#In one of the richest districts of my state

[jesidres]

Knowledge about Public Education

I'm curious, because I've been rather shocked by friends being completely unaware of why teachers decided to strike in their city, or that there was even a teacher shortage.

I'd love it if you'd reblog for a larger sample size.

[kasagia]

Losing your memory

Pairing: Young! Coriolanus Snow x fem!Capitol! reader Summary: He used to be your Coryo. Now he has become the man you don't know. The Plinth heir. The future president of Panem. You pray every day to forget about the sweet boy you fell in love with, on whom you could always count. To forget who he was and lose the memory of the past. Just like he did. Well... not exactly. Unfortunately for you, he still wants to remember you. Inspired by: "Losing your memory" by Ryan Star Word count: 7,2 k ~•♤♤♤•~ Coriolanus Snow's Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~ Main Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~

You've been avoiding him ever since you found out he was back in the Capitol.

A month ago, this news would have aroused great joy and ecstasy in you. Your Coryo is back home. He managed to shorten his exile and gain Dr. Gaul's favour again.

But the man who returned from District 12 was not your dear friend or lover. This wasn't your sweet Coryo, with whom you walked hand in hand to school. This wasn't the boy you shared your lunch with. This wasn't a boy who cared about your well-being above his own. This wasn't a boy who joked about snobbish children spoiled by the richest people in Panem with you and Sejanus at the end of the day. (Although he talked with them, trying to keep up good appearances—he used to call that one of the responsibilities of being Snow.)

The man who came back was Coriolanus. The new Plinth heir. The shell of someone you knew. The ruthless, cold pet of the mad creator of the Hunger Games you despised.

Sejanus' death didn't hurt you as much as the transformation of Coriolanus from the person closest to you into someone you barely even recognized. And from the tearful, sad, resentful, and disappointed stories you heard from Tigris, you had an accurate picture of the man who took your Coryo's place.

And you hated him with all your heart.

Especially after what he promised you when you stayed at his apartment for one snowy winter night.

You lay wrapped in the various blankets and quilts Coryo and Tigris could find. It was winter, and they didn't have much money for additional heating, so they mostly walked around the house in several layers and slept under piles of clothes.

You didn't know about that that night.

Tigris lent him her quilt so that he wouldn't have to be ashamed of the poverty his family had fallen into since you were supposed to come to sleepover with him after the argument with your parents.

Cuddling up to your blonde boy, you tried to fall asleep, listening to his heartbeat. You frowned at the sound of it being a little faster than usual.

You lift your head and look at him carefully. His gaze is distant and thoughtful as he lazily draws patterns on your back as he presses you against his chest.

"Coryo?" you whisper, cupping his cheek in your hand tenderly and forcing those blue irises you have loved so much to look at you. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

He sighs long and presses a kiss on your forehead, the tip of his nose stroking your hair, as he is inhaling your scent. "I just... I just think about the fact that you deserve so much more. My grandma and Tigirs deserve much more than... this." he says with disgusting pointing at the room you were in.

"This..." you say, clasping your hands together and pressing a tender kiss to the back of his hand. "Is more than enough. You are all I need. And one day, when you are President of Panem or any other important figure in the Capitol, none of you will lack anything. This is a temporary state. You are too smart to be anything less than great, Coryo. You know it."

You see him hold back tears. He pushed your head onto his chest to rest his chin on your head. He is not crying. He almost never cries. But you know how close he is to it by the slight quiver in his breathing.

"I know I don't show it often enough... but you mean... everything to me. I can't imagine how I would go through these all without you by my side."

"I love you, Corio. Just promise me you won't forget this. What you went through, what you experienced. Don't forget your struggle. That's something you should never be ashamed of." he tenses at your words but leans in to kiss you passionately and hungrily. Putting all his unexpressed emotions into action and into that kiss that warmed you more than any blanket or radiator could ever.

"I promise. I will never forget how you kept me sane. When you were the only shelter I could go to and the only support that could bear the boundlessness of my troubles and doubts. How you were my only moonlight in the worst of my darknesses." you laugh softly, recognising part of his words.

"Quoting poets will get you nowhere, Coriolanus Snow." you say teasingly, rubbing your nose against him, at which he chuckles, licking his lips.

"Well... I've learned that in some situations, it gets me somewhere. And it's a very cold night tonight, don't you think? I can't let you freeze to death." he says as his hands go under your shirt—actually, his shirt that you stole from his closet.

"Well… I guess there's nothing left for me… but to place myself under your solicitous care." you sigh softly as he pins you underneath him, making sure the cocoon of blankets is still tightly wrapped around the two of you.

"I couldn't have said it better." he whispers and presses his lips against yours, stealing your breath countless times. He pulls away just a little to say against your lips, "You're mine. We belong together. No matter what."

He makes you shiver as you eagerly agree to everything he says. You don't realise how, in the future, you will curse every single intimate, sweet moment you shared with him.

Ironically, you realise how deep he has gotten under your skin the moment he returns to the Capitol, and you have to avoid him, not when he is sent into exile.

It was probably because when he was gone, you were too distraught to bother leaving your room, opening the blinds, or wiping the tears that somehow kept leaking from your eyes to notice how almost every place reminded you of him. If you could, you'd go back in time and tell yourself there's no point in crying over the asshole he's become.

Although maybe you already felt that your Corio was leaving, and it was a way of mourning him?

Anyway, you saw him everywhere. Not Coriolanus. Coryo. He stalked you in the library, the park, the cafe near the academy that you two and Sejanus liked to go to, and of course the Academy itself. Kudos to your parents for not letting him into your house. At least he didn't pollute your room with memories of him.

Involuntarily, you wonder if he also sees you, for example, in every corner of his apartment. Or maybe he renovated it beyond recognition to erase all traces of his past?

You didn't know.

And you didn't want to know.

The information about him that Tigris gave you when you met her at your house when Coriolanus was at the university for classes was sufficient.

Just because it didn't work out with her cousin didn't mean you would abandon your only real friend. And just because things didn't work out with her cousin didn't mean she would stop (more or less subtly) encouraging you to go back to him.

"We talked about you." she says, making adjustments to your dress that she made for your birthday party thrown by your parents. Another one of the unpleasant responsibilities.

"You and your grandma?" you ask, trying to avoid HIM as a topic as much as possible.

"No. Me and Coriolanus." she says, pinning something to your waist—some decorative strip of fabric or something—you're not sure; you're too focused on the window and the bustling city as you are trying to ignore her words. "You know… I think… I think I saw in his eyes… the old Coryo. For a brief moment, but… maybe if you came back to him, he would come back to himself too."

"I'm sorry, Tigris, but I think he went too far on his path to simply go back to who he was. Surely not because of me."

"I understand… I just really miss him." she says it in a soft, broken tone, and your heart breaks at it. You hug her with all your strength, uniting with her pain that you also felt so deeply.

"Me too." you whisper in her ear as she cries into your shoulder.

Tigris was a very strong woman. She always impressed you. You wanted to be as strong as her. But even the toughest had to cry sometimes.

After all, there comes a time when even the snow melts... even if only for a little while.

You held him tightly in your arms as Corio cried into your chest.

His grandmother fell ill. Hard. Without a doctor, she definitely wouldn't be able to get out of this on her own, and they didn't have the money to pay for one, let alone the medicines.

Your boyfriend spent the whole day planning, thinking, and getting any money, but it was not enough even to buy the cheapest antibiotic.

However, you didn't expect that after you found out it all from Tigris and ran to him as fast as you could with the chicken soup prepared by your servants and all your pocket money, he would start crying.

Coriolanus Snow cried like a little baby.

You handed the money and soup to Tigris, who, after feeding up their grandma, quickly ran out with her to the doctor. At that time, you were holding your boyfriend in your arms in the other room, who simply fell apart from his helplessness.

"Shh… it's going to be okay, Coryo. She will live, falsify that stupid hymn and hate me for not being enough for you just as she used to." your attempt to comfort him didn't help. If anything, he only cried more, holding onto you tighter and tighter.

"I should be able to take care of them... I should be the one taking care of you, not the other way around. I'm pathetic and weak. I'm not worthy of being called Snow."

"Hey, my sweet boy, look at me. You are strong. You are the strongest man I know. You are looking after me all the time; you literally give me everything you have, the last piece of your food, to keep me happy, safe, and full when I forget to bring a damn second breakfast from home or don't have time to eat something. You love me, and I love you, and that's how it works. We care about each other. And I have never, ever regretted being with you. Because what we have… is more valuable than anything else in this world. I trust you implicitly, and I will always be by your side. You are not alone with your problems and suffering. Not as long as I am here."

"But for how long will you stay? For how long will you endure with me?" he asks, and after one look at those a little red from crying, beautiful blue iris, you answer without a shadow of hesitation.

"As long as you love me and I can trust you. As long as I breathe. As long as I am in your mind and heart. I am not going anywhere, Coryo. Money can be earned, but what we have... you can't buy it. What I feel for you is more dear to me than any treasure in this world and I will never exchange it for anything else." you promise, stroking his hair tenderly to help him calm down.

You should've then wondered why he doesn't agree with you then. Why doesn't he say that he also feels this way and that he also values you more than money, glory, and honours?

But he blinds you by telling you for the first time that he loves you.

And you cling to him, wiping the tears from his face with your lips and foolishly believing that your love is pure and eternal.

Like a driven snow.

You knew this day would come someday. The day you let your guard down. But you hoped it would take a little longer before you came face-to-face with Coriolanus.

You are completely unprepared for this. You just freeze like a deer in headlights when you see his face at the end of one of the university's corridors as he walks forward, looking for something in his bag. Before you can even think about running away, he looks up, probably feeling watched, and his blue, icy eyes meet yours.

You both stand there transfixed, looking at each other, taking in the changes in your appearance since the last time you saw each other, which was after you broke up with him, when you saw how tenderly he treated Lucy Gray and how comfortable he was around her. And after someone politely informed you that he had kissed her.

"Y/N!" Coriolanus calls out to you and takes a step towards you, but you quickly step back and run through the crowd of people to get away from him. Unfortunately for you, he doesn't give up that easily. He never does. "Y/N! Wait!"

You have no intention of doing so. You run as fast as you can, bumping into several students along the way. You don't even bother apologising; you just run, hoping that Snow will stop being hot on your heels. Which, by the way, was a miserable dream after how fit he was after his training and the time he spent as a peacekeeper.

On the way, you notice a woman's bathroom and immediately run into it. You lock yourself in a cabin, thanking God or whoever is up that you managed to get an empty cabin and hide in it. You hear his quick footsteps and the door opening, followed by the screams of other women in the bathroom. You sigh in relief as you hear him obediently leave the room.

You're not leaving, though. You are not stupid. You know he's waiting at the door for you to come out. You decide to wait here until the end of the break between classes and hope that he will drop the idea of continuing to chase you and talk to you, and he will attend the lecture instead.

As the bathroom begins to empty, you realise that the next lectures must be soon. You stand silently on the toilet seat, listening carefully, waiting for the right moment to emerge from your miserable hiding place.

Just as you are about to reach for the doorknob, the bathroom door opens. You shiver as you hear heavy footsteps echoing off the tiles of the empty bathroom. And you think that you can smell the subtle scent of roses in the air.

"Come on, Y/N. I know you're here. I just want to talk."

Said the snake moments before eating the bird alive.—you think, mentally mocking how gentle he was trying to present himself. As if he could still be your Coryo.

"I have time. I can play hide-and-seek with you, if you want to. After all, you always liked to play this when we were kids. And you always lost."

You roll your eyes, listening carefully to his footsteps. He was opening the first cabin. You were in the middle one—the one a little closer to the door (and him).

"We'll have to talk eventually. You can't avoid me and ignore me, no matter how good you are at it lately. Let's stop this ridiculous, childish behaviour and go talk over coffee and some of your favourite cookies at the cafe near the academy. Just like the good old days. Well, this time all your orders are on me. What do you say?"

You would have snorted if it hadn't immediately revealed your hiding place to him. How dare he invite you to the place where you, he, and Sejanus spent the most time? To the place where your first unofficial date was.

He wanted to manipulate you, to make you believe that your Corio is still there and lives behind the façade of the rich, arrogant asshole he has become. But you knew better. His eyes told you everything you needed to know.

Even without Tigris' help, you realised that he... was a completely different person. He turned into somebody you only used to know in the past.

"Seriously? Still nothing? So you prefer the hard way, then..." he says, opening another cabin. You wait patiently for him to come to yours.

You breathe as quietly as you can, trying not to let him know which cabin you're in. You listen to his slow, measured steps as, with the incredible confidence and calm that is typical of him, he opens each cabin door, moving inexorably towards you.

Your heart quickens, beating madly, when you see his shoes in the whole, under the cabin's door. He reaches for the door handle, and before he can open it, you push the door against him with all your strength.

You hear him curse, taking a few steps back in a daze and holding his nose. You take the opportunity and run to the exit of the bathroom as fast as you can, not looking back.

"Fuck! Y/N! Are you insane?!" he shouts, running after you.

You reach the door just in time and slam it behind you, sprinting out of the university. You get in your car and drive away with your tyres screeching. In the rearview mirror, you see him leaving the building and following your car with a furious glare.

"I can't believe you invited Snow." you huff, fixing your makeup in the mirror. Your father is buttoning his cuffs, and your mother stands next to you, also putting the finishing touches on her appearance. "You hated him when we were together."

"He is an ambitious and clever boy. Plinth did well to make him his heir. You should reconsider whether he really is that bad. This match would have opened many doors for us. Not only among Plinth's allies but also among Dr. Gaul. God knows how she favours this boy. Who knows? Maybe one day he will be president of Panem."

"If so, I will run away abroad." you say it bitterly, putting your lipstick back in your purse and adjusting the necklace around your neck to make yourself look perfect.

"Don't be stupid. Snow wouldn't be so bad for you. Since you are our only child, we must marry you well. Make sure your husband doesn't blow our fortune in a week. And Snow is a thoughtful boy. He wouldn't let you live below the poverty line."

"And he's quite handsome." your mother adds, straightening your father's tie. "Still, he's not a womaniser. I heard he turned down the... special attention of Crane's daughter and a few other Capitol's girls. I guess he's been alone since your breakup."

"Hmm. Great. He wouldn't cheat on me with other snobs in the capital, but he would fuck with whores in the district. The perfect candidate for a husband." you scoff, walking with them to the next room, where the photographers were waiting to take a photo of you together.

“Language, Y/N. You are a lady. Besides, it is not certain whether he and this Lucy Gray actually had something between them. After all, she's a woman from the district.” your mom says this, smiling for the cameras.

The flashes blind you a little, but with your father's and mother's hands on your shoulders, you somehow manage to keep your pose, fake, pretty smile, and opened eyes.

Your father thanks them and leads you out of the room and into the corridor leading to the great hall where the ball was to be held.

"And even if he did, it's good that he had some fun. It will make him appreciate the treasure that you are and see that you are irreplaceable." he says, taking the box out of his pocket. He hands it to you with a warm smile. "Happy birthday, my treasure."

"We've already given her..." your father shushes your mother. You send them a confused look as you open the medium-sized box.

You find a tiara there. A small diamond tiara.

"It will match your dress perfectly." your father says proudly. You nod and walk to the mirror to put it on, despising the object in your hands with all your heart. You may look like a princess, but you've never felt so... disgusted with yourself before.

This feeling intensified even more when, after a toast and receiving wishes from several of your friends and more powerful families, you managed to sneak out to the balcony. Not long after you, all the single, young men of the richest family on the Capitol entered, with Coriolanus among them. They each took a cigarette and started smoking, gossiping about the events of the week…

And their topic of conversation was exactly what you were afraid of when you got that fucking tiara.

"Have you seen this? I bet they're pure diamonds. Old Y/L/N wants to marry her off so much that he's using every trick possible."

"He doesn't need to do much. She is beautiful in her own right. But this character… it's easier to train a dog than such a stubborn cow."

"What Snow? Are you now regretting that the Capitol's Diamond slipped from your hands? I heard she wants nothing to do with you. How unfortunate that it happened at the moment when you started to count in the eyes of the elite, and now you really have any chance of grabbing this precious gem for yourself."

The Capitol's Diamond. You shudder, thinking about the nickname you've been given.

That's what they called you. The sole heiress to your parents' fortune. Diamond of the Capitol, the best match in the city, with a dowry greater than any other woman. Anyone who won your hand was guaranteed to reach the top and success with your family's connections, your charm, beauty, and brain. And these vultures knew it perfectly well.

You were curious how the new Coriolanus would react.

Your Coryo only took advantage of your position in society when he had to. He didn't ask you for money or for you to convince your father to whisper a good word about him here and there. Maybe it was because of his pride; maybe he really didn't care. You have no idea. But Coryo despised that term as much as you did. You wondered if that had changed as well.

"I'm still in the game." he replies evasively, sipping his drink. The others laugh and he frowns in displeasure.

"Sure. Because the way she ran away from you today when you approached her with a gift says exactly that." they mock him. You see him clench his jaw, glaring at them coldly as he considers his next move.

"Enjoy it while you can. Your good mood will end when our cat-and-mouse game is over and the Capitol's Diamond hangs proudly on my shoulder." you huff, shaking your head in disbelief. You come out of hiding, and all the men on the balcony tense up and look at you in surprise.

Especially Coriolanus. Suddenly everyone is staring intently at the garden of your estate, too shy to look at you. Except Snow. He drills a hole into you with his gaze as he thinks of a way to undo what he said.

"Gentlemen." you scoff, walking past them and ignoring Coriolanus' glare. "For your information, I would rather live in one of the districts than marry any of you. Enjoy the party." you add sweetly, walking back to the ballroom.

The party is in full swing. You are talking to Thomas, using a sweet boy in a shameful way—to scare other men away from you. Just as you expected, they started flocking to you like flies to a fire.

