave me," he whispers. "I can't hang on." "Yes. You can!" I tell him. Peeta shakes his head. "I'm losing it. I'll go mad. Like them." Like the mutts. Like a rabid beast bent on ripping my throat out. And here, finally here in this place, in these circumstances, I will really have to kill him. And Snow will win. Hot, bitter hatred courses through me. Snow has won too much already today. It's a long shot, it's suicide maybe, but I do the only thing I can think of. I lean in and kiss Peeta full on the mouth. His whole body starts shuddering, but I keep my lips pressed to his until I have to come up for air. My hands slide up his wrists to clasp his. "Don't let him take you from me." Peeta's panting hard as he fights the nightmares raging in his head. "No. I don't want to..." I clench his hands to the point of pain. "Stay with me." His pupils contract to pinpoints, dilate again rapidly, and then return to something resembling normalcy. "Always," he murmurs.

"I think...you still have no idea. The effect you can have." He slides his cuffs up the support and pushes himself to a sitting position. "None of the people we lost were idiots. They knew what they were doing. They followed you because they believed you really could kill Snow." I don't know why his voice reaches me when no one else's can. But if he's right, and I think he is, I owe the others a debt that can only be repaid in one way.

Through the water in the glass, I see a distorted image of one of Peeta's hands. The burn marks. We are both fire mutts now. My eyes travel up to where the flames licked across his forehead, singeing away his brows but just missing his eyes. Those same blue eyes that used to meet mine and then flit away at school. Just as they do now.

I yank my head back in confusion to find myself looking into Peeta's eyes, only now they hold my gaze. Blood runs from the teeth marks on the hand he clamped over my nightlock. "Let me go!" I snarl at him, trying to wrest my arm from his grasp. "I can't," he says. As they pull me away from him, I feel the pocket ripped from my sleeve, see the deep violet pill fall to the ground, watch Cinna's last gift get crunched under a guard's boot.

Peeta and I grow back together. There are still moments when he clutches the back of a chair and hangs on until the flashbacks are over. I wake screaming from nightmares of mutts and lost children. But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips. On the night I feel that thing again, the hunger that overtook me on the beach, I know this would have happened anyway. That what I need to survive is not Gale's fire, kindled with rage and hatred. I have plenty of fire myself. What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. And only Peeta can give me that. So after, when he whispers, "You love me. Real or not real?" I tell him, "Real."

They play in the Meadow. The dancing girl with the dark hair and blue eyes. The boy with blond curls and gray eyes, struggling to keep up with her on his chubby toddler legs. It took five, ten, fifteen years for me to agree. But Peeta wanted them so badly. When I first felt her stirring inside of me, I was consumed with a terror that felt as old as life itself. Only the joy of holding her in my arms could tame it. Carrying him was a little easier, but not much.

#thg #hunger games #catching fire #CatchingFire #mockingjay #The Hunger Games #katniss everdeen #Katniss #Peeta #Peeta Mellark #everlark #cf #katniss and peeta

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elcctra · 4 years

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hi! i hope i'm not bothering you but do you have any recs for biographies/documentaries on ancient rome?

Don’t worry, you’re not bothering me at all! I love to talk about the romans lmao

This is going to focus heavily on the late republic and early empire (mostly julio-claudians) because that’s what I’m interested in and I don’t feel comfortable enough to give recs for other periods of time. Hope you find them sufficient, though!

Non-fiction books:

Kicking off with the Punic Wars, Adrian Goldsworthy has a huge, detailed but still readable work on it, The Punic Wars. It has a heavy focus on the military aspect of things, so expect lots of battles, but you can still see some of the personality of the main players shine through it. My favorite part is actually the one that talks about the socio-economic impact the wars had on roman society, because it helps to explain all the shit that is about to happen.

Mike Duncan, best known for his podcast The History of Rome (highly recommended by the people who listen to it, but I don’t have patience for podcasts lol) has his The Storm Before the Storm: The Beginning of the End of the Roman Republic. Covers the Gracchi brothers, the Social War in Italy and the careers and later conflict of Marius and Sulla. Good stuff! I especially like his analysis of the neverending conflict between the more conservative forces of the Senate and the natural changes that needed to happen with the empire growing.

Starting with the biographies now, I’m not really interested in Julius Caesar, but him being such a big figure, I find it hard not to include something about him. The two biographies I see mentioned more often are Philip Freeman’s Julius Caeasar and Adrian Goldsworthy’s Caesar: Life of a Colossus. Haven’t read either but I guess they are good.

