(Source: luxintenebris-pl, via fours-knives-hit-my-heart)

(Source: stupid-erudite, via divergentrebel)

Guys, I just realized my neighbors’ last name is Eaton… O M G

yaosnonexistentmanhood:wendytesticles:jeffreydonovanfan24:

#CLEARLY REBLOGGING FOR RDJ’S FACE

A forever reblog

(Source: bori-cha, via enemy-of-the-capitol)

• Uriah: We found cake in a Dauntless place.
• I now want to go write a whole song about this

lettersfromtributes:

[[Dear Hunger Games fans,

You might be worried that you’re just like the Capitol people, watching us fight to the death for entertainment. But let us tell you that we know you’re different. You watch us, crying when we die, cheering at our small successes. You cry because you knew us, you knew we had families, futures and dreams and that they were taken away from us.

Thank you,

The fallen tributes]]

(via be-my-peeta-mellark)

life-pursuit:

WIP: Mockingjay: The Assassin

After about an hour, Peeta speaks up. “These last couple of years must have been exhausting for you. Trying to decide whether to kill me or not. Back and forth. Back and forth.”
That seems grossly unfair, and my first impulse is say something cutting. But I revisit my conversation with Haymitch and try to take the first tentative step in Peeta’s direction. “I never wanted to kill you… 

(via be-my-peeta-mellark)

mynameisfour:

Breaking windows - I walk up to the highest bench, and lift the chair above my head. It just barely touches the ledge beneath one of the window spaces. I jump, shoving the chair forward (…) I stand on the ledge, under the arch of what used to be a window, and stare out the city. (…) A faint cry escapes me. It grows into a yell, which transforms into a scream, and then I’m standing on the ledge of the Merciless Mart. (…) And then I think of Al. (…) and then [Al] decided that he was tired. Tired, not just of living, but of existing. Tired of being Al. I open my eyes, and stare at the pieces of chair I can faintly see. For the first time I feel like I understand Al. I’m tired of being Tris. I have done bad things. I can’t take them back, and they are part of who I am. I lean forward, into the air, holding on the side of the window with one hand. (…) But I can’t do it. (…) “Let the guilt teach you how to behave next time,” my father would say. “I love you. No matter what,” my mother would say. My eyes blurry with tears.

(asked by anon)

(via theselfishandbrave)

(Source: mynameisfour, via theselfishandbrave)