#one time from the capitol records thing i think

[robertreich]

10 Worst Things About The Trump Presidency

Donald Trump left office with the lowest approval rating of any president ever. But some people now seem to be suffering from amnesia.

Let me jog your memory. Here are 10 Worst Things About the Trump Presidency — in no particular order.

#1. Trump fueled division and sparked a record uptick in hate crimes.

#2. Murder went way up under Trump. He presided over the largest ever single-year increase in homicides in 2020. A number of factors might have contributed to that, but a big one is…

#3. Gun sales broke records under Trump, who has bragged about how he “did nothing” to restrict guns as president in spite of…

#4. Under Trump, America suffered more than 1,700 mass shootings.

#5. Trump said there were "very fine people" among the neo-Nazis in Charlottesville.

I’m halfway to ten. If you think I’m missing something big, leave it in the comments.

#6. Trump allied himself with the Proud Boys, a violent hate group who helped orchestrate the Jan 6 Capitol attack.

#7. Trump’s not wrong when he says…

TRUMP: I got rid of Roe v. Wade.

It is entirely because of Trump’s judicial appointments that 1 in 3 American women of childbearing age now lives in states with abortion bans.

#8. One of Trump’s Supreme Court justices was Brett Kavanaugh, a man accused of sexual assault by multiple women.

#9. Trump’s White House interfered in the FBI’s investigation of Brett Kavanaugh’s alleged sexual assaults.

And now: #10. Trump has been convicted of committing 34 felonies while in office. The criminally false business filings he got convicted for in New York? All of them were committed while he was president.

I’m sorry, did I say the 10 Worst Things About the Trump Presidency? I meant 15.

#11. Trump’s failed pandemic response is estimated to have led to hundreds of thousands of needless deaths. By the time Trump left office, roughly 3,000 Americans were dying of covid every day. That’s a 9/11-scale mass casualty event every single day. How did Trump screw up so badly?

#12. Trump’s White House discarded the pandemic response playbook that had been assembled by the Obama administration.

#13. Trump disbanded the National Security Council’s pandemic response team.

#14. Trump repeatedly lied about the danger of covid, saying it was no worse than the flu or that it would go away on its own.

But behind closed doors, Trump admitted he knew covid was deadly.

#15. Trump promoted fake covid cures like hydroxychloroquine and even injecting people with disinfectants.

After Trump’s “disinfectant” remarks, poison control centers received a spike in emergency calls.

That’s fifteen things. Should I keep going? Ok, I’ll keep going. The 20 Worst Things About the Trump Presidency.

#16. Trump presided over a net loss of 2.9 million American jobs — the worst recorded jobs numbers of any U.S. president in history.

#17. Trump profited off the presidency, making an estimated $160 million from foreign countries while he was president.

#18. Trump also billed the Secret Service over $1 million for the privilege of staying at his golf clubs and other properties while they protected him. That’s your money!

#19. Trump caused the longest government shutdown in U.S. history when he didn’t get funding for his border wall, which he said Mexico was going to pay for.  

#20. Under Trump, the national debt increased by about 40% — more than in any other four-year presidential term — largely because of his tax cuts for the rich and big corporations.

You didn’t really think I was stopping at 20, did you? We’re going to 25 —

#21. Trump separated more than 5,000 children from their parents at the border, with no plan to ever reunite them, putting babies in cages.

#22. The Muslim Ban. Yes, Trump really did try to ban Muslims from entering the country.

#23. Trump sparked international outrage by moving the American Embassy in Israel to Jerusalem while closing the U.S. mission to Palestine.

#24. Trump tasked his son-in-law Jared Kushner with drafting a potential Middle East “peace plan” with zero Palestinian input.

#25. And finally, Trump recognized Israel’s occupation of the Goh-lahn Heights, which is considered illegal under international law.

So there you have it, folks: The 25 Worst — Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Did I mention the impeachments? We’ve got to do the impeachments. Let’s go to 30.

#26. Trump broke the law by trying to withhold nearly $400 million of U.S. aid for Ukraine in an effort to extort a personal political favor from Ukraine’s Pres. Zelensky. Trump wanted Zelensky to interfere in the 2020 election by announcing an investigation into the Bidens. Delaying this aid to Ukraine weakened Ukraine and strengthened Russia.

#27. Trump personally attacked and ruined the careers of everyone who stood in the way of his illegal Ukraine scheme, including Ambassador Marie Yovanovitch and Lt. Colonel Alexander Vindman.

#28. To cover up the scheme, Trump ordered the White House and State Department to defy congressional subpoenas.

#29. For these reasons, on December 18, 2019, Trump became the third U.S. president to be impeached. He was charged with Abuse of Power and Obstruction of Congress.

#30. Even while he was being investigated for trying to get Ukraine to interfere in the U.S. election, Trump publicly called for China to interfere in the election.

So those are the 30 Worst Things —

I’ll go to 35.

#31. Long before Election Day, Trump started making false claims that the election would be rigged.

#32. After losing, Trump falsely claimed the election was stolen, even though his own inner circle, including his campaign manager, White House lawyers, and his own Justice Department and attorney general told him it was not.

#33. Trump kept telling his Big Lie even after more than 60 legal challenges to the election were struck down in court, many by Trump-appointed judges.

#34. Trump ordered the Department of Justice to falsely claim that the election “was corrupt.”

#35. Trump and his allies used threats to pressure state leaders in Arizona and Georgia to falsify the election results.

We may go to 40.

#36. When none of the previous schemes worked, Trump and his allies produced fake electoral votes cast by fake electors in multiple swing states. His former White House chief of staff and Rudy Giuliani are among the many members of his inner circle who have been criminally indicted for this scheme.

#37. Trump tried to bully Vice President Pence into obstructing the certification of the election.

#38. Trump invited a mob to the Capitol on Jan 6 with his “be there, will be wild” tweet.

#39. Sworn testimony alleges that when Trump was warned that members of the crowd were carrying deadly weapons, he ordered security metal detectors to be taken down.

#40. Knowing the crowd had deadly weapons, he ordered them to go to the Capitol and…

TRUMP: …fight like hell.

#41 — Yes, yes, I know, bear with me.

Trump betrayed his oath to defend the nation by doing nothing to stop the Jan 6 violence. Instead, according to witness testimony, he sat and watched TV for hours.

#42. On January 13, 2021, Trump became the only president ever to be impeached twice. This time he was charged with incitement of insurrection. It was a bipartisan vote.

#43. The majority of senators — 57 out of 100 — voted to convict Trump, including 7 Republican senators.

So that’s the two impeachments and the Big Lie, but wait, we haven’t dealt with Russia, right? So we’re going to 50.

#44. In a likely obstruction of justice, Trump pressured then FBI Director James Comey to stop the FBI’s investigation into Trump’s National Security Adviser, Michael Flynn. This was documented in the Mueller report.

#45. When Comey didn’t bend to Trump’s will, Trump fired him.

#46. Trump tried to shut down the Mueller investigation by ordering White House Counsel Don McGann to fire Mueller. McGann refused because that would be criminal obstruction of justice.

#47. When news got out that Trump tried to fire Mueller, Trump repeatedly told McGann to lie — to Mueller, to press, to public — and even create a false document to conceal Trump’s attempt to fire Mueller.

#48. Trump ordered his staff not to turn over emails showing Don Jr. had set up a meeting at Trump Tower before the 2016 election with representatives of the Russian government.

#49. Trump convinced Michael Cohen to lie to Congress about Trump’s plans to build a Trump Tower in Moscow, and Cohen served prison time for lying to Congress.

#50. Trump was not charged for criminal obstruction of justice because it’s the Justice Department’s policy not to indict a sitting president, but more than a thousand former federal prosecutors who served under both Republicans and Democrats, signed a letter declaring there was more than enough evidence to prosecute Trump.

So those are the 50 Worst Things About the Trump Presidency. Now I could go on…

And I will! The 75 Worst Things About the Trump Presidency.

#51. Trump said he’d hire only the best people, but…

His campaign chair was convicted of multiple crimes.

So was one of his closest associates.

His deputy campaign chair pleaded guilty to crimes.

So did his personal lawyer

His National Security Adviser

The Chief Financial Officer of his business

A campaign foreign policy adviser

And one of his campaign fundraisers.

They all committed crimes, and Trump pardoned most of them.

#52. Trump said he’d drain the Washington swamp. But he appointed more billionaires, CEOs, and Wall Street moguls to his administration than any administration in history

#53. Trump intervened to get his son-in-law, Jared Kushner top-secret clearance after he was denied over concerns about foreign influence.

#54. Trump hosted a Russian Foreign Minister to the Oval Office, where Trump revealed top-secret intelligence.

Oh, and Trump’s economic policies!

#55 Trump promised that the average American family would see a $4,000 pay raise because of his tax cuts for the wealthy and big corporations. How’d that work out? Did you get a $4,000 raise? Of course not! Nobody did!

#56. Trump vowed to protect American jobs, but offshoring increased and manufacturing fell.

#57. Trump said he would fix America’s infrastructure, but it never happened. He announced so many failed “infrastructure weeks” they became a running joke.

#58. Trump said he would be “the voice” of American workers, but he filled the National Labor Relations Board with anti-union flacks who made it harder for workers to unionize.

#59. Trump’s Labor Department made it easier for bosses to get out of paying workers overtime, which cheated 8 million workers of extra pay.

#60. Trump repeatedly suggested he might serve more than two terms in violation of the Constitution — and continues to do so.

#61. Trump called Haiti and African nations “shithole” countries.

#62. Trump tried to terminate DACA, which protects immigrants brought to the U.S. as children. Luckily this was struck down by the courts.

#63. Trump called climate change a “hoax.”

#64. Trump pulled out of the Paris Climate Agreement.

#65. Trump rolled back more than 100 environmental protections.

#66. Every budget Trump proposed included cuts to Social Security and Medicare.

#67. Trump tried (and failed) to repeal the Affordable Care Act, which would have resulted in 20 million Americans losing insurance. And striking down the ACA’s protections for the roughly 130 million people with pre-existing conditions could have driven up their insurance premiums or led to a loss of coverage.

#68. Trump made it easier for employers to remove birth control coverage from insurance plans.

#69. By the end of Trump’s term, the number of people lacking health insurance had risen by 3 million.

#70. Trump lied. Constantly. He made 30,573 false or misleading claims while president — an average of 21 a day, according to Washington Post fact-checkers.

#71. Trump allegedly took hundreds of classified documents on his way out of the White House, reportedly including nuclear secrets, which he then left unsecured in various parts of Mar-a-Lago, including a bathroom. He was even caught on tape showing them off to people.

#72. Trump seriously discussed the idea of nuking a hurricane.

#73. When Hurricane Maria hit Puerto Rico, Trump delayed $20 billion of aid and allowed Puerto Rico to be without power for 181 days.

#74. Trump suggested withholding federal aid for California wildfire recovery and said the solution was to “clean” the “floors” of the forest.

#75. Trump pulled out of the Iran deal, placing Iran on a path to developing nuclear weapons.

Honestly, there’s so much more, from exchanging “love letters” with North Korea’s brutal dictator to publicly denigrating a Gold Star military widow and making her cry, to the way he attacked journalists, to late night tweet binges.

Look, I can understand why a lot of people want to block all of this out of their memories. But we cannot afford to forget just how terrible Trump’s time in the White House was for this nation.

And we sure as hell can’t afford to put him back there.

[salty-tang]

The Suit Problem™

Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Congresswoman!Reader

Summary: someone commented, and i quote verbatim "I can't imagine Bucky in a suit without thinking of him flexing & accidentally ripping his sleeves. Just to share that imagery."

Warnings/ tags: MATURE THEMES, Original Characters galore, political tension with feelings, lots of tension, suit kink (very heavily implied), emotional restraint and physical damage, making out in federally inappropriate spaces (the bathroom), clothed intimacy

Word count: 3k

off the record masterpost || AO3 || congressman bucky masterpost

The First Time It Happens

It’s a standard afternoon hearing – oversight – dry, procedural, and criminally under-attended. Some poor GAO witness is walking the committee through a line-by-line breakdown of federal allocations for energy storage grants. You’re barely following. The numbers aren’t the problem, the problem (as is with many other things in life these days) is Bucky Barnes.

Specifically, Bucky in the third chair diagonally to your left, rolling back his shoulders and shrugging his jacket up higher on his frame like it isn’t already fighting for its dear life. Like the seam at his right shoulder isn’t straining with every millimetre he moves.

You’ve seen the shrug before. He does it when he’s bored. When he’s too warm. When he knows you’re watching.

It makes him look younger – unruly and a little too charming for your peace of mind.

Normally, you can take it.

But then –

riiip

A soft tear. Audible, but just barely. Right at the seam where his sleeve meets his right shoulder. Not the metal arm.

The flesh one.

You don’t mean to look. But you do, reflexively.

The fabric’s split open like a bad alibi, pulled too tight over muscle he has no business keeping in that good of a shape. The shirt underneath clings and you can see the edge of his bicep where the cotton’s pulled taut.

You freeze.

Then you blush.

And then you realize you’re blushing, and you nearly drop your pen.

He looks over. Of course he looks over.

He knows.

And his mouth quirks up like he’s won something, and perhaps he has.

You tear your eyes away and pretend to reread your notes, except that your entire mental slate has just been wiped clean by the sight of one extremely illegal shoulder doing irreversible things to navy wool blend.

Mills, three chairs behind you, texts the group slack in real time:

He BROKE THE JACKET. That’s the REAL oversight. my kinsey score will never recover

You press your lips together. You do not react. This is a federal setting.

But somewhere in the back of your head – right between this is wildly inappropriate and I did not know this was a thing for me – there’s a voice whispering: not even the metal arm. Jesus Christ.

In the Hallway Immediately After

You catch him just outside the hearing room. You're clutching your notes to your chest – mostly to hide the fact that your hands are shaking slightly. From frustration, obviously.

“Barnes,” you call out. 

He turns, slow. Too slow. His suit jacket’s slung over one shoulder now, exposing the ripped seam like it’s a war medal.

You narrow your eyes. “Do you enjoy making my staff reconsider their sexuality during active committee meetings?”

He bites down on a smile. "It was an accident."

A pause.

Then – lower, silkier, “your staff, or you?”

You go still.

It’s not fair, the way he says it. Like he’s just asking a question and he isn’t the living embodiment of every problem you’ve ever sworn to ignore.

Your jaw tightens. “Don’t test me, Barnes.”

He smiles properly now – wolfish, pleased. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You take a step closer. That’s your first mistake because he smells like cedar and clean soap and faint Capitol dust, and he’s still doing that thing – head tilted slightly, mouth soft at the corners, like he knows exactly how close you are to either slapping him or kissing him.

“That’s a campaign funded jacket,” you say, voice low. “You keep destroying them like this and I’m going to have to file you under infrastructure damage.”

“I’ll expense it,” he says, deadpan. “Line item 22: legislative tension.”

You exhale sharply. “You know you’re not supposed to look like that in public. It's unbecoming of a Congressman.”

He leans in, just a little.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, “and I’ll break the other seam too.”

Your breath catches.

He sees it and smiles.

“You’re impossible,” you say, weakly.

“You’re flustered.”

“I’m not.”

He shrugs.

Again.

The sound that comes out of you isn’t quite verbal.

Somewhere behind you, a staffer coughs awkwardly.

You straighten up and smooth your blouse, all while pretending that your entire blood supply hasn’t migrated somewhere wildly inappropriate for federal property.

“I’m telling Mike to order you three new jackets,” you say, already turning to leave.

“Better make it four,” he calls after you. “Just in case I sit down too fast.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of looking back, because you're smiling. 

The Fitting

The tailor is a compact, fastidious man named Victor. He works out of a discreet Dupont Circle storefront and has measured no fewer than four Supreme Court justices and at least one war criminal. Nothing rattles him.

Enter Bucky Barnes.

You are only here because you know Victor personally. That, and because Mike flagged Bucky’s latest jacket incident with a single phrase in your shared calendar:

URGENT: Barnes needs congressional-grade tailoring before someone loses an eye.