So you chose the least spoiled of them. Thomas was nice and funny; you had a good time talking to him, and dancing with him was even better.

He wasn't rich; he wasn't part of the cream of society. You were really starting to enjoy spending time with him. And most importantly... he looked nothing like Coriolanus. He was nice for the eyes, but his dark hair, eyes, and sweet, shy personality made him drastically different from your ex. So he was the perfect break from your dramatic love life. Boring, nice change.

You danced to a waltz with him. He held you gently, close but respectful, not invading your personal space. He was a perfect gentleman. The man of your dreams.

If only Coriolanus' icy eyes weren't focused on both of you like a predator waiting for its prey to stumble, you would be able to enjoy Thomas' company to the fullest.

You are with him at the buffet, sipping drinks, when suddenly the last person you expected to meet here approaches you.

"Mrs. Plinth." you whisper in shock as he stands in front of you.

She looks—probably the way she feels. Nice on the outside and devastated on the inside. The dark circles under her eyes cannot be fully covered by makeup, and the deep black of her dress is a clear reminder of what she is still going through.

You can't imagine the pain he's going through right now. And you wonder why the woman decided to join her husband for your birthday party. Since Sejanus' death, she has rarely left their apartment.

"Y/N. Can I steal you from this young man for a moment?"

"Of course." you say, not even looking in Thomas' direction as you and Mrs. Plinth walk to one of the empty living rooms in your mansion. You close the door behind her and point to the couch. "Can I get you something to drink? Or to eat?"

"No. There is no need, darling. I just… I just came here to give you something." she says, pulling a thick letter out of her purse. "I… the letters from Sejanus are still reaching us. The flow of information between the districts and the Capitol is… very heavy and long. Especially when the peacekeepers are now checking every one of his correspondence. He sent it to you. Or rather, he wanted you to send it to him. Or rather, he wanted you to have it, just in case he couldn't… I'm sorry."

Your heart aches with sadness, seeing her on the verge of tears. She probably has no one to talk to about her son except her husband. After all, Sejanus was a traitor of Panem…

"He was a wonderful friend. The best one somebody could have. I could always count on him. Thank you for... taking the trouble to give me a letter from him. That... means a lot." you say, fighting the urge to hug the woman. The Capitol is not famous for acts of tenderness, mercy, or compassion. You had to keep up a facade. Always.

You take the letter from her and walk her to the exit. You give her one sympathetic look—everything you could afford in your position—and close the door behind her.

You sit on the couch and open the letter with trembling hands, trying not to look too closely at the way he wrote your name on the envelope. You know that will remind you of how you taught him how to decorate letters in his first days at the Capitol. Because everything here had to be perfectly beautiful. Even the fucking handwriting.

A bracelet falls out of the envelope and onto your lap. It is not particularly beautiful or sumptuous. It is a simple strap holding a peg-shaped pendant with some black, crushed stone placed behind a piece of glass.

You place it on the coffee table and open the letter with trembling hands. You already feel that after all this you will have to fix your makeup, which you will probably ruin with tears, but Sej's letter cannot wait until the end of the party.

Y/N, If you are somehow reading this letter, it means that I am not at your 20th birthday party, which makes me very sad. (You know how I love celebrating in your garden away from these Capitol's snobs.) Coming back, you know that I wish you all the best (along with Coryo. He's too big of a stick up his ass to write to you, even though he misses you and can't stop thinking about you. Take pity on me and write to this stubborn idiot, because I don't think I can stand another tirade about you and your perfection. Seriously. Our boy is getting mad because of this despair. I don't recognise him at all.) So, my dear friend, I wish you the best. I don't have any trinkets, interesting books, sweets, or anything suitable as a gift here, so I hope you'll be satisfied with what I came up with. I am not a poet, so don't laugh at me. I shall hear... or not. I made the bracelet, which you've probably already seen, myself. And that stone that is inside (and I hope it survived) is coal. I wanted to give this to you as a symbol of who you are to me. Everyone sees you as a diamond, something precious and beautiful. But for me and probably other people close to you, you are something more. This shiny diamond facade hides carbon. A simple coal, an ordinary soul like many others. But you made something more out of that ordinary coal. You are a diamond. Indestructible, the most durable of all. The purest form, preserved among the other gems and stones of the Capitol, because that's what all these power-hungry assholes are—coals that have decided not to change, to choose what is easy for them. I hope now you can see why I liked that nickname for you, diamond. So I hope you always stay true to yourself. No matter what. That's what I learned here, and I want to pass it on to you. Although I hope that by then the three of us will meet again in the Capitol. Do not wait for us both, Sejanus P.S. I miss you too.

You fold the letter and put it back in the envelope. You wipe away the tears that remain on your cheeks with your hands and take a few ragged breaths, trying to calm down.

You freeze when suddenly someone's arms wrap around you. The scent of roses hits your nostrils.

You get up from the couch like you've been burned and push Coriolanus' arms away from you. The feeling of sadness quickly turns to anger and pure fury as you stare at Snow.

"What the hell are you doing here?" you growl through a clenched jaw, extremely glad that there's a couch between you, or you'd hit him. And it was easier for you to explain your tears and smeared makeup than your red knuckles.

"Sweet, kind Plinth, giving you thoughtful gifts from beyond the grave. You love the dead Sejanus so much and ignore the living me. It must be hypocrisy on your part, don't you think? You accuse me of forgetting about Sejanus when you treat me so shamefully, worse than a dog. Should I die so that you can finally stop giving me the silent treatment and running away from me?"

"Believe me, you don't want to hear what I have to say to you." you huff, taking the bracelet and the letter. You hide them in the bodice of your dress and go to the mirror to fix your smudged makeup.

"You do not have to do that. Your boy isn't at the party anymore anyway." he says, standing so that you can see his reflection in the mirror.

"What?" you ask in surprise, turning to face him. You both stare at each other. In fact, you're only now getting a chance to take a good look at him. And you notice with dissatisfaction that the bastard found out from Tigris what your dress would look like, and he chose a suite so that both of you would match. "Where is Thomas?"

"Your little boy toy? Do you think he's enough of a distraction? That he can replace me? That he'll make you feel what I feel? Maby, that he can even protect you from me? Only I know you. I'm the only one worthy of your fucking attention and affection." you push past him, but he grabs your elbow.

"Touch me again and I'll cut off your hand and shove it down your throat." you growl, breaking away from his grip.

"Such aggression… I don't remember you from this side." he mocks you and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. You step away from him and cross your arms, staring at him defiantly.

"I will ask you one last time. Where is Thomas?"

"Let's just say that your mother and I caught him stealing your jewelry. We were merciful enough to solve the matter quietly. You will never see that garbage on the ball or any gala again. Certainly not on yours."

"Were you the one who framed him for this?" his silence and the calculating, self-proud look of the cat that caught the canary (or, in this case, the snake that choked the mouse) tell you everything. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!" you ask furiously.

You want to move past him, but he pushes you back, making you bump into the wall. He closes the gap between you in one step, pressing his chest against yours.

"You're mine. You've always been. You shouldn't lead this loser on or give him false hopes. We both know we will end up together."

"I broke up with you." you remind him, not caring about his intimidating attitude.

"A mistake I intend to fix." he says, leaning towards you.

His nose brushes against yours, and you shiver. You lift your leg, trying to kick him in the groyne, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees your sudden movement and grabs your thigh in a tight grip. If it weren't for the thick layers of material, he would probably leave bruises.

"You... you have nothing to fix. There is no longer us. I don't even know you anymore, Coriolanus."

"Don't." he growls at you angrily. You can see the desperation and madness in his eyes at the fact that you're using his name and that you wrote off your relationship. "It was always you. You were always mine, Y/N, and I was always your Coryo."

"Things are changing quickly. We are not the same, and now we have nothing in common, nothing to talk about."

"We have EVRYTHING to talk about. I still love.."

"DON'T!" you interrupt him. He freezes. You rarely shout, especially at him. That's why he takes a step back before putting on his impassive mask again. "Don't even say that. You have no idea what love is. Sure, you may feel attached and even desire me at some point, but you have no idea of unconditional, true love. So for old time's sake, leave me alone."

"What about you? Do you think you are so holy and blameless? That I'm the only bad guy? You lied to me. You promised you would stay with me, no matter what."

"I promised it to my Coryo. Not to you, Coriolanus. My Coryo died in District 12 with Sejanus—maybe even in the Hunger Games—when you let Dr. Gaul brainwash you in the name of fame, money, and position. You think that old hag didn't tell me why Sejanus is dead? That I don't know that your songbird has disappeared? That I would believe that Highbottom just got high or drank himself to death?" he clenches his jaw and fists at your words. You can see how furious he is, but he holds back, still controlling himself.

"Everything I did, I did for us. For you. For Tigris and Grandma." you laugh, wondering who he's trying to fool—himself, you, or both of you at the same time.

"No. You're doing it for yourself. Only for yourself, Coriolanus." he gets even more angry and pins you to the wall again. His cool blue eyes are raging with rage, and you try hard to push away the feeling of fear he has stirred in you.

"Do you want a reason to hate me? So you and Tigris can still gossip about my madness? Then maybe I should let this old man pursue her and sell her as a wife to one of them for good money."

"KEEP HER OUT OF IT! It's Tigris, Coriolanus! Tigris! The woman whose sacrifice you owe your entire fucking life to! A woman who went out of her way to give your ungrateful, selfish ass something to wear. Who sacrificed the love of her life in the name of maintaining the façade of Snow's wealth?! You can give a damn about me, Sejan, and even that little songbird of yours, but if you fucking ruin the life of your cousin—the only goddamn person who still cares about you—I promise you, in memory of OUR dead friend, that there won't be a fucking hole where you could hide from me."

You stare daggers at each other, both openly expressing your resentment towards the other. You have no idea why he still cares about you—is it because of your money, position, or some sick fantasy he has in his head, or maybe he actually still cares about you?

You don't think about it when a more important issue arises.

Suddenly, he grabs your face in both hands and pulls you towards him, greedily kissing you as he connects your lips after a very long time of separation. He caresses your lips with his and kisses you with such fervour as if he craves you like a hermit starving for water.

And for a moment, you feel like you were with Coryo, when all that mattered to you was the other one, when you could get lost in each other, forgetting about the rest of the world and the worries that were waiting for you.

And that's exactly what he's doing now. He makes you forget about anything but him.

You can't help but moan into his mouth as he presses his body against yours. When he releases his strong grip on your cheeks to grab you around your waist and press you against his body, his leg is between yours.

He kisses you more hungrily, groaning too at the familiar warmth of your body against him and the feeling of your soft, silky skin pressing against him. The scent of your perfume mixes, creating a perfect combination of roses and your favourite flowers. Your hands automatically go to his hair as you hold on to him and press him to you. You don't like the gel on your hands from his hair, but you ignore this new, irritating feeling by biting his lip.

You don't think at all. As well as Coriolanus. You both just kiss each other, your tongues joining, as you both let your desire for one another take control of the situation.

You only come to your senses when your lips break apart. You gasp, trying to breathe again, as he fucks your exposed collarbones with kisses. Your brain comes back to you as he leaves a hickey on your neck. He bites you, making you moan so needily that a wave of shame washes over you with his tongue, soothing the bite. You push him away from you and place your hand on your chest, trying to regain control over yourself.

"See? We belong together. There is no other way, Y/N. We are all we need."

"Bullshit." you gasp, trying to ignore the possessive, smug feeling blooming in your chest when you see his messy hair and your lipstick smeared on his lips. "Since you are that good in losing your memory, then forget about me too."

"I can't. I just can't. You think I haven't tried? That you don't haunt me every damn step I take? Everything I have and everything I know is saturated with you. With the memory of both of us. I forgot about what I had with that songbird and my friendship with Sejanus, but I simply CAN'T forget about you. I haven't spent a single damn day without thinking about you. NOT EVEN ONE. And I know you felt the same way. Do you know why I didn't kill that stupid boy who was clinging to you? Because I knew it would make you hate me even more. I was alone without you at 12, and you know how it ended. You are my conscience. Without you... there's nothing holding me back. Without you, there is nothing to distinguish me from the Hunger Games tributes. I have no borders, mercy, compassion, or anything that makes people human beings. And Gaul knows it. That's why she told you all of my crimes; that's why you're paranoid now that I'm someone completely different. But it's still me. I. Am. Still. Your. Coryo." he says it firmly, taking a step closer to you with each word.

"Don't turn me into a fucking cricket for your Pinocchio. I am not, and I do not want to be your conscience. I will not take part in your lies, games, and manipulations." you say as you both stare at each other, neither of you wanting to concede to the other in any way.

"I will have you. One way or another, but I will. Even if it is the last thing I do, I will have you by my side. Just where you always belonged. I promised you to be my First Lady. And I intend to keep that promise."

"You must become president first. And believe me, I will do everything in my power to prevent that from happening. Maybe you can't forget about me. But I can. I do not need you. I never needed you. How ironic to be able to lose the memories of everyone except the girl who will be the end of you, isn't it, CORIOLANUS?" you mock him, a smirk on your lips, making him a promise.

You walk past him, and this time he lets you go, knowing full well that he won't do anything more with you today. At least he got his kiss and a little taste of you, a reminder of the reward that awaits him when everything finally falls into place. When he finally has you in his arms and is at the top of Panem—his rightful place.

"The game has just begun!" he shouts after you, staring at you as you head towards the bathroom to touch up your ruined makeup. It gives you satisfaction to think that this bastard will probably have to clean himself up after your little make-out session, too.

You think that maybe Gaul was right about the Hunger Games being the whole world. But the reality was that there could only be ONE winner.

And among the people of the Capitol, only you and Coriolanus had a real chance of winning. It has always been like that. And even lost memories that do not want to go away so easily are proof of this.

Part 2

[misfitwashere]

Friends,

Many of you are still in shock about what happened a week ago today. Some of you don’t even want to read a newspaper or hear the news. 

I get it. 

A few of you are coping with the catastrophe by minimizing or denying it. Several friends assure me that a second Trump term won’t be much different from the first and that the checks and balances in our system will continue to constrain him. 

This is wishful and dangerous thinking. 

Trump and his Republican lapdogs will almost certainly win the House, which means that starting January 20, they will take full control of the federal government — both chambers of Congress as well as the presidency. 

The Republicans soon to be in control of Congress are more MAGA, less principled, and more intimidated by Trump than the Republicans who had control when Trump took office in 2017. There are no Liz Cheneys in the House, no Mitt Romneys in the Senate. Republican senators seeking to become the majority leader are already competing to please Trump, promising immediate confirmation of his appointments. 

The Republican Party as a whole has now been effectively purged of people willing to stand up to Trump. 

Trump already has effective control of the Supreme Court, a majority of whom have ruled that he (or any president) is presumptively immune from criminal liability for whatever he chooses to do.

This time, moreover, there won’t be people in the administration to stop him. Trump learned from his first term about the importance of surrounding himself with lackeys who will do whatever he wishes. 

His early picks (Susie Wiles as chief of staff, Stephen Miller as deputy chief of staff, Thomas Homan as border czar, Lee Zeldin as EPA administrator, Elise Stefanik as ambassador to the U.N., and Michael Walz as national security advisor) have only one thing in common and it’s not their expertise. It’s their unblinking loyalty to Trump. 

Don’t get me started about Elon Musk, the richest man in the world, who has turned his X platform into a swamp of Trump lies and propaganda, and now seems joined at the hip to Trump — appearing wherever Trump is. Robert F. Kennedy Jr. is a nut job. 

And unlike Trump’s first term, the president-elect is now backed by a network of dangerous extremists — including those who have been imprisoned for their part in the attack on the U.S. Capitol, whom Trump has suggested he’ll pardon. They will feel emboldened to carry out what they understand to be Trump’s wishes. 

Finally, also unlike before his first term, Trump has explicitly told us what he plans to do and already has people working on getting it done starting January 20: mass deportations, prosecution of his political enemies, the use of the military against U.S. citizens, the purging of the civil service across the government and substitution of Trump loyalists, and a promise to play politics with disasters. 

Project 2025, which was written by more than 140 people who served under Trump the first time around, including several of his former Cabinet secretaries, explicitly calls for “abortion surveillance” and the stripping from Americans of reproductive freedom (page 455). 

It also calls for jailing teachers and librarians over banned books (page 5), gutting of overtime pay rules (pages 587 and 592), and prioritizing “married men and women” over other types of families (page 489). 

To enforce these attacks on our rights, Project 2025 would use the Justice Department to prosecute district attorneys Trump disagrees with, invoke the Insurrection Act to shut down protests, and mobilize red-state national guard units against blue states that resist his authoritarian agenda.

In sum, my friends, we are facing a catastrophe far worse than what occurred in Trump’s first term of office. The meager guardrails that existed then will be gone.

We must not avert our eyes from this calamity, or minimize it, or throw up our hands in despair or retreat. 

We must prepare to fight it. 

But how? Let me ask you: If this were Germany in 1933, what actions would you take? How different will this be from Germany in 1933?

I put this question to some of you last Wednesday during my weekly Office Hours. Forty percent said your most important goal will be to protect those in harm’s way, and 34 percent said it will be to organize and mobilize politically. Of the remainder, 9 percent said it will be to resist with civil disobedience. (Others had additional or different ideas.)

Obviously, none of these alternatives is exclusive. We must consider all, and many others. 

Protecting the vulnerable and preserving our rights and liberties will require a great deal of hard work by people who believe in our Constitution, democracy, and the rule of law. The work includes: 

Monitoring Trump and his government — despite the disinformation, propaganda, and lies we’ll be receiving — and disseminating the truth.

Maintaining a watch over the people and institutions we value.

Being ready to sound the alarm in our communities and networks when those people and institutions are under assault. 

Organizing and mobilizing nonviolent resistance to such assaults. 

