#just also everyone accusing each other of being ‘like the Capitol’ can you just be normal for ONE MINUTE LOL

[katnissandpeetamellark]

tiktok is the bad place for TBOSAS 💀

[teachingtales]

I’ve had to answer this a couple times already so I want to share it with you to help make some sense of the Capitol Hill Attack. In bold are the questions/comments from someone else and then my response follows. 

I don't know what these people expected by doing this. We must first remember that these are not the "average person". These are people who firmly believe in an underlying persecution. I grew up in such a cult, where we were taught that everyone is persecuting us, secretly or overtly. To account for the fact that we were part of a religious majority in the US, we were taught that the "other Christians" were not "true" Christians. They were liars who pretended to believe in God hoping for eternal life, but would vote for "worldly and Satanic" ideas like gay marriage or abortion.

These people genuinely believe that the entire political system of the United States is a Satanic cult that sacrifices children. They are told not to donate blood because the Satanic Leaders (politicians and celebrities) steal this blood in order to use it for youth (by putting it on their skin or ingesting it or both). In some cases, young Christian children are stolen and drained of blood for this purpose. They believe that Trump, and only Trump, was fighting a secret battle against the Powers That Be. They believed that Trump's lack of presidential activity/effects was due to him being far too busy fighting the secret Satanists. In other words, the fact he was ineffective (in public) meant he was effective (in private).

So, to your question: what did they expect by doing this? Any or all of the following:

die a glorious death for the man hand-selected by Jesus, thus gaining access to Heaven

they believed they would find the "hidden votes", exposing the Satanic Politicians and showing the world they were really right this whole time

force another recount, which would finally prove that Trump actually won

The election was fair, there's no damning evidence of election fraud and Trump's legal bullshit is baseless and a desperate attempt to cheat the system.

True. But these are not reasonable people we are dealing with. In their minds, the lack of evidence is the evidence, that cheating the system was done so well that they made sure to really cover their tracks. Oddly, they also believe that it was done so sloppily that they do have evidence in the form of a video that Trump referenced multiple times in his Georgia Phone Call. It doesn't matter that the actual, unedited footage wholly disagrees with Trump's accusations; remember, he was hand-selected by Jesus, and the people in possession of the unedited footage are hand-selected by Satan. This, then, means Trump's video and Trump's claims are automatically correct, while anyone else is a liar and holds forgeries. After all, Lucifer is "the Father of Lies", so his agents (politicians) surely can lie effectively.

Again, we are left with this problem: the lack of evidence is the evidence.

Storming the Capitol was a shitty idea, what was going to change? People are dead because of this "overthrow". The government wasn't going to be affected by this.

In addition to what I mentioned earlier, they have a very small view of the world. These are people who typically believe the Earth is only 6000 years old and evolution cannot happen because they cannot fathom the long periods of time it takes. These are people who believe that those of us outside of the US are all collectively lying about the SARS-CoV-2 virus so we can hurt President Trump's reputation. They cannot understand scale. They are the people who watch movies like “Independence Day”, where a single person who has no knowledge of alien computers can take down the entire fleet. They don't understand how complex things really are. Thus, they genuinely think a "last stand" type of attack on a building will bring on the glorious end to this troubled tale.

Trump repeatedly bashed people who protested for BLM and said it was violent, unnecessary, etc. But when people riot and kill in his name he's just like "well they didn't do anything wrong".

This is unfortunately an easy one to answer: if they're against me, they are wrong...but if they are for me, they are right.

This is a classic "in-group/out-group" type of thinking. In-Group: the group you belong to Out-Group: the group you do not belong to (often with directly opposing views) In this type of thinking, you stereotype the Out-Group by their worst actors but your worst actors in your In-Group are different. We can see this in the media in the form of the following examples:

Example A: foreigners who attack something on national soil are "terrorists", but domestic attackers are "troubled individuals"

Example B: if the majority is white, a 17 year-old black male who shoots some people is written about in the news as a "violent man" or "man opened fire on innocent victims". If the shooter is a 17 year-old white male, the news is characterizes him as a "troubled teen" or "boy open fires at school, family wonders where they went wrong"

Example C: if the minority religion has a passage in their holy book that says "Women are less than men", it's because that religion is clearly false and laughably erroneous; if the majority religion has a passage in their holy book that says "Women are less than men", it's not sexist and just needs to be understood in cultural context

The subconscious reasoning for this type of thinking is very tribal but also ego-preserving...that we each believe we are always making the most correct and most reasonable/logical choices, so if someone makes a different choice, that person and choice are unreasonable and illogical.

None of this excuses the behavior, but I hope it helps shed some light on this type of extreme thought process. 

[katnissmellarkkk]

Gravity

Hi! Okay, so here’s chapter two of my growing back together story, inspired by the prompt “I won’t hurt you” @rosegardeninwinter sent me. I also posted this fic on AO3 under the title Gravity (like the Sara Bareilles song), if that’s where you prefer to read. And here’s a link to chapter one of this fic if you wanna read and haven’t yet.

Also I know I said in my first author’s note that there will be three chapters, but there might be a bit more.... we love an over-writer, right? 🤷🏼‍♀️🤦🏼‍♀️

I don’t know if you’re “supposed” to post every part of a multi chapter fic on here? Or just post the link to it on AO3? But for now I posted it in its entirety on here 😊.

Anyways, hope you like it! And thanks to anyone who reads! 💖💖💖

/

A couple months later.

We slide back after that. I don't know if that night-the night he had a nightmare that I died and we slept locked in each other's embrace-moved too quickly for Peeta or if he thought he was protecting me from him, but when morning light came, he was gone from the bed.

I didn't see him again until the following evening, helping Haymitch feed his rambunctious geese in the yard. He didn't speak to me for four more days after that, and when he did, it was to ask what kind of bread I wanted him to bring for lunch the next day.

I pretended to his face that it didn't hurt. That waking up in a cold, empty bed, in a house he all but abandoned until I had evacuated, that sleeping in his arms and awaking so abruptly alone, didn't hurt. I did what I had taught myself to do as a child and I turned my features into an indifferent mask, shutting off all access to my emotions. Destroying any possibility of anyone witnessing my vulnerabilities.

But I knew deep down, it did hurt. It hurt badly.

I didn't speak to him directly the first week he showed up for lunch and to work on the memory book again. I got by fine without addressing him directly, as Haymitch somehow sensed the bubbling tension between us and stayed sober just enough to remain alert for all our shared meals. He helped with the memory book, helped by adding in a snarky comment here or there to reel our focuses onto him instead of each other.

I wanted to say thank you but I never knew how. I doubt Haymitch needs me to verbalize it anyway. One night, as he follows behind Peeta to leave, his hand grazes my shoulder and gives it a squeeze and I know he's much more aware of the dynamic between his old tributes than he leads on.

But weeks after the night in question, the night that set Peeta and my friendship back months, we receive a telegraph from Effie. A telegraph that shakes the small amount of stability we've managed to build in the time since the war.

Apparently President Paylor has decided to move forward with arena destruction, an idea mentioned a few times by Plutarch on Caesar's talk show. An idea I didn't take seriously until now.

Paylor has decided to build a memorial for each of the arenas, for each year the games ever took place, to immortalize our history, so Panem can never forget how cruel and inhumane things once were. But first, she wants to eliminate the actual Hunger Games arenas, once and for all, before putting the memorials in their place.

My initial thought, months ago when Delly showed me Plutarch and Caesar discussing the idea, was that this would takes years to happen.

I was, once again, so clearly wrong. The plans have been expedited and the order in which each arena will be decimated has been swiftly decided.

All that alone doesn't sound terrible. I'd like to see those death pits crushed, burned, torn down, eradicated, or all of the above, by any means necessary. Only downside, initially, is that this will extend me—and Peeta and potentially all the other victors—remaining in the forefront of the public's mind.

Since the war, all I've ever wanted was for everyone in the country to forget who I am. I don't want to be known anymore. I just want to be left alone, to a quiet and peaceful and relatively simple life, without anyone ever recognizing me again. Without anyone thinking of me as the girl on fire, as the Mockingjay, as the sixteen-year-old who volunteered for a sister who was doomed to death anyway.

But, of course, there's a catch. There's always a catch.

Plutarch thinks it would be great to have the living victors be there—televised—in the Capitol and see the arenas before they're bulldozed.

Even with this dreadful proposition, I thought I had time to think of a way out of it. When Effie first sent the telegraph, I thought that I would have years before having to worry about going back to the places where my nightmares started.

Well, some of my nightmares, that is.

After all, it takes time to destroy something as large and as vast as an arena-excluding the way I destroyed the one in the Quell, that is. I figured-I rationalized, really-that by the time they got to number Seventy-Four, I would have a solid excuse to get out of attending.

I guess though they wished to start with the big years and the first decade of the Hunger Games wasn't very eventful, apparently—lucky them—so the first arena they wish to bid farewell to is the one from the second Quarter Quell. The Fiftieth Hunger Games. The one that was so strikingly beautiful and almost entirely poisonous.

The year Haymitch Abernathy, from the lowly District Twelve, won.

And being also from Twelve, my presence, along with Peeta's, suddenly became of the utmost importance as well.

At first, I still try to opt out of the event. Even after Effie chastises me over the phone, like not a day has passed since she was my escort, and even after my mother claims in her letter that it could be cathartic for me, I do not relent.

Delly and Thom and a few of the others in the community, like Kanon who runs the candy shop two stores away from the bakery, and Greta, who helps with the dusting and mopping all over town, try to say that it could be good for me. Greasy Sae claims it can't be worse than actually living through the games, and I silently appreciate her much more blatant statement than the comforting platitudes others try to provide me.

But it all falls on deaf ears in the end.

Because the only person I truly listen to is Peeta. Even bitter and wounded, the only person I really hear is him.

Unfortunately, as irritating as it is sometimes, his voice will always reach me when others can't.

But we don't ever have an actual conversation about it. Five days after Effie calls to announce the news, to tell me unequivocally that my presence is requested, Peeta sways me to go with just a look.

He comes over later than usual and brings extra bread and pastries to go with the deer meat I hunted. We feast silently, the air between us still incredibly awkward, when, without warning, our old mentor comes crashing through the door unceremoniously.

I don't know how much alcohol he consumed, but it's enough to knock even someone with Haymitch's tolerance off his feet.

By the end of the hour, the older man is practically beating his head into the wall of my dining room, screaming the names of dead children and about force fields and axes. And from across the kitchen table, Peeta touches my arm—the first time he's voluntarily touched me in weeks—and my eyes meet his, blue pouring into gray, and silently he begs me to go for the goodbye ceremony to Haymitch's arena.

And I give in. Not just for him. But also, in large part, to repay the caustic, miserable drunk that kept us alive. To support the unpredictable, temperamental man that I do consider my family somehow.

The ceremony is set to take place weeks later and the time does little to alleviate my anxiety. Peeta and me still don't speak much, but come time for lunch or dinner, there he is, in my house like clockwork.

When I point out, a few days before we're due at the train station, that there's a very realistic possibility that the Capitol won't let me go to the ceremony, Peeta casually says, "I already cleared that with Effie and Plutarch."

I shoot him a look of surprise. "You did?"

Shrugging nonchalantly before turning back to the rabbit on his plate, he murmurs quietly, "Thought it'd give you one less thing to worry about."

The ceremony is nothing like I expect. Somehow I figured there would be an obnoxiously large television crew, loud speakers, prepared speeches on written cards, awkward directions and crowds upon crowds of people surrounding us, asking pointed questions, shooting invasive stares and pressing for reactions to their nosy accusations. I expected those accusations to be directed at me and Peeta especially.

Instead, there's none of those things. There's no crowd at all, it's just us victors. Just Enobaria, Johanna, Annie, the three of us from Twelve and Beetee—who I still can't make myself so much as look at, reminded of my sister's absence and his role in it every time we so much as stand in five feet vicinity of each other.

The camera crew consists of Mitchell, Pollux and Cressida, along with two unfamiliar, but seemingly non-threatening faces. There's no directions, no prompting, not close ups or reshoots.

All that happens is Paylor makes a statement that the crew films, stating that the arenas will be destroyed one by one, and in the place of each there will be an individual memorial made, as we victors stand in an unorganized, crooked line that will surely make Effie cringe when she sees the footage on television later.

It's almost peaceful, I think to myself in surprise, as I look around at the location. The sky is a stunning cobalt, even more brilliant in person than in the video Peeta and I watched on the train so long ago. The meadow looks like the grass is fresh, like it was just watered yesterday. The mountain is so breathtaking I have to physically tear my eyes away from it and even the woods look rather cozy. Or maybe that part is just me.

There's also arraignments of flowers, just like in the footage we watched, that spill every which way, filling our noses with soothing, floral scents. It feels unnatural to say about a place set up for murder, but with the deadly poisons lurking at every turn eviscerated, I almost can find this arena truly beautiful.

Of course though, it's not my arena.