Victor gestures for Bucky to step onto the platform. “Try lifting your arm.”

Bucky rolls his left shoulder back in a deceptively casual shrug. The fabric of his shirt pulls like it's being winched over a steel cable. You hear it before you see it – a subtle groan of resistance from the sleeve.

There’s a long, painful pause.

"Okay," you say slowly, eyes fixed on the fabric. "So that’s a no."

The tailor clears his throat. “We might need a reinforced seam or – pardon me – structural adjustments for… exceptional anatomy.”

You hum. “Exceptional anatomy. That’s generous.”

Bucky shoots you a look, half mortified, half amused. “You dragged me here.”

“Because you tore your third jacket in two months,” you say, very calmly. “You can’t keep walking into committee hearings looking like you lost a bar fight with your own sleeves.”

He mutters something about deadlifting and polyester. You don’t respond. You’re too busy watching his biceps test the limits of a very expensive shoulder seam.

“I could just wear the old black suit,” he offers.

You raise an eyebrow. “The one you ripped open lifting a box of printed memos?”

"...It was a heavy box."

You shake your head as you pace about the store. You’ve chosen to pace because you will not be hovering while Bucky shrugs in and out of suit jackets like a Calvin Klein fever dream.

Victor starts measuring. Professional, focused, barely blinking until he gets to Bucky’s shoulders.

Victor sighs. “Sir, I’m going to need you to relax your shoulders.”

Bucky grins. “They are relaxed.”

You do not look over.

You will not look over.

Behind you, Jenna – assigned to ‘observe and document’ this appointment – is standing by the sample books, typing into her phone like a woman possessed.

#suitwatch (active)

[Jenna]: she just said “exceptional anatomy” out loud. in public. to his face. [Micah]: this is a First Amendment violation and also the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard [Devon]: sleeves are a construct. arms are forever. [Mills]: he’s looking at her like he’d say yes to anything even the double-breasted one even charcoal pinstripes

Victor measures in silence, muttering every now and then things like “This cannot be standard”, and, as he loops the measuring tape around Bucky’s chest, “I’m going to need heavier thread for the buttons.”

Bucky glances at you through the mirror with a smirk. “Enjoying the show, Congresswoman?”

You cross your arms and lift your chin. “I’m imagining filing a workplace complaint.”

He grins wider. “About my arms?”

“No, about your attitude.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, “though the arms are definitely a secondary violation.”

Victor drops his pen.

*

Victor retreats into the backrooms to retrieve a reinforced thread spool, muttering something in Italian that sounds less like measurements and more like final blessings, and you drop onto the edge of the leather bench to watch Bucky undo the last jacket with surgical precision and barely restrained biceps.

"Out of curiosity," you say, elbow on your knee, chin in hand, "how much can you bench?"

He glances over, mid-button, brows raised. "Why?"

You gesture vaguely at the battlefield of defeated suit samples around him. “Trying to figure out whether the problem is vanity sizing or the fact that your upper body mass violates OSHA standards.”

He pauses for a second to think. Then he shrugs one shoulder – very carefully, this time.

“Dunno. Probably a Hummer H1. Full bed. Loaded?”

You blink. “The military one?”

“Yeah.” He nods at you, expression infuriatingly mild. “Yeah. The old diesel kind. Not the electric one.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Just press your lips together and mutter under your breath, “exceptional anatomy, my ass.”

Behind you, Jenna makes a strangled sound that might be a laugh or a quiet breakdown. You're not sure which.

Three weeks later…

The tailor’s delivery arrives at 10 am on the dot – three full suits, pressed and wrapped, with Victor’s signature scribbled on the invoice like he is issuing a personal challenge. Devon brings the garment bags to your office with a look that says I know everything and I’m telling the group chat the moment I leave this room.

You thank him, barely.

It’s sheer coincidence, of course, that the floor’s scheduled a major vote for the afternoon, the kind they put on banners and b-rolls. C-SPAN and Politico have already parked their crew outside the chamber. You yourself are already dressed for the day in a sharp navy suit, statement earrings, and subtle heels. You’ve been on camera twice this morning and will be again before the end of the day. You've barely had a chance to have your coffee. 

And so it is just a function of practicality that Bucky Barnes shows up at your office just before noon with the sleeves of his day shirt rolled up and his tie stuffed in one pocket.

"Victor delivered?" he asks, already loosening the collar of his shirt as he toes the door shut behind him.

You gesture toward the rack. “Personally. Go with the charcoal pinstripes and try not to break it before the cameras roll.”

He unzips the garment bag and glances back at you. “Want me to change in here?”

“I don’t care where you change, Barnes,” you reply without looking up from your tablet, “as long as the jacket makes it through one vote without structural failure.”

He shrugs. “You staying?”

“I’ve got too much left to read," you say quietly, eyes still on the tablet, "and nowhere better to be.”

You keep your gaze fixed on the screen. You will not stare while he peels his shirt off like a man who has never once had to worry about being perceived.

You do not register the sound of buttons slipping free.

You do not notice the rustle of fabric, the stretch of muscle, the quiet exhale he lets out when the collar loosens.

The section header on your screen reads: Summary of proposed appropriations for FY26.

You’ve read the page four times. You would not be able to repeat its contents if your life depended on it.

He buttons the new shirt slowly, leisurely. You can hear it in the way he moves.

When he reaches for the jacket, you’re already standing.

You don’t say anything as you take the jacket down from its hanger, brush the shoulders once, and hold it out for him.

He pauses in front of you but doesn’t reach for it.

“I can do it,” he says softly.

You shake your head. “Let me.”

He turns without comment.

You slide the jacket up over his arms, settling the weight of it across his back. It fits like it’s supposed to – no pinching at the shoulders, no strain at the seams. You smooth it over his frame and let your hands linger just long enough to tell yourself you're just feeling for tension along the stitching. 

You circle in front of him, new tie in hand. You adjust his lapels and button the top button of his shirt yourself, slow and firm.

Before you can speak, he asks – mildly, almost carelessly, but not really at all, “you gonna tie it for me?”

You respond by sliding the fabric around his neck, slow and deliberate, letting it settle against the collar of his new shirt. It fits – too well. Clean lines, pressed seams, nowhere to hide.

“You could do this yourself,” you murmur.

“Sure,” he replies. “But your approval ratings are better.”

You don’t rise to it, not out loud.

Instead, you start the knot.

Not fast. Not businesslike. You take your time, fingers grazing the hollow of his throat, the soft scrape of new cotton against your knuckles. He exhales – shallow, quiet, controlled.

You don’t finish it.

Just as the final loop would tighten, you let the tie fall slack in your hands and take a step back.

His brow lifts, amused. “Giving up?”

“Letting you contribute,” you say, tone dry. “God forbid you show up to a vote half-dressed again.”

He chuckles low in his chest, but finishes the knot with a flick of his wrist. His eyes don’t leave you. “You like the charcoal?”

You brush a speck of lint from his lapel. Let your palm settle there for a beat too long.

“Victor’s best work,” you murmur. “If you break this one, I’m filing that workplace hazard report.”

“I’d like to see that paperwork,” he says, leaning in. His voice drops. “Will it mention how close you’re standing?”

You tilt your head. “Only if you wrinkle the jacket.”

He smiles – sharp, wrecked, beautiful. You ignore it.

"You’re ready,” you murmur. It’s meant to be a statement, but it comes out feeling like a dare.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice lower than it needs to be.

You straighten the line of his collar and let your thumb graze the base of his throat like you have the right.

“Don’t ruin it until after,” you say, adjusting the knot at his throat like it’s the only thing you still have control over.

He leans in. “That a dress code policy or a personal plea?”

You say nothing and ignore the way your face heats up. 

He lets the silence stretch, inordantely pleased. 

Then, while adjusting his cuffs and grinning. "Either way, I'll try not to disappoint." 

You step back. “You have five minutes to make it to chamber,” you say, tone even. “Go be legislative.”

He nods, heading for the door. But he does glance back once, shameless. "I'll do my best." 

And then he's gone, leaving you standing in your office, adjusting the cuffs of your own jacket lilke it might keep your hands from shaking. 

~*~

Recess is called five minutes into the session. Some kind of procedural delay – something wrong with the roll call, something about a faulty vote counter.

You’re not listening.

You’re watching him.

Bucky hasn’t looked away since you adjusted his jacket fifteen minutes ago. Since your fingers brushed the collar like you were daring him to keep it together. And apparently, he can't.

He waits until the chamber begins to thin before he moves – silent, clean, intentional – and you follow.

Neither of you speak.

You end up in one of the hallway bathrooms – technically gender-neutral, technically a staff washroom, technically not a place for professional misbehaviour.

But the moment the door clicks shut behind you, it stops being technical.

He turns and you’re already there.

Your hands immediately go to the lapels. Again. But not to fix them this time.

This time, you pull.

“You look like a problem,” he mutters.

“Then solve it.”

The kiss is not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s been months in the making. Every ripped seam, every stare across committee hearings, every time you told yourself you could handle the sight of him in a suit he doesn’t deserve to wear this well – it crashes down like a tsunami.

He grunts when your mouth meets his, and he crowds you into the counter. His hands are everywhere – hip, waist, jaw, anchored in your blazer like he has no intention of letting go.

You fist your hand in his tie – new tie, freshly pressed tie – and drag him closer until he groans into your mouth like it hurts.

“You said not until after,” he breathes against your neck.

“You waited,” you kiss him again, just to punish him for it. “Congratulations.”

His mouth curves into a smile, but it’s wrecked. “You gonna yell at me for the wrinkles?”

You grip the lapels again and pull.

“Try me.”

He laughs – low, feral, ruined– and kisses you deeper, hungrier. The jacket groans in protest under your grip. One of you knocks something off the counter that falls to the floor with a crash. You don’t even bother to see what it is.

He palms the back of your thigh and mutters, “still going strong. You stress-testing for structural failure?”

You kiss the edge of his jaw. “No,” you whisper. “I’m trying to cause it.”

His hands go under your blouse. Yours slip beneath his waistband like a threat. He grips the counter behind you like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

He shrugs. That goddamn shrug.

Your knees nearly give out.

“You’re going to ruin me,” you whisper.

“You’re letting me,” he says, somewhere between reverent and fucked.

Your phone buzzes with your two minute timer.

You pull back first. Barely, just enough to breathe.

Your lipstick is gone. His tie is a disaster. Your blouse is askew. The shoulder of his jacket is unmistakably wrinkled. 

He touches just beneath your lip. His thumb lingers. “You should touch that up.”

You glance down. At the tie. The crease in the jacket. The faint imprint of your grip still visible across his chest.

"You won't fix it?" you murmur. 

“I want them to wonder,” he says slowly, entirely unrepentant. 

You hold his gaze for a beat longer than necessary.

You open the door and walk out first.

He waits exactly ninety seconds.

And follows.

A/N: I need to touch some grass!

A/N (again): there's now a continuation! Benchpressing a Hummer (for Charity)

off the record masterpost || AO3 || congressman bucky masterpost

[casualhedonists]

✩ it don’t need your loving, it just needs attention ✩ (chapter two)

pairing: Coriolanus Snow x reader

chapter: 2/?

MASTERLIST

warnings: NSFW (18+), snow being snow, themes of sex work (not the reader), cuckolding, eventual smut, fake relationship, unprotected sex, themes of voyeurism & mild exhibitionism, murder mention (but no actual murder) (not yet at least?), MAJOR manipulation/gross power dynamics + generally darkish themes, some power play, oral sex, thigh riding, eventual piv, i’m new to full on smut bear with me here (and pls tell me if i forgot anything!)

i do not give permission for my work to be reposted/translated anywhere, under any circumstances.

a/n: first off, THANK YOU for the love on chapter 1. wasn’t sure how I’d fare since I’ve done a lot of writing in my life but little to no smut. with that said! longer chapter incoming. also I just know he’d give insane head okay i just do,the guy looks like he fucks and he definitely does

You weren't sure exactly how you slipped away from Snow’s room that night, but you could somewhat piece it together in flashes. First a head rush, then the fire in the pit of your stomach practically having gasoline thrown on it.

You remembered a quiet gasp escaping your lips, then panic, a flash of white, and suddenly you were stumbling away, head spinning as you tried to catch your breath, pacing unevenly down the hallway, any chance of a stealthy escape long thrown out the window.

Back in your room, once the door was bolted and your back was against it, making sure nobody could get in if they tried, you had your first shot at clear-headedness since you’d heard heels scuffing the hardwood.

You’d soaked your panties through and were dripping down your thighs, but you’d be damned if you could get into the headspace to take care of it. Panic flooded your veins, ice-hot as you tried to catch your breath. you slid down the door and sat there, legs numb against the cold wooden planks.

Who was she? A million questions filled your head all at once. Was she from the Capitol? Could she be one of Snow’s friends, one of your friends? The thought made you sick. What if you’d dined with her before? Talked to her? How long had this been happening? Who knew about it? Were you being played?

Had he seen you watching him?

Unable to help yourself, your one-track mind took you back to the way he’d groaned your name, though you were half sure that had been a fever dream of some kind. Still, you kept replaying it. Over and over, like a broken record.

It didn’t make any sense, you were so fucking confused. All this time you’d been hoping he would make a move, you’d practically begged him to. Why hadn’t he? When you were clearly on his mind, and yet he made you believe he didn’t think of you that way at all. Was he just respecting your agreement?

You fiddled with the lace on the hem of your slip as you mulled it over. You stayed sat like this for almost an hour, trying unsuccessfully to wrap your head around it. When you ended up right back where you started, and you were sure enough time had passed that if someone was coming to get you, they would’ve already, you finally stood up. Your caution led you to drag a chair from across the room, propping it up by the door to jam the handle. That left you with the sliver of peace of mind you required to shower off this cold sweat you’d formed.

The next morning, you dreaded breakfast. But you knew you had to face him, as well as the fact that this could very well be your last meal. You should at least try to eat well.

You made your way downstairs, a few minutes later than usual, enough for Coriolanus to already be sipping coffee, a few pages through his newspaper. You’d not got fully dressed yet, not wanting the contrast to be too obvious, but you’d wrapped a silk dressing gown around you so you were a little more covered up. You knew one thing for certain, you wouldn’t be trying any more of your tricks until you knew just what you were dealing with.

He didn’t look over at you, which you took as a good sign. The urge to hide from him, from what you’d seen and what you now knew, overwhelmed you. You didn’t say a word, and picked silently at your breakfast, but despite your best efforts, not managing to keep more than a few bites down.

“You’re quiet today.” He muttered, and you started.

“Um.”

He lowered his paper.

“Something wrong?”

How about everything?

“Oh, no, I’m okay. Just uh…” you glanced up at him, and met his sharp gaze. Fuck. You’d hoped you’d go unnoticed. You felt like a deer in headlights, like he could read your mind.

“Well?” He prompted, gaze unwavering. You blinked.

“Headache.” You managed to breathe, faking a small, pitiful smile.

He brought his paper back up in front of him, crisply turning the page. You both thanked the new barrier between you for cutting off his stare, and resented it as you looked at the tiny printed words you couldn’t make out from where you were sitting.

“I’ll have Lucille bring you up something.”

“Thank you.” you said quickly, almost too quickly, and you feared he might lower his paper again to watch you as you stumbled over another excuse. But you fell lucky this time.

The week seemed to pass in a blur, Monday’s gala being one of the only times you really left your room when Snow was around, other than meal times, which you spent in a similar state as that first breakfast. You cursed yourself for throwing out your longer dresses, and settled for the least suggestive of them, the white one you’d been thinking of pitching to Snow as a backup plan in your panicked state outside his bedroom. That all felt worlds away now. What you’d seen had shifted the tides, marking a solid, definitive line in your head between the before and after.

The gala went as well as it could given the circumstances. You danced, Snow was charming to you in front of the guests, but held your gaze no longer than usual. It was simultaneously terrifying and thrilling to feel his hands on your waist, knowing what you knew. It felt like you’d been tapped with a cattle prod and had to hide it every time his hand brushed yours on top of the dinner table, as unsuspecting guests smiled at you, the happy couple.