Using civil disobedience wherever possible. 

Litigating through state and federal courts where possible.

Speaking out against malicious lies like those that spread during the election by Elon Musk on his propaganda machine X and against vicious lies amplified on other MAGA mouthpieces. 

Using our economic muscle to boycott corporations that support Trump, Musk, and other centers of MAGA power. 

And much more. 

It will be up to us — the American people who still cherish democracy — to protect and preserve our system of self-government.

As difficult as it is to fully accept what we are up against, the first step is to acknowledge it. 

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Sign going up on Pennsylvania turnpike

* * * *

The future of the Democratic Party on display

August 22, 2024

Robert B. Hubbell

My overarching impression of the third night of the convention is that the future of the Democratic Party was on display, and it was beautiful sight! The bench is deep and will carry us forward for two generations. By my count, there were four future Democratic presidents (at least) on the dais on Wednesday evening. As on previous nights, the convention choreography was expertly crafted to communicate to all Americans—not merely the Democratic faithful. It was a fun, raucous evening capped by a terrific speech by Tim Walz.

It is odd to write about an event that most readers watched live. You saw it with your own eyes, so it feels presumptuous to assume that my observations are unique. Tonight, less is more. I will remark on a few highlights and then rely on readers to continue their cogent observations in the Comment section. I urge all readers to review the Comment section to see what readers of this newsletter community thought about the third night.

Tim Walz delivered

Tim Walz proved again that Kamala Harris chose wisely. Tim is an effective communicator who comes across as an “everyman” who is trusted by everyone. In the end, Walz morphed into a football coach giving a half-time pep talk about the state of the race. He said that we are “down by a field goal” and we have the ball and are driving down the field.

That metaphor signals that Democrats are the underdog but have momentum. That is the right message at this moment. We can take nothing for granted.

We have heard most of Tim Walz’s speech before, but he delivered it with new energy and purpose while remaining completely relatable and earnest.

Walz wisely began his speech by saying, “We are all here tonight for one simple reason: We love this country.”

In a line that will be on bumper stickers and posters in classrooms across America, Walz said that he ran (and won) in a deep red congressional district against steep odds, saying, “You know what, never underestimate a public school teacher.”

He listed his accomplishments as Governor of Minnesota, a prelude to listing Kamala Harris’s policy priorities. His state-level accomplishments align neatly with Kamala Harris’s campaign proposals. When Walz began to list Harris’s policies, he said, “Clip this portion of the video and send it to your relatives who are unsure about how to vote.”

Among the policies Walz mentioned were the following:

Cutting taxes for the middle class.

Extending the child tax credit

Taking on big pharma.

Making home-buying more affordable.

Fighting for freedom to live the life you want to lead.

Among the most important accomplishments described by Walz as governor, he said, “We made sure that every kid in state gets breakfast and lunch every day. So, while other states were banishing books, we were banishing hunger.”

Walz used “freedom” as a theme—contrasting the Democratic and Republican views of freedom. Walz framed freedom as respecting choices, including reproductive choices. He reprised the line, “We respect choices; and we have a golden rule: Mind your own damn business.” Republicans, on the other hand, see “freedom” as the right of government to interfere in your life.

Walz effectively addressed Project 2025 by saying, “I know, as a football coach, that when someone goes to the trouble of drawing up a playbook, they are going to use it!” He said Project 2025 is “an agenda that serves only the richest among us.”

He spent a few moments criticizing Trump, saying, “Trump's own people warned us about Trump. Leaders don’t spend all day insulting people.”

Two comments about events surrounding Tim Walz’s speech. First, the sight of Tim’s son, Gus, weeping with joy and saying, “That’s my dad” was heartwarming. More importantly, it spoke volumes about the love in the Walz family—a stark contrast to the fractured, transactional relationships in the Trump family. Gus’s reaction will “go viral” for being proud of his dad. You can’t pay for advertising like that.

Second, immediately before Tim Walz spoke, a former student introduced the football team members that Tim Walz helped coach to a national championship. Those players—now men—took the stage bursting with joy and affection for Walz. The GOP could not replicate that scene even if they hired actors from Craigslist.

As framed and delivered, the speech by Tim Walz was a home run.

The joyousness of the third night

During the prime-time hours, two musical acts pumped up the volume. Stevie Wonder sang Higher Ground, while John Legend and Sheila E. performed Prince’s Let's Go Crazy. Also, Neil Young granted permission to the DNC to use “Rockin’ in the Free World” as the “walk-on” music for Tim Walz. The performances helped sustain the energy and momentum from the first two nights.

Two special presentations

The organizers included two special presentations that addressed urgent issues: January 6 and Project 2025.

The video presentation on the violence of January 26 was impactful, frightening, and motivating. It needed to be done; indeed, how could Democrats not address it? This is the first post-January 6 presidential election. But, as Joe Biden found out, Americans do not seem to be motivated by dwelling on January 6. I wish it were otherwise. But they are responding to the forward-looking, positive message of the Harris-Walz ticket.

The organizers also addressed Project 2025 through Saturday Night Live cast member Keenan Thompson. Thompson interviewed four Americans and then explained how project 2025 would impact their jobs, personal choices, and access to healthcare. Although the subject is serious, the decision to approach it with humor was creative and engaging. The organizers continue to find creative ways to communicate to the American people.

Bill Clinton

Former President Bill Clinton gave a wonderful speech but went on too long and threw off the schedule for the rest of the evening.

Among Clinton’s memorable statements were his praise for President Biden, of whom he said,

Biden healed our sick and put the best of us back to work. He repaired our alliances. He voluntarily gave up political power. I want to thank him for his courage, compassion, class, service, and sacrifice. [Spontaneous eruption of chants, “Thank you, Joe.”]

Clinton urged the delegates to temper their joy with lessons from the past—harkening back to Trump's interference in Hillary Clinton’s campaign:

We have seen more than one election slip away from us because we were distracted by phony issues. This is a brutal business. I want you to be happy. But never underestimate your adversary. They are very good at triggering doubt and buyer’s remorse. We got to be tough.

He concluded by predicting that voting for Harris and Walz would be a generational gift:

If you vote for this team and bring in this team and their breath of fresh air, you will be proud of it for the rest of your life. Your children and grandchildren will be proud of it.

The rest of the lineup

Nancy Pelosi gave a speech.

Josh Shapiro gave a passionate, barnburner, forward-looking, traditional convention speech befitting a presidential nominee. While remarkable, it felt like he was auditioning for 2028 or 2032. In fairness, he wasn’t the only person doing so on Wednesday (or previous nights). He is a prodigious speaker with a long runway ahead of him.

Amanda Gorman, the poet and activist, delivered a beautiful, thoughtful poem. Among the many fine lines in the poem, I was struck by these:

“Cohering is the hardest task history ever wrote.” “While we all love freedom, it is love that frees us all.”

Oprah Winfrey rose to the occasion. Democrats need to get Oprah out on the campaign trail for Harris-Walz. She is a gifted speaker who oozes credibility and genuineness. She noted that she is registered as an independent and “voted on values.” She said,

Character matters most of all, and decency and respect are on the ballot in 2024. Let us choose loyalty to the constitution over loyalty to any individual. Let us choose optimism over cynicism. Let us choose common sense over nonsense.

Maryland Governor Wes Moore gave a short speech in which he established himself as a leading figure in the party's future for years to come.

Pete Buttigieg was amazing, as always. He is a gifted communicator who is able to connect with Americans across the political spectrum. He described dinnertime at his home with his son and daughter, a scene immediately recognizable to hundreds of millions of Americans. He contrasted his inclusive family with the exclusive, narrow vision of family being promoted by JD Vance.

Buttigieg reminded the delegates that Vance said, “People who don’t have kids don’t have a physical commitment to the future of the country.” Buttigieg said that his service in Afghanistan “outside the wire” was “pretty damn physical” even though Buttigieg did not have kids at that time.

Buttigieg closed by saying that Republicans had “doubled down on darkness” in choosing JD Vance as their vice-presidential candidate.

After the speeches concluded, delegates stayed in the convention hall floor, cheering and dancing, not wanting the third evening to end! They understood that what happened in the convention hall on Wednesday was historic—the passing of the torch to successive generations of Democratic leaders.

RFK Jr. will withdraw and endorse Trump

Robert F. Kennedy Jr. is withdrawing from the presidential race, announcing that he will endorse Trump. That endorsement confirms what we knew all: RFK Jr. was a stalking horse for Trump to help defeat Biden. The always smart Josh Marshall of Talking Points Memo, wrote:

My final thought is that Kennedy is so weird and now so universally recognized as weird and this endorsement — if that’s what it is — would appear so corrupt that I’m not sure it really plays as a positive. When I say corrupt, he’s been pretty visibly asking each campaign basically what their best offer is.

Kennedy’s support has shrunk to the low single digits, any impact on the presidential race will likely be de minimis.

[Robert B. Hubbell Newsletter]

[mariacallous]

Editor's Note: This piece was first published by the Los Angeles Times.

A fiscal “doom loop.” A transit “death spiral.” The “office apocalypse.” Since the traumatic disruption of the COVID-19 pandemic, these pessimistic terms have been applied repeatedly to the state of our cities. Analysis of census data from my Brookings Institution colleague William H. Frey found that from 2020 to 2021, during the peak of the pandemic, major metropolitan areas including New York and Los Angeles lost a significant number of residents. A net 175,000 people left L.A. for Riverside, the Sun Belt, or smaller metro and rural areas.

But new research shows clear signs this trend is reversing. As many downtowns struggle, residential neighborhoods are thriving. While L.A. also lost population in 2022, that year’s rate of population loss was half what it was in 2021. Other cities, such as Seattle and Washington, D.C., have flipped from losses to gains. Yet office vacancy rates continue to rise, and transit ridership remains well below 2019 levels on every major U.S. system. If people are back, where are they?

Not at the office or on the train. Instead, people are enjoying walkable, mixed-use neighborhoods where they can both live and work, in contrast to the 20th century mode of cities and suburbs that rigidly separates work zones from other activities.

This has benefits not just for individuals but also for communities and places. For example, while overall transit ridership in San Francisco is only 54% of the pre-pandemic level on weekdays, the 22 Fillmore line serving the neighborhood of Mission Bay, just south of the historic downtown, is at 107% of pre-pandemic ridership. In L.A., while retail vacancy downtown is 9.3% and trending upward, the citywide rate is only 6.1%, data from CoStar shows. In a diverse range of neighborhoods, retail is close to or even outperforming that average: The vacancy rate is only 5.6% in Echo Park, 6.3% in Inglewood, and 6.6% in Boyle Heights. Elsewhere it’s trending down, even approaching zero: 0.5% on Figueroa Street near USC, 1.5% in Los Feliz, and 2.3% in Highland Park.

Why are some neighborhoods doing extraordinarily well? These are not the richest parts of L.A. Rather, they gather big, diverse collections of economic, social, physical, and civic assets in close proximity. Figueroa, Los Feliz, and Highland Park have some of the highest population densities in L.A. County, as well as access to amenities including the USC campus and Griffith and Hermon parks. They are close enough to downtown to be accessible to and from elsewhere in the region. And finally, all of these places are served by hyperlocal place governance entities, including business improvement districts that provide extra coordination and support, such as clean-and-safe patrols.

Demand in cities remains strong—so much so, in fact, that in many of the biggest metro areas the concern is not abandonment but affordability. Nowhere in the United States is the housing crisis as acute as Los Angeles, the least affordable metro area in the U.S. Citywide, the average rent for a one-bedroom apartment is more than $2,000. In Los Feliz, it’s $2,250, according to CoStar data. Off Figueroa near USC and in Highland Park, you can get a one-bedroom for $1,400 or $1,600, but those sorts of offerings are few and far between. And even those rents are out of reach for many in a city where half of households make $70,000 a year or less. People are leaving L.A. not to ditch a struggling city, but to find housing.

This crisis is a choice, and the solutions for both neighborhood affordability and downtown revitalization are the same: ending policy and infrastructure that segregate people and most types of land use and create under-resourced neighborhoods as well as downtowns overly dependent on offices.

Policies and practices such as exclusionary zoning and lending discrimination allow some neighborhoods to hoard what they need (e.g., low-flood-risk land and tax revenue to support services) while withholding from others. What if we enabled all people and places to thrive?

Los Angeles and California have recently made progress in advancing policy reforms, such as the city’s expansion of its adaptive reuse ordinance and the state’s Affordable Housing and High Road Jobs Act, both of which will increase housing production and economic vitality by integrating housing with underperforming retail and offices.

Progress will also require building housing everywhere, including affordable housing as well as transitional and permanent supportive options that meet a broader range of needs than our current one-size-fits-all housing stock. It also makes sense to invest more in basics that proved throughout the pandemic to support quality of life, such as parks and community-based organizations.

The most effective policies to create shared prosperity for neighborhoods and downtowns will raise and share new revenue by explicitly connecting growth with funding to connect historically marginalized communities and places to the regional economy, cultivating their local assets.

Some examples cities are already pursuing include New York’s congestion pricing to fund public transit, Chicago’s Invest South/West initiative to increase economic investment and development in neighborhoods punished by racial segregation, and Seattle’s Equitable Development Initiative, which funnels grant dollars to neighborhoods at high risk of displacement to empower local projects. In addition, L.A. and other cities can directly address the systemic devaluation of Black neighborhoods by enabling new models for commercial real estate ownership that are accessible for local entrepreneurs.

What does the city of the future look like, and who decides? Much of the rhetoric of the current moment is focused on assigning blame for shortcomings. Instead, we need to encourage what has worked to support great neighborhoods and downtowns and make those things accessible to more people—finding common ground, earning community trust, and establishing new ways to work together to build something that lasts.

[snarkymeetingnotes]

I hate school lunch debt.

I hate the school lunch costs anything at all.

I hate that school districts can contract school lunch out to for-profit dining companies.

I'm a lunch lady at a high school in the United States and here's something that happened today: lunch was French toast sticks, hash browns, and a sausage patty. One kid asked for an extra sausage patty. We had plenty: it was the last lunch period and we had way more than we needed, several kids in that and other lunches declined the sausage. So I gave him one.

My boss, the kitchen manager, comes over a few minutes later and tells me, "Stop giving the kids extra food. The one you just gave extra sausage to doesn't have any money on his account."

We can't deny them a lunch (which is only the elements that make up a "complete lunch", no extras) but anything extra, be it an extra helping or if the cashier thinks they took more than a serving even of fruit or veggies, if they take an ice cream or a beverage other than milk or juice, has to be paid for in cash or the balance of a kid's electronic lunch account.

I wouldn't want my manager's job, and if I had it I probably wouldn't keep it long because I would be looking but other way when kids steal food, I'd be telling cashiers to neglect to charge if the kid has an extra helping of something. Maybe in the before times they did, but right about the time of Obamacare legislating that employers couldn't just offer completely bullshit health benefits, the district decided to save money on employee benefits by contracting out. I know this is the reason because when they did a study about whether they should close some of our under-enrolled elementary schools, the report stated flat-out that that was the reason. Oh and as a kicker, we've been deeper in the hole with the lunch program than we ever were when it was all done in-district, surprise surprise.

So because we're beholden to a profit-seeking corporation, when a kid asks for an extra half-scoop of pasta or another sausage patty because we're still feeding them the serving sizes they got in middle school, instead of saying sure, kiddo, here you go, I'm supposed to warn them that they'll get charged extra and I can only give them this less than a dollar worth of food cost item (that we might have to throw out otherwise, if we don't sell the leftovers another day) if they have money on their account.

What I'm actually doing to do is tell them they better keep it quiet and don't go through my boss's line.

It should all be free. Even the extras. The cookies, the chips, the sugar free fruity fizzy drinks. If you don't want those to be free, don't have them available. But this is the fucking future of the country and we're supposed to be in the top ten richest countries in the world and CHILDREN have fucking DEBT because they need to EAT.

So vote tomorrow, and vote blue or I'll probably get replaced by a vending machine or they'll bring McDonald's into the schools and charge your kids $15 for what we now charge them $3.50 for. And remember: if you see someone stealing food, no you didn't.

[sanjaylodh]

Country Foreign Continent

Country Foreign Continent

By the way, friends, the country in whose chair I am carrying out our civilization story is

that is my country india

How many countries, continents and nations are there in the whole world?

There are 195 countries in the world today. This total comprises 193 countries that are member states of the United Nations and 2 countries that are non-member observer states: the Holy See and the State of Palestine.

What are the 7 continents and their countries list?

The Seven Continents | Overview & Facts - Video & Lesson ...

The number of countries in each continent fluctuate based on different timely political reasons, but Africa has 54 counties, Antarctica has 0 counties, Asia has 47 countries, Australia has 14 counties, Europe has 43 counties, North America has 23 counties, and South America has 12 countries.

Which country is No 1 in world?

For the second year in a row, Switzerland is the best country in the world, according to the U.S News and World report.13 Sept 2023

Are there 252 countries in the world?

The United Nations, for example, recognizes 251 countries and territories. 1 The United States, however, officially recognizes fewer than 200 nations. 2 Ultimately, the best answer is that there are 196 countries in the world.26 Feb 2020

What is the smallest country in 2023?

Smallest Countries in the World 2023 - Wisevoter

The smallest country in the world is Vatican City, with only 0.44 square kilometers. Monaco is the second smallest country, with 2.03 square kilometers.

Which country has only 33 people?

The Smallest Country In The World That Has Only 32 People ...

One such country is republic of Molossia, which is located in Dayton, Nevada and has only 33 people living there. This tiny country is considered as one of the smallest sovereign states in the world with only 0.2 square kilometers of land area.11 Jun 2022

What is no 2 country?

Canada. Canada takes up about two-fifths of the North American continent, making it the second-largest country in the world after.

What is the top 10 richest country?

