heartforeyes

[heartforeyes]

liking someone platonically is so embarrassing like. yeah i admire you. yeah i think about you all the time. yeah i look forward to every time i see you even if it's only for a minute. yeah it's all platonic and yeah i couldn't explain this because it'd sound romantic. fucking hell

[heartforeyes]

"when you've been set up to lose everything you love, what is there left to fight for?"

young haymitch abernathy a katniss/peeta adjacent, are we surprised?

[heartforeyes]

Haymitch’s Girlfriend Being Covey: A Purely Speculative Post

I was writing something about Lucy Gray and an oc girlfriend I made for her named Anna Viridian. Anna Viridian was named after Poe’s Annabel Lee and as I was reading it again, I thought to myself… what if Haymitch’s girlfriend was Covey?

There’s no basis of this in canon, obviously, but from what we know her and Haymitch’s story is one of a young love cut tragically short, just like the couple in Annabel Lee. These stanzas specifically were the ones that made me think of Haymitch and his girlfriend:

—

“I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love—

I and my Annabel Lee—“

…

“But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we—

Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in Heaven above

Nor the demons down under the sea

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;”

—

Since in my verse the name Anna Viridian is already taken… I was thinking either Anna Cerulean (like water, which is heavily referenced in the poem) or Anna Rose (since she’s a lover) for Haymitch’s girlfriend. For simplicity’s sake, I’d make her a Clade and not a Baird, though her being a Baird would be an ironic twist of fate. Which name do y’all like better (or do you have another idea)?

Here’s a link to the full poem if y’all would like to read it yourselves: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44885/annabel-lee

Here’s a link to a lovely musical interpretation of the ballad that I think sounds the most “Covey” of all the covers I could find: https://youtu.be/w3K_s1mQyik?si=un8MXZTlvskMcVRf

[heartforeyes]

sunrise on the reaping has me DESPERATE for this dynamic between haymitch and maysilee. i want them to be at each other's throats BAD

[heartforeyes]

Just took the best photo of my sister’s dog I’ve ever seen and I’m going to be thinking about it for a while

[heartforeyes]

Thank you @distractionsfromthefood for the nudge to write this! Inspiration: [not all of it] and [wild onions]

On Ao3

She doesn’t bother knocking (they never do) as she lets herself into Peeta’s home. He's standing at the kitchen sink, unaware of her presence; She pauses in the entryway to admire him; The sunlight glinting off his golden waves. It’s been several months since his return. Between her hunting, his baking, and Haymitch’s eggs, they’ve all put on weight; She could even swear he’s grown a couple inches.

He looks so healthy and beautiful.

She briefly contemplates creeping up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, breathing him in; Capturing the memory of this moment when she’s happy and life feels good again: not perfect, but better than she could have imagined it would ever be.

But she doesn’t want to risk startling him; none of them do well with that. So she clears her throat, whipping her game bag from her shoulder, and plopping it on the island.

He turns towards her with a greeting and smile and she thinks in this moment, life might be better than ‘good’. Feeling suddenly bashful, she turns away, grabbing a glass, filling it with water, and arranging the collection of wildflowers she’d bought in the makeshift vase. Picking them had been a small flight of fancy; the early summer blooms were so lovely, too beautiful not to share.

Upon regaining her composure she completes her task, peering up at him, “For you.” Her smile falters at the look of intense concentration on his face.

“I gave you flowers once? Real or not real?”

She’s momentarily puzzled. There were plenty of bouquets on the victory tour, but those were given to them both, not from Peeta. She looks at the array of yellows, whites, purples, and pinks. Her heart sinking at the sight of the pink-and-white blooms. They transport her back to the train tracks after the first Games, when she’d been confronted with her feelings and he’d walked away.

Stupid. How could she be so stupid?

He’s looking at her, awaiting her answer. She swallows, “real.”

He nods as if remembering, “on the train tracks, on our way back home, after the first Games,” his eyes flit to hers. Her mouth is dry, her tongue like lead, so she gives a quick bob of her head in affirmation.

“And I realized it had all been an act for the games.”

He’s looking at the flowers again. Maybe that’s what gives her the courage to say it, “not all of it.” It’s a phrase laced with implication. He’d been too justifiably hurt the first time she’d said it; He hadn’t recognized the weight of the words, how much they’d cost her. She hopes it’s different this time.

Their eyes meet again, before he drops his gaze back down to the flowers. “Not all of it,” he repeats in a voice hardly above a whisper.

She expects questions. She had feared what he’d ask when she’d said it the first time, unsure if she could dissect her motivations at every decision during the course of the games; still disappointed that he hadn’t given her the opportunity to try.

Silence stretches. She can’t see his eyes so she watches his hands; they’re just as telling when it comes to flashbacks. His fingers twitch, but don’t clench, then they lift and she feels herself being pulled into an embrace. She relaxes. It’s not the hug she’d imagined earlier; it’s better; it’s real.