If only they knew that in the same breath, you were scanning the crowd, wondering who the blonde could’ve been, how close she was to Snow, if at all, and hating the way every touch he placed on your hands and waist served as a reminder that he’d been touching her instead of you.

Your stupid brain had formed a highlight reel of what you’d witnessed behind Snow’s door, and it tortured you with every passing moment. To know he was thinking of you. To think that maybe, he wanted you there instead. It put a strange sense of possessive pride into you, that weaved between your jealousy. Because yes, you’d seen another girl on her knees with her mouth around him, but you hadn’t heard any name other than your own while it happened.

You carried this strange hope, dwindling to start off, and then building each day that you were left un-hanged and very much alive, slowly chipping away at your fear of the worst. And yet, you knew the game, unbeknownst to Snow, had been fundamentally changed. You’d stopped your antics altogether, now barely meeting his eye as you passed each other in the hallway, covering up more at breakfast, and only talking just enough to avoid another interrogation. Avoiding touch, and conversation, and all-around keeping yourself away from him.

You were quieter still at night in your room. After a few days, you’d finally felt safe enough to move the chair away and sleep with the door locked as you normally would. But while your games had stopped, your want for him had only been amplified. Fuelled by jealousy and frustration, you had to bite down on your hand so that not even the slightest noise made its way out as you pictured him, not as you used to in your fantasies, but as you’d seen him that night, undone with your name on his lips. It was much easier, in your head, to picture yourself as the one on your knees. Any other fantasy just failed to make the cut now you’d seen the real thing.

Thursday rolled around and you’d made a new habit of pacing the downstairs library when Coriolanus was out of the house. That way, if he got home and stepped inside, you could pretend to be lost in a book. But the hours seemed to stretch out and you became bored, and with no Snow in sight, you decided to head down to the servants’ quarters.

This wasn’t a common occurrence, but it wasn’t unheard of. You were known for your gentleness among the house staff, less harsh than Snow, but firm nonetheless. It had led you to a respectful friendliness with the maids and servants, and once every so often you’d check in on them.

Today’s objectives, however, were purely self-motivated. You found Lucille, who dressed you, at the kitchen table, chopping vegetables.

She stood upon seeing you, and curtseyed (Snow was rather old fashioned that way). You nodded, then took a seat at the foot of the table.

“Do you need any help with that?” You glanced at the cutting board.

Lucille’s eyes widened. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Ma’am.”

You laughed. Lucille chopped and diced, and you asked questions. At first, they were after her family, her brother was sick and despite your offers, she wouldn’t accept help. So instead you listened, and slowly but surely, your questions got a little more directed toward the object of your interest.

You were good at playing the long game, so you started by asking about the company he kept. What she thought of them, with the promise that it would stay between the two of you, cross your heart.

She wouldn’t say much but she knew a little more than you; Snow kept very similar company as you did, and rarely went out for social visits. Any trips were strictly work-related, and when you eased into the topic of his past, Lucille mentioned, in very polite terms, that he had left a small trail of women heartbroken after a short period of time. That not all of them had been pleasant, and that she was pleased you seemed to have a positive effect on him.

She knew about your arrangement, practically the whole staff did, but they were kept on a very tight leash and were thoroughly reminded to not say a word acknowledging it, not even to you. It was with a knowing glance that Lucille told you she was happy you’d stayed around.

You smiled. Knowing that was likely all you were going to get for now, you let her be. By then, it was late enough to have gone dark, and you headed up to bed.

You awoke to creaking outside your door, and the shadow of footsteps from underneath it. You’d been tossing and turning for the last - you checked your watch - two hours. Excellent. You rolled onto your back wondering who it was, and then you heard it again. At first you wondered if it was just a sleep-deprived hallucination, or a sense of deja-vu, but then you focused, and there it was. The sound of heels. Again.

You sat up in bed, pushing your hair out of your face. You were enraged the first time, but if this was becoming a Thursday night tradition, it would be a serious problem. You were tired, you reasoned, you could just try to go back to sleep. Ignore it. Not let him have this power over you, a power that he didn’t even know he had. All the more reason to ignore it, and make it tomorrow’s problem.

But you just couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie, no matter how hard you tried. Your mother used to say it was a problem, always sticking your nose in places it didn’t belong. But it had got you this far, hadn't it?

You knew you were going to follow her to Snow’s room again, it was just a matter of time. You had to at least pretend you had an ounce of self-control, whereas really your head was thrumming and you knew it would take getting hit by a high-speed train to send you back to sleep now.

So you held off. Five minutes passed. Then ten. You had to know, at least, what they were doing. Maybe you could get a look at her face, see who it was, and answer some of the questions you had.

So you went. With a purpose this time, knowing full well what and who you’d end up seeing, trying to take steady breaths and focus on your plan. Check who it was, then leave.

You’d never been that great at execution. Call it hedonism, call it a morbid fascination, or living vicariously, but when you walked up to the door - which was ajar again, strangely even more than last time, by at least an inch or two - you looked inside, and your feet planted. The last shred of your self-control allowed you to take in the room first, the desk and chair that was right within your sight, and as you tucked yourself into the room, half hidden behind the door, you finally looked back at the bed where you’d seen Snow with his blonde girl last time.

Neither of them were sitting now.

Thirty seconds ago, you would’ve believed the hottest thing you’d ever seen was what played out in this room last week. But that was before you saw Snow turned away from you, still fully dressed with his sleeves rolled up, stomach on the bed and face between the blonde’s thighs, eating her out like he was on death row and she was his last meal.

You’d gotten head before. You knew it felt good, but the boys you’d slept with before your arrangement with Snow were selfish and inattentive. They would try, but they were far more interested in getting their dicks wet than showing you a good time. But Snow - you’d never seen anything like it. You didn’t know it could feel that good, or at least, not as good as the blonde girl - who you noted in the back of your mind, wasn’t anyone you recognised - was making it look. Her hips were bucking so hard he was having to pin her down with both hands around her waist.

She was just moving so much, wriggling and crying out and gasping and - you didn’t think you’d ever truly known jealousy until that moment. You couldn’t look away, knees weak and hands shaking, letting yourself get sucked into this headspace again, losing all trace of rationality. You’d think she was playing it up for him, but you knew what that sounded like. You’d faked enough orgasms to know if she was, but this? This was real. As she got close, grinding into him, writhing, running a shaky hand through his hair then getting louder, you managed to snap out of your trance.

In a flash, you ran back down the hallway.

If you thought you were avoiding Snow before, this week was about to give you a run for your money. You took breakfast in your room, and kept only to the parts of the house you knew he never entered. You only touched yourself in the shower, silent cries washed away by the water and steam, paranoia backing you into a corner.

You feigned illness the one time Snow sent a maid to inquire after you. Nothing too major, but enough to put him off. When he left the house, you snuck into the library to smuggle books back to your room, a pile forming as you tried ceaselessly to distract yourself.

You wrote home, you studied art and history. You attempted a few terrible sketches. You tore apart your room, then put it back together.

Before you knew it, Thursday rolled around again. On longer days like this, when Snow had been away working for hours at a time, you’d doubled down on your efforts to get information, and after chipping away for just long enough, you finally managed to squeeze some tidbits out of Lucille. Namely that there was a certain gentleman’s club in the city that he used to frequent before his election as President. Snow’s old driver might know its name, she said.

“But that was long before he met you, ma’am, rest assured.” She added hurriedly.

“Of course. Thank you, Lucille. I think I’ve kept you for long enough. Goodnight.”

Snow had been gone for the whole day, and you weren’t sure if he’d come home yet, so as you headed up to your room, you quietly wandered a little further down the hallway, to check if there was any light beneath his door. There wasn’t. Good. You were glad he wouldn’t be continuing this routine of his. Maybe this Thursday night, you could sleep peacefully.

With a sigh, and mulling over what you’d learned today, you returned to your room, poured a drink, then collapsed into bed.

This night was as sleepless as the rest, and you’d been drifting - not uncomfortably - in and out. A storm was brewing outside, and the sounds of howling wind began to keep you alert. You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling, then glanced towards your door. Snow must’ve come home at some point, and very late at that, because dim lights had been turned on in the hallway. Paranoia crept into your mind, slowly poisoning your thoughts and turning you inside out.

It didn’t take long before the feeling pushed you to roll out of bed, slide on a dressing gown, and crack open your door. This time, you couldn’t hear footsteps, or anything that might arise suspicion. You closed the door again. Waited. Then looked around your room, at the messy sheets and the half finished glass of liquor on the nightstand. You rarely drank alone, but these past few weeks had been getting to you, fucking with your head. Coriolanus Snow had driven you to this.

The wind got louder, and you knew you were too wired to sleep, so you stood by your window and finished the glass.

You’d never been good with mysteries. You wanted to know everything, all the time. Know who had power over you, know precisely how to take it away. Know exactly what was happening around you at any given moment. But most of all, you didn’t like being played for a fool.

And sure, the ethics of it had never been discussed between the two of you. Your business was strictly professional, but when you weren’t allowed to sleep around, why could he?

In fact, how dare he?

You poured another glass, straight whiskey. Downed it, pacing your room, back and forth between the door and the window, running your fingers along the ridges of the crystal glass. You thought about him, comfortably in his room, not a care in the world.

How dare he.

You weren’t sure if it was the drink or the buildup of your situation that had your blood boiling, but it didn’t matter. You were incensed. His behaviour was an insult to your name, to your family’s name. Sure, this relationship was a sham, but all the more reason for him to act with basic fucking respect. Sleeping with - and very obviously, at that - a whore, who had a bad habit of leaving the door cracked open, was unacceptable.

You were running hot, and if you knew one thing for certain, it was that when Snow met with fire, he was going to melt. You’d make sure of it.

Your feet took you into the hallway, with the decidedness that this would be the last time.

You rushed down the corridor with a tightly bottled rage that was about to burst, words hot on your tongue and demanding to be spoken, until you turned the corner and saw Snow’s door half open. You stopped in your tracks. Reassessed, then stepped closer, slowly, steadily. Remembering what you were there for.

Then, as you got close enough to see inside - right there, without you even having to step past the threshold, were the two of them, lit by a table lamp, Snow sat on the desk chair as the girl rode him to high heaven, obscene noises getting louder. As you approached you saw Snow’s face again, eyes shut, breath laboured, and you couldn’t believe that anyone just walking by would be able to see this. They were fucking like animals, out in the open. You didn’t know how or why you drew closer still, closing in on them. The girl’s head was dropped down to his shoulder, back facing you, and couldn’t see you unless she turned, but Snow? He was practically facing the door, almost as if he’d been…

No. It couldn’t be. Could it?

But you didn’t have time to think it through, because Snow’s eyes blinked open, and you knew. He was looking right at you, blue eyes piercing into yours, sharp and dangerous like he was going in for the kill. You stood there, jaw dropped, unable to look away. In what world could you walk in on someone like this, and feel like they held all the cards, and you none? That was how he looked at you; like you’d been there watching the whole time, and this was all a show, playing out exactly as he’d planned it. Like somehow, despite all your best efforts, he’d landed on top.

It was like he read your mind, because he wet his lips, unblinking as the blonde writhed on his lap, and fucking smirked.

a/n: can’t wait for them to hate fuck after this (oh sorry forgot i’m the author for a sec) thanks for reading <3

taglist: @superchatnoir07 @itsrainingreid @nycweb-slinger @lookclosernow @etfrin @resibunn @serving-targaryen-realness @harmfulb1tch @demonsnangels @superb-icarus @julesandro @gracieroxzy @slyhersophia @shadowsepiphany @ben-has-arrived @unclecrunkle @zerotwo-sciencequeen @itsleniiilosers @thesiriusmap @ooooglymoooogly @darkqweenn @going-through-shit @loverw1tch @stinkii-boii

if you’d like to be tagged, please leave a comment on the masterlist!! 💌

[lqveharrington]

Holidays | C.S.

summary: your first holiday/christmas outside of the districts

pairing: politician!coriolanus snow x fem!reader

includes: mainly fluff, reader is from district 12 (this is very important in this one-shot), coriolanus is manipulative in this (not a lot, but still), angst if you squint.

a/n: happy holidays 🎄

Despite living in the Capitol, your spirits were up when the holidays came around. Those living at the Capitol had many decorations up and participated in festivities that would certainly get those in the districts in trouble.

As the chosen wife of — the sudden rise to power and wealth — Coriolanus Snow, you were also put into the impression that you were to make this holiday season the best for you and your husband.

On the morning of Christmas Eve, Coriolanus told you that he was to work late, strategizing to help his campaign as he was running for president next year. Of course, you were used to this and gave him a kiss bye as you started your day with the festivities that you used to do back in your home.

By the time Coriolanus came home, it was late and he assumed you were sleeping already. What he did not know was that you were still in the kitchen baking cookies and decorating gingerbread house while playing music from your record collection.

“Why are you still up so late?” Coriolanus wrapped his arms around your hips, resting his head on your shoulder.

You grin at his presence, shifting to meet his eyes. “I wanted to surprise you with cookies and a pretty gingerbread house.”

“Aren’t you sweet?” He kisses your cheek.

“I would like to think so.” You pop a gum drop into your mouth, taking one of your earlier cookies you made from the counter. “Want some?”

He hummed, opening his mouth. You broke a piece off and gave it to him, waiting for a reaction of some sort.

“Well?”

“It’s delicious.” He swallowed, reaching for the rest of the cookie in your hand. “I think I should take them all.”

You let out an airy laugh, handing him the baked good. “I think you should help me decorate this house so we can go to bed. I’m sure you’re tired, Coryo.”

———

“What are you doing now?” Coriolanus asked you as he got out of the bathroom, hair still wet. He brought the a towel to his head, watching you stand outside on the balcony. “My love, you’re going to catch a cold staying out there.”

“I know…” You mess with your silk robe, rubbing the sleeve with your thumb. “Just give me a few more seconds. I want to check off the last thing I used to do back in 12 for Christmas Eve.”

He refrained from scoffing at the mention of District 12, slipping one arm around your waist. “You don’t remember how bad it was back there before I saved you? Why do things that bring back memories of those days being treated like a peasant?”

You stayed quiet, listening to his words intently.

“I believe you should be grateful you aren’t spending time in the freezing weather and instead participate in the fun activities in the Capitol. Where you belong.” He pecked your cheek. “Unless you want to go back… Then that can easily be arranged.”

“No, don’t.” You frown, looking up at the shining moon. “I love it here. A lot. And, I’m really grateful for it, really.”

“Good answer.” He runs his hand up to your chin, tilting it so you would face him. “Just this one thing and then come to bed, okay?”

You nod, pecking his lips. “Thank you… Love you.”

Coriolanus smiles at you, pressing one last tentative kiss to your lips and leaving for the bed, not bothering to take the time to understand what you were doing.

Leaning against the cement railings, your focus moves back to the bright moon, smiling sadly at it.

“I promise I’ll be back and see you again…” You whisper into the crisp, night air, the wind lightly blowing at your skin. “We’ll be okay. Just watch over mom for me. I’ll see you both again.”

You check your watch for the time, the second hand hitting the twelve. “From your somewhat cool older sister: Merry Christmas, Burdock Everdeen.”

read more about coriolanus snow here !!

a/n pt2: MING BLOWING 🤯 she’s related to katniss, isn’t that silly :)

©lqveharrington - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms

[gallifreyinstituteforlearning]

I'm asking so many questions but finals are coming up and I'm terrified- can I get a rundown on who Omega is???

Who is Omega?

Welcome to the very sad story of Omega. Okay, he's tried to destroy the Universe a few times, but we at GIL are big fans of the deeply misunderstood Omega.

👶 From Peylix to Problematic Hero

Peylix was a Shobogan, born on ancient Gallifrey—still dominated by mysticism, prophecy, and a matriarchal theocracy ruled by soothsayer-queens known as the Pythias. He spent his early life attending school on time, sharpening pencils, and learning absolutely everything he could about stellar engineering and quantum theory. He was especially interested in time travel.