The top 10 richest countries in the world by GDP per capita are as follows:

Singapore.

Qatar.

Macao SAR.

United Arab Emirates.

Switzerland.

Norway.

United States.

San Marino.

More items...•2 Jan 2024

Country: How many states are there in India?

28 states

There are 28 states and 8 union territories in the country. Union territories are administered through an administrator appointed by the President.

Which is the 29th state of India?

Telangana

The correct answer is Telangana. In 2014, Telangana became the 29th state of India. Telangana was formed by reorganizing the state of Andhra Pradesh. Hyderabad is the capital of Telangana.

How many districts are there in West Bengal?

23 districts

West Bengal is now divided into 23 districts.

How many municipal areas and panchayat areas are there in Howrah district?

How many panchayats are there in Howrah district?

Howrah district - Wikipedia

The district has 30 police stations (Howrah Police Commissionerate has 16 general police stations including 1 women's PS, 1 cyber crime PS and Howrah Rural PD has 10 general police stations including 1 women's PS, 1 cyber crime PS), 157 gram panchayats and There are 50 censuses. Towns.

How many municipalities are there in Howrah?

Howrah Municipal Corporation - Wikipedia

In July 2015, Howrah Municipal Corporation and Bally Municipality were merged. The 35 wards of Bally Municipality were reduced to 16 under Howrah Municipal Corporation. In November 2021, the West Bengal Legislative Assembly passed a bill to separate Bally Municipality from Howrah Municipal Corporation.

This colorful season of our world covering so many areas, districts, states, countries, foreign continents,

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देश विदेश महादेश

वैसे दोस्तों मैं जिस देश की कुर्सी में बैठकर हमारी यह सिविलाइजेशन स्टोरी को अंजाम दे रहा हूँ

वो है मेरा देश इंडिया

यह पूरी दुनिया में कितने देश महादेश और राष्ट्रसंघ वर्तमान है

आज विश्व में 195 देश हैं। इस कुल में 193 देश शामिल हैं जो संयुक्त राष्ट्र के सदस्य राज्य हैं और 2 देश जो गैर-सदस्य पर्यवेक्षक राज्य हैं: होली सी और फिलिस्तीन राज्य।

7 महाद्वीप और उनके देशों की सूची क्या है?

सात महाद्वीप | अवलोकन एवं तथ्य - वीडियो एवं पाठ...

प्रत्येक महाद्वीप में देशों की संख्या अलग-अलग सामयिक राजनीतिक कारणों के आधार पर घटती-बढ़ती रहती है, लेकिन अफ्रीका में 54 काउंटी, अंटार्कटिका में 0 काउंटी, एशिया में 47 देश, ऑस्ट्रेलिया में 14 काउंटी, यूरोप में 43 काउंटी, उत्तरी अमेरिका में 23 काउंटी और दक्षिण अमेरिका में 23 काउंटी हैं। 12 देश हैं.

दुनिया में नंबर 1 देश कौन सा है?

यू.एस. न्यूज एंड वर्ल्ड रिपोर्ट के अनुसार, स्विट्जरलैंड लगातार दूसरे वर्ष दुनिया का सबसे अच्छा देश है। 13 सितंबर 2023

क्या विश्व में 252 देश हैं?

उदाहरण के लिए, संयुक्त राष्ट्र 251 देशों और क्षेत्रों को मान्यता देता है। हालाँकि, संयुक्त राज्य अमेरिका आधिकारिक तौर पर 200 से कम देशों को मान्यता देता है।  अंततः, सबसे अच्छा उत्तर यह है कि दुनिया में 196 देश हैं। 26 फरवरी 2020

2023 में सबसे छोटा देश कौन सा है?

विश्व के सबसे छोटे देश 2023 - समझदार मतदाता

दुनिया का सबसे छोटा देश वेटिकन सिटी है, जिसका क्षेत्रफल केवल 0.44 वर्ग किलोमीटर है। मोनाको 2.03 वर्ग किलोमीटर के साथ दूसरा सबसे छोटा देश है।

किस देश में केवल 33 लोग रहते हैं?

दुनिया का सबसे छोटा देश जहां सिर्फ 32 लोग रहते हैं...

ऐसा ही एक देश है मोलोसिया गणराज्य, जो डेटन, नेवादा में स्थित है और वहां केवल 33 लोग रहते हैं। केवल 0.2 वर्ग किलोमीटर भूमि क्षेत्र वाले इस छोटे से देश को दुनिया के सबसे छोटे संप्रभु राज्यों में से एक माना जाता है।11 जून 2022

नंबर 2 देश क्या है?

कनाडा. कनाडा उत्तरी अमेरिकी महाद्वीप का लगभग दो-पाँचवाँ भाग घेरता है, जिससे यह दुनिया का दूसरा सबसे बड़ा देश बन जाता है।

शीर्�� 10 सबसे अमीर देश कौन सा है?

प्रति व्यक्ति सकल घरेलू उत्पाद के हिसाब से दुनिया के शीर्ष 10 सबसे अमीर देश इस प्रकार हैं:

सिंगापुर.

कतर.

मकाओ एसएआर.

संयुक्त अरब अमीरात।

स्विट्जरलैंड.

नॉर्वे.

संयुक्त राज्य अमेरिका।

सैन मारिनो।

अधिक आइटम...•2 जनवरी 2024

देश भारत में कितने राज्य वर्तमान है

28 राज्य

देश में 28 राज्य और 8 केंद्र शासित प्रदेश हैं। केंद्र शासित प्रदेशों का प्रशासन राष्ट्रपति द्वारा नियुक्त प्रशासक के माध्यम से किया जाता है।

भारत का 29वाँ राज्य कौन सा है?

तेलंगाना

सही उत्तर तेलंगाना है। 2014 में तेलंगाना भारत का 29वां राज्य बना। आंध्र प्रदेश राज्य का पुनर्गठन करके तेलंगाना का गठन किया गया। हैदराबाद तेलंगाना की राजधानी है।

पश्चिम बंगाल में कितने जिले वर्तमान है

23 जिले

पश्चिम बंगाल अब 23 जिलों में विभाजित है।

हावड़ा जिले में कितने म्युनिसिपल एरिया और पंचायत एरिया है

हावड़ा जिले में कितनी पंचायतें हैं?

हावड़ा जिला - विकिपीडिया

जिले में 30 पुलिस स्टेशन हैं (हावड़ा पुलिस आयुक्तालय में 1 महिला पीएस, 1 साइबर अपराध पीएस सहित 16 सामान्य पुलिस स्टेशन हैं और हावड़ा ग्रामीण पीडी में 1 महिला पीएस, 1 साइबर अपराध पीएस सहित 10 सामान्य पुलिस स्टेशन हैं), 157 ग्राम पंचायतें और 50 जनगणना हैं। कस्बे.

हावड़ा में कितनी नगर पालिकाएँ हैं?

हावड़ा नगर निगम - विकिपीडिया

जुलाई 2015 में, हावड़ा नगर निगम और बल्ली नगर पालिका का विलय कर दिया गया। हावड़ा नगर निगम के अंतर्गत बाली नगर पालिका के 35 वार्डों को घटाकर 16 कर दिया गया। नवंबर 2021 में, पश्चिम बंगाल विधान सभा ने बल्ली नगर पालिका को हावड़ा नगर निगम से अलग करने के लिए एक विधेयक पारित किया।

इतने एरिया जिले राज्य देश विदेश महादेश लेकर हमारी दुनिया की यह रंगिन मौसम

[journeydb]

July 15 2022 Boulder County

Ready or not, I started the Courage Classic today with another ride to Jamestown and then up to Ward, which used to be my nemesis.  It was roughly 40 miles round trip from my house over Old Stage Road both ways.  The hardest part of the ride was then seven miles up to Jamestown and another ten miles up Left Hand Canyon to Ward.  I kept Gazelle in “eco” mode most of the way until I got to the steeper hills and then I went through “tour” mode to “sport” mode and finally used “turbo” only on the last two miles to Ward, which are a very steep grade, in order to save battery life and make sure I could get home without running out.

According to Wikipedia:

“Ward is a home rule municipality in Boulder County, Colorado. The population was 150 at the 2010 census. The town is a former mining settlement founded in 1860 in the wake of the discovery of gold at nearby Gold Hill. Once one of the richest towns in the state during the Colorado Gold Rush, it is located on a mountainside at the top of Left Hand Canyon, near the Peak to Peak Highway northwest of Boulder at an elevation of 9,450 feet above sea level.

The town was named for Calvin Ward, who prospected a claim in 1860 on the site known as Miser's Dream.  The town boomed the following year with the discovery by Cyrus W. Deardorff of the Columbia vein. Over the next several decades the population fluctuated, growing from several hundred to several thousand before declining once again. The mines in the area remained profitable for many decades, with one mine eventually producing over 2 million ounces (62 metric tons) of silver. 

A post office with the name Ward District was established January 13, 1863; the name was changed to Ward, September 11, 1894. The town was incorporated in June 1896. The railroad reached the area in 1898, arriving over the Whiplash and Switzerland Trail, which climbed over 4,000 feet from Boulder over the course of 26 miles. In January 1900 over 50 buildings were destroyed by a devastating fire, although the profitability of the mines led to the immediate rebuilding of the town. The town was largely deserted by the 1920s, but the construction of the Peak-to-Peak Highway in the 1930s led to a revival of the town. During WWII the town's year-round population dropped to four people. Then, in the 1960s, the town's population jumped from between 10-20 year-round residents to well over 100 due to the town's interest to hippies.”

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

NOTE: this is inspired by a mix of the Grishaverse, Hadestown, the original myth, and my own random ideas

We open with a kanej relatively similar to mid six of crows living in an alternate universe of the Grishaverse with completely different magic systems. The magic system in this world works entirely by contracts; anything written on a contract will immediately become true and binding once it’s signed. Contracts can only be drafted by Grisha but they can be signed by anyone. In Ketterdam there are two places where the use of contracts runs wild: the Geldin District, and the Barrel. They say either place can only be survived if you’re Grisha or if you’re unbelievably rich (our richest characters being Jan Van Eck, Heleen Van Houden, and Pekka Rollins)

Living in the slums of the Warehouse District with barely any income, Kaz and Inej are clinging onto life when a stranger (Fillip) offers Inej a deal for food and security, as well as some kind of support/money/something for Kaz. Or maybe even threatens Kaz if she doesn’t come?? Whatever the deal is, she agrees.

Jesper sees Inej disappear and tells Kaz, claiming she cried out for him as she vanished. Kaz makes the immediate assumption that she was kidnapped and has either been taken to the Geldin District or the Barrel, so he contacts Nina Zenik and Wylan Van Eck to gather as much information about each district as he can. Neither of them have very sunny stories to tell. Kaz and Nina both know that if anyone understand contracts any better than Nina does it will be Matthias Helvar, as the Drüskelle are a relatively similar force in this world but with some of my own takes to fit a different magic system better, and they break him out of Hellgate to help them bring Inej back. Matthias tells them it’s a suicide mission.

(NOTE: Nina and Matthias’ backstory will have something to do with a contract binding then and neither of them are happy about it)

The team travel together through Ketterdam to find and free Inej. At different stages of the journey one or more of the other Crows can go no further for some reason and eventually it’s only Kaz left alone.

Meanwhile (this will either be dual or multi POV) Inej has signed a contract, written in Kerch (so she couldn’t read it), and found herself held captive at the Menagerie by Heleen and Rollins. The people who sign the contracts slowly forget who they are and become completely dead to the world, earning the name Wratihs. Inej is trying to piece together fragments of memories but she has forgotten both Kaz’s and her own name.

Kaz makes a deal with Rollins and signs a contract that states if he can walk all the way through the city and back to the Warehouse District alone, trusting that Inej is behind him but unable to hear, see, or feel her on the journey, that both of them will go free. But this is the Barrel, the darkest part of the city where the rules of physics can change with the stroke of a pen; the journey back is not the same as journey there….

The distracted thoughts about a Kanej / Orpheus&Eurydice AU are getting out of hand over here you guys…

[greyinthewhey]

Sitting in a school desk and my legs are numb from the lack of funding to buy more ergonomic seating

[a-gal-with-taste]

Certainties & Mistletoe

Summary: Mistletoe, the only decoration the old bastard could bear to stand during the winter-months. You thought it harmless, simple and almost forgettable... but the event it causes, is anything-but.

Ebenezer Scrooge & F!Reader | 2469 Words | AO3

Part 2 | Part 3

Tags: Oneshot, mistletoe-troupe, humor, internal-thoughts, boss/employee relationship, pre-prelationship, first-kiss, pining (??), Scrooge being a grump (shocker), open-ended, haven't watched the movie, just think Scrooge is kinda-

A/N: I have. No excuse. But blame @sweatandwoe and Netflix anyways, because they had no rights, but caused this anyways.

Upmost in certainty, were these three facts:

One, that Ebenezer Scrooge was the richest man in this district of London.

Two, that Ebenezer Scrooge was the most miserable, selfish, cold-hearted miser in the district, possibly in the country, certainly within the distract.

And three, that Ebenezer Scrooge kissed sweetly enough, that one could nearly forget the prior two-facts.

Or, rather... the Master Ebenezer didn't exactly kiss you back. In fact he didn't little much of anything, and remaining-still as you pressed your own lips, delicate as the falling-flecks of white, to his.

Was it a mistake? Undoubtedly.

Foolish? Certainly, you could be out in a slum-house come tomorrow morning, dismissed in disgrace.

But, the mistletoe... oh, it was silly, but the it had looked so inviting! Berries casted soft glow in the nearby light of lanterns, spiked leaves untouched with frost.

The one-decoration the old bastard had enough paitence to withstand, and of course, it had been your demise. Like the temptation of the apple, like the god of hell-itself beckoning, you had almost been eager to lean-forth towards your doom.

Foolish, stupid, silly mistake, one that could ruin you.

And yet, you didn't pull back.

And neither did he.

From the moment you had spoken his name, soft as snow's first-fall on the porch, the sole movement Ebenezer managed, before you cupped a hand over a sturdy, well-trimmed cheek, stood high on the tip of your toes, and sealed your fate by pressing his lips to your own.

He had yet to pull back.

Yet to move entirely, speak, or... frankly, you feared he lost the ability to breathe.

Ironically, it was that fact that finally convinced you to retract from the man. Not the fact this was Master Scrooge, nor even that your future was as uncertain as a ship traversing through rock-laden waters onto certain doom...

But the fact that your simple kiss, had been enough to completely halt the miser entirely.

Heels kiss the ground in silence, as open your eyes to gaze at the looming man, who, indeed, was in some-sort of state of inanimation. More frozen than an hanging-icicle, your gaze flicked from an unrising-chest, tightly-pursed lips, eyes sightlessly staring-forth, and a distinct lack of pale-clouds emanating from mouth or nostrils.

One could almost fear the kiss had been enough to kill him.

You, however, always preferred being of the optimistic-sort, if a bit realistic.

Assuming the less-dire, you took another step back, and spoke as if Ebenezer was still residing well-into the land of conscious thought and reality, and not clearly miles-away in snowy clouds. "Forgive me, sir. That was a poor-choice, and you have my sincerest apology for my action, I... I have no excuse."

Well, there was one excuse. But you could hardly blame a decorative plant.

Speaking of it, though it was a bit of a strain, your fingers tugged the innocent, demonic little pest from the doorway free. The ribbon it was attached to fluttered simply to the ground, but you dared not stoop to pick it up - instead, placing the plant in the certain of your palm, you held it out between yourself and your employer.

A peace offering.

Though this was an event that was anything but peaceful, you still held out the offending object with a brief smile, one that wobbled at the corners. Not just with the shivers of your body, but with the slow-looming knowledge of what you had just done, and what it would cost you.

What was the price, of a simple kiss?

Scrooge, a most professional businessman, would surely be able to tell you. But he seemed rather strained with words, speech made entirely impossible even as life resumes within him, thank God...

He is able to blink. Twice, before his eyes dropped down to yours, than down to what was effectively, the murder-weapon of your current employment in your palm, before his mouth moved to form a single-word:

"What."

"I'm sorry," You said again, shaky smile fading, but the trembling of your lips moved instead to reside your voice. "I-i... there is no excuse. I can only offer an apology, which I do... I do so quite, quite heartily, Mister Scrooge."

Worrying at your bottom lip, your own eyes followed the same trajectory as his own. Darting from his unreadable, unblinking eyes, and those damning plump-red berries held aloft in your gloved-palm.

Something wet, almost burning in comparison to the winter's chill, began to prick at the back of your eyelids, before finally, large and dark-clad gloves decended down onto your hand.

Pinching the culprit between his fingers like a sixpence, when he raised it to eyelevel for inspection, you dropped your own gaze to settle down near the ground. You couldn't help noting how perfectly his boots gleamed in a somber-black, causing the snowflakes that fell upon it to be in a perfect outline.

A distraction. Welcomed, but you roused yourself from it to face reality, even if you kept your gaze well-averted.

"I shall pack upon the morrow, if it suits you," You whispered, words trapped on a small cloud of frigid air, and releasing near-silently between you both. "You shant see me again, Master Scrooge, if it is in your desire... I fear that is the minimal I can offer for my transgression. I'm sorry. P-please... please accept it, as my truest apology."

"... ahem."

You raised your gaze, now truly stinging with the weight of water at your lashes, but a singular blink was quick to ease them away. Despair faded, replaced by confusion at the... oddest expression on the face of Ebenezer Scrooge.

He had turned away from you, unsurprisingly. Perhaps he couldn't stomach the sight of such unruly behavior from an otherwise acceptable-maid, but had a rather fixated-attention on the small branch of green and red in his fingers.

And, apparently, on his collar.

He was adjusting it, clearing his throat periodically, as his attention remained averted from your own growing-bewilderment, and remained steadfast on loosening his tight-cravat.

