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when in doubt, read fanfiction. when not in doubt, read fanfiction. honestly just read fanfiction it's the best.

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I will not be silenced.

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Now I have a headcanon, that Peeta draws Katniss and her family (Asterid, Burdock and Prim) with the plants associated with their names and when he offers it to Katniss, she says it's missing his portrait. You know, because he IS her family. To which Peeta responds he doesn't have a plant/flower name...

So then Katniss draws something quickly and when Peetas sees it, he asks "What's that ?" (cause Katniss isn't as good as him with a pencil) and she answers : "A dandelion".

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Two eldest sisters Two loverboys

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thinking about how haymitch and lenore dove found it so important to keep their relationship THEIRS. how they didn’t want their love used as part of the game.

thinking about how katniss and peeta never had that choice. :(

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'I pull his hand up and lean my cheek against the back of it, taking in the scent of cinnamon and dill'

Inspired by @mage-chocolate post

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Of course it was real for Peeta. He told Katniss the night before the games that he didn’t want to be a piece in their games.

Everything he did in the arena was for Katniss. Saving her from the bloodbath, guiding the careers away from her, fighting Cato to protect her, pleading with her not to go to the feast, undoing his tourniquet.

His actions were real and genuine, and therefore inherently defiant. Since the moment they arrived to the Capitol the tributes from District 12 painted their poster: we are a team.

Peeta Mellark loving Katniss Everdeen was a big middle finger to the Capitol. He showed everyone in the districts that the Capitol couldn’t take everything from them.

He wasn’t faking, and he didn’t think Katniss would be the type of person to play their game. So when Katniss kissed him and seemingly reciprocated his feelings he believed it.

Peeta trusted Katniss with his life and his death. He put those berries in his mouth because he couldn’t kill her and she couldn’t kill him. It was real to him.

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“I can’t help but think that all the little ones seem to end up with me. Louella. Lou Lou. Ampert. … Why do they flock to me?” (SOTR 242) “When the eggs hatch, mine was the first face those goslings saw.” (SOTR 382)

Haymitch is also a “protector of the innocent”, as Johanna called Katniss. They’re so similar it’s crazy.

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Just a quick one of mama and babies that I've had in the sketchbook for a while 🩵

Alternately titled: Why buy maternity wear when your husband's clothes fit perfectly?

come claim 20% off commissions!

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"So that day, in music assembly, the teacher asked who knew the valley song. Your hand shot right up in the air. She stood you up on a stool and had you sing it for us. And I swear, every bird outside the windows fell silent. [...] And right when your song ended, I knew—just like your mother—I was a goner.” [Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins]

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my cat has not been enjoying the heatwave

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new job is going great however i have been informed by two of my coworkers that a third coworker has a problem with constantly one-upping people and i as an excellent liar have decided that i am going to fuck with him until he figures out im lying

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i love halsey because she'll write lyrics like "a girl like that is a mother, must be tough/ a problem child, i was rough/ but what do you do with a difficult grown up?" and then in another song she'll rhyme "michigan" with "bitch again"

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remember kids, the moral of "Irish and Italians weren't even considered White yet!" isn't "because in those times people were so ignorant they didn't think the Irish were white". the moral is "because white is an unreal category created to justify slavery and ongoing hoarding of power and wealth". It's not that you know better about Italians. It's that the boundaries of the higher caste have changed.

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Outline of the world by mapping all lighthouses

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Butchered Tongue

how am I to explain my history?

I have no history.

I have no words.

I have no language.

my culture is not mine.

my culture is a distant island

halfway across the world;

a distant memory, a different life.

a few words, a few years,

far too young to know

about the history of the land

underneath my feet.

people ask about my name,

how a woman with a Canadian accent

has a Swedish first name

and an Irish last

I smile sadly, and tell a tale

of a family from Kerry

and a family from the Arctic Circle

and a family from an ancient capital,

and how they came together,

slowly, over generations,

losing culture and language and religion

to empires and occupations,

and how I'm here,

so far from home

with nothing to show for it.

except...

where even is home?

is it my birthplace?

my mother's birthplace?

or where I grew up?

seperated from all I should know.

they don't understand.

they've been here for years.

they don't understand the half-life

of a first generation immigrant,

born to another immigrant.

they don't know how it feels.

they don't know the grief

that permeates everything I do.

I don't bother to explain it.

the leprechaun and ginger jokes start up again,

while I mourn a language that I don't speak,

a culture I'm so far removed from,

a history I don't know,

and a life I never got to have.