It's Haymitch's and he looks like he's about to be sick. He's white-knuckled it for a few days without any sort of drink—to my, Peeta's and, even Effie's, visible shock—and I can see plainly now that he's absolutely regretting it. His eyes are hallow and wild at the same time and I can see his shaking palms beneath the sleeves of his jacket as he stares out at the source of his every nightmare for the last quarter century.

It shocks me that he didn't find a way out of this. Actually, it shocks me still that these ceremonies are even possible.

I never knew they kept arenas after the games were over each year. I never realized they kept all seventy-four death pits, haunted by child sacrifice, the way you keep old vases on a shelf.

At this point though, it's just another thing to add onto the growing list of horrific and unthinkable issues that the Capitol doesn't even grasp. Keeping the haunted graveyards of children as souvenirs shouldn't sit right with anyone, I don't care how you're raised.

I tell myself to not be so quick to judge, as I can't know who I'd be if I had been born in the Capitol instead of the districts. Still, the idea of condoning the things they have without remorse or shame seems unthinkable.

I'm torn out of my thoughts when Cressida speaks. "Is there anything you'd like to say, Haymitch, before we finish filming?"

Once again, catching me off-guard entirely—he's full of all sorts of surprises evidently—Haymitch clears his throat and looks down at his leather boots before speaking. "Ardor. Garnett. Dolan. Silver. Ryker. Artemis. Slayte. Pistol. Lex. Mac. Lumen. Gig. Brook. Aqua. Mary. Ripley. Lyme. Watt. Rocky. Gio. Belle. Raven. Kia. Mecko. Barker. Jack. Holly. Briar. Essie. Stitch. Coco. Paul. Mira. Miller. Coop. Harvey. Butch. Cutter. Bea. Skinna. Basil. Sunny. Rip. Spring. Oaker. Terra. Maysilee." He lists off the names in a way that is so matter-of-fact that it would almost be robotic if it weren't for the hoarseness in his tone that grows stronger with every name he utters. He hesitates for only a moment before adding, "Corentine. Alannah. Alastar."

There's a long stretch of silence, where no one speaks, no one blinks, no one even breathes. We all know instinctively who these people are—I know solely from Maysilee Donner's name being called—but we still wait until Haymitch speaks again, to confirm our assumption.

"Those are the names of all the people this arena killed." His eyes grow glassy and his brow furrows in anger as he fights desperately to repress his emotions, and suddenly I have the strangest urge to hug my mentor, to make him feel better like he tried to do for me once when Peeta was stuck in the Capitol and I was distraught. But I know it wouldn't be appreciated or wanted, and quite honestly I'm glad for that, because I don't even know what to say.

The last three names Haymitch said stick in my head for some reason I can't explain other than an odd gut feeling. But then he speaks again, an in a voice growing gruffer by the second, he says right into the camera, "that's every single person who was killed because of the second Quarter Quell."

And, like I should have known all along, it hits me the last three names are the names of his family who were murdered to punish him for the stunt with the forcefield.

The last three names are the murders of the last people he loved. Until me and Peeta came along.

As if his thoughts matched mine, Haymitch suddenly shakes his head and his eyes widen again as he stares past all the rest of us, as he continues to take in the exact place in which life as he knew it, twenty-six years ago, was altered forever.

His reaction is more understandable and genuine than I imagined he would ever allow it to be, especially on camera, and I want to say something but me and him both aren't good at saying anything, and I find myself looking to Peeta, hoping he'd know what to do.

Peeta doesn't meet my gaze though. He's solely focused on our mentor and just when he opens his mouth to speak, the older man to suddenly shake his head in our general direction and clears his throat.

"I'm done. Tell Plutarch I'm done with this crap. Just hurry up and bulldoze this place so I can go back to Twelve," is all he says to Cressida as he storms off, but his voice is rough and caustic once again, and I can only hope he recovers from this event soon enough.

Somehow, witnessing Haymitch relive his games, even through the shield he so obviously puts up to the outside world, triggers me though. For some reason, I feel my eyes begin to water as I look around at the meadow, at the mountain, at the golden cornucopia, and wonder how anyone could build a place where kids would eventually go to die? How could anyone have ever been so inhumane? How could a country just accept it? How did we live for so long with the Hunger Games overtaking our lives and still remained complicit? I don't understand. The more time passes, the more days I'm separated from the war and from the old world and the old way of life, I just can't comprehend anymore how we ever lived in a place so horrific.

I feel my eyes spill over and I'm grateful that Cressida has stopped filming already, because if Plutarch saw any tears on film, he would make certain it ended up on television.

I wipe my tears with the heel of my hand, trying to go about it as subtly as I can, hoping no one else notices. For the most part, I'm golden. Enobaria is already exiting, with Beetee following not far behind. Jo's back is to me while she speaks to Annie, though as per usual, she seems to be irritated.

Of course, it's too much to ask for everyone to remain oblivious to my waterworks. Even as I rid myself of them before they become widely noticeable, I feel Peeta's eyes train on me and know, despite the distance between us for the last few weeks, he isn't going to ignore my upset.

To my surprise though, he doesn't speak. He doesn't utter a single syllable.

Instead, I feel his large, warm palm slip into mine and squeeze tightly, lacing our fingers together, in a way we have done thousands of times before. Like two puzzle pieces coming together to complete a picture, like two indivisible teammates that will fight against anything that is thrown their way, like two halves of a whole finally finding each other, his hand grasps mine with a vengeance and I know I won't be the one who let's go.

He's still holding my hand when we board the train, hours later.

//

A couple weeks later.

"Yes, Mrs. Greenstead, I will get the chocolate nut loaf and a platter of the cranberry cookies wrapped up for you... Yes, it will be ready by the time you arrive... No, I promise they won't be cold," Peeta assures through the bakery telephone—a new addition that Thom and his wife thought was necessary to run a proper bakery. So necessary they bought it for Peeta as an opening gift.

It's not that the gesture wasn't nice or that Peeta didn't deeply appreciate it. I personally saw that he did, wholeheartedly.

But seeing it on the wall every day was just another reminder to me of my own personal vendetta against the integration between the Capitol's way of life and the districts'.

The only place telephones used to exist, outside of the Capitol limits, was the houses in Victor's Villiage, and if I'm being honest, I wish it would have stayed that way.

Maybe I'm being selfish, as I happen to still reside inside a house that once belonged to the said village, therefore I already had experienced this luxury prior to the new world. But I just can't make myself break the association between the items that had recently become readily available for all and the horror that was the Capitol.

Still though, the change was inescapable Telephones, cameras, heating pads, curling irons, quick bake ovens, cars and so many other items, were all growing in popularly across each district. Not that I was able to see a lot of these changes personally. But letters from Annie and my mom, and the occasional—unprompted and yet still begrudged—call from Jo, all kept me informed. Sometimes more informed than I wished to be.

Maybe I would feel entirely different if these inventions were brand new to me. But they aren't. I'd seen and used every one of them before. Their novelty had always been lost on me, perhaps because my only experience them was while inside the Capitol, surrounded by tacky colors and strong rose scents and itchy materials, headed for a death match, my life and the lives of those I cared always at great risk.

Of course, the new item in the bakery did make some things easier. Days like today are a perfect example.

Harvest Day is only one day away and everyone is coming in for their breads and their desserts. Peeta says it was always one of the most popular days, for as long as he can remember. Only difference is, before the war only Peacekeepers and town folks could afford to purchase anything. And generally, most citizens who even did come in, could only purchase a limited amount of items.

Not now. I don't know where everyone in Twelve was coming up with the money or if Peeta's prices are just a drastic drop from that of his mother's, but today, I swear I've seen every citizen in town inside the bakery.

Makes me glad that the portrait of me is hanging in the back, where no one else can see it. As pretty as it may be, as talented as Peeta is, I don't want a giant version of me displayed for all to see.

"Here you are," I politely say, handing two loaves of warm bread to a man who must be new to Twelve, as I've never seen him before. I'm debating on asking if he moved here recently when he passes a bill to me over the top of the pastry display.

"Thank you, hon." He smiles at me, looking at me a little too closely for my liking, as he swiftly walks out the door. His exit is met with the arrival of Val, a boy Peeta and I went to school with, who definitely was more Peeta's crowd than mine.

Val is a regular customer at the bakery, having always genuinely liked the Mellark family. His parents owned a small carpentry shop four spaces down from the bakery, and even with both them dead, he and his two sisters rebuilt the store, taking over their parents' legacy.

Peeta though is more focused on me now than Val's order. "Give me a second," he calls to his old friend, a little less polite than he had been all morning. "Katniss, what's wrong?" He asks urgently, seeing the look in my eyes.

I shake my head and push away the anxiety threatening to close in on me. "Nothing, just..." I hesitate, not even wanting to say it. Peeta's gaze refuses to lessen though and I sigh before finally mumbling, "That guy. He creeped me out. The way he was looking at me so closely..."

Peeta's hand touches my arm for a brief moment before pulling it away, making it obvious that he regrets the small act of even so much as touching me. But his words are still calming and they relax me a little. "He's gone now, Katniss. And if he scares you, I won't let him come back, okay? There's nothing anyone can do to you or me anymore. We're safe."

I nod, knowing the words like the back of my hand at this point, as it's the same mantra we always repeat to each other, every time one of us begins to panic or flail. But still, I open my mouth to refuse his offer. I don't want Peeta to turn away any sort of business. Not with the unpredictability and uncertainty this new world still rests on. We never know if the bakery will sell anything tomorrow or if all sort of income will soon dry up.

And we're the lucky ones, financially speaking, who were rich before the war and allowed—in a generous declaration by President Paylor—to keep the entirety of our money after. I don't have to imagine the anxiety others in the country must be in, knowing the curse of poverty all too well. I wouldn't wish that feeling on anyone.

"I don't want you to turn away people," I say quietly. "Not on my account. You need business to keep this place afloat."

"I have plenty of money, Katniss," he reminds me, a little darker than I expect. "And I'd rather you feel safe than own a popular shop."

His words unexpectedly touch me, unexpectedly cut right down to the depth of my bones, exposing my soft underbelly. I'm about to do something stupid, like touch his hand, when Val makes his presence known again. "Your shop is already the most popular in the district," he points out, not even a little ashamed for having listened to our conversation. "And besides, why don't you just look at the guy's name? Maybe you can look him up, see if he's alright or not."

Peeta gets a glint in his eye. "That's a good idea, Val, thank you." As he moves towards the register to, I can only suppose, look for the man's receipt with his name and signature, he gestures to his school friend. "Katniss can get your order."

I shoot him a glare, only half kidding. I did come to help out, here and there, today but I did not intend to be an actual expected employee. For free, no less.

Instead of saying anything though, I just grab Val his three cinnamon rolls, his two snack cakes, four bagels, white chocolate donut and a loaf with raisins and cranberries.

Val, like Delly Cartwright, was always one of the few people in Twelve who had a few pounds to spare.

Peeta has a type of friend.

"Found it," Peeta now calls, bringing over a slip of paper to where I'm handing Val his three bags of treats. "His name was Rod Catamaran."

Me and Val, for the first time perhaps, exchange a look between us. "That's an odd name for Twelve."

"I've never even heard that name before."

"He may not even be from Twelve, guys," Peeta says.

I roll my eyes. "Because a bombed out district is really a tourist attraction."

"Hey, none of that," Thom calls as he walks through the front door of the bakery, with Kanon Bagley on his heels. "We've rebuilt this place beautifully and negativity is not appreciated here."

"Yeah, Katniss," Peeta chimes in, teasing me. I'm about to kick him in his only real leg, as we're the only two behind the counter and no one else will see, when Kanon speaks up.

"Can I buy a couple of pastries?"

"Of course," Peeta says kindly, walking around me to personally grab the two items Kanon requests.

Kanon is new to Twelve. One of the few new additions this place gained after all that went down. He's a large man in his early twenties, with dark skin and dark hair and eyes to match. But the only times I've ever interacted with him, he's quiet as a mouse, his eyes a little forlorn at all times and he offers more discounts then he should at the candy shop he recently opened next to the bakery.

He's from District Eleven originally and it takes no real critical thinking to realize he had a hard life, even before the war.

I'm far too familiar with the look of scars etched across the eyes. So is Peeta.

That's why, when Kanon looks down at the money in his hand and realizes he doesn't have enough to afford both pastries, Peeta immediately brushes it off. "That's okay, they're on the house," he instantly promises, handing the small bag over to Kanon with a gentle smile.

"No, I don't want to take it without-"

"I made way too much," Peeta insists, lying outright to make it appear Kanon would be doing him a favor. I know he didn't make too much, because we've been flying through everything today and keeping the ovens hot in case more is needed.

Still though, I back up the fib. "He did. We've been wondering all day how we were gonna sell enough stuff so we don't have to feed the leftovers to Haymitch's geese."

Kanon glances between us shyly, before taking the bag from Peeta's hand and slipping the few dollars he does have into his pocket again. "Thank you," he says softly and turns to leave.

Thom pats Kanon on the back as he passes him, before turning to follow. When the other man isn't looking, he turns back to us subtly and mouths, "thank you."