"... Master?"

Another clearing of his throat. Without the guide of his facial-expression, you were unable to discern his exact emotions at this given-moment, but you deduced that it was a scoff of acknowledgement, and attempted to salvage yourself once-more.

"I... shall guess you will have me return-early, to do a days work before my final departure? Or shall I, perhaps, remain the evening so-as to prepare for my replacement on the morrow-"

Unlikely he would find-one willing enough to work for the miser, even with the steady-promise of coin, but it was a possibility quickly-forgotten with his sudden-snap, like a whip of words.

"What foolishness. You think I shall take-up the duster, the broom in your absence?"

You blinked. The dust had been nearly an inch-thick on your first day of working, you half-imagined the man didn't know such objects of cleaning existed. "I... I only thought-"

"-that I would discard a perfectly-suitable maid?  Bah, don't be absurd." You were not exempt from the trademark scorn that caused many in London to wince at the mere-mention of the name Scrooge, but it was... muted?

Certainly not softer, and lacking even the basics of kindness, but... you did not flinch. Only blinked, and quietly asked the man what he would like you to do now.

The dark, rich leather-gloves creaked as his pinched-fingers tightened sharply on the deep-emerald stalk. Silence reigned, in a muted-world where little existed, save for the soft-falling snow, the two of them, and the mistletoe in his grasp.

Then, after another strange clearing of his throat, Scrooge brought words into the small, trapped-reality the two of you shared.

"What would like, is for you to go home," He commanded sharply. "And ensure my coin is put to good use, by arriving back here on the morrow, on-time."

You blinked. "You... would like me to return? Even after-"

"Was it not what I said?" Ebenezer interrupted, voice even sharper than before... no. Now it bordered on shrill, something choked. "You certainly won't be if you were to catch a chill, a likely consequence if you were to remain-out any longer on this night."

It's a dismissal, but one that barely registers until he jerks his head back, briefly facing you with the gesture.

The sight of cheeks, dusted in a deep-pink besides his well-trimmed salt-and-pepper sideburns, is enough to make you blink. Certaiy, the chill is enough to coax a darker-shade onto one's skin, and you know that you have some frost-nipped skin of your own, but Scrooge's shade was enough to worry you.

Others might dance a jig at the thought of old Ebenezer Scrooge catching a chill, long-standing karma being served at last, but a burst of worry still resides within you.

The thought of ailment or illness befalling the gentleman, even if that gentleman was Scrooge, was enough to grant you concern at the sight of reddened-cheeks. Emotion outfitted sense, as you stepped forward. "Sir, are you quite well-?"

"Go home," He snapped, the sound harsh and reverberating through gritted teeth. More akin to a growl of a hunter than man, causing you, the prey, frozen in your steps with wide-eyes. "I hardly plan to pay you for remaining later-hours, and I will still expect you upon the morrow without delay. It would be, in your upmost best interest, to leave."

A dismissal.

Ebenezer Scrooge was... letting you off, with only a dismissal.A mere be-gone for the evening, no different than any other you have received in the days-past, if a little more scornful than the rest.

You'd be a fool not to take this gift, perhaps the only the old bastard could provide - absolution, an escape from this humiliation transgression.

You would be a fool not to take it. Yet, you're the kind of fool to hesitate.

Not long - you don't have a death-wish, despite recent actions may otherwise suggest - but after another moments' pause to study the man, you hesitated curstied in obedient politeness, gathering your skirts high-enough to step down the ice-slick porch-steps.

You had little fear of falling, having traversed this walk on the daily, but some part of you felt quite uncertain.

As if the axis of the world has shifted, in some form or the other, and you walked down the steps with uncertainty of what exactly it was.

And how different your world would look, come morning.

For the moment, longing to remain in normalcy, you turned and called back your quiet, routine salutations to the Master - or rather his back. He had yet to face you fully.

"Good-night, Mister Scrooge."

Stepping down the lane with a tug of your shawl tighter around you, the streetlamp you pass-by offers temporary warmth, refuge from the uncertainty and the unsteadiness beneath your feet...

"Good-night."

... which became only more unsturdy beneath your heels, at the sound of Ebenezer Scrooge, the most miserable man in town, wishing you a good night.

Unheard of.

Inconceivable.

The gentleman had never provided you with a pleasantry in all the time you've known him, and yet now, it's offered in a way that could almost be described, daresay, as soft.

A sharp turn, harsh pivot, that miraculously doesn't send you sprawling onto the ice-slick path, but it's too late. The click of the cane on cobble is enough to signal his retreat, and the sight of his back, shawl catching on a snowy-breeze, is enough to confirm his escape before you can question it.

Before you can question if it had even happened at all, or if the snow-filled wind carried words as well as ice.

Perhaps you had fallen into madness - surely, the only true explanation for your lapse in good-sense in the first-place.

It was a more pleasing thought, than whatever it could possible mean that Scrooge felt the urge to offer a nicety after such transgression, and one you worked-steadfast of to convincing yourself at, all the way to your small apartment several blocks over.

It was the one-comfort you found, once dressed and tucked beneath your sheets. The solace was well-suited for your buzzing mind, the delusion that his parting-words were merely something of illusion enough to send you into a restful-sleep.

So restful, that you quite nearly forgot the incident entirely upon return to the waking-world.

Certainly, the motification remained in regards to your own-actions, which you were certain had occurred in reality. There came moments when your lips seemed to recall a soft, unfamiliar presence when memories returned of the incident, ensuring you did not forget it.

Apology, one in daylight and well-rehearsed to display true remorse, was well in-order.

You also suspected such would put your mind to ease. While the gentleman had seemed keen to erase the moment in the minutes-following, you resigned to put the event of transgression well-out of your mind, as well as the impossibility of good-night that had followed, and an assurance that such behavior would never transpire-again.

Closing the chapter entirely, and forgetting it's contents.

Including the one where you imagined Ebenezer Scrooge, of all people, wishing you a good-night.

Absurdity!

Such fantasy was only liable and expected to be forgotten entirely, in order to move-forward in life. And when you stepped into his buisness the following-morning, you had intended to do just that. Begin to forget the fact that you had kissed Ebenezer Scrooge, and in response, he had bid you good-night.

That had been your plan.

Your first-step towards normalcy, the first stride back into stability, and you had taken it into his office with an optimistic smile hinting at your face, as you pushed open the door.

Your plan to move-past the incident was foiled immediately, when you opened the door to the man's office.

Catching sight of that same accursed sprig of spiked-green and perfect red-berries, atop Mister Ebenezer Scrooge's otherwise entirely plain-desk, and settle in a filled-glass of water.

Preserving the event with it's allowed continued existence.

And once-more shifting reality into realms uncertain, when steele-blue raise from endless inspection of the cut-plant, to entourage gaze in an examination of equal-intensity.

The gaze neutralized. Becoming safely familiar, even as the words that followed, were not.

"Good morning."

And you realized, it would not be so-easy to return to what reality had been. Before the night prior where you had taken the apple, the hand-to-hell, in the form of following the practice of mistletoe.

Because, there was now no possibility to return from when-once-you-came.

A fact solidified, when you opened your mouth, and whispered in-repeat words you never thought such a miserable man was capable of saying to you...

"Good morning."

... but the fact that he did, was a fact that confirmed that change was here, like the days' fresh-blanket of cool snow upon the city of London.

A change refreshing, despite the uncertainty it held for the winter ahead.

[angelasscribbles]

Social Climber

Series: None, this is a one-shot and you can find those here.

Fandom: The Royal Romance

Pairing: Riley x Maxwell, Riley x Drake, Riley x Liam

Rating: NSFW 🍋

Warnings for this chapter: Lemon Scented. Language.

Riley is not really a good person in this one. You're favorite LI is probably getting his heart broken, so be warned.

Word Count: 2,098

Song Inspiration: Ok, listen. I don't know what this is. I listened to this song 👉Fancy by Reba McEntire yesterday, then came home and wrote this 👇🤷‍♀️

My other stuff: Master List.

“Did you see the guys at table four?” Miranda asked her.

“No. Why?” Riley asked as she lined up drinks on her tray.

“Because they’re hot as fuck!” Miranda answered.

“Yeah,” Daphne said, “If you like kids.”

“Just because you’re fifty, doesn’t mean the rest of us are old!” Riley quipped as she craned her neck to get a look at table four.

“You’re right.” Daphne agreed, “I forget how young you are sometimes, Ri, you’re very mature for your age.”

“If you mean I had to grow up fast and never really got a childhood because I grew up dirt poor with an abusive father and sick mom then yes. Drama and trauma will do that to you!”

Her father had abandoned them when she was a teenager, her much younger sister had ended up a ward of the state, and her mother had finally succumbed to her cancer.

All before she turned eighteen.  

But she was doing fine on her own. Her mother’s last act before she died had been to pawn her wedding rings and buy Riley a nice dress with matching shoes and a bottle of perfume.

“I don’t understand, momma.” Riley trembled as she stood in front of the mirror, “What am I supposed to do?”

“There’s a nightclub in the redlight district called The Red Apple. Ask for the owner, he’s an old family friend. Tell him you’re my daughter and ask for a job working the VIP section. From there, just be nice to the men that come in there. If you want out of this life, you’ll have to do it yourself. Marry a rich man, Riley, do you understand me? The richest one you can find! Promise me, Riley, promise me!”

Riley wiped the tears from her face as she answered, “I promise, momma, I promise!”

“I heard one of them is a lord!” One of the other girls burbled.

Riley’s ears perked up, “Which one?”

“The one with the peacocks on his tie!” The girl giggled.

Riley spotted him as he stood up to yell something at his friend across the table.

Her eyes lit up.

“Hey, Daphne, table four is yours, isn’t it?”

“Yeah…”

“Trade with me!”

“I don’t know…that’s going to be a really good tip….”

“Trade with me and I’ll split whatever I get with you, and you can keep one hundred percent of whatever you make off my table. Here.” She thrust the tray of drinks at her, “That’s a B-list celebrity over there, he’ll tip well too.”

Daphne shrugged as she took the tray, “Fine.”

Riley adjusted her skirt and unsnapped another button on her skin-tight, sheer blouse before approaching the table, “Welcome to The Red Apple, gentlemen. What’s everyone having tonight?”

`````````````````

He stumbled backward into the shelves in the storeroom, his hands pulling her forward with him as they went.

“Riley…” he murmured as his hands explored her curves and valleys.

She quickly unbuttoned his shirt and licked the smooth flesh of his chest.

“Fuck!” His head thumped back into the shelf.

She pulled away.

“Wait…what are you doing? Why are you stopping?”

“I’m sorry, Max.” She demurred, “I got carried away because I’ve never felt an attraction like this before, but I can’t have sex in the back of a bar!”

“Come home with me!”

“I…can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I like you, but I don’t know you well enough for…that.”

She could see the wheels turning in his head, “Okay, then. Let me take you out so you can get to know me! Please!”

She hesitated a bare moment then gave him a shy smile, “Okay.”

`````````````

“So how long have you and Beaumont been dating?” Drake handed her a beer from the cooler and took the lawn chair next to her, cracking open his own bottle.

Riley thought back, “About three months.”

Max’s friend was cute. Chestnut hair fell in his eyes and he kept pushing it back as he talked. “And where did you meet?”

“At work. Well, it was work for me. I was his waitress.”

“Huh.” He brought the bottle to his lips and tipped it back.

“What’s huh mean?”

“Nothing. Just…you’re not his usual type that’s all. You’re too hot for him by far. No offense.”

“Why would I take offense to that?” She laughed, “You totally just called me hot.”

He pulled the bottle away from his mouth as he choked a little on the liquid, “That I did. Don’t make me laugh while I’m drinking, Brooks.”

“This is your cabin?” She asked as she watched Max playing lawn darts on the other side of the clearing.

“Yeah.” He glanced around at all the people talking, laughing, and drinking. “The party was my sister’s idea. I usually come here for peace and quiet. It’s a nice change of pace from the palace.”

Riley’s attention sharpened, “You live at the palace?”

“Yeah.” He admitted sheepishly, “I figured Max told you.”

“No. Why do you live there?”

“Well, I work there for one. But I also grew up there. The royal family kind of adopted me after my dad died. Liam is my best friend.”

“Liam?”

“You know, the spare.”

“Holy shit, you’re best friends with a real life prince?”

“It’s not as glamours as it sounds.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, then she asked, “So how often do you come up here?”

`````````````

“What do you mean the Beaumonts are broke?” Riley stared at the blonde woman across the table from her.

“I mean they’re broke.” Ana de Luca replied, “I’m going to run a story about it next month. I was hoping to get some insider information from you about the state of things inside the Beaumont estate.”

“Like what?” Riley asked. When she’d been invited out to lunch by a reporter, she had figured it was to pump her for information about her boyfriend, and she was willing to give it, for the right price.

“I don’t know.” Ana replied, “You’re the one on the inside. Have you noticed a reduction in staff or the quality of food? Anything?”

How the hell did she know what passed for a normal staff for a fucking duke?

She knew Bertrand was a pompous asshole is what she knew.

No, she had not known the Beaumonts were broke.

``````````````

“Oh, my God!” Drake panted as he rolled off her and dropped onto the mattress next to her, “That was fucking amazing! Shit!”

“You weren’t bad yourself,” Riley told him.

“Not bad, just not bad?”

She laughed, “I’m teasing! Yes, it was great, but I’m sure you know that by the gouges I left in your back.”

“War wounds.” He said, “Badges of honor!”

She snuggled close into his chest, “This was a nice surprise.”

“Was it really a surprise?” He asked, “I feel like I wasn’t subtle about liking you.”

“Maybe I was starting to suspect.”

“I just didn’t want to move too fast. It’s only been a month since you and Max broke up.”

“Thank you for being there for me through all that.”

“You never really told me what went wrong.”

“Turns out we just weren’t compatible.”

“Well, I’m sorry that you had to go through that but I’m not sorry that you ended up in my bed.”

“Neither am I.” She agreed, “This is right where I need to be.”

````````````

“So, you’re the girl Drake won’t stop talking about.”

“And you must be the best friend. It’s nice to meet you, Liam. I’m Riley.” She held out her hand.

He took her hand and kissed it, “The pleasure’s all mine. You’re even more beautiful than he said.”

“Thank you.” She giggled. “I can already tell we’re going to be great friends!”

````````````````

“Riley…Riley, we…we shouldn’t be doing this!” Liam’s eyes closed but he didn’t move away from her.

“I know! But I can’t help myself when I’m around you!”

Riley’s lips trailed down his neck. Her hand slipped under the waistband of his pants.

He sucked in a sharp hiss as her hand wrapped around him. He shivered as she breathed into his ear, “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

His eyes held desperation as they traced across the familiar landscape of her face.

He wanted her.

“Don’t stop.” He whispered.

````````````

She entered the ballroom on the arm of a prince.

The breakup with Drake had not gone well.

They’d waited a reasonable amount of time to announce their relationship.

He said he was happy for them, but it was a lie. She could feel the weight of his stare from across the room.

She ignored it. She had acquired a new target.

“Nice to meet you, Your Majesty.”

“No need for that! Please, just call me Leo!”

“Nice to meet you, Leo. I see good looks run in the family!”

“So does good taste in women!” His eyes ran down her body and up again, making her flush with heat when they met hers.

“Save a dance for me?”

“Oh, absolutely!”

```````````````````

The queen of Cordonia sat in the royal sitting room with her three accusers.

She had married Leo in a lavish ceremony two months prior.

“Did you ever like me at all or was I just your way in?” Max demanded.

“You just used me to get to Liam, didn’t you?” Drake accused.

Liam glowered at her, “And then you used me to get to my brother!”

“Does it matter now?” She asked, “That’s all in the past. I’ve settled down.”

“You’ve made it to the top rung of the ladder, you mean,” Drake said.

“Same difference.” She snapped.

“Have you ever actually loved anyone?” Liam wanted to know.

She sighed as she took in the hurt and anger on their faces. “I did care about each one of you, in my own way. I wasn’t strictly using you.”

She hadn’t been strictly not using them either.

“We find that hard to believe,” Max said.

“Well, it’s true! Max, you’re funny and sweet and any woman would be lucky to have you. I just needed….something different.” She said as she fingered the locket at her neck. The one her mother had given her the last time she’d seen her alive.

If the Beaumonts hadn’t been broke, she might have married him and stopped there.

But she had made a promise, and she kept her promises.

“And Drake… you’re loyal and intense and amazing in bed. If it was all about sex, we’d still be together.”

He had even less money than the Beaumonts.

Love and sex and hormones were all fine and well and good when you were young. She was sure her parents had had all that in the beginning.

And look how that turned out.

“I didn’t deserve you.”

It was true. She had betrayed him in the worst possible way and still he did his best to be a friend to her.

She couldn’t understand why.

“And Liam.” She turned to face him, “I owe you the biggest apology of all.”

She had seduced him, driven a wedge between him and his best friend then betrayed him and driven a wedge between him and his own brother.

“You’re too trusting by far, you have a good and kind heart and I’m sorry I hurt you.”

If she had only promised her mother to marry a rich man, she could have stopped with Liam.

But that wasn’t the promise she’d made, she’d promised to marry the richest one she could find and she kept her promises.

She looked at Drake and Max in turn, “I’m sorry I hurt all of you. I don’t expect you to understand why.”

“You’re not in love with Leo.” Drake stated it as a fact.

He knew her well. Not well enough to have seen the knife to his back coming, but better than most.

“I’m not.” She confirmed.

But he was good to her and she would never want for anything again in her life.

Neither would her sister.

“Who do you love, Riley?” Liam asked.

Riley sighed. She supposed she owed them all the truth.

It wasn’t like Leo could divorce her.

Well, he could. But it would cost him. A lot.