At one point in his school days, he wrote an enthusiastic paper on time travel theory based on Genefrenian models. For this paper, he earned the lowest academic mark in Gallifreyan history: Omega. He kept the name.

As Omega grew, he befriended Rassilon and became part of the Neo-Technologist movement—those who sought to depose the Pythia and replace her priesthood with science and rationality. Arguably, Omega was never particularly interested in politics. But Rassilon and the Neo-Technologists' rise offered him one thing: more space to do his science.

While Omega was busy in the labs doing science and being oblivious to brewing civil war, on a dark night in the Capitol, the Neo-Technologists stormed the Temple and violently overthrew the Pythian regime. Blood ran in the streets. The Pythia cursed Gallifrey with sterility and hurled herself into a prophetic abyss.

Omega was, notably, the only person who looked at the aftermath and said, 'Hmm. I don't think I like how violent this is.'

Still, the revolution had happened. With Rassilon and a third figure known only as the Other, Omega formed the new ruling Triumvirate. But make no mistake—he didn't want power. He just wanted to finish his equations.

🖐️ The Hand of Omega

While Rassilon was busy farting around with politics and naming things after himself, Omega was designing the Hand of Omega—a stellar manipulator capable of collapsing stars into controlled singularities. This was Gallifrey's golden ticket: the power source needed to make time travel a reality.

But during a test of the Hand, something went catastrophically wrong (whether by accident or subterfuge). The star collapsed into a black hole, and Omega vanished, presumed dead.

🕳️ The Anti-Matter Exile

Shocker! Omega wasn't dead. He had fallen into a universe of pure antimatter. There, he made two chilling discoveries:

His physical body no longer existed.

No one was coming to help.

Trapped in a realm of unreality, with no mass, no matter, and no tea, Omega's consciousness endured. But so did his bitterness. Over time, isolation twisted into rage. Gallifrey had abandoned him, stolen his legacy, and left him to decay.

And, well... be fair. That is what happened.

⚔️ Showdowns with the Doctor

📍 First Contact (…Sort Of)

Millennia later, Omega attempted to break back into the real universe, draining Time Lord energy to fuel his return. The Time Lords responded with their best emergency measure: summoning three incarnations of the Doctor and giving them the vague instruction 'please fix this'.

The Doctors discovered Omega's body no longer existed. The Doctor (specifically, the Second) accidentally left behind a recorder—a physical object—which destabilised Omega's anti-matter realm and collapsed it around him.

He was not amused, but he did survive.

📍 Return Visit

Still very much not dead, Omega later hacked into the Matrix with the help of the Toymaker (or rather, someone with the same face), hijacked the Doctor's biodata, and built himself a new body using said biodata as a template. He materialised briefly on Earth, looking suspiciously Doctor-like.

Unfortunately, matter-based flesh doesn't sit well with anti-matter souls, and somehow, the genius Omega hadn't caught onto that idea yet. His body decayed rapidly, and the Doctor used an anti-matter converter to fling him back into the void. Again.

Since then, Omega has attempted multiple methods to return from the antimatter universe, but he has never succeeded.

➕Though Also...

According to some accounts, after his original encounters with Omega, the Sixth Doctor learned that there was evidence suggesting Omega might be his grandpappy. Whether or not that's true is anyone's guess, though the Doctor was notably a bit of an Omega fan in his youth.

💕We Love Omega!

Yes, he's tried to destroy Earth/the Universe/a few timelines. But let's recap:

He invented the technology that powers Gallifrey.

He enabled time travel.

He was abandoned by his society.

And then he got blamed for being upset about it.

Omega is Gallifrey's greatest genius, and its greatest loss. He is also the universe's most powerful introvert, and possibly the single most compelling argument for robust anti-matter mental health services.

We love Omega. We can't wait to see what he does next.

Related:

📺|🏺The Long and Complicated History of the Time Lords: Part III – The Rise of the Time Lords

📺|🏺The Long and Complicated History of the Time Lords: Part IV – The Birth of the Time Lords

💬|👤👑Why is Rassilon everywhere?: Who Rassilon is and why you should care.

Hope that helped! 😃

Any orange text is educated guesswork or theoretical. More content ... →📫Got a question? | 📚Complete list of Q+A and factoids →📢Announcements |🩻Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts → Features: ⭐Guest Posts | 🍜Chomp Chomp with Myishu →🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (pending) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine Guides →📝Source list (WIP) →📜Masterpost If you're finding your happy place in this part of the internet, feel free to buy a coffee to help keep our exhausted human conscious. She works full-time in medicine and is so very tired 😴

[flowercrownsandherondales]

Against the Odds Pt. 22

Buckle in y’all. We are in for a ride. 

XXII: Time is Never TIme At All. 

Haymitch sat me down a few days later, Twyla spending the day with her new favorite person, Peeta, while I watched the recap of the games. 

I had to give it to them, the berries stunt was stupid, but it was brave. 

And it would eventually cost all of us something. 

The train for the Victory Tour would be rounding the corner soon, Haymitch uneasily boarding. Before he left, he’d spent the day repairing and reinstalling the phone in the wall. 

“I need to have a line to communicate with you, case somethin’ goes wrong and you and Twyla have to get to safety.” 

We bid him goodbye a week or so later, big smiles and tearful kisses for the cameras as all three pieces of my heart bounded the train. I held the last piece tight, promising her lots of cookies and sweets if she helped me check on Peeta’s house and the Everdeen’s each day. 

I allowed our TV to play the live footage of the tour as we had dinner each night, Twyla smiling bright at each glimpse of Peeta and Katniss. It went smooth for the most part, Katniss monotone, reciting whatever Effie had trained her to read. Peeta was charming, pulling her in for kisses when he could, laying it on thicker and thicker as they reached more districts. 

Something else was being laid on thicker and thicker the longer they were gone. 

Peacekeepers arrived in droves, hellbent on keeping District 12 in line while we waited for our new victors to return. I had taken Twyla out the day before, and as we trekked by I caught another circle forming around the square, yelps and hollars echoing throughout the district. 

“Momma? What that sound?” My hands shook in hers, flashes of my own time spent on the post reappearing. I had snatched her up after that, practically sprinting us home and bolting the door. We hadn’t left the house since, not even when Twyla begged and screamed to visit Prim and feed Lady. 

Astrid was back to a semi normal state, functioning completely yet still battling moments where her eyes glazed over, lost in a nightmare. Gale had been stopping by to check on them, which eased my mind a bit. 

I waited until Twyla was tucked in bed before calling Haymitch. The peacekeeper presence had me on edge, and I needed to know if something had happened on the tour to cause it. They always were heavy during winter, but it seemed that even the smallest offenses were going noticed. 

“They’re everywhere. There’s talk of public executions too.” Haymitch sighed heavily over the crackle of the cord, something unsaid trapped in his throat. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised. There was an incident in 11. Peeta publicly promised Rue’s family he would donate a portion of their winnings, a few people from the crowd held up three fingers, it got ugly, Y/N. I barely got the kids out before they hauled up a few people to shoot.” I nodded solemnly, nothing I could say without my voice shaking. 

Haymitch just let out a heavy breath. “Just promise me you’ll both stay home. With your track record, I’m not sure I trust you won’t sacrifice yourself again.” That earned a scoff from me, a glimmer of rage bubbling up. He wouldn’t let that one go. 

“I have a daughter to think about, thank you very much.” My voice turned into a sneer before I could stop it, a humorless chuckle coming from the other end of the phone. 

“Yeah yeah. I gotta go, Katniss is pretty shaken up. We’ll be home in two days.” He promised me, allowing the space to stay silent where I love you should be. 

Too risky to say over the phone. 

I allowed Twyla to watch coverage from the Presidential party, indicating the end of the tour. She cooed at the fashion, the bright lights and colors bouncing off her skin as she attempted to critique each person’s outfit. If she lived another life, raised in the Capitol, I might have bragged she’d grow up to be a stylist for the games. 

Once my victors returned things settled into a soft peace. Katniss hunted, Peeta baked, and Haymitch drank. More often than not the blonde boy joined us for dinner, breaking me down until I allowed him to make any of the rolls or desserts. I was secretly relieved as I bit into his newest creation, he had a gift. Katniss didn’t usually stay for dinner, but she could be coaxed to come for coffee once she got done hunting, listening to Tywla go on endlessly about something or other while I tried to tread around what was going on with her and Peeta. 

The winter came harsher than any other. The constant threat kept Haymitch on alert, his usual little grips coming with a rougher edge than usual. A few times I snapped back at him for making Twyla’s lip quiver in tears, our toddler not understanding why her daddy was so upset. 

It all came to a horrible head when Gale was whipped. 

Haymitch had gone to the Hob to grab another bottle, ignoring my pleas for him to try and tone it down. He hadn’t come back for hours, the sun starting to set low when our front door opened. 

I wiped my hands on my apron before ripping it off, anger radiating through my body. He said he’d be back in a few minutes, I’d spent the last few hours answering Twyla a million times as she asked where daddy went, if we could go get him, etc. 

Haymitch’s eyes widened as he took me in, a guilty look taking over his face as he raised a hand to stop me, taking a deep breath. 

“I know. I know, love. Gale Hawthorne was the latest victim of the whipping post. Katniss tried to step in front of him, and Peeta tried to protect her. Fuckin’ mess.” The heat coming off me lessened, my shoulders deflating. 

“He gonna be alright?” I was honestly too scared to ask. The whip had made a mess of me, and I only had a few striked compared to what they were dishing out these days. 

“Yeah, Astrid’s tending to him now. They’re in for a long night.” I nodded. 

“Katniss and Peeta alright?” A half smile pulled the corner of his mouth, muttering something about me being a mama bear. 

“Fine. Katniss has a small strike on her face, but it ain’t nothing she hasn’t felt before. Peeta’s gonna stay with her while they make sure Gale is okay.” I let out the breath I’d been holding. Kids were fine. Husband’s fine. Everything’s fine. 

He opened his arms out, pulling me in. 

“Sorry I was late. Sorry we’ve been fightin’. Been worried something like this would happen.” I answered with a kiss to his jaw, nuzzling my head further into him and drinking in his warmth. 

“It’s alright. I know everything feels like it’s not right now, but we’re okay.” I mumbled into him, earning a nod and kiss to the head, arms squeezing me just an inch tighter. 

“Another Quell is coming up.” Haymitch and I hadn’t spoken about it. The rules changed for a Quarter Quell, as we had both seen first hand. The worry of it was eating me alive. One thing repeated in my head over and over again. 

What if they decide to go younger

Surely it was irrational. There was no way in hell they could throw my now 4 year old in that arena. 

But Snow wasn’t against killing children. Why should he care if they were 8 years younger than normal? 

We got our answer a few weeks later. The snow was just beginning to melt, Gale had healed, and the rift between Peeta and Katniss was starting to look less like a chasm and more like a river. 

The broadcast had interrupted Twyla’s favorite show. Something made for Capitol kids, the actors dressed more insane than they normally did. 

“Mommy, where’s my show?” She pouted, arms crossed over her chest as she willed the TV to turn back. Our girl had finally gotten sentences down, even if they were small. 

Haymitch paled when the President’s face took over the screen. He went through the importance of having one, reminding citizens why they sent their children to the slaughterhouse. 

This year's tributes will be selected from the existing pool of victors. 

No one in the house moved an inch. 

Haymitch stood, letting out a guttural sound before tossing his bottle at the hologram TV, the glass passing through it and shattering on impact. 

Twyla started to scream, terrified for the first time in her life of her father’s actions. Fat tears rolled down her chubby cheeks, eyes red and looking for protection. 

“Haymitch…” I whispered, hands starting to shake as I took slow steps towards my daughter, scooping her up in one quick motion and rubbing her back. Her hands latched onto my shirt, sobs continuing to ricochet through the house. 

My husband crumpled on the couch, hands fisted in his hair, forearms on his knees and he rocked himself back and forth. 

I wordlessly left the room, letting him have a moment to break down while I soothed Twyla. 

“Mommy, why is daddy upset?” she asked as I tucked her in, smoothing her hair back and humming softly. 

How do you explain to a four year old that her father might have to fight her older sister to the death?

“He might have to go back to the Capitol for a while. That’s all, baby. He just doesn’t want to leave us again.” 

She took a minute to take in what I said, hugging her stuffed bear he’d gotten her from the Capitol tighter to her chest. Her room was filled with small trinkets Haymitch picked up for her when he went, stuffed animals in all different colors, dolls, even an elaborate house I couldn’t think about him carrying around without laughing my ass off. 

“Daddy’s gonna come home, right?” I nodded instantly, not allowing myself to think otherwise.

“Doesn’t he always? He’d never leave us, you know that.” My reassurance was barely there, anxiety crawled through my stomach at the thought of lying to her. 

One day I’d explain it all. I just hoped Haymitch held my hand while I did. 

I didn’t read a book to her that night, instead leaving a few kisses in her hair and shutting off the lights, standing in the doorway just a little longer than normal to ensure she was fast asleep. I didn’t typically shut the door, keeping it mostly cracked in case she had a nightmare or needed us. Tonight though, I shut it firmly, not wanting her to wake up to her father and I crying in the living room. 

Hushed voices filled our living room. Haymitch’s voice sounded resigned, though I couldn’t make out what he was saying. The other voice was softer, but much more confident. 

“Please Haymitch, you have to make sure she makes it out. She has so much more here than I do.” 

Peeta Mellark was begging my husband to save Katniss’s life. 

I stopped on the stairs, straining to hear Haymitch’s response. 

He just sighed, a dark and harsh thing. 

“I’ll do what I can, kid. If it’s me, I don’t want you pulling any stupid shit. All I ask is that you take care of Twyla and Y/N. She’s gonna need help, you can’t let her… end herself over me.” 

I clamped a hand over my mouth before the sob could escape. I didn’t know when I started crying, heavy tears streaming down my face as it hit me. 

I was going to lose them. I was going to lose at least one of them if I was lucky. Katniss, Peeta, Haymitch. A russian roulette to see who gets the bullet. Who leaves me behind. 

Peeta didn’t stay long after that, opting to go home and try to sleep his predetermined fate away. 

“I know you’re there, sweetpea. C’mere.” Haymitch’s voice was so dejected, yet so gentle. As if he were coaxing a frightened kitten out of hiding. 

I slinked down the stairs, taking a good look at my husband. His hair was a mess, falling limply towards his shoulders. Shirt rumpled, bottle in hand. His stubble had grown back since he’d returned from the Victory Tour, making him all the more handsome. There were lines on his face that hadn’t been there when we met again. He was the most beautiful, most precious thing I’d ever seen. 

My knees hit the ground before I could process I was dropping. I buried my face in my hands, the raw grief of it all flushing through my system like a tidal wave. 

“Oh honey, my baby, I’m so sorry.” Haymitch croaked, his own voice filling with the same emotions I felt as he crawled towards me, enveloping me in his strong arms. 

“I–I can’t… I cannot l-oose you.” I blubbered, my sobs turning to wails that he tried to quiet. 

“Shh, you ain’t gonna lose me.” he soothed, hands soft against my back as he attempted to calm me. 

“How am I gonna– I mean what will I— I can’t do it again. How do I even… Twyla can’t.” My breaths felt sharper in my chest, the air being squeezed out more and more as I worked myself up to a frenzy. He pulled back, hands still firm on my shoulder blades, tear tracks running down his face. 

“In and out, Y/N. In and out. It’s all gonna be okay. You aren’t gonna raise Twyla by yourself, not if I have any say in it. Just take some breaths for me, okay?” I followed his breathing, laying a hand on his chest to match his inhales and exhales. 

I wasn’t sure how long it took me to calm down, exhaustion slamming into me like a truck. 

“I need you to hear me, Y/N. You are not going to raise another child by yourself. Our daughter will not be sent to the arena. Everything is going to be absolutely fine, I just need you to trust me.” His voice was barely above a whisper, eyes searching mine with a certain finality I didn’t understand. 

“What do you mean?” He just shook his head, pressing a finger to his lips. Something was happening, something he knew about with more certainty I hadn’t seen in years. A glimmer of something, hope. 

And I wasn’t allowed to know. 

