killthefez:

"Okay, should we get some coffee?"

 


posted 7 hours ago24/4/2014 • 54,120 notes
ziraulo | © claraeleven

hislovelysummergirl:

You know what’s stupid? The fact that I read The Selection as just a “haha this sounds cute” light read expecting to just pass time between series and I got super emotionally invested dammit Maxon and your fucking ear tugging and I’m counting down days to The One like my life depended on it light read my ass



in dreams, i meet you in warm conversation...

posted 1 day ago23/4/2014 • 1,589 notes
andthatlittleblackdress | © swifth

tzikeh:

p1013:

sauntering-down:

apollosflamingchariot:

luciferspersephone:

This is the best explanation I could come up with for why it takes me so long to do updates sometimes when, at other times, I’m typing them up like clockwork.

also this:

facts.

I’m like this with my original fiction, too.

You guys forgot this one:

image


posted 1 day ago23/4/2014 • 107,090 notes
ziraulo | © talkmagically

moriarty:

Clark Kent: I’m not Superman.
Peter Parker: I’m not Spider Man.
Bruce Wayne: I’m not Batman.
Tony Stark: 

image


posted 2 days ago22/4/2014 • 111,502 notes
sherlockswift | © moriarty

darksilenceinsuburbia:

Maud Vantours

3D Paper


posted 2 days ago22/4/2014 • 22,209 notes
chicendana | © darksilenceinsuburbia



kistymea:

We are the generation of nostalgia. We grew up in the age of transition. From hand-written letters to electronic mails. From film to digital. We were fascinated by new things, neglecting the way we spend our afternoons. Cupcakes and tea. Play-Doh and Polly Pockets. Young and naive. Technology completely changed the way we waited and we grew up too fast. The simple things in life seems more meaningful now. We grew up in the age of transition and have become the generation of nostalgia.


posted 3 days ago21/4/2014 • 172,426 notes
porsheohporshe | © kistymea

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.


It’s not that I don’t love you. (via strawberrytelle)

posted 3 days ago21/4/2014 • 85,003 notes
theabysswithin | © extrasad


posted 4 days ago20/4/2014 • 3,136 notes
supermarvell |