I wanted to tell him not to thank me. I only watched Peeta make this food, I didn't assist by any stretch of the imagination. I didn't own the bakery or do anything with the money or finances. It was not my choice to give things away for free.

But I'm far too focused on the boy in front of me to say any of that. The boy with the bread, the boy who isn't really a boy anymore. The boy who just gave away food for no reward at all, even on the most demanding and strenuous day all year for his business. The boy who just showed Kanon Bagley the same kindness I begged someone-anyone-to show me at eleven-years-old and not one single person did.

Except for him. He did for me all those years ago what he did for Kanon just now, and I suddenly have the most inexplicable, irrepressible urge to kiss Peeta right then and there, in the middle of the bakery.

I don't, however, and it's for once not because I lost my courage. It's because the door swings open again, just as Val exits right behind Kanon and Thom.

It's the same man from earlier. "Hi," Peeta greets, this time not at all sweet. Clearly recognizing the man as the one who made me nervous before. "Can I help you?"

"Yes," the man affirms, his tone brighter than you'd expect given our chilly reception. And our blatant wariness for anyone new. "I forgot to get a pecan butter cake before?"

There is a beat where me and Peeta exchange a look, before I awkwardly move towards the display case and begin to pack up his item. Peeta waits for me to decide to help the man before starting to ring him up.

"That was a nice thing you both just did," the man says as he patiently watches me fold the white waxy paper over his pastry. "For that guy."

"You were watching?" Is the only thing that comes out of my mouth.

"Only for a moment," he explains, his tone still friendly. Either he doesn't know how to read people at all or he's the most even keeled person in Panem.

Because I know I'm being rude, to a man who maybe doesn't even deserve it, I force myself to say one thing conversational. "This is my mom's favorite dessert," I offer, gesturing to his cake.

The man raises his eyebrows in an act that looks almost feigned. "Really?"

I instantly regret trying to be even slightly pleasant. Even his mannerisms seem fake. I'm contemplating if I should say anything else or go hide in the back room with the warm ovens and my portrait, when Peeta presses a button and the register dings.

He's about to say the total when the strange man shakes his head and hands to me directly an unfamiliar bill over the display case. "Have a nice day, you two," he calls, grabbing his cake and swiftly walking out.

It's not until he's gone, not until I have a moment to process the second weird encounter with the odd person, that I even glance down at the crisp bill he handed me.

It's a bill with a larger number on the back than I've ever personally seen before. I knew these kinds of dollars existed—I'm sure I could have gotten plenty after my first games—but I'd never seen one in the flesh.

Peeta sees my reaction. "What is it?" His voice sounds alarmed and he's stepping closer to me, but all I can do is gasp out his name.

"Peeta, look." I hold up the bill and point to the number on the back.

His eyes widen too, taking in the amount with a dizzy smile. Of both relief that nothing's wrong and excitement at the digit.

"Do you think it was a mistake?" I ask suddenly, looking over my shoulder towards the window, wondering if we should track the man down and give him his money back, before he evaporates into thin air.

"No?" Peeta shakes his head, the wheels in his mind turning quicker than mine. His face turns to that of elation, as the large bill takes some pressure off the bakery's sales. "No, he said he saw us give Kanon a break. He was giving us something in return."

I'm about to say something else, I don't even know what, but it all flies out of my head when Peeta suddenly wraps his arms around my waist and swiftly pulls me into his embrace.

My entire body goes into lockdown and hypervigilance at the same time. I can't move an inch but it feels like every nerve in my body is abruptly tingling and on fire.

My sweater lifts up slightly and his bare arms graze my lower back, eliciting a shiver to run involuntarily down my spine as his face buries into my hair.

I wrap my arms around his neck after a beat when I can make myself move again, and I feel him smile against my skin. I'm so glad at that moment he's holding me up, because if he wasn't supporting my weight I'd probably crash to the floor, unable to even feel my legs beneath me.

And, as a rush of heat shoots out from the place where Peeta's lips brush my collarbone, I suddenly feel only gratitude, not irritation, at the strange Rod Catamaran.

//

Four days later.

The world surrounding me is green. Green and brown and fire-bitten and scorched. Every which way I spin, there's embers soaring from that direction too, waiting to lick me with their burning flames, ready to decimate me once and for all.

But through the smoke and haze, I still can see between the trees two blonde braids. I still can see a small figure standing on the other side of the fire. I still can see her shirt that's come untucked in the back, creating a duck tail that I desperately want to fix.

Just as I notice her, she whirls around to face me, her blue eyes big and bright and terrified. "Katniss!" She screams, the same way she did the last day she was alive. "Katniss, help! They're coming!"

I don't know who's coming or what's happening or where we even are, but all I feel is relief somehow. Relief that she's here, that I'm in her presence again, that she's almost within my reach. Instinctively I call out, "Prim!" Just so I can finally get a response to the name I've been shouting into oblivion for almost a year now.

"Katniss, help me!" She cries again and then looks over her shoulder. She's not talking about the fire between us, as it doesn't seem too intent on heading towards her.

I don't know what's coming or who she's afraid of, but my instincts now go into overdrive. My body suddenly snaps into alert and I whip my head around, to see if I can find an opening in the fire closing in on me, if I can find a way to get to the sister I lost what feels like only yesterday, if I can find a way to save her this time.

There's no gap in the fire though. It's crowded around me, front, back and side to side. The more seconds that pass by, the closer the fire folds into my proximity, and I have to brace myself before making a split-second decision.

But it's not really a decision at all. Prim needs me and I cannot fail her. I have to save her this time.

I take a bold step directly into the fire, with every intention of running through it somehow. Of running past the wild embers, scorching myself no doubt, but still making it over to my distressed, frightened little sister. But it doesn't work like I expect.

But really, does anything?

These flames are nothing like the fires I've encountered before. And I've been around more fire in my life than anyone ever should.

No, these flames don't burn me. They don't hurt me or put me through agony or singe me to pieces. They don't melt off my makeshift coat of skin and they don't further decimate it either.

Instead the fire feels like almost nothing. Like something almost itchy, something almost irritating, something almost painful. Something that make me want to squirm and scream and escape all at the same time.

Which is real ironic considering what else it seems these flames do.

They seem to hold me into place. The second I'm in their hold, instead of the horrific pain I thought I'd be in, I'm trapped in a series of almost nothing.

I'm not in excruciating pain physically, but seeing my sister standing ten feet from me, and not being able to move any closer, not being able to protect her from whatever she's terrified of, is worse than any amount of injury this fire could have inflicted.

"Katniss!" Prim screams now, her voice only growing in its frantic nature. "Help! Why won't you come help me?"

I try to scream, try to tell her I want to but I can't move. But it turns out that these flames also paralyze vocal muscles.

"Peeta's dying!" Prim yelps out, looking behind her again, her hands beginning to shake in a way she almost never let them in life. She always tried to keep it together, to remain calm and rational in a crisis.

Her words elicit something entirely new inside of me though. "Peeta?" I yell in confusion, my voice suddenly no longer paralyzed.

"They're killing him! Katniss, please, why won't you come here? We need you!" Prim is close to hysterical now and frankly, so am I.

"I'm trying! I just," I move my hands down my body, trying to push the flames away as they rises up to my chest, trying to just break free from these fiery chains once and for all. "The fire, Prim! I can't get out of the fire."

Prim's voice drops then, loses all source of fear, every ounce of panic. Loses any semblance of emotion. "Katniss, there is no fire," she states blankly, her eyes looking directly at the embers covering my stomach and legs. "There's nothing there."

I just look at her for a moment, completely speechless. Her words are inconceivable, her eyes are haunted now, her facial expression is unrecognizable. Even her voice doesn't sound like hers anymore.

Before I can comprehend what's happening, in the distance a gunshot goes off.

Prim delicately glances over her shoulder now, her blue eyes cold as ice. "He's dead," she informs clinically, before sighing deeply, her tone almost disappointed. "And so am I."

I don't know what happens next or how it occurs, but I fly upwards in my bed with such a start, I give myself whiplash.

I hear a loud screeching noise hanging in the air, a hoarse trepidation that almost makes me feel better. I don't know why but someone else screaming in the middle of the night gives me hope, as sick as that may be.

Only it's not someone else, I realize, as my throat burns raw. I realize with startling clarity that I'm the only making all the noise. I'm the one shaking so tremendously. I'm the one who is sobbing.

"Shhh," a voice whispers against the darkness, and I flail involuntarily at the shock. "Sorry, sorry," Peeta instantly apologizes, his hands gripping my arms with a little too much intensity, trying to still my shaking. "It's okay, Katniss, you were just having a nightmare."

His words do precious little to calm me down though. "She was there," I cry, the image, the feeling, of Prim standing only ten feet from me and not being able to reach her too painful for me to unsee.

"Who was there?" He asks tenderly, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. "Katniss, breathe."

I don't even bother listening to his advise. I haven't exhaled since I was eleven. "Prim was there. She was begging me to save her and then I couldn't, I was trapped but-but," I cut myself off, unable to form coherent words and thoughts any longer.

Peeta gets the gist though. "Come here," he whispers and pulls me into his arms, like he used to on the train, when my nightmares woke us both three times a night. "I'm so sorry, Katniss," he says softly now, and rubs my back in a way that elicits goosebumps. His way of trying to soothe my shaking. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"You died too," I blurt out then. I don't even know why I feel inclined to tell him.

"What?"

"I was stuck and I couldn't speak and then Prim said you were going to die and I got scared enough that I could talk again and I thought-I thought," I stumble breathlessly, my tears pouring out against his shoulder now.

I feel his lips touch my cheek and I'm too upset to revel in the feeling of blood rushing there. "It was just a nightmare," he promises.

But my sentiment is unfinished. "I thought I could break free, that I could-"

"Katniss," he halts, still holding me in his embrace, rocking me slightly. "It wasn't real. I promise you, it wasn't real."

Those words, the words so often said to him by me, ring a bell that I didn't want to ring. It snaps me back into reality abruptly and without warning, I feel like my chest is going to collapse.

Because this means Prim wasn't really there, that she still is as dead as she was yesterday, that I still watched her explode into pieces all over the bombsite in the Capitol.

I still failed to protect her.

Peeta pulls back slightly then and rests his forehead against mine. "It's okay, Katniss," he says again, trying to calm my trembles by rubbing my arms up and down.

"How are you in my house?" I realize, with an intense sudden clarity. "How are you here? Are you real or am I still-"

He quickly puts me out of my misery. "You gave me a key, remember? A long time ago? We gave each other keys to our houses."

Oh. Right. I forgot all about that when he had his nightmare, didn't I?

Good thing he's an idiot who keeps his door unlocked at night.

He's explaining further before I can think to ask. "I heard you having a nightmare from my house. That's why I rushed over here."

I'm caught between embarrassment and gratitude. "Sorry, I really don't know what brought it on."

"Hey," he quietly reprimands, lifting my chin now to meet eye contact. "Don't apologize. No one understands nightmares like me."

I nod, accepting his words, though still a little uncomfortable with screaming for all the district to hear at two in the morning.

Then again, our entire neighborhood is Haymitch and the two of us, and our mentor was drinking like a fish last night so really, the only person who could have heard me is already sitting directly in my eye line.

To punctuate his words, when I don't respond verbally, he lifts my hand up and brings it to his lips tenderly.

And I don't know what comes over me or why. I don't know if it's because we've been growing closer again lately or if I just haven't felt his arms around me since days ago in the bakery and I miss the feel of it desperately, but I find myself abruptly throwing my body around his before I can talk myself out of it.

He catches me easily, like he anticipated my reaction and sways me for a long moment, until my breathing begins to even itself out.

"Will you stay?" I rasp into his neck, as I feel his hand tangles in my matted locks.

"Always."

[nickblaine]

season 3 script summaries (nick)

first of all - special thanks to reddit user cablab123 and @dystopiandramaqueen​​ for making phonecalls to the writer’s guild that resulted in them getting the season 3 scripts from the studios this soon 💖 we have these because of you!

just to clarify, these notes are about nick scenes only. am i biased? yes. will i go back and read the rest? i don’t know. i didn’t like this season, so i don’t have much energy for it. but i did read the other cut scenes which i will summarize in another post later. this one is about nick.

reminder that anything i put in quotes is direct phrasing from the scripts. however there are copyright laws in place, which is why i can't provide copies or photos. edited to add: because i’ve seen some doubts about my authenticity, click here for proof.

i do accept questions, but i will only respond if i have an answer. i may come back and respond eventually if i find the answer on a future library trip.

possible spoiler warning: there are 2 cut scenes in here which may or may not be considered spoilery if they use them in season 4. the cut scene from 3x12 in particular could be a big indicator of what’s to come next season.

finally - please do not share this post without my permission, and thank you in advance for respecting my wishes.