The door creaked open again, Katniss moving like a dead man walking, stopping in her tracks once she saw us on the floor. 

“Y/N?” she breathed, taking in my devastating state. I opened my arms as I so often did, letting her crumple into them. I held her to my chest, rocking us softly back and forth on hardwood. Another set of arms came to wrap around the both of us, Haymitch deciding to break his facade with her for just a moment to offer his girls some comfort. 

Before Katniss could say anything, he stopped her. 

“Peeta’s going to be fine. He was just here.” Instead of looking at him, she moved her head up to look at me, eyes filling with tears. 

“I… you can’t.” Her voice was broken, whimpering. 

“We’ll do what we have to do.” was all my husband said, going back to holding us tight to him, everyone taking a moment to grieve. 

The reaping came quicker than I could ever be ready for. 

I spent all of my time keeping my family as close as humanly possible. I somehow convinced Katniss to let me accompany her while she hunted a few times a week. I baked with Peeta, shutting him down when he offered to write down recipes. Trying to give me something to remember him by. I spent any spare moment wrapped up in Haymitch, breathing him in as if I could install him into my own body, into every cell that made me human. 

We got ready in complete silence. My shaky hands braided Twyla’s hair in two, running my hands over the cotton of her dress. Haymitch zipped mine for me, motioning me to sit as he clasped my shoes together, then Twyla’s. It was filled with small touches between the three of us, memorizing our family unit as it had been, preparing for what it might become. 

Our daughter was quiet all morning, as if she unconsciously knew what was about to happen. 

He kept us close as we walked to the square, taking a deep breath and dropping kisses all over Twyla’s face. Once he was done he pulled me into him, kissing my lips like I was the only source of air left on Earth. I kissed back ten times harder. 

Effie Trinket was dressed in a yellow butterfly number, looking regal as always. I caught her hands shaking as she reached into the bowl, calling off the girls first. 

Or rather, one girl. 

Katniss stood as straight as she could, stepping forward. 

And now for the boys, Haymitch Abernathy. 

My chest tightened. Twyla tugged on my dress. 

“Mommy, does that mean daddy has to go?” she whispered, eyes on her father. I did a brief nod, attempting to keep a scream at bay. 

I volunteer as tribute. 

Peeta Mellark, one of the kindest and most gentle boys I had ever known, stepped forward, much to Haymitch’s protest. 

“I can’t let you do that.” He tried. 

“You can’t stop me.” and with that we had our tributes. 

Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen. 

Haymitch looked helpless, shoulders slumping as he caught me in the crowd. I didn’t know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or let out an ear piercing yell.

But there was one thing I could do. 

I brought three fingers to my lips, a kiss filled with all the love I had for my two kids. All the broken dreams, the broken future. 

And I raised my hand. 

Haymitch looked absolutely terrified. His mouth was moving, no, no, stop, no. I stayed focused on Katniss, who looked ready to collapse. The crowd around me raised their hands in unison. 

And then the peacekeepers came to drag them away. 

Katniss yelled for Prim, for me. Haymitch looked ready to throw a punch, “I need to say goodbye to my wife and child. Get your fucking hands off me.” His growls of protest went completely unheard.  

I sent him a small smile. He was safe, he’d come back to me. 

Even if I wasn’t here when he did. 

[gogobootz1]

The Mentor pt. 2

Finnick Odair x Reader

Summary: Your mentoring tasks persist as you and the newly crowned victor tackle a Capitol party- with some help.

part one | part three

"So you’re stealing from me now?” 

You jump at the sudden sound of the voice behind you. Luckily, none of your champagne spills. 

“Pardon?” You look over your shoulder, only to see a pretty face coming your way. 

“Intellectual theft is serious, you know,” Finnick says with faux sincerity, and takes a sip of his own champagne. 

You lazily roll your eyes, “Please, one of my cows could have come up with the momma-bear angle.” You pick at your nails again, gaze drifting back to where District Ten’s Capitol escort parades Darla around. Before the group of you had even arrived, she’d forbidden you from sticking by Darla’s side the whole night. Said the president wanted people to get to know her- which made you reluctant to separate from the girl you’d taken under your wing. 

You’d settled for watching her like a hawk, prepared to intervene if you recognized any bad apples. 

"Blue suits you, by the way," he starts, and you cast him a suspicious sidelong glance. "Much better than brown, or so I'd assume." You prickle with embarrassment, catching the reference to what he'd overheard the other night.

You cross your arms, "Don't be a jerk." The words sound sad rather than snippy- like you intended them to.

"I was trying to compliment you," he insists. "Really, you look quite nice. This is a far cry from your outfit the other night." Your pajamas. They were the closest thing in reach when you were paged to the recording studio during Darla's breakdown. The reminder makes you shift awkwardly, suddenly even more uncomfortable.

"How kind of you," you say flatly, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles of the dress your stylist had placed you in. At least this interaction is slightly less mortifying than the one, or two you suppose, you had with him the other night.

Finnick doesn't respond, and you don't bother looking at his face to gauge his reaction. Instead, you find Darla in the crowd and start picking at the skin around your nails again. She seems okay for now, but it doesn't do much to ease your worry.

”You seem nervous,” Finnick says, without his former mirth. You startle again, assuming he'd walked away. 

 “Do I?” You briefly let your gaze flick up to him, eyes wide, before turning right back to your task. 

“Well, at the rate you’re going, your hands will be bone within the hour,” he lightly grabs your wrist, drawing your attention to the blood (both fresh and dried) that sits on your cuticles. "Have you been at this all night?"

“Thanks for your concern,” you snatch your hand back, trying to shield it from his gaze. It takes you a second to spot Darla again, and when you do your shoulders drop in relief. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” he doubles down. 

“Did you ask one?” You bite back. 

“What are you nervous about?” He asks. 

You turn fully toward him, “What do you think?” You extend an arm out, gesturing to where Darla is. 

Finnick follows your gesture to spot Darla being dragged around. He huffs, "She'll be alright, you know. Like us."

"Speak for yourself," you laugh, but it's a hollow sound.

His face falls, "You know what I mean."

"I do, but I don't like it," you snap sourly. Closing your eyes, you take a deep, albeit shaky, breath. When you open them, you face the front again. "The way I feel all the time," you shake your head slowly, "I wouldn't wish it on anyone. Let alone Darla, so if I can- if I can just keep her close enough, I can spare her from some of this."

He quietly says your name, almost like a warning.

"No!" You cut him off, "No, I know how I sound. I can do it." The look in his eye says he's not buying it, but you double down, "I have to. I have to... try." Your voice breaks a little, but there's no time to be embarrassed over it when a different voice calls out your name.

Finnick watches as you pull yourself together. The change is visible. It's almost like you're a new person, the one the Capitol adores. Sweet and pristine, bloody hands hidden neatly behind your back.

"I wanted to thank you for coming in this week. The kids love your visits," the middle-aged woman says, smiling at you. Her attire is far less ostentatious than her fellow partygoers, but she's clearly Capitol-born and bred. Her gaze shifts to Finnick, and he stiffens, recognizing the look in her eye.

It seems you notice it, too, as you're quick to intervene. "It's my pleasure, Mrs. Montgomery," he almost cringes when he recognizes the name you call her. "If I could, I'd come often enough that they'd be sick of me." You're good at this, though, he notes, grateful for being off the hot seat. Quick and clever, just like in your games.

"Impossible!" The Capitolite laughs, "In fact, they're already asking me when you'll be back. When are you free?"

While your facade is impressive, it's not perfect. He sees you tense before replying, pleasant as ever, "I'm actually heading home soon, but I'll let you know when I'm back." It's enough to appease Mrs. Montgomery, at least. She eyes the buffet table.

"Please do! I'll see you soon, love," she waves as she walks away. You wave back, picture-perfect smile lighting up your features.

It drops as soon as she turns, and he does his best not to laugh at the contrast. "If that's who I think it is, I hate her husband," Finnick tells you.

You echo the sentiment with a scoff, "Me too."

"I thought you were sweet to everyone but me," he turns toward you in surprise, and you shrug. "Here I was thinking I was special," he shakes his head in faux sadness.

A small grin emerges on your face at his antics, though it's clear you're trying to hide it. He spots it, however, and smiles a bit, basking in his victory. Suddenly, your poorly concealed grin drops, and he follows your gaze to see who stole the humorous moment you'd been sharing.

Darla, of course, but someone else is with her. A large man, probably a few inches taller than Finnick, towers over the sixteen-year-old. She looks terribly uncomfortable, and the District Ten escort is missing from her side. When his eyes flick back to you, he finds your expression mirrors Darla's. It's worse, even, and far worse than when Mrs. Montgomery came around.

You turn to face him, eyes wet and blown with fear. He's never seen you look so vulnerable, not on TV and not in your limited interactions. You looked worried the other night, sure, but this is different. This is a look of terror.

"Dance with her," you practically beg, suddenly grabbing his forearm. Your voice trembles, "Please. They'll- I can't take her away. Please just go dance with her." Tears threaten to spill over, and you get more upset as you go on.

Finnick's reluctant to leave you so distraught, but he's sure that whisking Darla away from whoever this is is the only way to assuage your worry. "Of course," he nods, ducking his head a bit to be on eye level with you. His hand covers yours, subtly removing himself from your grasp so he can attend to your request. "Keep an eye on us, okay? It'll be fine."

He holds your gaze for a bit as he departs, but he can feel your eyes on him even after that. Quickly, he comes upon Darla and the large man that you apparently know and abhor enough to ask him this favor. He spews some of the charming bullshit everyone in the city eats right up and steals Darla away without issue.

Finnick looks back to where he left you as he leads her onto the dancefloor, hoping that seeing Darla safe will ease your panic. He's caught in the act, though, "Sent by my guardian angel, then?" The teenager asks him, pulling his attention back to the dance floor.

"How'd you know?" His eyebrows knit together, and the girl laughs.

"She's been watching me from the same spot all night. It's kind of creepy," she jokes.

"I think she's just worried," Finnick says defensively.

"I think if she stays there for much longer, they'll install her as a statue," Darla quips. It's funny, but he fails to chuckle since he wouldn't put it past the people here. She sort of cringes, realizing the joke didn't land. "I'm really grateful for her, don't get me wrong," Darla tries, "it's just- sometimes I wonder about her."

"How so?"

Darla inhales, "I don't know. She disappears and just seems... different when she comes back. And I swear she lies about where she goes since there's never any press coverage, but cameras constantly follow her." His face falls as Darla goes on, "Sometimes when she sees random people, she instantly clams up."

It's a little too familiar to him. Paired with your reaction to both his comment about Mr. Montgomery and seeing that man with Darla, he's starting to understand. Maybe he has more in common with you than he'd originally thought.

"Finnick?" Darla says, and he realizes he's left her in silence for too long.

"I was gonna say I wonder about her too, but I was thinking more- favorite food, favorite color," he tries to lighten the mood.

Darla looks pleased as punch, "Well when it comes to you, I have her pinned."

"Yeah?" Finnick asks, amused.

"Yeah," Darla nods, "she’s clearly head over heels for you.”  

His eyes nearly bug out of his head, “Excuse me?” 

“Yeah, no, she’s totally in love with you,” she reaffirms.

“Are we thinking of the same person?” He asks, extremely skeptical.

“Yes!” Darla insists, lightly slapping the side of his head. 

“Well, it just seems like she doesn’t like me,” he defends himself. 

“You make her nervous,” Darla affirms. “She’d make a fool of herself if she wasn’t being rude. She told me the other night, this is a quote by the way, 'he's so gorgeous, I can't say anything to his face.'"

“You’re kidding.” 

“Nope,” she pops the P. 

“I struggle to believe that Capitol’s loveliest victor won’t talk to me because she thinks I’m pretty,” he scoffs. 

“It’s more than that,” Darla chides, “she thinks you’re too good for her, so before you can reject her, she tries to beat you to the punch.” 

“And when exactly did she tell you all this?” He asks skeptically. 

“Oh, we had a sleepover the other night and got super drunk. Boy, was she an open vault,” Darla laughs, but it's clear to him you'd kept some secrets to yourself.

“And you don’t feel bad telling me?” He inquires skeptically. 

“Please, I’m helping her help herself.” She scoffs, “She’d pine over you until her dying day without ever saying a word.” 

“Whatever you say, kiddo,” he says. Finnick's not sure how reliable a source the teenager is, so he decides to refocus on his original goal. "I meant to ask if you were ok, by the way. You know that guy?” 

Darla’s face sours. “No clue. But let’s just say I was glad for the interruption.” 

He raises a brow, hoping she’ll elaborate. 

“I felt like he was … looking at me,” she huffs. “Like, trying to see below the dress.” Finnick's jaw clenches at that. He knows the type. He deals with the type. And now he's almost certain you do too, hence your big reaction.

"Well, if he bothers you again, just come find me. I'm quite comfortable on the dance floor," he tells her as the song comes to an end.

Darla pats his bicep, "Thanks, but you should really be getting comfortable with someone else." She nods her toward where you'd been standing. "The bar will take good care of me." She only gets a few paces before he calls out after her.

“Hey!” She turns to catch his words. “Moderation,” he points at her, emphasizing the word.

She smirks, “Yeah, yeah, whatever, Dad.” A smile twitches at his lip, and he shakes his head as he turns to find you. 

When Finnick finally circles back to where he'd left you, you're nowhere in sight. He sighs, disappointed, though he can't quite blame you when you've revealed more about yourself tonight than you probably intended.

He wonders if you've left the party or just found a better observation spot, but either way, something tells him you don't want to be found right now. He remembers something you said earlier about shielding Darla. You seem to be doing alright so far, but he's suddenly wondering how far you'll go.

———————————————————

Once again- super unedited. I'm just having fun on my holiday break at this point. I feel like this leaned kinda sad? So... sorry for that. <3

[derangedchameleon]

Snow‘s attack on Haymitch was incredibly personal.

First of all. Before sotr I was always puzzled as to why the murder of Haymitch‘s entire family was a „nessecary“ reaction to a simple weilding of the force field. What we end up seeing in the recording can easily be seen as an intelligent, ressourceful rascal, making use of all the tools available to him in order to survive, and one of those tools just happened to end up being the arena itself.

Of course we now know that there was MUCH more going on than just the forcefield. But here‘s the important thing. The forcefield is the only bit the public knows about.

Katniss‘ stunt with the berries was much worse. Sure it could be rewritten as a lovecrazy suicide attempt. But I think many people who had watched Katniss could tell that she was a survivor and that she was banking on the Gamemakers stopping them.

Katniss family was not targeted for this. Probably because Snow wanted to keep them alive to keep manipulating Katniss.

So from my pre sotr point of view, why was Haymitch‘s? If the point was to control a rebellious teenager, wouldn‘t it have been better to keep his family alive?

You could argue that this was a message to other victors. But Snow could have chosen any dissentful victor to use as an example. Anyone that refused to let themselves be sold for example.

But then there’s the fact that Haymitch was alive to wield that forcefield in the first place.

Snow promised death in the games to Haymitch. And we know mutts can be programmed for specific people and dying by them can be absolutely horriffying. The mutt deaths in Haymitch‘s games were actually pretty tame and quick compared to what could have been achieved, like with Cato. An alive Haymitch was honestly dangerous, it would have made more sense to take him out early. The longer he was left alive, the more likely it became that he would do something so drastic that the capitol would want to show it on camera, to keep the image of their perfect games. Haymitch‘s stunt with the forcefield was kept in, because if it wasn‘t, it would have been painfully clear that the capitol was covering something up, and they couldn‘t have that. (same with Katniss’ berries, and Snow told her in so many words that, if he had been in the control room during her stunt, she and Peeta would have both been blown sky high. Would have been an effective « don’t mess with the capitol » message) So why didn‘t Snow just send mutts to remove him (painfully and slowly, as promised) after he blew up the water tank?

Because Snow decided, that leaving this boy alive and murdering his family, would be a much worse punishment for him. This had very little to do with controlling the public and everything to do with punishment.