Anthony Everitt is really really readable. I think that Cicero: The Life and Times of Rome’s Greatest Politician is a must read, not only because I love Cicero (though I do lol) but because Cicero had such a long career and interacted with pretty much all the great men of his age (him being a great man himself) and many minor ones too (yes I’m talking about the loml Marcus Caelius Rufus) so you get a pretty complete portrayal of the fall of the Republic. Other than this, his biography on Augustus, Augustus: The Life of Rome’s First Emperor, is, alongside with Adrian Goldsworthy’s Augustus: First Emperor of Rome, the most important work about the first emperor.

Prepare for trouble and make it double! Although “minor” historical figures when compared to Caesar or Cicero or Augustus, siblings Clodius Pulcher and Clodia Metelli are major historical figures in my heart dsdfghgfdsfg their biographies also give a great insight on the day to day politics of the republic, the fascinating private lives and loves of these people, and, Clodius in particular, the eternal dispute between Senate and People. So, Clodia Metelli: The Tribune’s Sister by Marilyn B. Skinner and The Patrician Tribune: Publius Clodius Pulcher by W. Jeffrey Tatum.

Cleopatra isn’t a roman, but I’ll be damned if I make a list without mentioning my girl. Cleopatra has many good works written about her, of those I recommend Michael Grant, Joyce A. Tyldesley and Duane W. Roller the best, although Stacy Schiff is probably the most famous. However, since this is a list about Ancient Rome, I will go with a double biography of Cleopatra and Mark Antony: Cleopatra and Antony: Power, Love, and Politics in the Ancient World by Diana Preston. Also, if you’re interested in Cleopatra, @queenvictorias put together a really good and complete list of works here.

For imperial biographies, other than the already mentioned works about Augustus, I wholeheartedly recommend Anthony A. Barrett’s work, who has biographies on a number of julio-claudians: Livia: First Lady of Imperial Rome, Caligula: The Corruption of Power and Agrippina: Sex, Power, and Politics in the Early Empire. He has really good analysis, with plausible explanations of what is truth and what is slander in their lives. Among these three, he pretty much covers the entire julio-claudian period.

Now, leaving the biographies for a bit, I think these two works are great to see the relationship Rome had with the rest of the empire. Cleopatra’s Daughter and Other Royal Women of the Augustan Era by Duane W. Roller talks about many royal women from the early empire, including Cleopatra’s daughter Cleopatra Selene and Herod the Great’s sister Salome, and the relationships they had with the roman elite. Interesting read. Rome and Jerusalem: The Clash of Ancient Civilizations by Martin Goodman is a huuuuuge work about Rome’s relationship with Jerusalem and the jewish in general, leading up to the wars between them.

To finish the read, H.H. Scullard’s From the Gracchi to Nero: A History of Rome from 133 BC to AD 68 not only is a classic read, but it covers pretty much the entire period I brough here.

Other than these, I recommend reading the work by the ancient historians like Plutarch, Suetonius, Livy, Sallust, etc. They have sooo much detail, even if we can’t take everything they say seriously.

Documentaries:

Eight Days That Made Rome: Bettany Hughes leads us through eight days (and the context surrounding them) that “shaped” roman history. They include Hannibal, Spartacus, Julius Caesar, Augustus, Nero (and Agrippina!!), among others.

Ancient Rome: Rise and Fall of an Empire: has a lot in common with the previous one in terms of events covered, but has some particular favorites of mine, like the Jewish-Roman War and Tiberius Gracchus.

Barbarians Rising: Rome seen through the eyes of the conquered, including the most famous ones, Hannibal, Spartacus, Boudica and Attila, among others.

Hannibal: Rome’s Worst Nightmare: MUST WATCH because it has Alexander Siddig as Hannibal. Sexy Hannibal.

The Destiny of Rome: covers the Battle of Philippi and Battle of Actium and everything that lead to them and has one of my favorite versions of Antony and Cleopatra.

Netflix Roman Empire: can’t in good conscience recommend this one for the historical accuracy, but it’s fun and sexy, even if batshit insane sometimes, and covers the lives and reigns of Commodus, Caesar and Caligula.

#helenstroy #if you're wondering why the hell this is so big: i'm recovering from a surgery and can't do s h i t #so this distracted me for an entire hour

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hi, i hope this isn’t too bleak of a question but i’m going to college for an english degree currently and at first i wa every excited, but now as i progress i think more about graduating and getting a 9-5 job that will be boring and depressing. i don’t feel like i’ll have any other options for work besides that structure, it makes me feel like college is a waste but i actually like college, it’s just the reality of the end of college that makes me feel sad. do you have any advice? i feel less hope for the future/my personal goals because of this. thank you so much.