3x01

nick has fred trapped in the room. after serena says, “we should give her more time to get away,” and leaves, fred turns to nick and accuses him of having so little respect for their family that he would involve them in his crimes. nick straight up tells fred, “I did it for her. For June.” it says fred knew this but hearing it shakes him up. this is the catalyst for their open disdain for each other from now on.  

there was more to nick & june’s argument that we didn’t see, which showed june regretting staying in gilead. after she says “don’t you think i know that?” she breaks down and admits: “I fucked up. I fucked it all up. I should’ve gone. I’m a fucking idiot. But I couldn’t leave her here, I couldn’t leave her behind.” nick feels deep sympathy for her after this confession, and they let go of their anger and share an embrace. i’m real mad this got cut, it showed a lot of june’s vulnerable side.  

after the house fire, nick is leaving and: “June searches for something to say. Goodbye? I’m sorry?” but she can’t because they’re in public. originally he said “Take care” and she settled on “Bless you.” (personally, i think i like the onscreen version better.)

3x03

there was lots of nick “finding this exchange excruciating” during the commander meeting at the lawrence house. he just wanted to help june the whole time joseph is tormenting her. they are “desperate to communicate” throughout this scene. also, joseph was carefully observing nick, june and fred the whole time. they never explain why, but june seems to think he’s just amused by it all.  

when nick came back to visit that night, he and beth share a sweet moment at the back door. nick asks her if she’s okay. beth tells him she’s scared shitless. he comforts her with a hug, during which she jokes, “You look ridiculous in that get-up,” and nick says, “I know.” (i love beth and nick’s friendship... i wish they didn’t throw away the opportunity to show it this season.)  

when nick goes upstairs, his and june’s conversation was written to be a lot less cold than it is in the final cut. june immediately goes to nick for comfort when he comes to her room. “She needs him desperately. She needs his help.” but the news of his deployment shakes her. they are both described as infuriated by their situation, and “drowning in their own futility.” when june opens the door and invites nick back in, they share a kiss and “wrap themselves around each other. For the last time.” 😭 then june closes* and locks the door (to juxtapose her old bedroom with the door that never locked.)   *still disappointed by that closed door? see here!  

3x05

in luke’s tape, june is scripted to say, “You met him. He helped me to survive. I was in love with him." the description of luke’s emotions here say he feels stunned as well as “relief that Nichole isn’t the product of rape... and yet, June found love. She moved on.”  

3x06

when nick and june reunite in DC... nick was spicy during that prayer scene 🔥 june could feel him trying not to look at her. and this line killed me: “His fingers trail, just barely, over June’s hip. Across her bare fingers. On June, feeling his hand.”  

nick and june’s kiss in the snow did not have much description. just lots of natural chemistry on max and lizzie’s part. also, they were supposed to share one more kiss after nick agreed to meet with the swiss. speaking of...  

NICK. MET. WITH. THE. SWISS. people can stop claiming he ditched his daughter now. the script makes it clear. nick walks into the room with mattias and meets lena and sofia before the scene cuts. we don’t get to see what they talk about, but he tried to do the right thing for holly per june’s wishes, against his better judgement.  

no further explanation for why the swiss don’t want to work with nick. when lena tells june she can’t work with nick, all it says is that june’s “association with Nick has left her somehow tainted.”  

june feels “betrayed” by learning that nick was a soldier in the crusade, and continues to throughout the season. though the script never explains why she feels so betrayed by something that she has done herself (killing innocent people under orders) or why she is so quick to believe serena joy when she is familiar with her manipulation. her thoughts in that scene are described as she is “absorbing the fact that Nick was a terrorist.” take that as you will. however, the following scenes clarify exactly what he did...

THE TRAIN SCENE: there’s a very important line describing how nick really feels about being a commander: “The troops salute him. Nick returns the salute, hating all the choices that led him here.”  

immediately following that line is a cut NICK FLASHBACK! here’s the summary: nick was in DC during the coup. he was on guard duty. yep, big bad terrorist war criminal nick blaine was a glorified security guard. in this scene, nick and a young soldier named trevor are guarding an empty basement stairwell in the capitol building during the coup. trevor is complaining that they are “mall cops” while “everyone gets to actually do something,” meanwhile nick is described as “looking sick.” then there is an explosion in the stairwell, followed by a brief shootout where trevor is killed. nick shoots back “out of instinct” and it’s revealed he’s killed a capitol security guard and a bureaucrat.

immediately after the flashback is the cut shot of nick (above) looking sadly out the window, remembering those choices that led him here.  

it’s worth noting that the flashback scene contrasts starkly with serena’s words just prior, which were scripted as: “He served Gilead. He believed in something greater than himself. He was a soldier in the crusade. We wouldn’t be here without him.” so it seems pretty clear they are setting this up to be misjudgment on june’s part.  

the shot of nick looking sadly out the window was supposed to be followed by a parallel shot of june looking sadly out the window of the winslow house, reflecting on her meeting with nick the night before. 😢  

3x10

just wanted to note here that despite june feeling “betrayed” by nick since 3x06, when fred suggests transferring her to DC she actually considers it could be a good idea because she would be “closer to Nichole. And maybe even Nick.” so he is not absent from her thoughts.  

3x12

warning: the following scene may be spoilery for season 4??

thank god, we were right about a cut scene in this episode. there was exactly one (1) nick in chicago scene, and it took place immediately after luke punches fred. and just like max said, it confirms nick has been one step ahead all along.

in this scene, nick is observing the war in chicago and talking with his “lead commander” (pictured in the promo still above.) the lead commander tells him that they are being transferred to lake huron to put pressure on toronto in lieu of waterford’s capture and winslow going missing.

nick - hiding his shock at this news - carefully presses for more info. the lead commander doesn’t have anymore to say about waterford, but he laments the fact that this means he’s not going to get his weekend leave and that his daughter will be disappointed. his daughter’s name? agnes. that’s right, the big reveal of this scene is that nick is now working directly under commander mackenzie, and it is no coincidence. the scene ends on nick, “watching [mackenzie] walk away, wheels already turning.”

guys... this means NICK IS GOING AFTER HANNAH!

this must be what max was referring to when he said that everyone is in an interesting position for season 4 in this interview. so much for him being irrelevant to june’s story just because he’s a dude, i guess. 🤷‍♀️

there was also a whole bombing action sequence in this scene including fighter jets, it sounded very extra and VFX-intensive. nick and commander mackenzie are watching it all go down from a distance while they talk.

i can’t say for sure why these scenes were cut, but the producers served up 3 different sets of excuses, some of which don’t line up with what was written (e.g. “strictly june’s perspective” ...sure 🙄) so it’s safe to say that whatever led to them cutting these scenes out, we will probably never know for sure. but i do know they were filmed and the decision was made post-production, we have evidence of that.  

additional observations:

there is still no real explanation for why or how nick got promoted to commander, and i don’t think they ever will. it appears to me that it was just another contrived plot point so they have a reason to send a low-status driver into war.  

while i am glad they softened the extent of nick’s involvement in the coup, it also makes it harder to understand why he said he was “due” a promotion to commander when his contributions to gilead are so relatively insignificant. again, we may never know.  

there were several cut voiceovers of june praying to god throughout the season, and despite calling holly mainly by “nichole” in dialogue, she only referred to her as holly in her prayers. so her real name is still holly. i will die on this hill.  

commander mackenzie mentions to nick that the move has been hard on hannah but the script does not clarify where they have moved to. hannah and mrs. mackenzie are presumably far from the great lakes region because nick’s response is, “May God bring you home to her soon.”  

can we talk about how nick has an active plan for hannah? and how he never gave up on his promise from 2x03? and that while june has lost all hope of seeing her daughter again, she has no idea how close nick is? and that this is sounding a lot like one of my fics? hire me already bruce. these are things i think about A Lot  

lake huron means nick is going back home to MICHIGAN so rebel commander blaine is back on the menu boys  

nick in the script is - as always - a bit more rough and forward than what we see onscreen. max has a talent for softening nick’s interactions with june and showing respect with his body language, while maintaining the intensity between them. i also cannot praise enough how much he makes out of little to no script direction and minimal dialogue.  

that sweet, sweet vindication of confirming yet again that nick is worth a lot more than viewers (and june) give him credit for. i only hope his value in this story isn’t realized too late.  

(gif credit: @splitscreen​, @outlassed​ & me)

[lemonyellowlogic]

the harder the rain, the sweeter the sun: chapter eight

-o-

first

previous

-o-

chapter eight: the conversation

After dinner that night, the four Alimagians and Roman relaxed in the living room, Emile cuddled up to Remy’s side on the couch (where Roman slept) as the three teenagers sat around. 

Emile was asleep, his wings puffed out around himself and Remy as Remy ran their hands through their soft feathers. Virgil lay curled up in a little ball on his favorite love seat, dozing as Roman read a book on the floor, leaning back onto Virgil’s feet. Diego just stared at Roman, eyes narrowed but his teeth gnawing on his lip.

Roman sighed, looking up at the merperson who startled as he realized Roman knew he had been staring at him.

“Look,” Roman said quietly as to not disturb the others slumber, “I don’t know if I have personally done something wrong to offend you, but if I have, I am truly sorry. And I’m sorry about the river this afternoon, it was an accident, but,” Roman looked him in the eyes, “I literally have no clue what I could've done directly to you to cause this anger and hatred. Please, for the love of anything, can we at least try to put away this...rivalry until I leave, because I won’t be here forever.”

Diego looked at him in silence, an eyebrow quirking, “Why aren’t you planning on staying?”

Roman’s heart started beating faster at the sound of Diego’s voice and the fact that the merperson was actually speaking to him, and he quietly said, “Well, no matter how my family feels about it, I need to return home eventually.”

“Your family?”

Roman sighed, “I’m not comfortable going into detail about it with you, since you’ve obviously shown you hate me throughout this past week.”

The room grew quiet after Roman said that, enough time for Roman to open back up his book of Alimagian folk tales and begin reading it again when Diego spoke again, causing Roman to drop the book, “I don’t hate you.”

The clatter of the book had Emile groaning, digging his face deeper into Remy’s shoulder. Roman winced, “Apologies. But, what do you mean that you don’t hate me?”

“I mean that I don’t hate you,” The scaled boy stared at his feet, his arms crossed across his chest, “You haven’t done anything to me, but I still have...resentment towards humans. It’s nothing to do with you as a person, just your race.”

Roman’s eyebrows shot up, but fell again as he thought deeper. What happened to Diego to cause this sort of...resentment?

“Care to explain further?”

“I...hmm.” Diego hummed, thinking about it, but flinching as Virgil snored loudly.

“Fine.” Diego whispered, looking at his sleeping family, “I’ll tell you, but come with me. I don’t want them to wake up.”

Diego stood up and Roman followed, leaving his book on the floor next to Virgil and following Diego into his room. Diego sat on his bed, cross-legged while Roman awkwardly stood in the middle of the room, arms clasped behind his back. 

The room was extremely clean, with mustard walls. It was small, with his bed in the corner of the room and a desk next to it, but it was cozy, the lantern next to his bed coloring the room a soft gold.

Diego sighed, patting the bed next to him and scooting over so Roman could sit down, which he did.

Diego lay back his arms behind his head, and he sighed, “I've been thinking about this for a while. Well, the past week. I know you as a person have nothing to do with the royal family or their views,” Roman winced, “But just seeing a human...just...scares me.”

Roman’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, “I scare you?”

“Of course you do. You’re a built human who could break me in half and can run back to your village and accuse all of us of kidnapping and have us literally executed.”

“I’d never-”

“I know, I can tell. But I’m still nervous. I can see that Emile and Virgil like you, and you’re starting to grow on Remy, and that makes me mad. Emile and Remy have never been in a situation where their lives were in danger by a human, Emile having grown up in one of those avian villages in the mountains and Remy in a village full of mages and being able to pass as a human, but Virgil has. And that just...hurt me, to see my closest friend turn on me and defend someone who could kill us all? I lashed out, and I shouldn't've.”

Roman looked at the boy, who stared up at the ceiling, not looking at Roman but his face red.

“It’s...okay. If I was in your situation, I’d be upset too. But,” Roman bit at his lip, ”Why are you telling me all of this?”

Diego sighed, sitting up and looking at Roman, “Because Virgil told me I should try to talk to you and I trust him.”

Roman smiled, thinking of the sleeping boy in the other room, the thought of him making Roman’s cheeks start to involuntarily burn. He  shook his head, looking back to Diego with a grin, “You two fight often?”

Diego grinned back, golden eyes shining in the candlelight, “Very, Remy and Emile have to separate us almost every week, but we don’t care. We’re...close, but not too close that I can’t just punch him when I know he’s being an idiot, and for him to do the same.”

Roman nodded, the room falling into comfortable silence as Roman laid back next to the merperson. They breathed together, the room quiet, punctuated only by Virgil snores from the other room.

“Why do you hate the royal family so much?”

Diego flinched, rolling over to look at Roman, who looked back at him, purposeful malice not in his eyes. Diego sighed, sitting up, “Guess.”

Roman’s brow furrowed with slight annoyance but he held it in, “I don’t know, Diego.”

Diego smiled a little smile, empty of humor and anything normally found in a grin, “They’re murderers. They killed my father.”

Roman choked on his own spit, shooting up, “What?”