Either way, she was set for life and that was all that mattered.

She’d kept her promise.

Her hand went to the locket again as she pictured the inscription, “To thine own self be true.”

“Just tell us.” Max implored.

It was time to be true to herself. She was done using and lying to people.

“Hana.” She said, “I’m in love with Hana.”

[transhuman-priestess]

"Well maybe you just went to a bad school district"

I grew up in one of the richest, best-funded public school districts in the state of Illinois. Textbooks were no older than 5 years. We had a TV studio you could take classes in, an auto shop with 5 bays and lifts, a music program more prestigious than our football team.

Not only did this district have the budget to pay its teachers, they did it. The staff wasn't digging into their pockets for construction paper and notebooks at all. And still, in 13 years of public schooling, i can think of 2, maybe 3, tops, who were actually a positive influence on my life. I can think of quite a few who were neutral, and many, many more who were outright awful and made my life harder.

highkey one of the worst liberal ideas that a lot of leftists port over is the notion that teachers are ontologically good.

There are lots of good teachers, but there's also many many awful teachers, because teaching is a profession with a built-in power dynamic at entry level and jobs like that (see, cop, nurse, priest) tend to attract pretty awful people.

[fluffywing-e-tarot]

Hermitcraft Theory

Where are all the Diamonds?

With the end of the King's Quest Saga. We are left with one Enormous question. Who Stole the Diamonds?

And In My Mind, I have concluded that Grumbot Stole the Diamonds.

Why did I come to this conclusion? Well, simply because Mumbo is coming back into Minecraft. Grumbot wants Mumbo as Mayor again, Grian's Final Question, and finally the Rift.

First

Let's start with Gurmbot's Original Programming. Grumbot was designed by Mumbo and Grian for the purpose of assisting in the campaign to have Mumbo as Mayor.

Now Grumbot Prime says that he came from a world where Mumbo was Made Mayor. GoodtimeswithScar was Elected and was in the seat for 5 minutes, and Mumbo was then Mayor. And Grian Prime was sorry for Makeing Grumbot Prime to say something that possibly led to the conclusion of the information that was previously stated.

The mayor of Season seven Literally was in charge of the Land Management of the Shopping District. Much like Ren the King is doing in trying to control the Economy of Season Nine.

Second

Grian asked the question.

Mumbo Jumbo is a god among Men and the Richest Hermit on the Server. Is this Statment True?

The answer was; Yes. So that either means that the Real person Lied about where he's been. and has actually been grinding on the server this whole time. OR Has he recently procured a massive amount of Diamonds though unknown means while he has been off the server for the entire time that he's been gone. the last option for this statement in this context is the real person Oliver Brotherhood is actually the wealthiest man on the server in context to the monetary real-life currency.

There is the whole Challenge that Grian and Mumbo have with each other. And the Vault isn't even done.

Third and Finally

The Rift

Now that I'm thinking about it, Grumbots actions around the matter concerning the Rift are Odd.

Moments after the End of Ren the King. the Rift Portal Was open for a bit now. Grumbot requested to connect to the other side and Provided composes to the load stone with a button on it.

What if Grumbot didn't provide the campuses on accident. What if Grumbot decided that if Grian wouldn't assist in making Mumbo Mayor even without him being there. Then, Grian needed to be removed from the Equation. Grumbot knows that his father, Grian is Curios and Misgivous in nature. But the Man won't go adventuring alone. So why not remove many of the Hermits that might vote against Mumbo being Mayor.

Mumbo Jumbo is eventually returning to Hermitcraft. But we must wait for the man to feel comfortable. So Grumbot will eventually push Mumbo for mayor when the man is on the server.

And why else would Grumbot suggest an expedition through the rift? He needed to make shour all of the Hermits that could stir up resistance would be gone from the server when he was still hiding the diamonds and securing Mumbo's position.

[everlarkficexchange]

Like The Stars Hold The Moon

Written By : @katnissmellarkkkk

Prompt 59 :  "Katniss dad is a victor, he won his hunger games and is a mentor. Peeta is reaped for the games and Katniss begs her dad to help him win the games. [submitted by anonymous]“

Hi! It feels like there’s so much I need to say here and I can’t remember any of it now! This is obviously–if you read the summary, which I assume you did and that’s why you’re here hahaha–an EFE prompt. It was submitted by an anonymous person, so I don’t know specifically if this is what you wanted but I really hope this is good enough that you’ll be fulfilled?

I don’t think there is much more to say? I hope everyone who reads this has a good day! I wrote plenty of this on Easter so I’d like to thank Jesus for rising again. And I feel like the prompt alone is a sufficient summary but just so you know, this heavily features Katniss, Peeta (obvi), Haymitch and Katniss’ father, Hunter (I named him, that’s not canon, I know).

This fic I likely going to be a three-shot with an opportunity for a sequel three-shot. Oh and also, thank you to the anon who sent the prompt!

Oh and this got really long, so I’m just going to submit the first part on here and then I’ll add a link at the bottom to continue reading on AO3. I’ve never done this before so I don’t know if I’m doing it right?

Okay, if you read all my talking, bye now!

Rated T for the canon violence. 

At the reaping for the Forty-Seventh Hunger Games, Matty Knick drew out the names of a ”very special boy“ and ”a very special girl“ from the reaping bowls. She read them off in a bright voice and matched the sentiment with an out of place perky smile. The girl’s name was Heather Branch.

And the boy’s was Hunter Everdeen.

Of course, everyone knows the story of Hunter Everdeen.

/

Year of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games.

"So Hunter,” Caesar Flickerman leans toward the victor, absolutely electrified, and says, “tell us, tell us. How excited are you for the games this year?”

The camera focuses in on gray eyes, the color of a storm cloud or a cleanly polished knife. Dangerous and hard and cunning.

Or protective and frightful and angry.

Or warm and loving and kind.

“I’m about as excited as I always am, Caesar,” he shoots back, not a trace of even so much as a smirk on his face. Not even so much as a lift from the corner of his mouth.

And still, the crowd of Capitol idiots burst out in laughter, as if they just heard the funniest joke in the world, as if this was Hunter’s desired response to the words.

As if the conversation wasn’t about teenagers—and some as young as twelve—killing other teenagers.

“And what about you, Haymitch?” Caesar asks next, segueing from one aggravated man to another.

“I’m looking forward to the free drinks,” Haymitch says while tipping back dark gold colored liquid into his mouth. Almost as an afterthought, he gestures wide and sloppy to the crowd, igniting cacophonous sounds from the population once more. “And of course, the social interaction with all you lovely people.”

No one in the audience recognizes the insult. No one understands the blatant sarcasm at their expense.

Here in District Twelve though, we do. As exemplified by Peeta’s laugh, vibrating against my back. “Shh,” I hush, laser focused on the enormous television screen before us.

“Daddy’s not speaking anymore,” Prim reminds me from the other room, where she’s currently flipping through a magazine our father sent.

“Well, be quiet before he does,” I snap, elbowing Peeta when he rolls his eyes now. “Stop it, I haven’t seen him in weeks,” I complain, fixing him with a fierce glare.

“I know,” he murmurs agreeably, gently kissing my temple. “But he’ll be home in a few days.”

As if they could hear our exchange from inside the television box, Caesar turns his attention back to my father. “Hunter, how excited are you to get home to District Twelve?”

At that, his eyes genuinely light up with ferocity. “I’m counting the minutes,” he replies, but still manages to keep his tone cool. He adamantly refuses to give away his true emotion to even a single soul in the Capitol. It’s his way of withholding power from their greedy, glitter covered hands.

But I see the change in him. Prim, from her position against the doorframe, sees it. I’m positive my mother, who’s watching with our brother from the comfort of our house sees it as well.

Our father’s eyes are now alive again, the permanent frown his mouth resides in on every televised appearance loosens a bit, his brows aren’t knit so closely together any longer.

Caesar Flickerman sees the change too evidently.

“Look at those silver coins!” He bellows, gesturing for the cameras to put my father in a close up now. “They just lit up like the stars when talking about home. Tell me, Hunter Everdeen, how’s the family back in District Twelve?”

At that, my father makes a considerable effort to transform his entire expression into a mask of indifference. “They’re good,” he states evenly, his tone clipped. Making it blatant to even the airheaded Capitol citizens that he refuses to speak publicly about his family.

“Because you’re not property of the Capitol, baby,” he told me once, while on a walk in the woods. “You’re not anyone’s property.”

“What about you and mommy?”

“You’re our responsibility, but not our property.” He’d knelt down to my height, which happened to be the shortest in my second grade class. “Property implies ownership, Katniss. And no one owns you. No one owns you or your sister. Remember that for me. And never let yourself forget it.”

“You’re daughters are both old enough for the reaping, am I right?” Caesar presses further, and my sister and I automatically sigh. Knowing the response that’s bound to come.

“What’s wrong?” Peeta asks, as he still remains completely clueless. I shake my head instead of offering an explanation though, leaning further into his chest.

Peeta won’t understand. He was raised in town by merchants—the owners of the bakery, to be specific. He’s never understood the fierce protectiveness, the instantaneous fury, the irrational tunnel vision, that appears when a victor’s child is mentioned entering the games.

Peeta’s never even met my father. I’m not impatient by any stretch of the imagination to put the two of them in the same room, to watch my father chew my boyfriend up and devour him alive, to abide by his rules and regulations that will surely come with dating.

He doesn’t know Peeta and I have even so much as shaken hands. I’ve never so much as left him even the slightest hint. Not even when I’ve accompanied him to the bakery for the occasional trade with Peeta’s father, the baker himself.

Like both Prim and I predicted, our father is now on edge, his breathing uneven and his nostrils flaring. “Yes. Both my girls are of age,” he says after a long beat, his tone hard and jagged.

Caesar though is either oblivious or is extraordinarily practiced at appearing obtuse. “Well, wouldn’t it be something if either of them were chosen for the games? Am I right?” He directs his questions to the audience. “Don’t we all love a family story?” His words elicit cheers and hollers and a murderous glint in my father’s silver eyes. The camera only catches it for a moment’s time before quickly flitting away, towards the much more enjoyable image of the Captiolites chattering like chipmunks at the very idea.

And suddenly I feel Peeta’s arm tighten around me, the vision of me—the only person in the world he’s certain that he loves—being taken away from our home here in Twelve and tossed into an arena with kids twice her size, too much for even his naïve mind.

“Don’t we all believe in Mr. Everdeen,” the talk show host continues to push and I feel my typical annoyance with the odd man bleed into anger. “I mean, he brought home Mr. Abernathy here.” And with one single hand gesture from Caesar, the entire interview’s focus re-centers on Haymitch.

And unlike my father, he doesn’t even miss a beat before replying.

“Barely,” he mutters with a last swig of his drink, cleaning the glass. “And he was stingy with the gifts.”

Next to him, my father relaxes a bit. Haymitch always brings out a bit of levity in him, even on his worst days.

After all, in my father’s eyes, the paunchy drunk is a symbol of hope.

Haymitch is the only person my father’s ever brought him. He’s the only other living victor inside the confines of Twelve.

Not to mention his closest friend.

And my surrogate uncle, I note, a bit ironically. Haymitch and I have a far different relationship than he has with anyone else in my family but he’s always been there, has known me since the day I was born, often has dinner at our house, rain or shine, no matter how much he annoys my mother, and he’s an irreplaceable member of my family.

The audience is still riled up from Haymitch and howling with laughter—a bit too much, in my opinion—but my father can’t let the subject of his children go before adding one last sentiment.

“Don’t worry, Caesar. If either of my girls are reaped, trust me,” he states, louder and far more pronounced than anything else he’s said the entire interview. “They will be the victor. There’s not a tribute in the arena that would survive against my girl.”

/

For as long as I can remember, my father had taken me to the woods. He sometimes claims the first time he looked down at me in my mother’s arms, at a mere two days old, he saw a familiar hunger in my eyes.

Not a hunger for food. District Twelve is the smallest and the poorest in the country of Panem, but luckily, my family is one of the richest.

Unlike my schoolmates, I’ve never once had to worry about having enough to eat for lunch. My parents never worried that we’d starve to death or that Prim and I could be taken from their grasp by authorities. They never worried about supplying us with whatever we needed—they gave us more than we ever could have wanted—and they never had to fret that we’d be sent to the mines for work one day.

No, we were far too wealthy and far too famous for any of that.

But my parents had a far different batch of worries to keep them up at night. Not about food or finances or anything remotely common in Twelve.

No, they had to worry about cameras peaking into the privacy of our home and photos being taken without our knowledge and my face or Prim’s face being splashed across every magazine and newspaper in the country.

They worried about the almost insatiable thirst the Capitol seems to have for more family dynamics among the victors.

Especially after the recent back-to-back sibling victories led the hunger games to higher ratings and revenues in the Capitol.

When I was a child, my mother coached me to never go into town without my father by my side. Which sounds easy enough, until my father’s extensive vacations to the Capitol are taken into consideration. For as long as I can remember, my father would leave at random stretches of time, for weeks on end. To go play puppet for a population so dumb, so completely isolated from the rest of the country, that they took his anger for sarcasm. They took his bite as charm. They believed his glare was an act, was part of his appeal, when in reality my father had rebelled against performing for the last twenty-seven years.

When he was gone, our lives became strict. Bedtimes came earlier, curtains remained drawn day in and day out, our mother never wanted to sing or dance or even so much as smile with her husband gone.

But when he was home, sunshine peaked in our windows again. It danced on the floor and it swept us away with its gentle affection.

There was music and laughter and sweets and toys. He never returned from the Capitol empty-handed. He brought back expensive jewels for our mother, he built me and Prim a fancy treehouse in the backyard, put up a large, golden swing-set, went as far as purchasing as many cakes and breads as he could hold from the Mellark Bakery.

Peeta’s parents bakery.

Since I was two, further back than I can even retain, my father would take me out to the woods, would hold my hand and tell me old stories of District Twelve’s past, detail insane urban legends, teach me about plants and berries and trees and the direction of the wind.

And for as long as I can remember, I idolized him. He was so confident and so charismatic and so kind. For as long as I could remember, I wanted to be exactly like him when I grew up. It felt like an honor to me that I received far more his end of the gene line than my mother’s. She was regarded as a beauty in her youth, but he was one of the most magnificent people in the country. Having his coloring and the same silver eyes felt like a special gift, awarded every single time someone marveled at how similar we appear.

But my father was gone often and the unpredictable lengths of his stays in the large, foreign city was one of the only constants my family ever knew. So it really came as no surprise when my mother phoned the cabin only minutes after Caesar’s interview was over.

“I’ll get it,” Prim says flatly after a moment, throwing a sardonic glance at me and Peeta on the couch. Now in a much different entanglement than we had been while watching the talk-show.

“Thanks,” I murmur unintelligibly against Peeta’s mouth, before closing my eyes in pleasure.

“Don’t strain yourselves,” she can’t stop herself from tacking on the end.

“We’ll try not to while you’re still here,” Peeta murmurs cheekily, moving his lips downwards, towards my neck, right onto my pulse point. I let out a somewhat ridiculous squeak in response.

“Hello?” Prim says lightly into the receiver, already knowing it’s our mother. No one else calls this phone, inside this hidden cabin, located in the woods surrounding Twelve.

The woods in which officials fenced off years ago. The woods in which it’s illegal to enter. The woods in which my father has taken me to hunt for families less fortunate than ours since I was a small infant.

It’s not a typical cabin found in the outskirts of Twelve. No, ordinarily a cabin out here—a cabin anywhere in Panem, really��is nothing more than a broken down shack. There’s normally nothing other than an unsteady foundation, a freezing damp floor and an unlit fireplace.

But somewhere along the lines, in the years before I was born, my parents resurrected this place from the depths of despair and expanded it, rebuilt it, refurnished and redecorated and turned it into a vast, warm, safe second home for all of us to run away to when we felt the need.

Prim listens into the receiver for a long moment before she sighs deeply and beckons me. “Katniss, can you?”

Instantly, I break away from Peeta’s embrace, cupping his face and pulling him back from my collarbone.

“What’s wrong?” I ask as I scramble off the couch, my anxiety abruptly spiked. “Did something happen?” I search Prim’s eyes as I take the phone from her but, to my utter relief, all I find there is blatant, unmasked disappointment.

I already know what my mother is going to say before I put the phone to my ear. “Hi?”

“Hi, honey,” she murmurs, her voice both strained and higher than typical. Which indicates she’s trying to put up a front for us right now, when she’d rather be moping in bed. “Your father just called. Evidently Effie Trinket informed him he has more scheduled commitments to fulfill before he can come home.”

I deflate, already prepard, knowing this was coming. Isn’t it always coming inadvertently? My father has never been home when he was scheduled to be in my life. No matter the holiday, the birthday, the emergency or event, the Capitol demands that they comes first to him. Not even my birth could upstage his commitments. He wasn’t allowed to return home to Twelve, to meet his firstborn child, until his press events were done and over with.

It’s no wonder he refuses to put on show for those people.

“Okay,” I mumble after a moment, not even convinced my mother is even still there on the other end.

“It’ll be alright,” she says, as positively as she can. “He’ll be home as soon.”

“Yeah.” I try and fail miserably to match her tone. I inherited my father’s ability to act. Or inability, that is.

There’s the faint sound of crying in the background, and my heart aches a bit. “I’m sorry, honey, I have to go check on Archer,” she apologizes as a way of saying goodbye.

I make my way into the kitchen as soon as we hang up. Prim is standing by the counter, staring at the same magazine our father sent three weeks ago.

Peeta comes up behind me then, his hand rubbing my back in comforting circles. “Your father delayed again?”

I nod silently, as my eyes focused on my little sister now. She’s trying her best to hold back the upset that’s threatening to take over.

And without hesitation, my instincts to protect my family from anything and everything painful kick in. “Prim, it’s okay. It’s probably only going to be another week before he’s back,” I console, stepping closer to her small frame and touching her back.

