I Want To Be Her Protector.

i wanna have lose track of time, multiple rounds, cute convos and giggles in between during water breaks, messy hair and rumpled sheets, hickeys all over when we finish type of sex

roses of restraint by Oliver Ler Marinkoski

Girls be so pretty what the fuck

Just want to be hugged but also fucked til tears are streaking down my face while getting whispered sweet nothings.

Is it too much to ask for?

reblog this to remind the person you reblogged it from that theyre loved

i'm so attracted to emotional intelligence like damn the way you actually listen and communicate turns me on

in desperate need of a sleepy and gropey makeout sesh that ends with me face down ass up while you tease me about how easy it was to make me drip down my thighs

"I would never-"

You would if you were tired enough. You would if you were hungry enough. You would if your mind and body had been worn down enough, through pain or disease or toil or violent struggle. You might if you were put on the wrong medicine, or you got the wrong kind of head injury, or you were forced to choose between someone else and yourself. You might if your livelihood was staked on it, or all your hopes and dreams. You might if you didn't know what else to do, if it's what you were taught or if nobody taught you anything else.

I have not been worn down in most of these ways. I have lived a remarkably privileged life. But I have been worn down in some ways. And they were enough to teach me that in the wrong circumstances, any of us can become someone we don't want to be. It's worth keeping that in mind.

The legacies people leave behind in you.

My handwriting is the same style as the teacher’s who I had when I was nine. I’m now twenty one and he’s been dead eight years but my i’s still curve the same way as his.

I watched the last season of a TV show recently but I started it with my friend in high school. We haven’t spoken in four years.

I make lentil soup through the recipe my gran gave me.

I curl my hair the way my best friend showed me.

I learned to love books because my father loved them first.

How terrifying, how excruciatingly painful to acknowledge this. That I am a jigsaw puzzle of everyone I have briefly known and loved. I carry them on with me even if I don’t know it. How beautiful.

i want to feel

to feel wanted

to feel loved

to feel like i’m interesting

i wanna feel like i matter

not a chore

but a choice

i wanna be loved