Diego sighed, his painful smile fading. He bit his lip, running his hand through his curly hair and breaking the curls, turning the section he touched into a frizzy mess, but he didn't seem to care,”I never met him, it was before I was born.”

He looked back at Roman, who nodded for him to continue, eyes wide.

Diego sighed again, staring at his legs and fidgeting with his hands, “My mother was a human, my father a merperson. They fell in love and whatever, and my mother got pregnant with me. She told her best friend, who didn’t keep her damn mouth shut,” He hissed out, but then took a breath and continued quieter, “News of a merperson ‘invading’ a human village spread to our guards, who spread it to the capitol and then to King Augustus.” 

Roman flinched at his father’s name, asking quietly, “What did he do?” 

Diego tensed, “He had our towns guards take him and execute him in our village square to make an example of him, to show Alimagians to never try to cross over again.”

The room was quiet and Roman sighed, his heart heavy with guilt even though he was only an infant when it happened, “Goodness, D-”

“My mother then had me, and she celebrated that I looked human,” Diego cut Roman off, his words coming out harsher and quicker, “She tried scaring me to never try shifting, even though I could, because she was too scared of me dying, but she just made me hate myself.

“Then, when I was ten, she died. It was a sickness of sorts she couldn’t get over, and I went to an orphanage, because everyone thought I was an evil child. They’d heard rumors of my father, and decided I had to be evil because of him.

“It was lonely, but I met another merperson whose family was traveling through the river next to us. I had to swim miles to see him each day, but it was worth it. But then, his pod had to keep going, and I’ve never seen him again.”

Roman hummed, and Diego continued talking, laying back down, “I didn’t used to have these scales on my face, but they're just a thing for merpeople. You can have them anywhere, and I have some also going down my sides and arms. When they came in, they were easier to hide, but the ones on my face weren’t.

“I was around thirteen, and everytime one popped up on my face, I’d pull it out, terrified that the other children would see them. But then, one day a kid walked into the bathroom as I did it and he saw my scales.”

Diego took a breath, tears popping into his eyes, “He screamed in horror, and ran. I panicked, grabbing all of my things, shoving them into a bag, and running away.”

The room was silent, Diego’s wobbly voice whispering, “I didn’t want to be murdered, and so I swam up the river, past the border and into Alimagan. I lived by myself for a few months, surviving on fish and stealing from villages, until Emile and Remy found me. They thought I was a drowned kid in a river before I woke up, and they took me in, letting me travel with them.

“Eventually, we found Virgil, and they decided we should settle down, and so we four built this cottage together, and we’ve been living here for three years now.”

Diego wiped his eyes, and looked at Roman, his eyes red and his cheeks burning with vulnerability, “That’s why I hate humans. I was raised as one, but I shouldn’t’ve. If the king had never murdered my father, I would've been able to learn how to be a merperson, but I lost that chance. They tore it away from me, and the only things I know are what I taught myself and what Patton helped me learn.”

Roman stared at Diego, his eyes burning as well. Diego let out a gasp of surprise as Roman threw himself at him, wrapping his arms around the merperson and holding him tightly. Diego froze for a moment, before wrapping his arms around the human, burying his face in his shoulder as little sobs escaped his mouth.

“I’m sorry, Diego. I’m so sorry for what he did. But I promise you, I promise that I will never hurt you. Even after I leave, I will never tell anyone what happened, and I will never tell anyone your story, I promise.”

Diego nodded into Roman’s shoulder, and they sat there holding each other until Diego passed out. Roman didn’t know what to do afterwards, with his arms full of emotionally and literally tired merperson, and so he shrugged, laying down with Diego in his arms and falling asleep. Remy and Emile were already in his bed anyways.

-o-

next

masterpost

[msjr0119]

Hold On

Epilogue

Nobody got injured at the Homecoming ball, they all get separated into different safe houses- for safety.

Riley and Drake had confirmed that they had feelings for each other, however Drake believed Riley should be with Liam. Heartbroken, she moves back to New York. Only keeping in touch with Hana, Maxwell and Olivia.

Riley meets lawyer, Nate Cooper and begins a relationship with him. In Cordonia, Drake begins to court Kiara.

Nine months after Riley had left Cordonia- there is a reunion, but not the reunion the friends had hoped for.

*Characters belong to Pixelberry*

If you are under 18 please do not read this series. If you do, you are consenting that you are over the age.

Series warnings: Suicide, domestic abuse, swearing, stabbing, smut 🍋. If any of these triggers affect you do not read!

Tags- @annekebbphotography @burnsoslow @drakesensworld @ladyangel70 @kingliam2019 @bbrandy2002 @butindeed @bascmve01 @drakewalker04 @pedudley @captain-kingliamsqueen @duchessemersynwalker @insideamirage @of-course-i-went-to-hartfeld @kozabaji @texaskitten30 @ibldw-main @kimmiedoo5 @nikkis1983 @dangerouseggseagleartisan @gnatbrain @walker7519 @lodberg @cmestrella @hopefulmoonobject @addictedtodrakefanfic @angi15h @liamxs-world @rafasgirl23415 @notoriouscs

I am so sorry it’s taken me forever to post this- I kind of got distracted 😜... For a Drake Stan, I hope the Liam stans can reassure me that I’ve done this series justice. Originally it was going to be a Driley series but somehow just swayed to Riam instead 🤣... It’s short but simple 😊Thank you to everyone who has read the series 😘

******

Ayah Rhys- our little miracle, she is beautiful, the true definition of Princess.

Liam has fallen asleep on the chair cradling her- he is such a doting father already. I know our country is eager to meet her, but we need this time to adjust to our new little family. I never thought I’d get a second chance at happiness, I suppose what they say is accurate ‘things come to those who wait.’ I’m so glad that I survived my suicide attempt- grateful for those people who saved me. Grateful for everything Leo and my friends have done me. Grateful that Liam could learn to love me again. He is not only a king, he is; my husband, the father to our daughter, but he is also my saviour. My family is complete, ‘hold on’- I did that and I have found my fairytale ending.

Taking the opportunity to have a shower, before the princess needed feeding- Riley looked at her body. The stretch marks appearing in front of her- wondering if they would disappear. Wondering if Liam would still find her attractive if not. If not they were a permanent positive scar- a scar that brought their baby into the world. A scar full of love. Returning to the room, she saw Liam place Ayah gently, in the cot.

“You look refreshed. And beautiful my Queen.” Placing a passionate kiss on her lips, he still couldn’t believe that he had a family- one that he had always wished for.

“Are you ready for the stampede to enter the room? Maxwell keeps texting me, eager to meet her. Get it over and done with then we can enjoy our babymoon?” Liam laughed, he wanted to keep his daughter all to himself and Riley- but as she said the sooner they all meet her the quicker they would leave- or so he thought.

“Ayah, my mini blossom. Uncle max loves you already my little doll.”

“Max stop suffocating her!” Panic ran through the new moms veins.

“Sorry blossom, but she is just so adorable. I can’t stop kissing her. She’s going to break some hearts.” The proud uncle stared at her, she had hold of his finger- which filled his heart with joy.

“Beaumont pass her here.”

“Liv? Are you feeling okay? You want a hold of a baby?” Riley said sarcastically, Duchess Olivia wasn’t the type to be maternal, so for her to ask to hold the baby shocked everyone.

“Riley, I will hold her at a distance then pass her over to someone else.” As Olivia held her, the group noticed a small smile creep on her face.

“Is that a smile I see?”

“No Hana! I’m a Nevrakis we don’t smile.”

Riley and Liam looked at each other, laughing- she was in denial. A while later, Drake was holding Ayah- Liam knew it would be tough on him after what had happened. He encouraged Riley to talk to him.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, she’s beautiful Ri. Congratulations.”

“She’s going to love her Uncle Drake and Aunt Hana.”

“Do you ever wonder what our child would have looked like? I love Hana, but that thought still ponders.”

“I think about it every day. I’ll never forget about him or her. I’ll always love you Drake.”

“I’ll always love you too. But we would have never worked would we?” He winked at her.

“No, you’re too grumpy.” She nudged his shoulder. “And you’re too bossy- Queen bossypants.”

“Why isn’t Hana drinking the alcohol that Max has snuck in by the way? Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

“We didn’t want to rain on your parade. But yes, myself and Hana are expecting a child.”

“I’m so happy for you both.” They both hugged each other, happy that they had both been able to move on and start new chapters in their lives.

*****

It had been a month since Riley had given birth. Today was the day for the big Cathedral wedding. The day that the whole of Cordonia had been waiting for. With the help from Maxwell, Riley had been exercising and doing yoga- she soon lost the excess baby fat. Ana De Luca had sent her a designer wedding dress from her collection and was grateful that the Queen had accepted the gift.

Walking down the aisle with Bertrand and Maxwell again, they gave her away to her husband.

“It’s not every day you get to marry the love of your life again.” Liam held her tight, baby blues focusing on each other- both sparkling.

“I could say the same. But this time we have Ayah celebrating with us.”

“By the power vested in me by the kingdom of Cordonia, I now pronounce you Husband and Wife again. The King and Queen Of Cordonia. May this blessed union be sealed with a kiss.”

Liam cupped Riley’s cheeks, placing a soft kiss on her lips- hearing the cheers and euphoric atmosphere encouraged Liam to deepen it into a more passionate kiss, as he did on their first wedding. It was deja vu. Exiting the cathedral, the three of them spent some time, talking to the people of Cordonia who all congratulated them. The country as a whole were thrilled to finally meet their King, Queen and Princess as a family.

*****

Six months since the cathedral wedding, Riley and Liam settled into parent hood - Riley was still on maternity leave, but had a duty to complete today. Settling into being Queen, she had impressed everyone - especially Liam who was in awe of his wife.

“Are you ready? Hana and Drake have collected Ayah.”

Looking at herself in the mirror, she took a deep breath. Straightening out her clothes she was ready to do her first individual speech to her country.

“As long as I have your love, and your support I’ll always be ready.”

Walking outside the palace, they entered the SUV which escorted them to the capitol. There was a podium outside the building which Riley was officially opening. Nerves started to kick in, but she knew what she was doing would help many people.

“Good morning, I am thrilled to see so many of you have attended. Before I was Queen, I was just a New York waitress known as Riley Brooks. During my time in Cordonia I fell in love with the country immediately and I am so proud of everyone here, how we all unite to make it a better country. I am here today to tell you a story about how I overcame fear I once contained before realising how much love and support I had.” Looking at Liam and her friends for reassurance, they all encouraged her to continue.

“I went through a hard time in my life, I believed I couldn’t live anymore. I believed I had no one supporting me. This is hard to admit and I hope that none of you will think badly of me. I went down a dark path in my life; full of sadness, regret, lack of hope. Many people would accuse me of attention seeking- but depression isn’t anything to be afraid of admitting. Nor do I want anyone to feel ashamed for having any kind of mental illness or ashamed for any abuse that they may be suffering from. These things are not a choice, and often they are treatable. We know that removing the stigma opens the doors to treatment as well as prevention. I look out at this crowd and I don’t see a bunch of numbers – I see a gathering of individuals who are willing to work together to ease the suffering of many – uniting together as I mentioned before. I thank you for your courage and your kindness. If anyone in my country feels that they need to talk or just gain some support, I am opening this building. I will often visit on a regular basis- providing my own insight and support for my people. In closing, I would like to offer you these words. May we all be happy. May we all know peace. May we all be free from suffering. Thank you for your time.” Cutting the ribbon, she was praised by everyone. Entering the building she mingled with people, whilst introducing her daughter.

Liam came behind her, placing his arms around her waist, and snuggling into her neck.

“I’m so proud of you.” He whispered, before taking Ayah into his own arms.

“I couldn’t have done it without you my king.”

“I love you, I always have and I always will.”

“And we all love you too.” Liam pulled her into his embrace whilst holding Ayah. Bending down to Riley’s stomach, both he and Ayah kissed her stomach. Last week they found out that they were unexpectedly expecting their second child.

My life is complete. I thought I’d lost you. Hold on, I kept thinking when you was in hospital. You held on, you survived. You came back into my life. You are my wife, my Queen, and my children’s mother. You are that woman who transformed my imperfections into perfections, just by the touch of your love. I don’t need the whole world to love me, as long as I have you, Ayah and bean I am a happy man - Who’s heart is filled with unconditional love.

[tristis-333]

Ideas for Shadows of the Phantom thieves

So I’ve been replaying Persona 5 A LOT in anticipation for Royal coming out next year. So I’ve been thinking a lot about what P5 would have been like if it had went the P4 route of having the main group going against their own personal shadows. I’ve seen a few ideas swimming around but I thought I’d share my own ideas on what the shadows of the P5 cast would have been like. Some of the themes they all have is that these shadows would be distortion forced on the cast by the world around them. They aren’t like P4 shadows where the cast has to learn to accept their shadows as a part of themselves but rather realize that the shadows isn’t their true self and that its just a distortion. They are also are all based around the seven deadly sins. It kind of bothers me that most of the palaces in p5 are just loosely based on the seven deadly sins. Really only Kamoshida, and shido fit their sins for me. Madarame is supposed to be vanity which isn’t even a capitol sin anymore and just redundant with pride. Kaneshiro is supposed to gluttony but with the bank theme he fits greed better. Likewise Okumura is supposed to be greed but he runs a food company so gluttony would have fit better. Sae isn’t so much envious of anyone as she is obsessed with winning. So I’ll be making each shadow more overtly themed around the sins.