And we know, from Haymitch himself, that this is not something the capitol or Snow usually does. Haymitch tells Katniss after she shoots the apple, that her family was probably fine, since her attack on the gamemakers wasn’t public. And in order for an attack on her family to have any effect, they’d need to make her attack public. If you punish someone, you want that punishment and the cause of it public and known. Again, to controll the masses. Otherwise, it’s wasted effort.

Snow saw that Haymitch, banking on his own inevitable slow and painful death, was not worried about his family. Which told Snow everything about what this boy valued. Haymitch said that he didn’t want his family to have to watch him die slowly, but his actions during the games clearly show that that is not his top priority.

Snow went out of his way to make this as horrifying as humanly possible for Haymitch.

My sister pointed out that Snow went after Haymitch in this personal manner because of his association with the covey. A belated revenge on Lucy Gray. And maybe, Snow even projected Billy Taupe onto Haymitch.

We all knew Snow was evil, but this, I think, is the first time we see him act in such a vengefull and personal way. Yes he enjoyed manipulating Katniss with Peeta’s torture, but that was really because he couldn’t get to her to murder her. Or because a mentally destroyed Mockingjay can’t be turned into a martyr like a dead one.

Snow really got a sick kick out of this.

[sunsets12]

My Spoiler Review of SOTR

Okay, let's start out with the stuff I like, in no particular order:

Maysilee:

She is very much so the standout character of this novel, and I really appreciate her. Haymitch is the one who comes from "rebels" but Maysilee is rebellious in her own right. I also think her character functions as a call-out for middle class Americans -- you won't be spared.

The Katniss/Haymitch parallels and foil:

Ok, I have a lot of thoughts on this, and at a surface level, I think we're supposed to come away from this novel thinking about how similar Katniss and Haymitch are, but I came away thinking the opposite. Because in a lot of the ways that matter, they're pretty different.

For example, Haymitch 100% considers himself a rebel, whereas Katniss definitely does not. One of my favorite examples of this is when they both discuss the importance of the jabberjays. They're pretty much saying this same thing with one important difference:

Katniss: "After the birds gathered words, they’d fly back to centers to be recorded. It took people awhile to realize what was going on in the districts, how private conversations were being transmitted. Then, of course, the rebels fed the Capitol endless lies, and the joke was on it."

Haymitch: "During the Dark Days, the Capitol spied on us with jabberjays, mutts that looked like regular birds but could record the rebels’ conversations and play them back word for word. We figured this out and fed them false information.”

Also, Katniss spends so much of her time worrying about her family, whereas Haymitch assumes they'll be fine (as long as they don't explicitly rebel like Lenore Dove). An example of this is Haymitch assuming that he'll die in the arena and his family will be spared from any consequences meanwhile after Katniss shoots at the Gamemakers, she has a breakdown thinking they'll come after her family.

And then there is of course the fact that most Katniss's rebellions (especially in the first book) were not thought of as acts of rebellion. Meanwhile, Haymitch is like, "yeah, I'm gonna blow up the arena!"

Effie:

Ok, disclaimer that I thought her appearance didn't make much sense timeline wise (I would never have imagined she was working as an escort of 12 ever since the 51st games, and honestly, I think Collins kind of fibbed this a little bit to have her make a cameo, but more on my thoughts on forced cameos later...) BUT with that being said:

I love how her character functions as a foil to Drusilla, who is explicitly cruel and views District people as animals. I think this worked really well, especially because after spending a good chunk of the book being like "wow Effie is great" she tells Haymitch that the games are important and necessary and you're like "oh..."

Good stuff

The flint striker:

I love a good metaphor.

The rebellion didn't start with Katniss, she was just the actual push it needed:

Love this

Things I didn't like:

It is dumbed down:

My biggest critique. It feels like Collins was upset that people walked away from TBOSAS thinking Snow is hot and wanted to make sure nothing like that happened again. But as a consequence some of the characters just become dumb/out-of-character to get her point across. I have two smoking gun examples of this:

First, Plutarch has a conversation with Haymitch (in the training center, I believe) where he's like, "Hey so why didn't you all just rebel in the square back there. You totally outnumbered the peace keepers and could have done it." Like ok, let's put aside how easily this conversation could've been overheard. It's silly. It feels like Collins was repeatedly hitting me over the head with the point of this book, and I'm just like... you don't need to do this

Second, Beetee. Beetee's son was reaped as punishment for Beetee, and we, as the readers, know this because Beetee explicitly tells Haymitch it, which was just so wildly out-of-character. And it, again, feels dumbed down. Like she didn't trust we could put two-and-two together. It's okay, Suzanne Collins, you don't need to hold our hand the whole time

Haymitch as a narrator:

He lacks a personality. It's like Suzanne used Katniss as a guide and then removed everything interesting about her. This is especially frustrating because Haymitch is one of my favorite characters in the original series.

Other characters:

In general the characters are underdeveloped and flat, even characters we met before largely feel like empty shells of themselves (Mags and Wiress). Don't get me started on how little I cared about Louella/Lou Lou. I was out there sobbing my eyes out when Rue died, and I rolled my eyes at Lou Lou's death (partially because Haymitch is not stupid enough to let her shove her whole face in some flowers after he learned all the water and food on the island is poisonous. And I don't want to hear that he recognized the flowers as not being poisonous because apples aren't poisonous either and the ones in the arena were so...) I liked the concept behind Louella and Lou Lou, but the execution was not it.

Maysilee and Effie were the only characters I thought were well developed.

The singing:

I mentioned this in my non-spoiler review, but the singing was too much. I genuinely think 80% of the characters sing at some point. I really appreciate the role music plays in the Hunger Games but this was so overdone it become pointless, and frankly, irritating.

Random comments:

We finally learn what Panem thinks of Homosexuality! Doesn't necessarily mean it'll be in my fic, but it was interesting to read nonetheless.

The fact that they don't pay the miners real money was a nice touch.

The sweetheart nickname 🥲

I would've much preferred to see a new Victor character as Haymitch's mentor, especially because Mags and Wiress added basically nothing to the plot (there were too many cameos in general. I had to suspend my disbelief slightly more than I could...)

The dramatic irony of Haymitch not worrying about his family...

I like that he worked for a bootlegger

His attitude towards alcohol in general is *so* interesting. "But from where I'm sitting, hope seems a lot like white liquor. It can fool you in the short run, but like as not, you'll end up paying for it twice."

The way he fails to beat the Capitol and thinks about how a sixteen year old from the trashiest district could never beat the capitol.... the dramatic irony, I love it

Overall thoughts:

I'm pretty disappointed. I get what she was going for, but I don't think the execution is that well done. In my initial review, I called this a money grab, but I don't think that's true. I think Collins is worried about the political climate and wanted to get this book out ASAP and it's rushed as a consequence.

This would've benefited greatly from another round of rewrites. That's my final thought.

[vice-president-galade]

I don't subscribe to the New York Times anymore for many reasons, but I'm still signed up for their California Today newsletter, which today had a short profile of Alex Padilla that I think is worth reading.

Padilla’s unlikely moment

By Annie Karni

California is no stranger to spotlight-seeking politicians.

At the top of the heap these days sits Gov. Gavin Newsom, whose every move is viewed through the lens of a potential bid for the White House in 2028. There’s Representative Maxine Waters, a leftist live wire who in the past has encouraged protesters to “get more confrontational.” Representative Ro Khanna has developed a reputation on Capitol Hill as a man who is unavoidable for comment. Not to mention the longtime former Speaker Nancy Pelosi and the 2024 Democratic presidential nominee Kamala Harris, who attract attention even when they don’t necessarily court it.

And then there’s Senator Alex Padilla, the Democrat appointed in 2021 to fill the seat that Harris left to become Vice President.

On Capitol Hill, Padilla is known as kind and nerdy. He never seems to raise his voice. He sometimes cries during floor speeches.

His comparatively low profile is underscored by the outsized attention commanded by California’s other, officially more junior, senator, Adam Schiff, one of President Trump’s forever nemeses.

In short, Padilla was perhaps the least likely member of California’s congressional delegation to stage a showy protest this week against the Trump Administration’s immigration raids and deployment of federal troops.

Then again, he didn’t exactly stage it — which only made it that much more shocking to see. When Senator Padilla stepped into a news conference featuring Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem and tried to ask her a question, federal agents shoved him out of the room, told him to drop to his knees in a hallway and handcuffed him.

A son of Mexican immigrants, Padilla, 52, grew up in the San Fernando Valley as a rule-following overachiever. He was raised by churchgoing parents who worked as a short-order cook and a house cleaner, and made his way to the prestigious Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

On Thursday, he told reporters that he was in the federal building in downtown L.A. awaiting a briefing when he learned that Secretary Noem was speaking to reporters down the hall. He said he had been trying for months to get information from her office about “their increasingly extreme immigration enforcement actions,” so he decided to pop in.

“I didn’t barge into the room,” Padilla said on MSNBC Thursday night. “I didn’t even open the door. The door was opened for me. And I spent a few minutes in the back of the room, just listening in, until the rhetoric, the political rhetoric, got to be too much to take. So I spoke up.”

Democrats en masse denounced what happened next, calling it a shocking abuse of power reflective of an administration that was getting too comfortable with authoritarian tactics. If federal agents were this rough with a senator in front of television cameras, Padilla and others pointed out, how much worse must it be for anonymous immigrants being rounded up at carwashes, farms and Home Depot parking lots.

Online, Alex Padilla was trending, maybe for the first time in his political life. And that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing for him, or for the Democratic Party.

The moment was reminiscent of two other recent occasions when individual senators dominated a news cycle, though the other two were planned stunts by more media-savvy politicians.

One was the April trip that Senator Chris Van Hollen, Democrat of Maryland, made to El Salvador after one of his constituents, Kilmar Armando Abrego Garcia, was mistakenly deported to a prison there.

A couple of weeks earlier, Senator Cory Booker, Democrat of New Jersey, fired up Democrats across the country with a record-breaking 25-hour filibuster, an act of astonishing physical stamina and bladder control.

Padilla’s moment in the spotlight may have been forced upon him, but it resonated as a call to action among Democrats who may never have even heard of him before.

“This is not normal,” he said last night on CNN. “We cannot treat it as normal.”.

[sweetteaanddragons]

B2MEM - "Competition"

@spring-into-arda (692 words; a long time ago I wrote a Hunger Games AU for the Silm; this takes place in a slightly different universe, but explores the same concept)

Maglor had won his Games by -

Well, it depended on which of the Games analysts you asked, naturally. He had seen them all, looping on reruns late at night as he paced, sleepless, through a living room with more chairs than he would ever need. Each of the analysts had their own theory on just what was most important about his Games, though which theory got the most screentime depended on just how happy the Capitol was with him at present.

He had won his Games by running away.

(True, of course. From the very first moment it was safe to run from the starting plate, to this moment, right now, when he was standing at the very last window on the very last car of the train rather than being anywhere remotely useful. He had long ago ceased trying to deny even to himself that it was what he had done, over and over again.)

He had won his Games by winning the crowd.

(If he had only kept his mouth shut. If he had run quietly, run alone, if he had never opened his mouth to sing . . . He had been dangerous. From a known family of rebels. If he had stayed quiet, he would probably be safely dead now. If he had won anyway, he would probably be safely obscure now.)

(But he never could just keep his mouth shut.)

He had won his Games by getting his competition to underestimate him.

(He thinks the president believes that one. He wishes he knew some way to convince him that no, he really did run. He really did mean it. All the flashes of anything else were just - remnants. Flashes of what his family had deserved for him to be.)

(But it hadn’t been enough to save them, and it wouldn’t be enough to disturb the Capitol, so please, please, please, stop trying to break what’s already ground to dust - )

None of them ever really bring up that he had won his Games by slitting three throats. 

(Four? Three and a half? He can never decide if the last one counts. He could look it up, of course, but the Capitol does not get to decide this. He is not even sure if he gets to decide this.)

It wasn’t worth mentioning, he supposed. It wasn’t anywhere near a record kill count for a Victor; it wasn’t a particularly memorable way of committing the kills. He was a Victor. Of course he had killed. 

So had a lot of others in the arena, and it hadn’t saved them. It had to have been something else that made him different.

Luck. Or running. Or acting. Or winning the crowd.

He had told each tribute had to mentor something different. Whatever he thought would fit best for their strategy.

See, this will work for you. I know, because it worked for me. Don’t you want to be like me?

(He left that last part out since the answer any sane person would give was too obviously “No,” and the last thing the tributes needed in there was doubting whether or not they really wanted to win this.)

Only now . . .

Now it was Elrond, waiting back in the dining car and no doubt comforting the other tribute, the tribute Maglor couldn’t even let himself think of, because it was down to him to mentor them both, but it couldn’t be both of them.

It couldn’t be her.

And he had to decide, here and now, in a train car that in a few weeks would hold a minimum of one coffin, exactly what it was he had done, exactly what it was he could teach, that would keep it from being two.

Luck. Or running. Or acting. Or winning the crowd.

The glass of the window felt very cold against his hands.

They had felt cold twenty years ago when they were wrapped around steel and drawing blood.

He was not what his family had been.

But perhaps the Capitol really should have done a better job of remembering that when it had come down to it, he had stopped running and started slitting throats.

[salty-tang]

off the record: Sick Day

Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Congresswoman!Reader

Summary: You catch a cold and Bucky takes care of you

Out-takes, one-shots, and other small things that did not make it to For the Record, my Congressman Bucky x Congresswoman Reader fic (can be read without reading FTR!)

Warnings/ tags: Original Characters galore, Companion Piece, side fic, Outtakes & Deleted Scenes, Non-Linear Narrative, Capitol Hill Greek Chorus, Interns with Too Much Time and Too Many Opinions, Government Staffers as Narrative Devices, Gossip as Archival Methodology, If It Was Cut It Was Probably Too Soft or Too Real, text-fic (tweets, headlines, slack messages), it's all fluffy here

Word count: 2.4k

A/N: so was sick that week (hello flu bug) and i wondered innocently... how would bucky barnes take care of you while you're sick? it was supposed to be one small little indulgent thought and then it it kept on going !!

off the record masterpost || AO3 || congressman bucky masterpost

You’ve already sat through two subcommittee meetings and a particularly irritating oversight hearing by the time it happens. You're doing your best to pretend to breathe normally out of your one good nostril while your head is doing an interpretative drum show behind the eyes. But worse than that – worse than the ache in your spine or the heat building at your temples – is how slow you feel.

You don’t catch a procedural error before it hits the minutes. You let Rep. Whitmore interrupt you twice without retaliation. You don’t even push back when someone misrepresents one of your amendments – just offer a noncommittal hum and scribble a note to circle back (you know you don't have the energy to).

Across the room, Bucky watches.

He knows you well enough to spot it – not in what you do, but what you don’t. You usually move like a blade through these rooms and today, you’re a pair of kiddy scissors.

He pulls up your schedule the moment he returns to his office. There's only one thing on your calendar: a late-afternoon committee session where he is the acting chair.

Quietly, with no fuss at all, he picks up the phone and calls the clerk. “Cancel the Housing Subcommittee. Scheduling conflict. Inform everyone it’ll be rescheduled next week.”

Then, a note to your chief of staff:

Pulled her out of the rotation. She’s not at 100%. Send her home. No arguments.

It’s not even signed.

Derek looks at the note and visibly baulks, offended. Not at the instruction itself, but at the gall of it. Bucky doesn’t usually talk like that, throwing his weight around like he runs the place.

He frowns at the lack of introductory pleasantries, signature, and the harsher than usual phrasing – Send her home. No arguments. Who does he think he is to be ordering around people who aren’t even on his payroll?

But then again, Derek recalls how pale you looked that morning, how you were downing over the counter cough syrup and honey tea so you could croak your way through the three minutes of your speech.

And because of that – because, somehow, Bucky Barnes noticed and cares enough to act – Derek lets it slide. Just this once.

***

The apartment feels like a prison by midmorning.

You lie curled on the couch in an old campaign hoodie, blanket half-draped over one leg, glaring at the far wall like it has personally wronged you. You’re not built for stillness, your sick days have to be wrestled from you.