“Thank you” he says into her hair, but safe in Peeta’s arms, she feels like she should be the one thanking him.

[heartforeyes]

“It was all for the Games,” Peeta says. “How you acted.”

“Not all of it,” I say, tightly holding on to my flowers.

“Then how much? No, forget that. I guess the real question is what’s going to be left when we get home?” he says.

Tearing my hair out over “Not all of it”

[heartforeyes]

Wild Onions

They first come up in The Hunger Games when Katniss and Prim pore over the pages of the plant book; Wild onions, along with the other edible plants their father added, represent a means to self sufficiency and survival.

They pop up again as part of Katniss’s mental recreation of the first meal with Cinna as she contrasts the effort it would take to hunt, gather, trade, and prepare a similar meal back home than the one that just appears in the Capital. She specifically notes:

What must it be like, I wonder, to live in a world where food appears at the press of a button? How would I spend the hours I now commit to combing the woods for sustenance if it were so easy to come by?

Which leads to the final instance of wild onions, when Peeta offers her the wildflower bouquet and (inadvertently) confronts her with this reality. As a Victor she will no longer need to comb the woods for sustenance:

How will she spend those hours she used to commit to survival? And who will that make her?

[heartforeyes]

Soothing layers. Like laying at the bottom of a pretty fish tank, my oldest says. I hope you enjoy - take a moment and breathe!

Happy Monday, all!

[heartforeyes]

No joke, go read The Open Veins of Latin America before even trying to send me a political ask. Mandatory reading.

It's a cliché that every Latin American leftist has read it and quotes it, but that's because it's written in such a clear language with undeniable strenght on its facts. It presents the history of Latin America solidly just in the first few pages, and it only gets more engrossing the more it goes on. While it is now a bit outdated in the sense that it was first published in 1971, the historical, social and political issues presented are -in an unfortunate way- still current. It is a relatively short book, passionate and in a clear, poetic language.

Sometimes it's good to return to the basics, and this is THE basic book if you want to understand the effects of imperialism in Latin America, and our struggle for freedom and identity.

Instead of losing your time with half baked twitteroid takes, go read it. Here you go, for free, in Spanish, Portuguese and English:

[heartforeyes]

imogen talking to the paris group

“yeah, i guess i make bad choices when picking crushes.”

“picking crushes?”

“yeah, you know i look for a guy you know is attractive and preferably a guy im friends with. that how you pick someone your into. duh”

“imogen, that’s not how crushes work”

“oh…”

[heartforeyes]

The one who makes a commitment, shoves a finger [up their ass]

"My first language has a perfect saying for this, but it doesn't make sense in english :("

Say it anyway! You don't owe them perfect clarity. Be profoundly cryptic, speak in riddles, make them ponder what the fuck you meant by that. The anglos, like porridge, must sometimes be stirred, so they don't burn stuck on the bottom of the pot.

[heartforeyes]

#Nick Nelson, certified serial lesbians magnet

[heartforeyes]

down with found family. UP with FOUND DIVORCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[heartforeyes]

I can't keep having the same conversations about love languages, mbti, iq, bmi, "brain fully formed at 25" and shit over and over again...

[heartforeyes]

Random story thought: What if a fantasy story where there's humans and elves, who are less like different nationalities and/or "human, but in a different font", but more like the difference between dogs and wolves? Like they resemble humans, but are very, very clearly not human. And half-elves, like wolfdogs, are known to be theoretically possible, but so improbable and rare that they might as well be a myth. Like everybody's school had that one kid who loves lying for attention who keeps insisting that they actually know somebody who's a real half-elf for real.

And in the extremely rare case where their friend of a friend who's "totally actually a real half-elf" even exists at all, 99 times out of 100, the aforementioned suspected hybrid is just a 100% full human who's unusually tall, beautiful and autistic. Something that can definitely fool someone who's never seen a real half-elf, and is willing to believe that this friend's mom actually for real fucked an elf (instead of getting hunted for sport, and possibly eaten, which is the more likely outcome of encountering elves in the wild). But it's almost always just a full human with vaguely 'elvish' features.

But once in a blue moon, there actually is a real half-elf, and once you've seen one, you won't mistake a full human for one of them again. They're gangly, not just tall but long-limbed in a way that humans are not, their speech is strangely composed as if they learned their first language as a second language, and their eyes are piercing, wild, inhuman eyes, with a gaze full of strange instinctive wisdom that humans were never meant to know. Secret elvish thoughts that even they, personally, wish they didn't have.

And it sinks in to you that elves, that are so alien to you, would also find this poor creature just as strange and unsettling as you do.

[heartforeyes]

#This show is a comedy 💀😭