The first palace would be Ryuji’s representing the sin of wrath. It would be a ship lost as sea in the middle of a storm, representing his electric element. His shadow in the captain of the ship, a blood thirsty pirate obsessed with pillaging and causing destruction. The shadow would have a peg leg representing Ryuji’s broken leg, and an eye patch with a skull and crossbones on it. As you go through the palace you’ll have to dodge cannon fire, and lightning strikes. The boss would be similar to an early concept of Captain Kidd, with the upper body trapped in a cage with a blade in its mouth. The peg leg has become a cannon and will fire at its ultimate attack. After the battle Ryuji confronts the shadow, saying even thought he acted in anger when he hit Kamoshida, he’s not the thug everyone has painted him to be. He might be mad, but he’ll aim that anger at the people who deserve it and not just thrash around hurting the people around him. Ryuji then rips the eyepatch off the shadow and the shadow becomes Captain Kidd and the eye patch becoming Ryuji’s mask.

 The next palace would be Ann’s representing the sin of lust. The palace is a brothel with Ann’s shadow as the Madam of the house. The shadow wears a low cut dress and a large leopard spotted furcoat with a cigarette holder, think Cruella De Vil. The shadow also wears a lace and silk mask. The shadow is very flirtatious and makes claims that her body “is yours to take”.  When you go through the palace you’ll meet the cognition of Shiho, who is the shadow’s “best girl”. The shadow throws Shiho to costumers of the brothel so she doesn’t have to get her hands dirty. The shadow accuses Ann of doing the same with the real Shiho, throwing her to Kamoshida so she wouldn’t have to “give up the goods”. The boss form would be of Carmen’s main body tied to the same post Kamoshida had Ann tied to. Roses and thorns cover her body like a revealing dress and she can summon “gentlemen” to assist her in battle. After she’s defeated Ann confronts the shadow and acknowledges that what happened to her and Shiho isn’t her fault. Her appearance is not an excuse for the way Kamoshida treated them, and she certainly didn’t abandon Shiho. Her body is hers and she’ll do with as she pleases. She rips the silk mask off the shadow, allowing the Shadow to become Carmen, and the silk mask turns into Ann’s.

 The next palace is Yusuke’s representing greed. His palace is a museum ,very similar to Madarame’s except where Madarame’s museum was flashy and gaudy Yusukes is broken down and filthy. The windows are broken and open to the cold so as you go through the palace you’ll have to be careful of being blown away but gust of wind and frozen from the cold. Yusuke’s shadow is a shogun like Madarame’s but his make up is run down by tears. The shadow is stuck in artist rut and spends its time trying to make art. It doesn’t do this for the sake of art, but it wants income. It is desperate to cover the windows and to block out the cold but any art it tries to produce is meaningless and poorly crafted. The boss form is the portrait of Yusuke Madarame had in his palace but Yusuke’s face is stuck in the face of The Scream by Edvarch Munch. Yusuke confronts the shadow and his fear that he’ll lose sight of why he became an artist. While he may struggle to support himself he will persevere and continue to pursue true beauty in his art. He wipes the make-up off the Shadow with his hand and the shadow becomes Goemon, and the make-up on his palm becomes his mask.

Next palace is Makoto’s representing Envy. Makoto palace is a train station with her as station master. She wears a uniform and pair of tinted glasses. Despite the title, Makoto’s shadow has no control over anything that happens in the station. The trains depart without her approval and she has no choice but to follow the predetermined schedule. She is envious of the thieves who are free to come and go as they please. She feels much like a train. Impressive in its own right, but stuck on a track she can never escape from. The boss form is that of demon train with Johana’s face enraged and blindfolded. Makoto faces the shadow and vows that she will no longer allow others to control the path of her life but will decide it for herself. She takes the glasses from the shadow and crushes them in her hands. The shadow becomes Johana and the broken glasses become Makoto’s mask.

Next is Futaba’s palace representing Sloth. This one remains relatively the same only Futaba’s shadow is much more hostile. Her design now has more bandages like a mummy with them covering her face leaving only her eyes exposed. The shadow is now the distortion of Futaba’s memories and fully believes she’s responsible for her mother’s death. She wishes to just lie down and rot away, to be left to die in her tomb. Instead of fighting Futaba’s cognition of her mother, you fight the shadow. It takes the form of a large sarcophagus with a gargoyle face, and tentacles trying to push themselves out from the edge. Futaba confronts her shadow after the battle and it plays out much the same as in the original. She unwraps the bandages from her shadow’s face and the shadow becomes Necronomicon and the bandages become Futaba’s mask.

Next is Haru’s palace representing gluttony. The palace is a wedding venue being held in a giant wedding cake. You’ll have to make your way up the stacks of the cake to face Haru’s shadow who is the bride at the top. Haru’s shadow wears a wedding dress with a veil covering her face. Haru’s shadow sees herself not as bride, but as a gift to the groom. She exists to be given away and she’s fine with that so long as she can indulge in the pleasures her life gives her, even if that pleasure comes at the expense of her father’s workers. The bride gorges on wedding cake and ignores the cries of the workers and guest who suffer at the hands of her father and betrothed. The boss form is giant empty wedding dress bound in ribbons and bows like a gift. Since the dress is empty, there is no head instead a large ribbon. When Haru confronts the shadow she vows to not ignore her father’s corruption, or to allow herself to be used as a bargaining chip. She tears the veil away from the bride and it becomes Milady and the veil becomes her mask.

Last is Morgana representing pride. Since Morgana was created in Mementos it serves as his palace so to speak. When you reach the beginning of the end of Mementos, a yellow eye morgana is waiting for you. It reveals that Morgana is not a human but, as it puts it, a creature born within Mementos. Morgana is unable to handle the idea that he’s some creature, a beastly thing with no semblance of humanity. His pride won’t allow him to accept it. He pleads that he has to be human. He tries to summon Zorro to destroy the other Morgana but Zorro loses control and begins to shift and change. It takes the form a large black tiger with velvet blue stripes. It is chained around the neck and guards the gates to the depths of Mementos. The thieves manage to defeat it and Morgana reclaims his memory finally. He manages to find peace with his existent, not human, but not some wild creature either. The beast shift back into Zorro, but then immediately becomes Mercurius.    

So those are my ideas for the shadows of the phantom thieves. The protagonist doesn’t get one as ,like with P4’s protagonist and Adachi, I feel the role of the protagonist’s “shadow” goes to Akechi as he represents a lot of the opposites to Joker. But what do you guys think?

[ellanainthetardis]

I was reading ch579 and I have a prompt! Haymitch is concerned about Peeta and Katniss so he does asks Effie for condoms and then she's all mad because why on Earth would he wants condoms for? (after MJ maybe?). She can go all the way to twelve to give the condoms to him too if you want to

There seems to be a problem with formating on mobile? I saw some of the words were stuck together… It is fine on desktop though so maybe check the ff link? [x]

Maybe One Day Hypothetically

Haymitch turned the page of his book, trying toignore the unusual agitation outside his house. The wedding dresses photoshoot– or whatever the Capitol was calling it – was in full swing over at Katniss’and there were a lot of staff crew members moving portable spotlights andwhat-nots, calling out to each other, laughing the mocking giggles Capitolslaughed or simply exploring the Village. He could hear them streets away.

He had made a conscious choice not to show up for it, unwilling to beroped into helping – and he would beroped into helping or, worse, into posing with the bride to be or somethingbecause that was how showbiz worked. Cinna would find him when he was ready ifthere was anything new to discuss.

He kept on reading, regularly bringing the cupof spiked herbal tea to his lips, and listening to the softer less aggravatingsounds of things being moved around in the house.

He might not have been sure about hiringHazelle, at first, but he was very sold now. Living in a clean house, havingclean laundry every day and not having to navigate around the health hazardsthat had been his kitchen and his bathrooms was a novelty he had gotten used tovery fast.

It was a bit awkward still, because they usedto be friends and now she was his housekeeper – hell, no, it was plain awkwardbecause they used to be friends and he had cut her off overnight like he hadcut everybody else off – but they were slowly finding their footing back. Hehad always liked Hazelle, she was steadfast, no-nonsense but she had a goodsense of humor.

“I’m done for today.” she declared, latemorning, walking in the living-room already wrapping her new red scarf aroundher neck. He had bought her the scarf as a gift – there had been a lot ofarguing on her part before she had accepted it but, as Haymitch had pointedout, she deserved a bonus for having unclogged his toilets. Saying he hadn’tbeen embarrassed by the state of the bathrooms was a stretch. She kept ontalking, snatching the empty mug he had placed on the floor next to hisarmchair to relocate it on the coffee table. “This goes in the sink when you’redone.” she ordered. He gave her a mock salute. “I’ve left you some soup fromSae’s on the stove for lunch. Don’t get excited, it’s rats.”

“My favorite.” he deadpanned, earning himself aquick amused smile.

It was a short one though. With the Hobdestroyed Sae was barely keeping her head above water. She kept on cooking whatshe could find at her own shack and people kept on trading her for a bowl ofsoup but times were hard.

“The laundry machine is almost done.” shecontinued. “It’d be great if youcould remember to put it in the dryer. And maybe put it away but I’m notholding my breath on that. Don’t leave it in the laundry machine, that will beenough to make me happy.”

“You’re cheap.” he accused.

“There’s also some warm bread on the counterand cheese buns in the fridge.” she added. “And I got you your liquor. It’s inthe cupboard.”

He had been running very low on his stock andtrafficking liquor with the new Peacekeepers around watching everyone was dangerous.He hated asking Hazelle to smuggle it in but his moves were more likely than not scrutinized.

He was also more likely to eat the bread andthe buns – that probably came from Peeta – than the soup he had only asked herto buy so Sae would have some cash. Unlike others, he didn’t trade at the Hob,he paid.

“Marry me.” he demanded.

Hazelle rolled her eyes, a retort already onher lips – probably something about how he was too much work or how he was toolate  or something along those lines –but a loud gasp interrupted the familiar banter.

He turned his head, a sinking feeling in hisstomach, to find Effie Trinket on the living-room threshold, flamboyant in hergreen and gold sequins dress, a heavy woolen hooded cloak thingy fastened witha gold brooch on her shoulders, carrying a rectangular glittery purse… Hewasn’t sure how he had missed her approach because she was, as usual, blindingand those green heeled boots of hers couldn’t be discreet.

“My apologies.” she immediately said, her facevisibly turning crimson under the powder covering her face. “I did not mean to interrupt or intrude. I didnot knock because… Well… I never do. I thought… My apologies. Please, go on.”

She whirled around and Haymitch sat there, hisheart hammering in his chest because…

“Calm down, Princess.” he called out, mockingand detached. At least that was what he aimed for. “Just joking.”

Hazelle had closed off as soon as she hadspotted the Capitol.  “I will see youtomorrow.”

“See you.” Haymitch muttered, his attention onEffie who had stopped her hasty retreat and was now hesitating in the corridor.

He didn’t miss the look of pure loathingHazelle tossed her when she passed her by or the disdainful way his escortsized her up and down. Effie jutted her chin up when she was done, a smallsatisfied sneer on her green painted lips. Clearly, she found herself prettier.

And she wasn’t wrong.

Although to be fair, Effie had been spoiled andpampered all her life when Hazelle had been forced to slave herself off to feedher children. They were around the same age, give or take a few years, butHazelle’s face was marked by hardship when Effie’s was smoothed with creams,lotions and make-up.

Once the front door closed softly behindHazelle, Effie’s jaw clenched again and she gave him a long hard look. Then sheturned around and started walking toward the kitchen. He had the very strongfeeling she was going to use the backdoor to go back to Katniss’ without havingto cross path with Hazelle.

He quickly hauled himself out of the armchair.

The good thing with her heels was that he wasalmost always guaranteed to catch up with her if he really tried.

“Effie.” he sighed, grabbing her wrist just asshe was about to round the table, her sight on the door.

“I do apologizefor intruding.” Effie snapped. “I willremember to knock next time. Since you never showed up to the photoshoot Iassumed you were expecting me to come to you and you usually never answer when I ring the doorbell orannounce my presence so… I thought you would be drunk, possibly. Why waste timewaiting in front of your door in the cold? Sillyof me. Not to mention rude. I will not take that sort of liberties again, Ipromise. I hope she did not think me too forward. I would hate not to be on good terms with your wife-to-be, that would makeworking together very awkward.”

“Effie, stop.” he insisted, giving her arm alittle shake. “Look around.”

She glared at him first, then she took a good look around and, if possible, her glarehardened when she realized just how clean everything was.