You didn’t want to leave the Hill. You’d argued with Derek in a haze, insisting you could at least make it through one more meeting. But then he showed you the note. Not from leadership. Not from some overzealous scheduler.

From Bucky.

You stared at it longer than you meant to. The handwriting is brisk, slanted, efficient. Just enough force behind the pen to know he means business.

Now, hours later, the note sits on your coffee table beside a packet of tissues and untouched porridge. You refuse to acknowledge it means anything, but your eyes drift toward it more than once.

You hate being seen like this. But you hate it more that he hasn’t said a word about it aloud. Just acts and moves things around you like it’s instinct.

It unnerves you more than kindness should.

***

By midweek, you’re climbing the walls.

You’ve already reorganized your spice rack, deleted 400 unread emails, and tried to rewrite a speech from memory. You even start paying attention to the midday reruns of Suits.

Desperation wins out. You ping Mills:

Can you sneak me the draft memo on the budget rider draft? Personal email. Please.

Mills, a romantic and a traitor, loops in Devon. And Devon, predictably, makes it a whole operation.

The interns have just finished printing the memo - all 37 pages of it - when Bucky walks into the printer room. He catches the tail end of Jenna whispering “…this is a civic duty, Micah,” and raises a brow.

Micah doesn’t flinch. “We’re smuggling work to her. She’s at home, her VPN’s active, and she said she’s ‘at 70%, maybe 60%,’ which is Congresswoman for ‘I’m dying but still capable of work.’”

Bucky folds his arms, and the sleeves pull tight across his biceps – enough of a reminder that he will pick a fight if he has to.

“She’s going insane,” Devon says dramatically. “She asked us nicely. What were we supposed to do?”

“She’s recovering,” Bucky replies evenly. “Let her.”

“We are. She likes working. It’s medicinal.”

“She’s not supposed to be checking email.”

“That’s why it’s a hard copy!”

Bucky raises an eyebrow.

Jenna doesn’t do well under pressure: “This is for morale. It’s... a care package. For her brain.”

Devon: “If you stop us, we will try to fight you.”

There’s a pause. Bucky doesn’t say anything – he just leans against the doorframe, and waits.

Micah, calculating: “Okay but like... he’s got the arm. And the training. We need at least four more interns.”

Devon mutters: “And those biceps. That’s gotta be, like, three interns per arm.”

Jenna whispers under her breath, "Holy shit,” and then adds hurriedly, “he’s reformed, right? Like… he wouldn’t throw an intern?”

There’s a long, weighted silence. Then: “Right?”

Mills, who is watching this all unfold while sipping a juice: “Technically? There’s no clause in our employment contract that says he can’t.”

No one moves. Bucky doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t issue any formal warning. He just crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe like he’s seen this exact brand of chaos before – and is only mildly unimpressed. The biceps definitely aren’t helping. Neither is the vibranium arm, which catches the light just enough to remind everyone this is not a man you want to test on a good day.

There’s no menace, exactly – just the exhausted authority of someone who’s done this song and dance across actual war zones and now has to convince a pack of caffeinated interns not to commit sedition via memo. He doesn’t even need to speak. The silence does all the work.

Eventually, Devon exhales and puts down the binder. “Alright. Alright. We get it. Message received.”

*

They don’t send the memo.

You notice the silence immediately. No texts, no updates, no secret Slack messages routed through your personal email. You frown, curl tighter into your blanket, and mutter to no one, “Cowards.”

You suspect Bucky.

And you are correct.

***

He knocks just before eight. A safe hour – late enough that it doesn’t look like he’s been fretting about you all day, early enough that you might still be awake.

You open the door wrapped in fleece and fatigue, eyes bleary, hoodie slouched off one shoulder. You can't remember if your fuzzy socks are matching. You blink at him, brow furrowing.

“Didn’t expect you.”

“Was in the area.”

You sneeze and give him a look. “You live twelve blocks away.”

He holds up the bag in his hand – noodle soup from that place ‘round the corner, orange Vitamin C gummies, and some impossibly ripe plums that he swears have magical restorative powers. “Thought you might need reinforcements.”

“You could’ve sent an intern.”

“They’re all scared of you.”

“And you’re not?”

He smiles, small and genuine. “Shitting my pants terrified.”

You step aside. You’re too tired to argue, and the soup does smell good. “Come on in. Sorry the place is a mess.”

He doesn’t hover. Just sets the bag down, unpacks in silence – one container at a time, like he's figured out what you'll need before you even ask. He moves through your space with a quiet confidence that throws you off more than it should. Like he’s done this before, or worse, that he’s thought about doing this before.

You watch him from the couch, your throat raw, your limbs heavy. Too tired to speak but too wary not to look. Too aware of how gently he sets the spoon beside the bowl, of how his eyes flick to you between motions – as if he’s checking you’re still breathing without making a thing of it.

It’s almost tender.

You’re too sick to unpack what that means.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says at last. “Just wanted to make sure you had everything.”

You nod, eyes glassy. If this is a fever dream, you don't ever want to wake up. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

***

At some point, you drift off. He doesn’t leave.

You wake to the quiet shuffle of fabric. A shift in the air. Something soft. Something cold.

A cool hand presses to your forehead. Not skin. Vibranium. Gentle, precise and terrified of hurting you.

Your eyes open and meet his icy blue ones.

He freezes like a man caught in the midst of confession.

“You’re freezing,” you murmur, voice hoarse.

“You’re burning up.”

He says it low, like it’s an observation he hadn’t meant to speak aloud. His thumb brushes just beneath your temple – barely a touch – and he flinches as though you might break.

You lean into it. Just slightly. Just enough.

He pulls back.

Neither of you speak.

But something shimmers under the silence, like breath fogging up a pane of glass. You always run warm – furnace-hearted, fire-eyed, mouth like a stricken match – while he’s built of cold metal and colder discipline. There’s an equilibrium to this – your burning heat meeting his quiet chill, an accidental balance struck between fire and frost. A kind of magnetic opposition that steadies itself in silence, pulling you closer before either of you realize you’ve moved.

***

It’s nearly 2:00AM.

You’ve been woken up by your own coughs and have just taken another round of cough syrup. Your joints are achy, and your brain feels pleasantly stuffed with cotton – but the silence of your apartment feels heavier than it should be. Like it’s missing something, like it’s missing him.

He left hours ago, but the absence hums in the quiet. Maybe it’s just the sickness. Or the late hour. Or the soft, embarrassing ache of wishing he’d stayed.

So you call him. (You’re absolutely blaming the meds later. That’s your story and you’re sticking to it.)

You didn’t mean to. You don’t even remember hitting his contact. But when his voice answers on the second ring – rough, low, too awake for the late hour – you forget how to breathe.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you rasp back.

There’s a pause – a sharp inhale, then a shift in tone. His voice tightens.

“You okay? It’s two a.m. You never call. Are you – are you hurt?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“You take something?”

“Yeah. It’s kicking in now.”

There’s a pause. You can hear the rustle of sheets as he shifts in bed. He doesn’t rush you, and he is rewarded with your quiet reflection.

“I kept pushing this week,” you sniff. “Even though I knew I shouldn’t.”

“I know.”

“And I didn’t want to tell you.”

There’s a pause on his end. Then, very softly, “why not?”

“Because you’d make me stop.”

“I would have tried,” he agrees.

You swallow. It hurts in more ways than one.

He exhales, then adds, “You don’t have to win every hour of every day. You’re allowed to just... be.”

You let the words settle. There’s no pity in his tone – just the steady certainty of someone who sees you clearly and still stays. It catches somewhere low in your chest, softens the ache behind your ribs.

Then, softer – almost like it’s something he’s been thinking for a while, “You never disappoint. Even when you try to go down with the ship.”

A beat.

“Especially then.”

*

You fall asleep still on the call.

*

When you wake up, the line’s gone quiet – but there’s a new text:

Hope you slept. Even when you’re running on empty, you’re still more capable than most. You don’t have to earn rest – you already do more than enough. Just let someone help next time. You’re still you, and that’s all I ever need. –B

***

He’s gone when you wake.

The leftover soup has been packed away, the dishwasher set to run. Your files are stacked neatly beside your laptop, untouched. A blanket is tucked more securely around your shoulders.

A Post-it is tacked onto the fridge door.

Don’t rush back. Everything’s handled. (Even the interns) –B

You stare at it for a long time.

Then, slowly, you peel it from the table. Fold it in half, and tuck it into the back pocket of your planner.

***

Bonus: Monday Debrief

You return to the office on Monday feeling (begrudgingly) well-rested. The congestion is gone, your voice is mostly back, and, annoyingly, you do feel better. The time off was probably good for you, not that you're going to say that out loud.

Derek follows you in with two folders, a protein smoothie (suspiciously green, suspiciously healthy looking), and the thinly veiled satisfaction of someone who told you so.

“I’m fine,” you say.

He raises a brow but doesn’t argue. "Shockingly, rest works. Who knew. Here’s everything you missed. You owe me hazard pay.”

You flip through the top file. “Did you really have to give Bucky my address?”

“I didn’t,” Derek says flatly.

You look up. “The interns?”

“They shouldn’t have access to that.”

You squint. “So how did he – ”

Derek waves a hand. “He’s a super soldier. He probably hacked it out of the system or smelled it on your scarf or something. I don’t know. Do you want the budget memo or not?”

You roll your eyes and reach for the smoothie.

He waits a beat, then adds, “The interns considered fighting a war veteran to deliver you rider memos.”

“Derek.”

“Devon did a push-up to prepare.”

From across the room: “Two push-ups!”

You sigh into your drink (it tastes better than it looks). “I leave for three days and this place becomes a circus.”

Derek doesn’t look up. “You say that like it has ever stopped being one.”

<<1. Coffe Tap || AO3 || 3. The Photo (You Might Want a Copy of This) >>

[ghcstao3]

been on a hunger games kick lately so. ghoapifying time!! yippee yahoo

(edit: extra because i felt a little silly)

-

Simon isn’t much when his name is reaped, just days after he’d turned 18. He’s scrawny, starved, scarred—being from District 10, the only thing he’s ever known is butchery, so maybe he’s of use with knives, but it really means nothing to him. Not when his older brother Tommy had gotten killed by Peacekeepers, not when his mother had died of illness, not when his father couldn’t give less of a shit when his youngest son is sent to die.

So all he can do is accept his fate. All he can do is listen to his mentor, train in the fleeting days he has left, and try to survive. No matter if the odds would never, ever be in his favour.

Simon doesn’t remember much from the days leading to the games. All he can really recall is the absurd pageantry and the lack of privacy, though it had been nice to be freed from the stench of blood, if only for a few days. It was nice, not having grime beneath his fingernails.

If he’s honest, he doesn’t remember much from the Games, either. Simon hadn’t made allies, didn’t need to—even his necessary loyalty to the girl from his district was tentative at best. She would still come down to being another competitor, in the end. Simon didn’t want to die, he couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

And he doesn’t. He wins, somehow—maybe out of spite. Maybe out of fear, or out of vengeance. Simon doesn’t know.

All he knows is that he hates the man he’d become in that arena.

* * *

Johnny was born and raised in the Capitol. Maybe not in a family that was the richest of the rich, but still much better off than anyone found in the districts. He’s only ever known some sense of luxury, has never encountered the cruelty of the real world, and continues to stand to benefit from the pain of others.

But even then, he does eventually recognize the faults and evilness of the system.

Eventually.

Because as a boy, he had loved the Games. Before having any sense of consequence or the realness of these people and their deaths, Johnny had been just as enraptured by it all as everyone else. He watched with interest, just as entertained as he was meant to be. The Games had been awe-inspiring to him as they are to most other Capitol children.

He still remembers Simon’s game. Ghost, as the boy from District 10 had been called, having earned the nickname from an uncanny ability to seemingly appear out of nowhere and make that cannon fire one more time. Johnny had been 15, then, still an avid watcher of this slaughter-show—but he’ll always recall that game the most, because of Simon.

Simon was shy, and awkward—but the Capitol had loved it. Loved him. And Johnny had just as well, albeit for some different reasons. Because along with everything the Capitol admired about Simon (which was mostly superficial), Johnny admired his resilience. His persistence, his triumph. He had thought, back then, that he could only ever wish to be like the boy from District 10. He’d never been so enamoured with a tribute, a victor like that before.

That was seven years ago, and things have since… changed. Not enough to be different, but enough for Johnny to notice. Enough for him to finally understand that these Games are far more than he had ever been led to believe. He just didn’t know to what extent.

Johnny is freshly 22 when he meets Simon. A friend of Johnny’s (in the loosest of terms), Philip Graves, tells him that he’d gotten a special birthday gift for Johnny that year—and while usually Johnny might be skeptical or uncaring, given Graves’ track record, it’s what he says about this gift that has Johnny… panicking?

“Remember that victor you used to have a crush on? Well, I finally managed to get in a request.”

Before Johnny can ask what he means, two Peacekeepers—escorts—are entering the room with Simon in tow.

Graves grins almost predatorily before standing and patting Johnny on the shoulder like he means to be friendly. Like he thinks he’s given Johnny all he could ask for.

And in maybe some sense he has, but not like this. Not like this.

“Enjoy the next few days, Johnny,” Graves is saying. “He’s all yours.”

Johnny thinks he might be sick. The threat of bile in his throat only grows more intense one he’s left alone with Simon.

The victor looks… different, since his time in the public eye. Bulkier, likely from a steady supply of food for the first time in his life; objectively healthier. Skin smooth, porcelain, like he hadn’t seen a day of suffering in his life. Every aspect of him perfectly tailored, manicured, prim, like a clean slate for his current proprietor.

He still has that rugged kind of handsomeness to him, though. The Capitol could change many things, but they could never take that look of fierce determination from his dark, knowing eyes.

“How do you want me?” Simon asks softly. Johnny can tell there’s still fight thrumming beneath his skin, but they both could guess what would happen if that were to be let free.

“I… don’t,” Johnny says before he can help himself. At the shift in Simon’s expression he feels his heart drop, so he adds quickly, “Sorry, that’s not—I don’t mean it like that. I just never realized…”

Simon tilts his head, curious, assessing. “Never realized what?”

“That you…” Johnny swallows hard. He takes a shuddering breath, nervous, like he isn’t the one with more power here. Like he’s the prey—and maybe he is. “Could be bought.”

Simon shrugs a shoulder, nonchalant like the idea of being bought and sold like an object is hardly a bother to him. There’s hurt in those eyes, but it doesn’t live anywhere else on his face. “There’s a lot of things you might not know outside of your world of luxury.”

Johnny’s gaze falls the floor. “Yes,” he sighs. “I’m sure there is.”

A tense silence falls over them, for just a moment, before Simon is shuffling across the room to join Johnny on the sofa. He sits close, but doesn’t touch.

“So,” Simon’s insisting, “how do you want me?”

Johnny doesn’t know if he’ll survive these next few days.

Perhaps he should at least be grateful that the transaction is on Graves’ hands.

[coniferouspines]

Been thinking about a Stan twins hunger games AU. Throwing it out here because I’m not sure if I’ll ever actually write anything for it, since I’m working on other stuff, but it’s been rattling around in my brain and I must get it out.

More of a dark!Ford type of AU because I’m into that. Possessive, protective Ford my beloved. Love it when he gets to be a little bit deranged.

Anyway.

The twins are separated at birth. Born in a poor district, Ford is adopted by an influential, wealthy capitol family. At the time the plot of the AU begins, he’s in his early twenties and on his way to becoming head gamemaker. He is set to intern/test run the next game mostly by himself, while still under the eye of his mentor, the current head gamemaker. Ford is still a genius, and is well known for being close to the capitol president, Bill Cipher. He has no idea he was born in the districts and was adopted by his otherwise infertile parents.

Stan on the other hand, was raised in the districts by the twins’ bio parents. He becomes a tribute the same year that Ford runs the games. In this AU, the age for potential tributes ranges from 12 to 25. Having tributes in their early adulthood helps with population control. The capitol wants enough people in the districts to keep them running, but not too many people that they start realizing they vastly outnumber the capitol.

