“What could I say? Noah, despite you being an asshole, or maybe because of it, I'd like to rip off your clothes and have your babies.”

“You like me,” he finally said. “You like me, like me.” He was trying not to smile.“No. I hate you,” I said, hoping that saying it would make it so.“And yet, you draw me.” Noah was still smug, completely undeterred by my declaration.This was torture; worse somehow than what just happened, even though it was only the two of us. Or because it was only the two of us.“Why?” he asked.“Why what?” What could I say? Noah, despite you being an asshole, or maybe because of it, I’d like to rip off your clothes and have your babies. Don’t tell.”

“from the poem Holographic Personality Disgrace: Some people are such assholes that saying, "Look, again, I'm sorry I cut off my thumb and glued it to your baby's head because I thought you'd like him better as a unicorn" means nothing to them.”

“What do you think?" I whisper to Peeta. "About the fire?" "I'll rip off your cape if you'll rip off mine," he says through gritted teeth.”

“You have a lot to answer for, love. I can't decide if I want to take you to my bed and bust that perfect ass of yours or rip off your clothing and take you here and now against the wall.”

“I'd dressed up and hoped and I was so tired of doing that, so tired of dreaming and being unable to stop it despite the fact that I'd seen, maybe better than anyone here, what dreams could do to you.”