“Well.” she scowled. “Congratulation. You found yourself a girlfriend who can keep yourhouse clean. Perhaps I should ask her to give some pointers to the Avoxes atthe penthouse.”

He rolled his eyes. “I pay her for it.”

Effie pursed her lips and shrugged off his gripwith one strong tug. “I do not needto be made aware of your personal arrangements.”

“Since when?” he scoffed but she looked readyto bolt again so he lifted both hands in the air in a pacifying gesture. “She’sthe housekeeper, sweetheart. Just thehousekeeper.”

“Do you ask all the women in your employ tomarry you?” she retorted, opening her glittery purse and fishing tworectangular boxes out of it. She tossed them at him and he struggled to catchthem. “The condoms you wanted. I cannothelp but admit it was a big hintsomething was going on. I am not asstupid as I look.” She clicked her purse shut. “I would appreciate it if youmade an appearance at the photoshoot. It will make a nice aside piece for thedresses reveal, Caesar will like it.”

He grabbed her arm back before she could runoff, trapping her against the table with his body this time.

“Are you done being a bitch?” he grumbled. “The condoms are for Peeta.”

She shoved him but he refused to move. It hadbeen give or take three months since the last time he had seen her and he was damned if that was how it was going togo. It would be another three months before the Reaping and he wanted… Hewanted something to go on. A nicelittle hour locked in his bedroom would do the trick.

“The condoms are for Peeta.” she repeated, in amocking frosty voice. “Do you think me a fool?”

“I told him I’d get him some just in case.” he snapped.

She stopped trying to push him away to glare, her lips pursed. “Are you tellingme I left the children under your solesupervision for three little monthsand they are now having sex?”

“I’m telling you I ain’t taking any risk.” heretorted. “You should be happy.”

“Happy that you are lying to me?” she scoffed. “If I were to cross the street toPeeta’s house right now and ask him ifhe is expecting condoms, he would sayyes, then, wouldn’t he?”

That wasn’ta given.

“Look…” he sighed.

“You do notowe me anything.” she huffed. “You canadmit you have a girlfriend.”

“I don’t dogirlfriends.” he sneered, aggravated. “Why are you being so difficult?” He rolled his eyes. “Why amI even asking stupid questions…” He shook his head. “And you’re right. I don’t owe you anything so can you drop thejealousy act?”

He hadn’t thought she could purse her lipsharder but, apparently, she could. Worse,hurt was starting to replace anger in her blue eyes and she was clearly bitingdown on the inside of her cheek.

“I need to go back to the shoot.” she grittedthrough clenched teeth.

“You need to stop being an idiot.” he mumbled,running a hand in his hair, feeling awkward. “I ain’t screwing Hazelle. Like Isaid she’s just a friend.”

“I thought she was just your housekeeper.” she hissed. “Now she is a friend?”

“You’re twisting everything I say.” hecomplained.

“You asked me to bring condoms despite the factwe have not used any in ages and whenI come here I find you asking a woman to marry you.” she spat, her blue eyesfilling with tears.

And, alright, from that point of view…

He tentatively placed his hands on her hips.

“We ain’t a couple, sweetheart.” he remindedher slowly. He wanted to be firm, to be cruel maybe because that had alwaysbeen the best way to keep her at arm-length but… It had been a while since hehad truly wanted to keep her atarm-length. “No strings.”

Her face closed off and, a second later, Effiewas gone and the escort was back. A charming cheerful smile on her lips, eyesshining bright in excitement rather than sorrow, the perfect picture ofhappiness. A lovely doll on a shelf.

He hated it when she did that.

He wasn’t sure at which point she had startedbeing herself around him, when shehad started losing the mask for him but… He liked the real her, the woman hiding behind her armor of silk and powder… Theescort was ruthless and fake and while he understood the necessity of stickingto a public personal – his old drunk one wasn’t a favorite of hers either – hehated it when she turned it against him.

“Don’t do that.” he chided, cupping her cheek.

She tried to remove his hand.

“Please, be careful not to smudge my make-up.”she complained in an even voice, as if they hadn’t just been arguing. “I really needto go back now.”

“You ain’t a photographer and you ain’t astylist.” he countered. “They can do without you.”

“Still.” She shot him her most dazzling smile.“I would rather keep an eye onKatniss.”

He should have let her go. He should have lether go and jumped on the opportunity because in a few months, the rebellionwould start and she would be better off if she wasn’t closely associated withhim. It would be safer for her. Hell,it would be safer for both of them.

And yet…

“Didn’t sleep with her.” he insisted, retracingher cheekbone with his thumb, his fingers toying with the minty green wig onher head. Testing if it was glued on or if there was any chance she would takeit off… “Don’t sleep with anyone else.” he added with a wince after a momentbecause she didn’t look convinced. “You know that.”

“No, I do not.”she replied, in that sing-song bubbly tone he hated. “No matter. As you said,it is no concern of mine. No stringsit is. Besides, I have prospects tooin the city.”

He moved before her words even fullyregistered, getting into her space, pinningher against the table…

“Mine.”he growled.

If she was disturbed by the sudden brutal move,she didn’t let on. Her nails were digging hard into his arms. “Am I?”

He stole a kiss, not giving her a chance toprotest. Her mouth remained closed and unforgiving under his.

“Princess…” he scowled. The hand that was onher cheek slid to her nape and the one on her waist found her ass… “Stop beinga bitch.”

“Arethose condoms for you?” she demanded to know.

“They’re for the boy.” he sighed, bumping hisnose against her cheek. “Come on…When was the last time I even…”

“What do I know?” she cut him off. “That womanseemed awfully cozy in your house.Leaving you lunch and talking about your laundry.”

“She’s my housekeeper.” he repeated, tired ofthe endless argument.

“I thought she was your friend.” she remarkedbitterly.

“Can’t she be both?” he grumbled.

She turned her head to the side and he attackedher neck with his mouth, making quick work of that golden brooch that kept thewoolen cloak on her shoulders. She must have started to see reason, he figured,or she wouldn’t have let him kiss her neck like that.

“Don’t you dareleave a mark.” she warned. Her hands slowly moved up to his shoulders, alittle hesitant. She was trembling and he didn’t think it had to do withdesire.

With a sigh he drew back, meeting her eyespoint blank. “I didn’t fuck her. Iain’t ever gonna fuck her. Or another one for that matter. I really wanna fuck youthough. So, what it’s gonna be? We fuckor we wait for three more months?”

She shot him an aggravated look, a pout on herlips.

“Language.” she rebuked. Her blue eyes searchedhis and then she looked away, to a distant point over his shoulder. “Are you in love with her?”

“For fuck’ssake, what do I have to say for you to getit?” he shouted, losing his patience.

He stepped back and marched toward thecupboard, grabbing a glass and a bottle of moonshine and slamming both on thecounter.

“You said you did not sleep with her not that you did not have feelings for her.” she shot right back. “You asked her to marry you.”

“It was a fuckingjoke!” he snapped, pouring himself a glass and downing it in one go.

“You neverjoke about that with me.” shescowled.

“’Cause with you it wouldn’t be a joke.” he retorted before he could think it through. Whenwhat had just slipped out of his mouth registered, he froze. She was watchinghim with wide startled eyes. A long deep hush fell on the kitchen. He wassqueezing the glass so tight he wasn’t really surprised when it cracked. He putit down before it shattered and he licked his lips. “I mean…” he clarified, hisvoice sounding hollow to his own ears. “You can’t take a joke. You’d take itseriously. Not that… I didn’t mean I’d want…”

“Alright.” she whispered.

Her face was blank and he didn’t dare meet hereyes, didn’t dare face the turmoil of emotions he was pretty sure was ondisplay there.

“Didn’t sleep with Hazelle.” he insisted.“Don’t have feelings for her either.”

“Alright.” she repeated.

“Condoms are for Peeta.” he concluded.

“Alright.” she said again.

He wasn’t sure what to do with all thatmeekness, wasn’t sure how they were going to escape the awkwardness in thekitchen, so he did what he always did when he was unsure: he turned her back toher and poured himself another drink.

“Haymitch?” she called. He heard the quietruffling of fabric behind him and figured she was putting her cloak back on.

“What?” He looked through the window over thesink at his deserted weed infested backyard and told himself it was fine. Shewould go and the next time they saw each other, it would be alright.

“Is this table clean?” she asked.

“Should be. Hazelle scrubs everything down.”The question was odd and he glanced at her over his shoulder, thinking maybeshe would suggest having lunch to salvage what could be of the day, only to doa double-take when he realized she hadn’tbeen putting her cloak back on. He turned around completely, hastily placingthe glass down on the counter, his eyes roaming over all the bare creamy skinon display…

She had lost the dress and the heels. And shewas giving him a sultry look.

“Fuckme on it.” she commanded.

His feet moved without his leave and, soonenough, she was lying on his kitchen table, he was naked too and he was definitely enjoying having a cleanhouse. It wasn’t like they had never done that on a table – hell, if thepenthouse’s dining-room could talk… – but it was a little different to have herlike that in his house, on a table heused mostly every day.

Afterward, while she was still lying therebasking in her afterglow, he kissed her stomach, nuzzled her thigh…

“I have a badhabit of breaking engagements.” she murmured suddenly.

His heartbeat quickened but he refused to givein to panic. “No kidding. How many again? Three?”

“Three.” she confirmed. “I believe the fourthtime might be the charm.”  

“I feel bad for the poor guy who ever put aring on your finger.” he taunted but he also kissed the inside of her knee andoffered a hand to help her sit up.

She took it and immediately locked her anklesbehind his legs, trapping him right there. She nipped at the tender flesh underhis ribcage. “You should if he doesn’t get me a big diamond ring… I have been waiting a long time for it, I expecta pretty one.”

He rolled his eyes but wrapped his arms aroundher slender frame, running his fingers down her spine.

“Good thing I’mnever marrying you, then.” he snorted. “You’re too fussy.”

She seemed to deflate a little. “They would never let us, would they? Even if… Wewould not be able to.”

“Not right now, no.” He shrugged. “Capitols andDistricts don’t mix, sweetheart. We’re barely better than animals, remember?”

“Perhaps one day.” she whispered against hisskin. A promise or a consolation, he wasn’t sure.

“Would imply I actuallywant to marry you.” he grumbled.

“Maybe one day hypothetically.” she corrected with asad chuckle.

“Yeah…” he sighedagainst her neck. “Hypothetically.”

He told himself itwasn’t part of why he really wantedthat revolution to work out.

[conniejoworld]

CAPITOL ATTACK Political speech or illegal threat?