I think it makes sense that you don’t want a 9-5 job. Humans just aren’t made to work like that, and I think it causes a lot of problems. Not to be anti-capitalist on main, but the capitalist mode of production is causing people to be intensely isolated- from the purpose of their work, from their fellow humans, and from themselves.

I think the reality of this situation is simultaneously more bleak and more hopeful than it seems. It’s bleak because, as a recent grad, nobody I know has a job except for my boyfriend, who didn’t actually graduate college. Like, nothing. Not even “works at Topshop” or “is a waiter at a restaurant”. Nothing. And we all graduated from a very good school. I even have a Master’s in a field that’s supposedly growing and it’s doing nothing for me right now, even though I’m literally one of the only people who’s truly qualified for those positions.

Our generation got systemically fucked over, particularly if you’re in the US (which I’m guessing you are). We were promised a world that’s a meritocracy, where if you worked hard and hit all of the expected milestones, if you just pulled yourself up by your bootstraps (a phrase, for the record, which is meant to imply that someone is attempting an impossible task. Just so we’re clear), you would prosper, and the people who aren’t prospering aren’t working hard enough. That is, and always has been, a lie. But it’s especially a lie now, when people go hundreds of thousands of dollars into debt to acquire an education we’re told is the only way to get a good job, only to have the rug pulled out from under us when we go to apply for them. We’ve had two of the worst economic crashes in the history of the US, entry-level jobs sometimes require five years of experience, your standard office worker only spends a combined 3 hours a day actually working, and automation is reducing the number of necessary jobs anyway. This system isn’t working. Capitalism is not serving the people; we’re serving it, and in turn we’re serving the plutarchs who are in charge. America is not really a democracy. We’re an oligarchy, and now we’re a plutocracy before anything else. American capitalism has failed us. 250,000 people in the US have been sacrificed to the cargo cult of the economy since March as if it were an ancient deity that will prevent a volcano from erupting and destroying our village.

Anyway...sorry about that unexpected turn of topic. Like a lot of people right now, I'm very angry about the situation in which I’ve found myself coming of age. But! I also believe in the hopes and opportunity of this moment. We have suffered great injustices in the past several years, and in the past year especially. We have felt great loss. But in the wake of injustice and loss, sometimes there’s the opportunity for great change. I think this can be one of those times. But only if we force it to be. I believe we can achieve a world in which people have comprehensive healthcare, and their basic needs met. A world where people aren’t born already at a disadvantage, where nobody is a target of a hate crime. I believe we can achieve a world in which human happiness and prosperity is more important than power and money. I believe in universal basic income and prison abolition and getting rid of the 40 hour work week and the promise of automation instead of the fear of it and the encoding of empathy into the way we govern ourselves. But the fight for those things has only just begun, and we have to show up to let people know that the way things are is not okay, and they need to change.

(I’m coming into the home stretch here, I promise). To answer your question, if you like college, stay in college. Learning is an admirable goal. It’s what I would do with all my time if I could. But then I would say think about what your actual goals are, outside of what you “can” do with your degree or what you “should” do after you graduate. What issues are you passionate about? What are you good at? What can you contribute to the world? What do you love doing? And conversely, what sort of an environment could you absolutely not work in? What kind of life do you want to lead, and what kind of lifestyle do you want to have? You can choose a different path than a 9-5 job if you want it. Hell, you can choose to become a hermit in the woods if you want. One of the best and worst things about being an adult is that there are no rules. It’s all up to you. Especially now, when the option of being a salaried worker isn’t really even there the way it used to be, I think it’s that much more important to pursue what’s important to you. Once you figure out what you want, I think networking is the most important thing you can do. Sometimes people will tell you that if you have the best resume, you’ll get the job, but it’s not true. Resumes frequently get thrown out in favor of people someone who’s already in the company can vouch for. In my experience, making connections is the single most important thing you can do for yourself. Attend events in your area of interest. Build and maintain relationships with your professors. Most people want to help people, and you’d be surprised at how many people will be willing to help you out.

As for me, right now I’m working on an app that I hope someday you all will see, making videos because it makes me happy to produce something tangible, and working for an anti-capitalist tech startup whose products I think you guys will definitely see someday soon. And... it’s pretty good. It’s not perfect, but it’s pretty good. And right now, that’s a lot. It feels way better than the 9-5 I used to do, and that 9-5 was a (supposedly) awesome gig.

I dunno. I hope this wasn’t too bleak or too much in response to your question 😂. It’s just something that’s been on my mind a lot and I thought in a weird way kind of made sense to put here.

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