It’s all the initiation she needs before spinning around into my arms and clinging onto me tight. “He’s never around,” she cries into my neck—I’m not much taller than her—as her shoulders shake with tears.

I feel Peeta’s eyes on me, measuring my reaction to Prim’s words. He’s heard me cry the same thing time and time again, he knows the familiarity of this scene better than anyone should.

“He tries his best, Prim,” I whisper thickly into her long, blonde hair. She’s fair and light, like our mother. Like a merchant or peacekeeper. Looking at my little sister, you’d never consider her to be the daughter of a man from the Seam.

But you’d easily believe that she was a girl raised in Victor’s Village and I suppose that’s what counts. Where we were raised and not where we could have been, if things had gone different.

“He’s never really going to be ours though,” she weeps and I don’t have words to comfort her now. Because she’s right.

Our father will always belong to the Capitol, first and foremost.

And not even his children can upstage that.

/

Prim leaves not long later, to head home to Victor’s Village and more than likely curl up with our mother for the night. They’ve both always been so alike, so much softer and more hopeful than me. I half expect every trip of our father’s to double in time, if not triple. After a lifetime of disappointments, I can’t help but prepare myself.

It’s not that they’re weak for believing. It’s that I have too much Hunter Everdeen in me. I have too much pessimism crawling inside my bones to ever fully trust that he’s really coming home until he’s already stepped off the train in Twelve.

Too many hours of my childhood were spent, wearing fancy stockings and warm, fur-lined coats, standing at the train station, only to welcome a load of cargo and no father in sight. Too many times were phone calls answered in tears. Too many night spent crying, clinging to my father’s hunting jacket, so disoriented by the hazardous schedule in which our lives were ran, waiting for my father to phone, waiting for him to walk through the front door, waiting for him to sneak up on us in the middle of the night or pull us from class on a school day.

That was the true constant in my life. Waiting for my father to finally come home, knowing every moment we shared was on borrowed time. Knowing that he’d never truly belong to us. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting to hear my mother’s bedroom door slam and lock, waiting to hear Prim cry or Archer wail, waiting to see that defeated glint in my father’s slate gaze.

I close the cabin door behind my sister now, knowing with confidence that she’ll make it home alright, even with the sun currently setting in the faded blue sky.

Our father never took Prim hunting like he did me, never brought her out to the woods and taught her to shoot a bow and arrow, never showed her how to trap and kill an animal. But even still, the path from the cabin to our home in Victor’s Village is imprinted in our brains, like a birthmark or tattoo. We’d be able to find our way to and from, even if we were sleepwalking.

As would Peeta. Considering this is the place he spends the majority of his time.

Considering this cabin may as well be his permanent address.

And if it weren’t illegal, it very well might be, I think to myself wryly as I walk over to where he’s leaning against the doorframe now.

“Hello,” I greet again, hopping onto my tiptoes and kissing his lips lightly.

He grasps my hips, smiling against my mouth. “Don’t you have to get home too?” He hesitantly asks, his desire to keep me here bleeding through every caress of his fingers, as they trail underneath my loose shirt, sliding upwards and causing an electric current to ripple through the core of my body.

But I just shake my head at his inquiry, moving my mouth from his to kiss down the side of his face, underneath his jawline.

“Mmm,” he moans after a long moment, before suddenly putting a few more inches between us. “Are you sure your mother won’t miss you?”

Peeta’s always been considerate of my mother. Too considerate sometimes, if I do say so myself. Bordering on obsessive.

He is obsessed with keeping her approval, with never crossing any invisible line, with never even so much as mildly exasperating her.

I suppose it’s only natural though. She is the only parental figure he has in his life.

I’ve never been too enthusiastic to introduce him to my father and he’s never pushed the issue too far. Hunter Everdeen is a practical legend around Twelve—and beloved across the entirety of Panem—but he’s the reason, I’ve always privately felt, that I was isolated from all my classmates.

Sure, I’m already not the most friendly person to start with, in anyone’s book. As Haymitch never hesitates to tell me. But there was already very little chance of me making friends in school anyway. Being the victor of the Forty-Seventh Hunger Games’ child dropped the chances of play-dates or sleepovers drastically. My father trusts no one. Not with his children.

And I didn’t mind for the most part. I’m too like him to enjoy people much anyway. This whole notion was much harder on Prim, who adored her fellow classmates and easily endeared herself to them as well. But no matter how darling my little sister may be, nothing changed our father’s mind and when he was set on something, it was practically written in stone.

I can’t even imagine how Peeta must feel, having to live in fear for the entire last year of our little secret being exposed. I may be nervous about how my father will react, but Peeta has to be outright petrified.

“My mother will be fine,” I murmur, rolling my eyes as I lean back against the wall now. “She’s got Prim and Archie to keep her sane until my father’s home.”

Peeta chuckles at me, a mirthful smile in his eyes. “And you got me,” he teases, tapping my nose with his finger.

I giggle in a way I withheld until Prim left. I wasn’t about to give her ammunition to mock me later on. “All to myself,” I add, matching his expression now. “For unlimited hours of the day.”

“That’s my girl, looking on the bright side.”

I snort. “Yeah, that’s me.” I’m the exact opposite of an optimist. I prefer expecting the worse and setting expectations low. Maybe it’s a learned behavior but, at least that way, I’m not crushed like my mother when things don’t pan out the way I want.

Peeta mistakes the look on my face to be one of hidden disappointment. “You’re father will be home soon, sweetheart. They can’t keep him in the Capitol forever.”

“Can’t they?” I mumble, not expecting an answer. Before he can offer one—because Peeta is nothing if not a fixer—I quickly segue to a new topic. “Where do you think you’ll go when my father does come home?”

He just shrugs the question off though, completely unbothered. “Anywhere but home,” he says simply, his stunning blue eyes clear as the sky they remind me of.

“Anywhere but there,” I agree, my smile twisting into a grimace.

/

A year ago, when I was barely fifteen, President Snow—Panem’s true Gamemaker, my father always said—demanded every victor extend their stay in the Capitol, even after the games ended that year. He gave no outright reason and my father was cagey to speak on the subject, but in the end, the president’s word was law and there was no room for argument. President Snow can demand of us whatever he wishes.

It was a cold, dreary autumn that year, with early snowfall, which was the leading cause to the significant increase in accidents and injuries. My mother, the born healer, had more patients than she could handle, and even while training Prim as her assistant, she required my help. I was to head to town and purchase a list of herbs from the apothecary shop her parents still owned. The people who disowned her, who had little to no interest in her after she married a man from the Seam, victor or not. The people who never cared to meet their own grandchildren, to acknowledge our existence even as we passed right by their shop, in their plain sight.

I was dragging my feet the entire walk there, already with a sour taste in my mouth, when I heard the loudest wail my ears had every registered. When I heard sharp words being screamed out, when the sound of a boy sobbing filled the air.

And my instincts took over, my every sense focused on finding the hurt and helping them, altogether forgoing the trip for my mother’s herbs.

I followed the commotion to the bakery’s backdoor. Right through the open threshold, it was crystal clear, the baker’s wife—the witch, as many of the kids at school referred to her—had beaten her youngest son senselessly.

He’s in my year, I’d realized abruptly, staring with an agape mouth at his bloody face. His eye was swelling and his nose and lip were smeared scarlet and the only thing that crossed my mind at first, was I recognized him as the blonde boy with the colorful notebook, who could never meet my eyes and always wore long sleeves.

Of course, I snapped out of the daze after only a moment. The witch turned and caught sight of me, snapping that no Seam brat was going to get any free handouts from her and to scatter before she called the Peacekeepers.

Something about the unmasked prejudice against the Seam, a place where people in Twelve had next to nothing and were seen as lesser than the merchants, jolted me into action.

“Get your hand off him!” I’d demanded, using my entire body weight, just as my father taught me, to push the door open as she tried to close it in my face. “Let him go or I swear I’ll make you regret it.”

At that, I heard an ugly laugh and the door flew open again, my exerted force throwing it back into the wall.

“I’m serious, child,” she snaps, her blue eyes narrow and her mouth in a snide smirk. “I will call the Peacekeepers to remove you from my shop-”

I didn’t even let her finish. I wasn’t one to be messed with. Not when I just witnessed something awful firsthand, not when I had it in my power to do something.

I knew then I couldn’t bring my father home. He was owned by the president and the Capitol. To an extent, we all were. And I knew I couldn’t stop the games from happening or the possibility of my name being pulled from the reaping bowl. I couldn’t always make my mother come out of her room or even out of her bed, when her illness struck bad. And I couldn’t stop my siblings from crying for our father at night.

But I knew that day in the bakery, I had the power over Mrs. Mellark and I wasn’t going to let her get away with hurting her son anymore.

“Call them,” I dared, not an ounce of insecurity in my voice. “Cray is an old family friend.” He was actually indebted to my father, who’d kept the man’s secrets for too many years to count. But family friend rolled off the tongue more effectively.

“Head Peacekeeper is now making friends in the Seam?” She spat in disbelief. “No wonder this district is so rundown.”

She laughed humorlessly, but my focus was pulled towards the boy. He was covering the left side of his face, as if it hurt too badly to release. As if he was trying to stop his eye from swelling, stop his nose from gushing blood. As if he could hold his now split lip together with nothing more than the palm of his hand.

The sight hurt my heart to see. It burned a fire inside of me that only a true injustice could set alight.

“My father is Hunter Everdeen,” I snapped in the woman’s direction, not even basking in satisfaction when her face drained of all color. The idea that a scrappy little girl with olive skin and dark hair was the child of the most powerful man in all of Twelve struck a cord inside even the witch. “Still wanna make that call?”

The woman’s face was caught between anger and shock when I glanced at her again. And I hated her for it. I hated her and every single person in this district who hurt their kids, who took out their grievances on them, who made them cower and quiver in fear. Who raised them to be afraid of those they loved in a world already so awful.

I know I live a privileged life but, deep in my bones, I know even if things were different, my parents wouldn’t have laid a hand on us. Even if we were so poor I had to take tesserae, even if we were starving to the point of no return, even if we were practically homeless in the Seam, my parents would never hurt us.

“Leave,” the witch spoke then, but her voice was void of all emotion.

“Not without him,” I refused, my eyes planted on the wounded boy in front of me. The boy who was doing everything to avoid looking me in the eye, too busy covering his battered face.

I heard a sound caught between a groan and a shriek, before a cutting board was tossed across the room. “Just go!” She shouted at her son, causing him to flinch severely. “Just go with her!”

On her order, which sounded more distraught than angry, the boy had stormed out the back door and into the chilly evening air, still covering his face desperately, still looking utterly ashamed.

But he waited for me to catch up with him. He waited for me to guide him away from that awful woman he was forced to call his mother.

He didn’t flinch when I touched his arm nor when I took his hand. And when I led him away from the town and towards the village, he followed me without complaint.

Actually, he followed me without a single word.

I realized this just as my house came into view. “You never told me your name?” I whispered, looking up at him gently.

He had tears leaking from his eyes that he was doing his best to ignore, the bleeding on the left side of his face had barely even lightened up, his eye was swelling bigger and bigger, and yet, he chuckled a little at the question. “I’ve been in your class since kindergarten, Katniss.”

I felt my cheeks burn pink, even under the darkening sky. “I know.” But I still peered up at him, curiously waiting for him to tell me.

“It’s Peeta,” he finally answered, maybe a bit satirical.

“Peeta Mellark,” I suddenly recognized.

“Mhmm. Figured you’d pick up the last name.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s printed across the bakery in huge letters?”

“Oh.” He chuckled at my ignorance, causing my blush to deepen.

And I realized immediately how much I liked the sound of his laugh. How I liked being the reason for the sound.

My stomach did a complete flip at the notion and my ears abruptly felt hot, but I tried to push all this away, needing to get him to my mother.

“Wait,” he halted before I could even reached the front door. “Is your mother in there?”

I shot him a confused look. “Yeah, of course? Who else-”

I didn’t even get a chance to finish though. “I really don’t want anyone else to know about this,” he pleads, his eyes looking as frightened as they did with the witch.

“Peeta-” I start, opening my mouth argue, to convince him to go into the house and let my mother treat his injuries. To let me get him help.

But one look inside his desolated, defeated, terrified eyes and I couldn’t make myself do it. I couldn’t put him through any more than he’d already gone through. Not when he’d eventually have to go face the witch again at home.

“Okay,” I whispered, and I felt him squeeze the hand I didn’t realize I was still clutching. “Let me take you somewhere else. And I’ll try to fix you up myself.”

I wasn’t a healer like my mother and Prim. I was a hunter, just like my father, just like his very name, through and through. But I had witnessed enough of what my mother did—my father had forced me to witness enough of what she did, in case I ever needed the knowledge—and I was confident I had the expertise to help him.

My decision was validated by the relief in Peeta’s eyes, by the visible exhale he expelled from inside. He was ashamed, I realized, of his abuse. He was embarrassed to let anyone know what was happening behind closed doors.

I guided him by the hand outside the village, through the Seam—a place in which he’d never been before—and to the fence line.

“Isn’t it electrified?” He asked, his grip on my palm tightening. I liked the sensation for some reason. I liked the way his big hand felt wrapped around my small one. I liked how he wanted to hold onto me in the darkness.

“Nope,” I say, and let out a proud giggle. Or maybe a nervous one. Whenever I think back to this night, I can never tell.

“How do you know?” His blonde eyebrows knit together, still afraid in a way I’d never had to be. My father had taught me everything there was to know about the woods from a young age.

“Listen,” I urge softly, leaning my ear towards the fence.

He cranes forward too, waiting for the buzz of electricity to fill his ears. Only, just as I knew, it never does. Because it never has. The fence’s electricity was shut off long before we were even born.

I watched as his face registered the silence, as he realized and trusted I was right. And I beamed at him, before showing him the way my father slips beyond the fence and guiding him through the trees, towards the cabin, buried deep inside the woods.

It took an hour to find, not because of the blackened sky, but because Peeta’s face hurt so badly that his gait was slowed. But I remained patient, even though that was never my strong suit either. I waited for him to pick up the pace, to be ready to move, to find our way through the tall green trees. I pulled all the branches I could see out of his path, used the moon as our flashlight and didn’t complain once when he stumbled along the way.

By the time we got to the cabin, it had to be past Archer’s bedtime. My mother would be worried sick for me, but I soothed myself that she had plenty on her plate. I’m her firstborn. The child she understands the least, the one who’s like her husband in body and soul. I knew I was probably near the bottom of her worry list.

The very first thing I did when we entered the cabin was order Peeta to sit down in the dining room. I gathered my mother’s first aid kit from the bathroom, wet a rag in cool water and I got to work cleaning the blood from his face.

“This has to be gross for you,” he murmurs after a long stretch of silence. His eyes betrayed how self-conscious he must have felt.

Trying to alleviate his anxiety, I pretended to shrug it off. “My mother cleans wounds all the time. At our kitchen table, no less.”

Peeta made a noise that indicated he didn’t buy my act of ease. “I heard at school that you run from the sick and injured.”

I raised my eyebrows at the comment. No one at school talked about me. No one knew me well enough to. People stopped trying to get close to any of Hunter Everdeen’s kids years ago.

The longer I stared at Peeta in disbelief, the more he seemed to lose confidence in his statement. “Maybe I didn't hear it,” he finally amended. I brought the damp cloth back up to his face again as a reward, tenderly wiping away the blood, before using the clean side to set against his swelling lid, hoping to offer some pain reduction there as well. “Maybe I saw it,” he added sheepishly.

I furrowed my brows, even more perplexed by the elaboration. “Saw it?”

“When Leaf Barker tripped and broke his knee in Physical Education last year? You were almost green when you bolted out of the gymnasium.”

His words conjured up a vague image. Still though, something about this felt odd to me.

“How do you remember that better than I do?”

At that, Peeta shrugged. “I guess, I notice you sometimes?”

“What do you mean, sometimes?” I pressed, none of his words suddenly making a bit of sense.

“Why did you stick up for me tonight?” He abruptly segued, his expression shifting into something of defense, like he’s trying to deflect.

But I’m not one to be deterred. “I wasn’t going to stand there and watch your mother hurt you,” I stated, my voice remaining firm. “Why?”

He continued to walk around my question. “Is tonight the first night you ever noticed me?”

I pulled my hand and the damp cloth away from his wounded face, reaching in the kit to grab a white cream I’d seen my mother and Prim both use on swelling before. “Yes,” I finally replied, because I don’t know what else to say. That I saw him glance at me sometimes and then watched as his eyes flit away? That I noticed how he doodled in math class, because he found the subject boring? That I’d seen him lift a sack easily over his shoulder at the bakery and watched him beat almost every upperclassmen at wrestling, even while three years their junior?

None of that seems even remotely relevant to mention.

“When was the first time you noticed me?” I shot back, still being careful to apply the cream with only the lightest pressure to his battered eye.

“Kindergarten,” he instantly blurted out, his tone simple and bold.

I stared at him in disbelief for a long moment before chuckling, catching the joke. “Funny.”

“I’m serious,” he refuted, peaking his good eye open, the sky meeting a silver dollar as our gaze locked. And I see that he is serious somehow.

“What?”

“The first day of kindergarten,” he continued, after a long beat of me just staring him. His confidence had wavered once again and he was looking a bit regretful that he’d put this out in the open. “You were wearing a red velvet dress and brown stockings. Your hair was in two braids instead of one and your ribbons matched your dress. The teacher asked during music assembly who knew The Valley Song and your hand shot right up. She put you on a stool and you sang it, clear as day, for everyone to hear. Even the birds outside stopped to listen. And from that moment on… I was a goner.”

I just continued to look at him in disbelief, unable to put the pieces of what he’s said together. Finally, I whispered, “you’re telling the truth?”