CAPITOL ATTACK Political speech or illegal threat? Outcomes in federal court depend on jurors’ politics, location and worldview By KEVIN KRAUSE Staff Writer kkrause@dallasnews.com Criminal trials involving political speech can have two very different outcomes depending on where they’re held. A jury in New York City, for example, could view online threats against particular members of Congress very differently than jurors in rural Texas. And that’s exactly what happened in two recent federal trials pitting free speech against safety and security. A Wichita Falls jury on May 3 acquitted a 28-year-old man on a charge of making threats against congressional Democrats on Facebook — a rare outcome in federal court. The jury deliberated for just 18 minutes before finding Gavin Weslee Perry not guilty of transmitting a threatening communication in interstate commerce. His trial, in a conservative and largely Republican county about two hours northwest of Dallas, took less than a day. Several days earlier, a federal jury in Brooklyn found Brendan Hunt guilty of threatening House Speaker Nancy Pelosi and other Democrats in Congress. Hunt, 37, of Queens, had posted a video in January in which he called for the “slaughter” of members of Congress before Joe Biden’s inauguration as president. Hunt added that he’d shoot and kill them himself if he could find a gun. Party affiliation is just one factor in the outcome of trials involving politically motivated speech, but a strong one, legal experts say. Nevertheless, lawyers when picking a jury should also consider influences such as attitudes toward free speech and the role of government, according to jury consultants. “I don’t know if it was politics, but they didn’t determine it to be a serious threat,” said Perry’s defense attorney, Frank Trotter. Trotter said that his client didn’t testify and that he didn’t call any defense witnesses. Perry, he said, never denied making the comments on Facebook. Their defense, he said, was that “it was just political hyperbole, not a threat.” Trotter said his client made the comments as part of a Facebook thread about politics. He called it a case of Perry wanting to “one-up” another commentator. Perry, a former Fort Worth resident, felt vindicated after the verdict, Trotter said, because he had been adamant from the beginning that he was only exercising his free speech rights. The U.S. attorney’s office in Dallas declined to comment on the outcome. Rants or threats? Freedom of speech is not absolute. Courts have ruled, for example, that fraud, obscenity, incitement to violence, perjury, libel and threats are not entitled to constitutional protection. But interpretation of the intent behind words can be tricky and is ultimately up to individual juries based on the evidence of each case. The government had made several plea offers to Perry, which included a sentence for time he already served behind bars, but he wanted to go to trial, Trotter said. Perry didn’t specifically threaten to harm the House speaker. Rather, he accused her of being part of a cult — a popular yet unfounded conspiracy theory making the rounds online. “Nancy Pelosi is a part of a satanic cult and so are the people who work closely with her,” Perry wrote on Facebook. “Dems of the establishment will be removed at any cost necessary and yes that means by death.” His other Facebook comment at issue did not single out any particular person for violence. Trotter said he thinks that worked in his client’s favor. “If you’re a dem or a part of the establishment in the Democrats’ side, I view you as a criminal and a terrorist and I advise everyone to Go SOS [shoot on sight] and use live rounds,” Perry wrote in March 2020. “Shoot to kill. This is a revolution.” There were no allegations that Perry was a member or proponent of any extremist group like the Proud Boys or Oath Keepers. And Trotter said his client didn’t own a car or a gun and wouldn’t have been able to travel to Washington or to Pelosi’s district office in San Francisco. Prosecutors, however, did not have to prove that Perry intended to carry out the threats. Jury instructions in the case said prosecutors had to prove that the defendant sent the message intending to communicate an actual threat or “with the knowledge that it would be viewed as a true threat.” That means a real threat and not a joke, “idle talk” or a “careless remark,” according to court records. And the threats would have to cause a “reasonable person” to fear being injured, records show. In the New York case, Hunt’s lawyers similarly had argued that their client wasn’t caught with weapons or any plans to actually commit violence and was just ranting online, according to published reports. They argued during the trial that his comments were political opinions. But the Brooklyn jury found otherwise. The jurors did not conclude that all of Hunt’s comments in the indictment constituted illegal threats; nor were they required to. Just one was sufficient to convict. Hunt’s Dec. 6 post on Facebook called Pelosi, Sen. Chuck Schumer, D-N.Y., and Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, D-N.Y. “high-value targets,” prosecutors said. “They really need to be put down,” Hunt wrote. “These commies will see death before they see us surrender.” Another Hunt comment called on former President Donald Trump to hold a public execution of Pelosi, Schumer and Ocasio-Cortez, authorities said. “If you don’t do it, the citizenry will. We’re not voting in another rigged election. Start up the firing squads, mow down these commies, and let’s take America back,” Hunt wrote. After the April 28 verdict, Mark J. Lesko, acting U.S attorney for the Eastern District of New York, said his office would “not tolerate threats of violence against public officials who are entrusted with upholding the Constitution.” Two alleged Capitol rioters from North Texas also have been charged with making threats. But their trials are scheduled to be held in Washington, D.C., a liberal enclave very different from rural North Texas. Troy Anthony Smocks, 58, of Dallas allegedly wrote on Parler that patriots like him should launch an armed hunt for Democrats, tech executives and other “traitors” at the Capitol. And Garret Miller, 34, of Richardson is accused of storming the Capitol building and making death threats against members of Congress and Capitol Police. Miller called for the assassination of Ocasio-Cortez, and he threatened Schumer on Instagram, saying “we are coming for you,” the FBI says. Both men have pleaded not guilty and remain in custody awaiting trial. Different views Kacy Miller is the president and owner of CourtroomLogic Consulting, a Dallas-based jury consulting firm. She said politics is just one factor, in addition to the individual facts of each case. All facts being equal, it’s not surprising that a trial in Wichita Falls could have a different result than one in New York, she said. “People have different views on how the world works depending on where they live,” Miller said. “The tone and the tenor of what’s happening in society is important.” Trotter said he asked the jury pool during jury selection about their political affiliation. Just three said they were Democrats, and he struck all three from the panel, he said. But there are considerations beyond party identification, Miller said. Did jurors perceive the threat as intending or inciting harm or was it just “some wingnut spouting off and wanting to be heard?” Miller said it’s unwise to generalize and expect a juror to think a certain way based solely on their political leanings. Maybe a juror had a relative who was harmed in some way because of online threats, she said. Also, some people don’t use social media or follow politics, Miller said. Another factor in trials, she said, is the “courtroom dynamic,” meaning the attorneys’ delivery and interaction with witnesses. In the Perry trial, the 18-minute jury deliberation is revealing, Miller said. “That tells me everyone was unified in their opinion,” she said. Trotter acknowledged the likelihood that location played a role in the trial’s outcome. “You might be able to [convict] in Dallas or Austin,” he said. Trotter, however, said his client was not emboldened by the verdict to continue posting provocative sentiments online. “I talked to him about it. He said, ‘I’ve learned my lesson.’” Twitter: @KevinRKrause

[disappearingground]

Rebound, rediscovery, rebirth: How Jenny Lewis made her best album in more than a decade

Washington Post March 15, 2019

Singer Jenny Lewis’s new album “On the Line” is her best work since her 2006 solo debut, “Rabbit Fur Coat.”

By Allison Stewart

Jenny Lewis has one of those faces. If you were to run into her in her natural habitat — a vintage clothing store or Whole Foods — you might recognize her, even if you’re not sure from where.

Lewis has spent almost her entire life lingering at the edges of everyone’s collective consciousness, first as a child actor, then as indie pop’s mid-’00s queen. “People think they know me personally, or we’re related, or from commercials that I was in as a child,” she says. “I just have a familiar face, because I’m weirdly Zelig-y.”

A few years back, Lewis and her longtime boyfriend, fellow singer-songwriter Johnathan Rice, broke up. It had been the formative, defining relationship of her life so far — they were practically married — and its dissolution forced her to look at the world in a new way, and to reassess the way the world looked at her.

“Can you imagine being 40 years old and thrust upon the digital dating scene after a 12-year relationship that started before cellphones?” Lewis asks. She couldn’t either, until it happened. She’s 43 now, just starting to find her footing, to figure out what she wants in a partner, and what the rest of her life might look like.

Many regular guys are afraid of her, rich guys seem unappealing (“I don’t date for the money. What’s the opposite of that?”), and she’s more famous than most of the artists she knows, which is potentially a problem. She reluctantly attended a JDate speed-dating event once because her godfather wanted her to meet a nice Jewish doctor. “It was way too weird,” she says, but at least no one recognized her.

The breakup and its painful, hopeful, way-too-weird aftermath are among the main subjects of Lewis’s new album “On the Line,” her best work since her 2006 solo debut, “Rabbit Fur Coat.” “It’s kind of like a play,” says Lewis, over lunch at the L.A. Farmers Market, over the hill from her Studio City home. “It begins with the breakup, and it’s rebound, rediscovery, rebirth, death, autonomy.”

In person, Lewis is vulnerable and disarming and warm. She won’t answer every question, but she seems like she’s at least considering it. She wears a mechanic’s jumpsuit and a trucker hat atop her familiar curtain of Marianne Faithfull bangs. She looks like the world’s sultriest gas station attendant.

After her breakup, Lewis moved to New York City. She stayed at her friend St. Vincent’s place in the East Village, and hung out with her girlfriends Erika Forster and Tennessee Thomas at Thomas’s venue, the Deep End Club. (The women formed a trio, played their first show at a Bernie Sanders rally, and released a self-titled album, “Nice as F---,” in 2016. It was probably a one-off.)

Lewis remembers watching a video of Ringo Starr and Harry Nilsson playing on the roof of the Capitol Records building circa 1974, with Ringo wearing a bright blue onesie with a star on the front. She must have watched this video a thousand times back then, because God, she loves Ringo, and she’s also partial to onesies.

During this the time, Lewis had taken to wearing Come to Me oil, an herbal compound she’d bought in a neighborhood potions shop. After acquiring the oil, you’re supposed to set an intention, something you want to happen — “You have to be very careful with it” — and then you wait.

She wasn’t trying to bring forth anyone in particular, she just wanted a good thing to happen; Ringo wound up playing drums on “On the Line” not too long after that. “I feel like I conjured Ringo,” she says. (Note: Maybe! But Don Was, the super-connected super producer who contributed to the album, also might have brought him aboard.)

“On the Line” was made in stages, and features production by Ryan Adams and Beck, working separately. In the days before this interview, Adams was accused of emotionally abusing and harassing female musicians.

Lewis says her relationship with Adams was strictly professional and is reluctant to say much more, but this is basically what happened: Adams began work on Lewis’s last album, 2014’s “The Voyager,” but could not be persuaded to finish. Lewis reenlisted him to produce “On the Line,” hoping things would work out differently. They didn’t.

“We began the record together two years ago, and after five or six days in the studio we stopped working together,” Lewis says, carefully. “I took the record and finished those songs without him, and then went in the studio with Beck to record the rest of the songs.”

It was not an amicable break. “I was left in the lurch, and again this happens to me in my life, where I’m faced with getting back to myself and refocusing,” she says.

The juxtaposition between Adams and Beck, one of rock’s all-time reasonable men, was stark. “There are these figures that come along when I’m engaged in these unhealthy creative relationships,” Lewis says, “and they appear just long enough to say: ‘You can do this on your own. You’re good. I can help you, but it’s yours.’ ”

“On the Line” is slower and more muted than Lewis’s past albums; there are gently swinging retro-country ballads, mostly sad, with an emphasis on pianos and organs, the latter provided by Benmont Tench, former keyboardist for Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Petty died during a break in the sessions, followed weeks later by the death of Lewis’s mother. Lewis had a complicated relationship with her mother, who struggled with heroin addiction and mental illness, and from whom she had been semi-estranged.

Weeks after her mother died, Lewis recorded the album standout “Little White Dove,” a bottom-heavy ballad about her final days. “I’m still afraid of a lot of things, but I don’t know if I’m afraid of dying,” she says. “Having been through that with my mother, that’s not as scary to me as it once was, which I think is a really liberating thing to go through. I’m afraid of cancer, I’m afraid of the archaic medical tools, but I’m not afraid of the other stuff.”

Growing up, Lewis’s home life had been tumultuous. She had worked fairly steadily as a child actress since the age of 3; in a Jell-O commercial, the Shelley Long comedy “Troop Beverly Hills,” the 1989 Fred Savage nerdfest “The Wizard.” She shared the screen with everyone from Angelina Jolie to Lucille Ball. “There was this normalcy on the set, and there was a meal, and the routine of it. Every time I’d start a new project, there would be a new family.”

Lewis’s father wasn’t a presence in her life, but his role was played by a series of reassuring ’80s television dads. “Corbin Bernsen, David Strathairn, Peter Scolari,” Lewis remembers. “These guys that played my dads, they were the best guys.”

Lewis found the same stability in Rilo Kiley, the band she and guitarist Blake Sennett (who was also a child actor, and her future ex-boyfriend), formed in the late-’90s. Bands, like film sets, were a makeshift source of shelter. When Lewis later heard that inmates in women’s prisons formed family units on the inside, she immediately understood — it was kind of like that on tour.

When Lewis recorded “Rabbit Fur Coat” with female backing duo the Watson Twins, things in Rilo Kiley were already rocky. The album, a country-gospel-soul mash-up that she estimates took five days to make, became a cultural sensation that changed the course of her career. At 30, she felt free for the first time. She and the Twins wore matching outfits onstage, and, unlike in Rilo Kiley, nobody yelled at each other. She couldn’t believe how easy it was. Rilo Kiley released one more album before disbanding.

Lewis has always felt that her songs are prophetic somehow, like they knew things that would happen to her before she did. She is still struck by the naivete of many of those early songs, but she wonders if she was setting intentions she didn’t know about. “I’m always surprised by my songs, at either how irrelevant or relevant they feel,” she says. “There’s hidden messages to myself in there. It’s like I’m singing to my future and past self.”

When Lewis was in her 30s, she wrote the “Voyager” track “Just One of the Guys,” a song about a perennial Cool Girl beginning to doubt her life choices (“When I look at myself all I can see / I’m just another lady without a baby”). The song wasn’t a hit, but it was a big deal, and it was accompanied by a buzzy video starring Kristen Stewart, Brie Larson, Tennessee Thomas and Anne Hathaway, a friend from her acting days.

Lewis says the song wasn’t biographical (“My songs aren’t the paper of record. There’s a lot of wiggle room in there”), and isn’t meant to seem sad — just matter of fact. But pop music is short on songs about women confronting their empty uteruses, and it struck a nerve with fans, who still ask her about it.

The further Lewis gets from the track, the closer she feels. She’s “a career girl and a survivalist,” on the road so much she can’t even get a dog. But she’s back living in Studio City now, in the house she lived in with Rice, a green and brown house called Mint Chip. Mint Chip has seen countless late-night jam sessions and dissolute ragers. Mint Chip is a vibe.

But the people Lewis rented it to during her time in New York had a baby there during her absence (they asked her first, it’s fine), and the idea of a baby in Mint Chip seems strangely not awful. At the very least, it’s a means of exorcising the house’s dark breakup juju.

Children aren’t something Lewis needs, or are something she is even sure she wants. But she wonders about them, especially lately, and she feels the weight of other people wondering, too.

“There’s so much anxiety around the subject,” she says, tapping meaningfully at an imaginary watch on her wrist. “This is all I talk about with my girlfriends. There’s biological pressure, there’s this sense that you aren’t a complete person. People kind of look at you weird, like, Auntie Mame-style. It’s not whether I want it or don’t want it, we’ll see where life takes me. My time ain’t up yet.”