Having the tribute age go up to 25 means most people don’t form families and have children too early. Doing so would be risky in the case that one is selected as tribute and taken away from a spouse or a baby. As few are willing to risk such a thing, it means most people in the districts don’t try having kids until they pass the age of 25, when they are no longer eligible as a tribute.

Anyway, Stan gets dragged into the games. Either by getting selected as tribute himself, or by volunteering to take the place of his little brother Sherman as tribute. Either way he gets shipped off to the capitol. And of course, as future head gamemaker, Ford is there during the initial tribute assessments once they all arrive, and he is shocked to see a tribute that shares his face.

Cue the intrigue.

Ford wonders if perhaps it’s simply a case of a doppelgänger, since everyone is said to have another person out there that resembles them. But… The tribute looks far too identical to Ford to be a simple doppelgänger. So Ford starts to wonder if perhaps—outlandishly—he somehow has a twin. He isn’t sure how that would be possible, but he goes about checking Stan’s medical records after the tributes all go through their medical checks. Ford gets his hands on some of Stan’s DNA and secretly runs a few tests.

The results come back showing that Ford does indeed have a twin. But as shocking as the information is, and as much as Ford would like to know more about his newfound brother, the games must go on. Stan must compete.

But Ford is going to make sure Stan wins. No matter what it takes to make it happen. Though he knows he’ll have to be subtle about it. Can’t show too much favouritism—although he can get away with a little, since he’s favoured by president Cipher. Others tend not to mess with him because of that. Though the resemblance between Stan and Ford is probably obvious to the other gamemakers.

Being the head gamemaker for this year’s games, Ford throws everything into making sure Stan wins. And once he does, Ford throws everything into making sure he can have Stan for himself. A good thing he’s close to president Cipher, as Ford simply asks for Stan and Bill gives him to him. Likely Bill in this AU has been manipulating Ford for a while, wanting him to be his second in command. So he allows Ford to keep Stan despite Stan’s victor status, as giving Ford what he wants will make him more likely to be obedient to Bill.

Meanwhile Stan is confused as to why he’s not being allowed to go back home, and angry that he’s being kept from his family. When he meets Ford however, he’s shocked. Post-game is his first time seeing Ford, and Stan has no idea why this guy looks so much like him. But he certainly isn’t a fan of Ford. Both for being a gamemaker and for being “capitol scum”.

Ford is determined to figure out the mystery behind his previously unknown twin, and is determined to make sure Stan stays with him forever. He will not let Stan go back to poverty in the districts, nor have anything to do with the games anymore. Stan is his to keep safe. He wants to get to know his brother and not lose him again.

And perhaps when the truth comes out, when the twins figure out what happened and how they were separated, Ford goes and collects the rest of his biological family from the districts. Or perhaps he doesn’t. Maybe he has a good relationship with his adopted parents and doesn’t care about the rest of his biological family. They gave him a good life. Now he can give Stan a good life.

[muzaktomyears]

The man who was there the day the Beatles broke up

Mal Evans was the Fab Four’s roadie, fixer and friend. Paul McCartney confided in him when the band split, while John Lennon relied on him to guard his life. A new book tells his story

The Beatles’ lingering tensions finally caught up to them during a meeting among John, Paul and George at 3 Savile Row on September 10 1969. As Mal and Neil [Aspinall, who ran the Beatles’ company Apple Corps] observed, John took particular issue with what he perceived as Paul’s megalomania, saying that, “If you look back on the Beatles albums, good or bad or whatever you think of ’em, you’ll find that most times if anybody has got extra time it’s you! For no other reason than you worked it like that.” For Mal, the conversation must have been pure agony. He idolised Paul, who bore the brunt of the meeting’s vitriol.

In his own defence, Paul protested that he had “tried to allow space on albums for John’s songs, only to find that John hadn’t written any”.

With the idea of recording a new album seemingly off the table, John suggested that they produce a Christmas single instead. After all, he reasoned, their annual holiday fan club record would be due before long. When this idea was met with silence and indifference, John soberly concluded, “I guess that’s the end of the Beatles.”

As horrible as the experience must have been for Mal, panic hadn’t set in just yet. During the past 15 months, Ringo and George had quit the band at various times, only to be coaxed back. But ten days later it all spilled out again at a meeting at Apple. Mal and Allen Klein (their manager after the death of Brian Epstein) were there, along with Yoko, Neil and the boys. For his part, George was on speakerphone from Cheshire, where he was visiting his ailing mother. The topic at hand was a new agreement with Capitol, which Klein was understandably eager to ink.

As Mal observed, Paul began to enumerate the group’s upcoming opportunities, including a series of intimate gigs and a possible television special. In each instance, John said, “No, no, no,” before telling Paul, “Well, I think you’re daft.” Eventually, he blurted out that he wanted a “divorce”. “What do you mean?” a stunned Paul asked. “The group’s over,” John replied. “I’m leaving.”

At this point, Paul recalled, “Everyone blanched except John, who coloured a little, and said, ‘It’s rather exciting. It’s like I remember telling Cynthia I wanted a divorce.’ ”

Afterwards, Mal and Paul returned to McCartney’s home, where they retreated to the garden, still trying to process what had transpired. Paul remained hopeful that John might change his mind, that the Beatles would continue unabated. But Mal knew better. As with George, Mal had reasoned that “all of them had left the group at one time or another, starting with Ringo’’. But when “John came into the office and said, ‘The marriage is over! I want a divorce,’ that was the final thing. That’s what really got to Paul, you know, because I took Paul home and I ended up in the garden crying my eyes out.”

That night with Lennon and Phil Spector in 1973, when happiness was not a warm gun

Mal took great pleasure in spending long hours in John’s company, enjoying the Beatle’s undivided attention, as opposed to sharing him with Paul, George and Ringo. “It was fascinating,” said Mal, who by this point was living in LA and writing his own songs, “because John was talking to me like I was a songwriter, and that was incredible. For the first time, John and I really communicated, whereas, when it was the four of them, John was always the hardest to talk to. I always thought that when John stopped insulting me, we had fallen out as friends.” But, he added, referring to John’s teasing, “The more he likes you, the more he takes the mickey out of you.”

Yet, as Mal soon discovered, working with John during this period would prove to be a chore — incomparable, in fact, to their touring years together, when the Beatles were often confined to the relative safety of a hotel suite. When he was in LA, John could often be found at the Sunset Strip’s Rainbow Bar and Grill, which had emerged as his de facto headquarters [during a period of heavy drinking which Lennon ironically referred to as the Lost Weekend but actually lasted 18 months.] With musicians like John, Harry (Nilsson), Ringo, Keith Moon, Alice Cooper and Micky Dolenz adopting the Rainbow as their regular watering hole, they had taken to calling themselves the Hollywood Vampires, a nickname that evoked the night hours they spent guzzling hooch in the bar’s loft space.

On one of his most harrowing evenings in Los Angeles, Mal had accompanied John and Phil Spector to the Rainbow. At one point, John walked Phil to his car, assuring Mal that he would return shortly. “About a half hour goes by, and I start worrying and go outside looking for John — no sign,” Mal later wrote. “I’d lost track of a Beatle for a day. What had happened, I found out the following evening, was that when he’d seen Phil off, a few hippie fans of his took him in tow, and John, who had just moved into a flat, couldn’t remember the address, nor his or my phone numbers. [John] eventually turn[ed] up, but not before I’d had a few irate words from Yoko, who phoned me from New York shouting, ‘I thought you were John’s bodyguard — why don’t you guard his body?’ ”

At a loss for words, Mal admitted that “I never really thought of myself as a bodyguard to anybody, but I suppose over the years that had been part of the gig. Anyway, they were all grown up, with very strong minds of their own as to what they wanted to do, and I certainly didn’t expect them to hold themselves accountable to me.”

That December, as work on Back to Mono proceeded, John and Phil shifted their project to the Record Plant West. The change of recording studios had everything to do with John’s and Phil’s antics having gotten them evicted from their previous studio, A&M. At one point, Nilsson and Moon, in a drunken stupor, had urinated onto the recording console, leaving the electronics in an ungodly mess.

Things began innocently enough after John and Phil completed their December 11 session at the Record Plant West, where they took a pass at Chuck Berry’s You Can’t Catch Me. As Mal looked on, the two men, drunk to the gills, were horsing around the Las Vegas Room. In a nod to the early days of Beatlemania when the Beatles would climb on Mal when they heard they were at the top of the charts, John decided to hop onto Mal’s back for a piggyback ride. Unfortunately, Phil opted to get in on the act, too. Mal’s physical dexterity in late 1973 was a far cry from that of the early 1960s, and he had difficulty sustaining the weight of two men atop his aching back. As always, Mal observed, “Phil goes a little too far,” and in the ensuing ruckus, “he karate-chopped me on the nose, my spectacles went flying, and I got tears in my eyes I can tell you. I turned around with a real temper and told Phil, ‘Don’t ever lay another finger on me, man.’ ”

And that’s when Phil, “maybe to re-establish himself in his own eyes”, Mal thought, pulled out a handgun. To the roadie’s surprise, the producer “fired it off under our noses, deafening us both, the bullet ricocheting around the room and landing between my feet”.

John was understandably incensed, exclaiming to Phil, “If you’re gonna kill me, kill me, but don’t take away my hearing — it’s me living!”

Until that moment, Mal and John had believed that Spector’s handgun was a toy. At one point earlier in the evening, Phil had cocked the trigger and aimed the weapon at John’s head. As a result of the incident in the Las Vegas Room, “John’s fear of guns generally was doubled.” For his part, Mal vowed to stay clear of Phil. He would attend the recording sessions in deference to John, but that was it.

In nearly the same instant that Mal decided to banish Phil from his world forever, he and John were hustled off to [co-founder of the Record Plant] Gary Kellgren’s house for a lavish going-away party in honour of Mal, who was preparing to make his return to Sunbury. For the occasion, Phil had arranged for Mal to receive “a beautiful large cake, which must have measured four feet by three feet, so nicely decorated with a large bottle of Napoleon brandy, [and] a lot of comic figures like Superman and Batman,” Mal wrote. The sumptuous dessert was inscribed, “To Mal, my pal, love, Philip.”

As it turned out, the madcap producer’s greatest gift to Mal that night came in the form of his absence. “Phil, to show the most understanding side of his nature, did not come to the party,” said Mal. “He knew if he had, he’d be outrageous and spoil it for me. But he set it up and didn’t come — a true mark of affection from a friend.”

The party came to a sudden close, though, when John, having grown blind drunk, planted a telephone into the sticky remains of the cake.

Meet the Beatles: four days in Mal’s life with the moptops

Paul (1962) In July 1962, Mal and his family attended the celebration of the “Wavertree Mystery”, an annual event held to commemorate the anonymous donation of a local playground back in 1895. Mal later recalled that, “Lil and I were proudly pushing Gary in his pram when she turned to me and said, ‘There’s a weird guy over there — keeps staring at us. Now he looks like a real Cavernite to me.’ On turning, I was to see Paul standing there, unshaven, with a denim jacket thrown over his shoulder and chewing on a toffee apple.” After engaging in the niceties of introducing his wife to the scruffy musician, Mal took Paul for a jaunt. “We spent the rest of the day together,” Mal wrote, “Paul and I daring each other to go on things like the parachute drop and other displays that took nerve, neither of us accepting the challenge.” At one point, they stopped in front of an automobile exhibition. Paul announced to Mal that “one of these days I’m going to own one of those cars’’, pointing to one very humble saloon-type car.

George (1962) After shows at the Cavern, Mal would introduce his wife Lily to the rest of the band. “On one occasion,” Mal recalled, “Lil and I bought the fish and chips for the group and ourselves, as they could only muster enough money between them to pay for the teas.” Although she had her misgivings about Mal’s involvement in their lives, she enjoyed getting to know the bandmates. “After gigs,” she later recalled, “George would come back to our house for bacon and eggs. He sometimes came back before Mal to keep me company. I’d be washing baby clothes and nappies or ironing. I liked him the best.” Lily fondly remembered the time she pushed the bangs from Harrison’s face, saying, “Let’s see what it looks like with your hair back. I like that better.” But George wasn’t having it. He combed his hair forward, telling her, “That’s the way I have to wear it; it’s the Beatle cut.”

Ringo (1965) Driving up the M1, Mal and Ringo stopped at a roadside café for lunch. “We were sitting at the counter,” Mal recalled, “and the chap next to me had obviously been trying to make up his mind whether it really was Ringo with me. Suddenly, he turned to me and said, ‘I don’t care if it is him or not.’ Ringo nearly choked with laughter as I teased the fellow, saying, ‘No, it’s not him. But it gets terribly embarrassing taking him anywhere because everybody mistakes him for Ringo!’”

John (1964) John held no illusions about the Beatles’ behaviour, later admitting that, “We were bastards. You can’t be anything else in such a pressurised situation, and we took it out on Neil and Mal. They took a lot of shit from us because we were in such a shitty position. It was hard work and somebody had to take it. Those things are left out, about what bastards we were. F***ing big bastards, that’s what the Beatles were. You have to be a bastard to make it, and that’s a fact. And the Beatles were the biggest bastards on earth. We were the Caesars. Who’s going to knock us when there’s a million pounds to be made, all the handouts, the bribery, the police, and the hype?”

During a flight to Massachusetts for the September 12 show at the Boston Garden, Mal’s long-standing feelings of intimidation around John came to a head. Sitting at the rear of the plane, he broke down in tears, telling a reporter that “John got kind of cross with me — just said I should go f*** off. No reason, ya know. But I love the man. John is a powerful force. Sometimes he’s rough, if you know what I mean, man. But there’s no greater person that I know.” In many ways, it was as if Mal’s lack of self-confidence, a key aspect of his persona for the balance of his life, had returned with a vengeance. Later John approached Mal and embraced him.

Extracted from Living the Beatles Legend by Kenneth Womack (Mudlark £25), published on November 14.

(source)

[ongreenergrasses]

weird question but I just love music and always wondered if there what the difference in music/taste was in district vs capitol. We obviously know the districts are more folky/country ish music, but I can see the capitol being more like EDM/pop/even rock? With all their futuristic tech to make music with but who knows maybe they only like classical.

not a weird question! I’m sorry this answer is a little delayed but I have SO many feelings on it (the musician bias lol)

I think each district’s music is influenced by the types of music that were coming out of that region pre Dark Days. yes a lot of it is very folky because those instruments have been around for a long time, and there’s a lot of overlap, but even now there’s very distinct and unique sounds that come from different regions of the US and while people may not have access to any instruments that use electricity, I think those styles could still persist. even in folk traditions, there’s very different styles of folk music in different locations…thinking a heavy Scandinavian folk presence in the Midwest, etc.

I think in the Capitol they’d value music that either uses instruments (thinking classical instruments, but specifically full orchestra because the districts of course have people who sing) or technology (basically anything that requires electricity, like EDM as you mentioned) the districts don’t have access to. I think it could get really interesting if for example, there’s still some grunge tradition in Seven, but the Capitol takes some of those songs, copies them, and then puts them with the “proper” instruments. I can see people using that as an example of how backwards the districts are, that they can’t even play the genres and styles of music specific to them “correctly”.

It seems like there’s also a distinct difference in the amount of access the districts and Capitol have to music. They have music chips in the Capitol, so they can listen to recorded things. I doubt the districts have those, and the difference between having almost constant access to music and only having access to it at specific times creates a very different dynamic around music in general. It becomes a privilege that people aren’t afforded, and we know it’s one Snow cracks down on, trying to stamp out live music. This means that the districts are going to have musical innovation, but a lot of songs are going to be passed down the way Katniss’s father does to her, which skews it more folk, and I can see the rise of a lot more protest songs in response to that crackdown, which the Capitol wouldn’t hear about.

In terms of the environment for musicians in the Capitol, I can see it getting to be a lot like K-pop, with people being lifted up almost as idols and being heavily scrutinized, with a lot of toxicity and pressure around it. I think in the Capitol they’d also definitely add propaganda into the lyrics themselves, outside of using music as a conceptual propaganda tool by highlighting the class differences and different access standards.