“I’ve had a crush on you for forever,” he admitted, his singularly open eye giving away his nerves at the admission. “And I know you probably don’t feel the same way. I know you didn’t even know my name until tonight but I just wanted to say, in case we never have the chance to speak again-”

“Stop,” I cut him off, my mind already about to explode. “Stop, um…” I refused to look at him as I spoke, furiously staring down at my lap. “I need more time to… process this.”

He had a crush on me since the first day of kindergarten? He’d heard me sing and from that day forward he held a hidden candle for me?

And he never once worked up the courage to talk to me?

Dozens of moments suddenly race through my mind.

Cerulean blue eyes finding me in a crowd countless times and then pulling away as soon as I meet them. The time I wanted to play a stupid game at recess and a stocky blonde boy volunteered to be team captain, and then picked me first. The stunning drawing I found in my locker last year on Sweetheart’s Day, that I was convinced was put there by mistake, though it bore a striking resemblance to the doodles on Peeta’s notebook.

And before I could stop it, I felt myself begin to shake with nerves.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” he apologized, seeing my frightened reaction. “I didn’t mean to scare you, I just… I didn’t know if I’d ever get the opportunity to tell you again-”

“Shhh,” I hushed, picking up the damp cloth once more. “Let me take care of your face. And then…” I hesitated again, unsure what to say in this situation. I had exactly zero experiences to compare this to. “Tomorrow we can talk more.”

Peeta nodded amicably, staying silent for the reminder of my ministrations. I felt a terrible pang of guilt for not responding the way he’d probably hoped, but there was still a part of me too stunned to even fully register the confession.

I was an outcast. I’d never fit in with the kids at school, neither town or Seam. I don’t look like the merchants and I’m too rich for the Seam folk. I would have been alone all the time at school if it weren’t for Madge Undersee, the mayor’s daughter who sat with me at lunch and partnered with me in class.

How could anyone have even noticed me to be anything other than strange? I barely spoke, even in classes where I knew all the answers. And I hardly participated in games or gossip. I had a father who insisted most days on picking me up himself from school, not allowing me to walk home alone like the other kids.

But the look in Peeta’s eyes was earnest. He wasn’t playing some elaborate trick on me, he wasn’t trying to coerce me into confessing something as well so he could humiliate me. He was being genuine in every way I could tell. And I had my father’s senses.

The same senses that helped him win his hunger games.

A new thought struck me out of the blue. Peeta seemed too kind and too considerate to have a mother who beat him like this. He doesn’t fit the profile of the kids in the community home, brought there by even less abuse than I witnessed firsthand tonight.

The insane urge to get to know him more, to learn more about this complete stranger who I went out on an impulsive limb for suddenly surges through my brain.

It wouldn’t be a good idea, I told myself. He’s a merchant and I’m the daughter of a victor. Two titles that seem not far apart in theory but are miles away from the other in practice. And I’m not experienced with people the way he is. I don’t know how to make friends or how to maintain them. I don’t know what he expects from me but it’s surely more than I know how to give. I don’t know what to say in a situation like this. Haymitch always tells me I’m as romantic as dirt.

But is that what I want to be? I asked myself as I finished fixing Peeta up. Do I want to be romantic? Do I want to be that girl who holds her boyfriend’s hand in the town square and kisses him under the moonlight? Do I want to put an embroidered ribbon in my hair and wear an expensive dress from the Capitol to go to the Sweetheart’s Dance? Do I want to sneak in through my bedroom window at the crack of dawn so my father won’t know I’ve been out all night?

If I could learn to be romantic, would I want to be?

And naturally, the answer I’ve always known automatically seeps through my brain. No. I’m not like my mother and Prim. I’m practical by nature, rather than fanciful. I’ve never truly obsessed about falling in love or fawned over even the most incredible looking men on the television.

But something held me back now. Something inside me said that answer, the truth I’d always known, is suddenly not entirely accurate anymore.

Because I find that I did want those things I just described. I did want to have someone to hold, someone to laugh with, someone who conjured up that same flip in my stomach as Peeta did earlier when he laughed.

I wanted the same kind of love my parents had. The kind of love that brought them both to life, despite the horrible circumstances they’d both separately endured. I wanted the kind of love that they showed me was possible, even in a world as bleak and as inhumane as Panem felt at times.

I only realized how long I’d been silent, contemplating my inner desires, when Peeta offered a minuscule smile and stood up slowly to leave.

I opened my mouth to speak but when his eyes met mine, every thought in my head was magically wiped away. I had nothing to say, nothing that could be of any sort of consequence, that could mean anything in comparison to his confession.

“I should head back to town,” he murmured, trying to appear nonchalant. “Face my mother. Hope she’s in a better mood now-”

But I couldn’t stand the idea of him returning to the witch, the idea of going to school tomorrow and acting like his words weren’t still spinning around my brain, the idea of even sleeping soundly tonight.

“Peeta,” I called just as he was about to reach the front door. “Wait!”

He turned towards me, looking puzzled by my outburst. “What’s wrong?”

And I don’t know what came over me. I still can’t place what made me—a girl who had never been decisive a day in her life—fling myself across the room and smash my lips onto his.

He didn’t respond at first. I caught him too completely by surprise. His lips hung there, frozen, as mine pushed against his, with too much force and an overload of desperation.

But I felt an incredible stirring in my chest, an odd sensation that felt akin to a giggle amplified.

And when he finally recovered from the shock of it all, his hands both came to rest on either side of my hips, his mouth began to move against mine, his knees bent to reach my height with more success, and the stirring turned to a fiery spark. I know he felt it too, as the kiss was swiftly disturbed by his wide grin.

“Don’t go back home tonight,” I gasped out, looking up at him, wide-eyed and breathless.

His gaze melted as he took me in, he head bobbing in agreement without even needing to consider my request.

“Okay,” he’d whispered with a dazed smile, his blue eyes impossibly wild and sleepy at the same time.

His expression, his spirit somehow, was contagious, and I found myself somewhere stuck between a laugh and a blush when I replied.

“Okay.”

/

After that night, Peeta rarely went back home. I had called my mother and let her know I was staying at the cabin, but intentionally eluded telling her that the baker’s son was joining me. We’d spent the entire night talking in front of the fire, making each other laugh. The bashfulness I felt from my unexpected kiss stayed in my gut, causing me to bubble up with embarrassed laughter every so often.

But instead of that making things awkward, it cut the tension pretty smoothly. It was only months later did Peeta confess he’d felt just as nervous and just as shy about spending time with me. He was charismatic, I realize even that first night. Ironically funny. He was nice, in a way I rarely have found anyone to be. And, the more time went on, the more my desire grew to stay close to him. The more often I was around him, the more painfully I missed him when we were apart.

It was only a matter of time until my mother found out—not least of all, because my siblings accidentally caught us kissing in back of the school, a month to the day we first spoke.

I always imagined she’d be strict on me, the firstborn, when it came to dating. Especially in the world we lived in. Especially with my father’s position. I truly thought she’d forbid a relationship until I was of age. Maybe I was wrong about her. Or maybe she just saw how I looked at Peeta and understood that I wasn’t just being careless or rebellious. That whatever magnetic connection I felt towards Peeta wasn’t just an ordinary school-aged fling.

To my surprise as well, my mother seemed to take on a very similar stance to me when it came to Peeta and my father. Keeping the news of this entanglement from her husband’s ears was almost her idea.

“What are you thinking about?” Peeta asks me now, bringing me back to the present moment. His fingers tickle my neck as they brush my hair back behind my ear, touching one of the satin green ribbons weaved throughout my loose braids.

“You,” I reply coyly, shooting him a sly glance as I slip past him to head back towards the kitchen.

“Me?” He calls in mock disbelief. He trails up behind me, catching me by the waist and swinging me into his arms without warning.

“Peeta!” I exclaim, automatically wrapping myself around him as I try to steady my balance midair.

“What, baby?”

“Put me down, baby,” I mock, pressing my nose to his now, rubbing them together.

“I like holding you though,” he whispers, like he’s confessing some huge secret.

“Until your arms gets tired-”

“That was one time, Katniss.”

“I’m just reminding you,” I say with an air of superiority. “You don’t always appreciate holding me.”

At that, his demeanor falls a little. “I do when I realize I won’t be seeing you much in a few days.”

I feel my heart sink now too. As excited as I am at the prospect of my father coming home, after weeks apart, I always have to be a little more careful upon his first days back.

He always likes to spend time at the cabin and go for long walks in the woods upon his return. Spend more time in nature than the indoors, stay far away from people outside our family, sleep under the stars by the lake. The Capitol is apparently luxurious, but in my father’s own words, it is void of any true or natural beauty. Everything is artificial, man-made, concocted and orchestrated. There’s nothing that compares in his mind—or mine either—to a cool breeze on a sunny day spent in the meadow where the dandelions grow tall.

“But I’ll still see you in school?” I say, though my voice comes out as more of a plea. Peeta doesn’t always like to attend school these days, not when he knows his parents can easily track him down there.

His father, the baker himself, took the ambiguous loss of his youngest—his favorite—son particularly hard. It was only a matter of weeks after I intercepted his mother beating him that Peeta definitively decided to sever ties with majority of his family.

I’d like to say he made the choice all on his own but that’d be a lie. I watched as the physical bruises on his skin healed, as he began to peel back emotional layer upon layer to me, as he slowly told me what really had been going on in the Mellark’s family home. And I can’t say that I was impartial to his decision to cut the connection to a mother with a bruising fist and a father who closed his eyes and let it happen.

“Delly’s parents usually make me go to school so…” He shrugs it off, like it’s of no consequence, his arms hoisting me higher against his chest.

But I feel a sudden wave of gratitude towards the Cartwrights. They may be a little too jolly for my liking and their daughter, Delly, maybe can’t take a hint to save her life, but at least they always watch out for Peeta’s well-being. At least they cover for him when his mother come sniffing around and they feed him what they can afford and force him to attend class, where I’ll be able to see him.

“Good,” I murmur, at peace now. My father will be home soon and Peeta will be safely tucked away with his best friend.

I lean down and kiss his nose sweetly, reveling in the tender moment. His lips follow my lead and begin to plant themselves across my chin, underneath my jaw, causing me to squirm and squeal at the sensation.

“So,” he murmurs against my throat. “We have the entire place to ourselves, for the whole night, huh?”

His audacious smile elicits my own. “At least.” My father’s delays usually mean a minimum of two days.

Within a minute, Peeta has me on my back, against the softly quilted bed of my upstairs room. He takes his time helping me out of my clothes before I hurriedly shove his off, impatient and hungry.

He, of course, finds time to crack a joke. “Good thing Archie is too young to come here unchaperoned. Or else we’d never get the chance to do this.”

I roll my eyes and shove his mouth off my collarbone, utterly disgusted now. “Talking about my baby brother is one sure way to turn me off, Peeta.”

Archer, my three-old-brother, was an unexpected surprise, to put it lightly. My parents were done with two girls. My father joked him and my mother were both already set with one clone each, but alas, the year of the Seventieth Hunger Games was a year full of shocks.

A few months before the games that year, the coal mines—the industry Twelve is known for—exploded. Right in the middle of the afternoon, as everyone was obliviously going about their day.

It was a close call for many and one more reason my father is beloved around these parts. If he hadn’t been at the right place, at the right time, if he hadn’t volunteered to go with Prim and her class on a field trip down to the mines that day, there was a chance that no one would have noticed the gas leak.

It was too late to do anything by the time my father pointed it out, but his warning and the fact that people in Twelve take his word very seriously, managed to save the lives the inevitable explosion would have otherwise cost.

Through the outpouring of gratitude, and the overwhelming media coverage my whole family was abruptly bombarded with, my parents made the decision to pull me and Prim from school for a while, to hole up in the remodeled cabin, where no one could find us because of its illegal location.

I’ve never ask and I don't ever want to know when my parents conceived Archer. But about nine months after the vacation from the world, my mother gave birth to a little boy who looked identical to me and my father.

“Sorry,” Peeta whispers with a chuckle, collapsing beside me. “I’ll make it up to you.”

He moves to kiss my stomach, to trace circles on my hips like he always does. But I shake my head, a different request—or more like it, demand—on my mind.

“Tell me the story of how you first fell in love with me?”

Peeta rolls his eyes. Very dramatically. “You mean a year ago?”

“I mean in kindergarten,” I say with a smirk and then let out a shriek of surprise when he pounces on me, his lips attacking my neck.

“Aren’t you tired of that story yet?” He asks, his voice edging on exasperated.

“You never tire of a classic.” I give him a pout, knowing he never refuses me anything when I pull that trick.

I’m right, as per usual. “Fine,” he relents, but his eyes tell me that he enjoys telling this tale more than he leads on. “Come here.” He holds open his arms and waits for me to crawl into them, to settle against his chest.

I lay there for a long moment, my pointer finger running up and down the center of his bicep, as my ear rests against his heartbeat, patiently waiting for him to begin.

“It was the very first day of school. You were wearing a red, velvet dress…”

/

Read the rest on AO3 

[96thdayofrage]

Unlike Black Americans across the country after slavery, Williams’ ancestors and thousands of other Black members of slave-owning Native American nations freed after the war “had land,” says Williams, a Tulsa community activist. “They had opportunity to build a house on that land, farm that land, and they were wealthy with their crops.”

“And that was huge — a great opportunity and you’re thinking this is going to last for generations to come. I can leave my children this land, and they can leave their children this land,” recounts Williams, whose ancestor went from enslaved laborer to judge of the Muscogee Creek tribal Supreme Court after slavery.

In fact, Alaina E. Roberts, an assistant professor at the University of Pittsburgh, writes in her book “I’ve Been Here All the While: Black Freedom on Native Land,” the freed slaves of five Native American nations “became the only people of African descent in the world to receive what might be viewed as reparations for their enslavement on a large scale.”

Why that happened in the territory that became Oklahoma, and not the rest of the slaveholding South: The U.S. government enforced stricter terms for reconstruction on the slave-owning American Indian nations that had fully or partially allied with the Confederacy than it had on Southern states.

While U.S. officials quickly broke Gen. William T. Sherman’s famous Special Field Order No. 15 providing 40 acres for each formerly enslaved family after the Civil War, U.S. treaties compelled five slave-owning tribes — the Choctaws, Chickasaws, Cherokees, Muscogee Creek and Seminoles — to share tribal land and other resources and rights with freed Black people who had been enslaved.

By 1860, about 14% of the total population of that tribal territory of the future state of Oklahoma were Black people enslaved by tribal members. After the Civil War, the Black tribal Freedmen held millions of acres in common with other tribal members and later in large individual allotments.

The difference that made is “incalculable,” Roberts said in an interview. “Allotments really gave them an upward mobility that other Black people did not have in most of the United States.”

The financial stability allowed Black Native American Freedmen to start businesses, farms and ranches, and helped give rise to Black Wall Street and thriving Black communities in the future state of Oklahoma. The prosperity of those communities — many long since vanished —“attracted Black African Americans from the South, built them up as a Black mecca,” Roberts says. Black Wall Street alone had roughly 200 businesses.

Meeting the Black tribal Freedmen in the thriving Black city of Boley in 1905, Booker T. Washington wrote admiringly of a community “which shall demonstrate the right of the negro, not merely as an individual, but as a race, to have a worthy and permanent place in the civilization that the American people are creating.”

And while some tribes reputedly gave their Black members some of the worst, rockiest, unfarmable land, that was often just where drillers struck oil starting in the first years of the 20th century, before statehood changed Indian Territory to Oklahoma in 1907. For a time it made the area around Tulsa the world’s biggest oil producer.

For Eli Grayson, another descendant of Muscogee Creek Black Freedmen, any history that tries to tell the story of Black Wall Street without telling the story of the Black Indian Freedmen and their land is a flop.

“They’re missing the point of what caused the wealth, the foundation of the wealth,” Grayson says.

The oil wealth, besides helping put the bustle and boom in Tulsa’s Black-owned Greenwood business district, gave rise to fortunes for a few Freedpeople that made headlines around the United States. That included 11-year-old Sarah Rector, a Muscogee Creek girl hailed as “the richest colored girl in the world” by newspapers of the time. Her oil fortune drew attention from Booker T. Washington and W.E.B. Dubois, who intervened to check that Rector’s white guardian wasn’t pillaging her money.

The wealth from the tribal allotment also gave rise to Williams’ family story of great-aunt Janie, “who learned to drive by going behind the trolley lines” in Tulsa, with her parents in the car, Williams’ uncle, 67-year-old Samuel Morgan, recounted, laughing.

“It was real fashionable, because it was one of the cars that had four windows that rolled all the way up,” Morgan said.

Little of that Black wealth remains today.

In May 1921, 100 years ago this month, Aunt Janie, then a teenager, had to flee Greenwood’s Dreamland movie theater as the white mob burned Black Wall Street to the ground, killing scores or hundreds — no one knows — and leaving Greenwood an empty ruin populated by charred corpses.

Black Freedmen and many other American Indian citizens rapidly lost land and money to unscrupulous or careless white guardians that were imposed upon them, to property taxes, white scams, accidents, racist policies and laws, business mistakes or bad luck. For Aunt Janie, all the family knows today is a vague tale of the oil wells on her land catching fire.

Williams, Grayson and other Black Indian Freedmen descendants today drive past the spots in Tulsa that family history says used to belong to them: 51st Street. The grounds of Oral Roberts University. Mingo Park.

That’s yet another lesson Tulsa’s Greenwood has for the rest of the United States, says William A. Darity Jr., a leading scholar and writer on reparations at Duke University.

If freed Black people had gotten reparations after the Civil War, Darity said, assaults like the Tulsa Race Massacre show they would have needed years of U.S. troop deployments to protect them — given the angry resentment of white people at seeing money in Black hands.