I Want To Be Loved - Tumblr Posts

i want to be loved softly.

a love that wraps around me like a warm blanket on a rainy day. a love that’s warm sunshine on your face. a love that knows you better than yourself.

laying back, staring at the ceiling, pretending to star gaze while wondering, what is taking love so long to reach me. ( i think im unlovable )

I love hate how a crush makes me want to take of my self and be a better person.

one of the most loving things she did for me was putting songs from her favorite movie and artist on a playlist for me.

her and I but she's twicking and she may like someone else.

I treasure those days when I get to smoke cigarettes or two, maybe some weed.

the day I go to bed without a single meal in my stomach.

the days when my friends and family openly express their love to me.

the days I spend getting so much work done I feel like I have something to offer the world.

the days when I feel comfortable in my skin.

I treasure those day because they are so rare, because I lack self control and potential and freedom and security and love and genuine happiness.

I dont think i ever will, so i treasure the day I do.

saw @carmancarmen do this and i though id give it a try too.

the idea that i may be aromatic is probably the scariest thing ive had to ponder about my identity and sexuality.

what if i j live life leading ppl on and not being able to differentiate between platonic and romantic love?

what if every potential partner thinks im j there for s3x and all my friends think i want to sleep w them?

i though coming out as a lesbian would be the last and the worst of it, but now im not so sure.

Breaking News:

Local hopeless romantic drowns themself in daydreams and fantasy and books and tales in order to escape reality and feel something, anything, for once in their life.

it is genuinely pathetic how much i crave to be held by a man. i yearn for that sweet, painful dichotomy of comfort and suffering.

to be touched and held together by another person's hands. to shatter completely knowing someone else is there to collect the pieces.

oh, but to tear myself apart feeling the solid, flat, firmness of his body against mine, knowing its everything i need, but can't have. to cling desperately to the source of my grief, for it is also my greatest comfort.

need a man to hug me from behind and call me darling in the morning while he's still all warm and sleepy and his hair is fluffy and he's pouting adorably and resting his head on my shoulder. (I'm a man)

sometimes I just wanna pack a bag and wander off into a valley of flowers and lakes and sunsets in the summer and never come back. ya know?

tw under the cut ig? bad poetry warning, jkjk hahahahah. it's suicidal ideation.

choose a picturesque scene, where I fall to eternal sleep a low-hanging bough of a majestic tree, tie the noose to the thought of "next time, I'll be..."

or something idk...

feelings... ugh.

chat call me basic as fuck, but this song is making me want to tear out my heart and eat it and share in the holy taste of my lifeblood with my one and only true love, if only to have one final moment with them and to have one part of me forever linked in their existence.

[ 11:05 ] “You know he loves you, don’t you?” Chan questions as he hands you his car keys. You fiddle with the soft toy that hangs between the keys, tugging at the small wolf’s ears. 

Chan sighs. “Fine,” he says. “Just go.” 

You take a step towards the door before hesitating, lifting your eyes to meet his. You’d have to trust he’d keep this conversation to himself. You could feel it already, the anxiety that would bubble up to your throat the second you left the apartment with this conversation unresolved.

Minho was leaving. He was moving out—across the country—and he hadn’t said a word to you about it. Sure, you didn’t live here. But you may as well have. You spent so much time and the apartment he shared with Chan they’d often joke about when you were going to start splitting the bills. 

“What if he changes his mind?” you ask, managing to keep your voice steady. “If I do something… change how it is now… what if he changes his mind?” 

“Why would he do that?” 

“Because he’ll know me. He’ll get closer and maybe he won’t like what he finds.” 

Chan takes the keys from your hands, halting your fiddling. “Sit down,” he instructs gently, gesturing to the small lounge you’d taken to falling asleep on some nights. You do as he says, folding your hands in your lap as you wait for him to join you. 

He doesn’t. 

You watch as he disappears down the short hallway and into Minho’s bedroom, returning only moments later with a small shoebox in his hand. He doesn’t drag it out. He sits on the small table in front of you and opens the lid. 

It reminded you a lot of the small box you kept under your bed in your childhood bedroom, a collection of miscellaneous things you’d attached memories to as you’d grown. A bracelet from your 11th birthday, a playing card you’d scooped out of the water on your trip to Vietnam, the paper mache rabbit you’d made when you were 8, the key to the padlock you’d used for your locker in high school.

This box was much like that. You don’t recognise anything at first, not until Chan digs out a small clay cat, one of your earliest attempts at moulding clay figures. It was an ugly thing, wonky and misshapen. Minho had snatched it from your hands when you’d announced it was going in the rubbish. “He can’t help being ugly,” he’d said. “He’s mine now.” 

Chan passes the clay cat to you. He’s cuter than you’d remembered.

“They’re all from you," he says. 

You look up. “Hm?” 

“The box,” he clarifies. “They’re all things you’ve given him.” 

You peak into the box, attempting to spot anything else you recognise. There are scattered pieces of paper, some are sticky notes you vaguely remember attaching to his bedroom door on days you’d visited when he wasn’t home. You pick one up and read it silently, ‘You missed me. Unlucky for you. I’ll be around Friday.’ You’d drawn a small rabbit in the corner. 

Chan takes the note from you along with the clay cat. You watch as he places them back inside the shoebox and replaces the lid. “I shouldn’t let you go through it—not without his permission. I just need you to understand.” He places the box on the table beside him carefully, like it’s full of priceless porcelain. “You know him,” he continues. “He doesn’t make decisions lightly. He knows what he wants and when he wants something… that’s it. You’re it.” He sighs. “You know him.” 

You look to his discarded car keys. “You still need milk.” 

“I’ll get it. You’ll stay?” 

You nod. “I’ll stay.” 

—

He leaves shortly after that. Leaves you to pace as you wait for Minho to arrive. He was leaving. Leaving Chan. Leaving you. He hadn’t offered an explanation. 

You jump as he knocks on the door. He expected Chan to be home. He wasn't expecting you. You press your hand to your chest and take one last deep breath before marching over and letting him in. 

His eyes widen a little as he takes you in. You hadn’t seen him in two weeks now. It was the longest you’d gone without seeing each other since you’d met three years prior. You step aside to let him in, pressing your fingers into your clavicle in an attempt to ground yourself. 

“I didn’t know you were coming around,” he says as he takes his shoes off. “Chan didn’t—” 

“He left,” you interrupt. “Chan. He went out because he wanted—I wanted to talk to you.” 

He stands and shucks his winter jacket from his shoulders. “Talk to me?” he questions. 

You nod. “Would you… sit? Please?” 

He looks a little nervous now. You wonder if he can see the same emotion in you. He sits exactly where you’d been sitting when Chan had shown you the box. He leaves his beanie on and you take in the way his brown hair peeks out around his neck. He waits. 

You can’t find it within yourself to sit, choosing to stand across from him instead—leaving the small table between you. “Can I ask you something?” 

He nods and his tongue flicks out to wet his lips. “Mm,” he says. “Anything.” 

“It’s a big ‘something’.”

“Okay,” he says simply. 

“Would you stay?” you ask, tugging on your fingers. Your heart thumps in your chest. “If I asked you to stay, would you?” 

His brow furrows slightly. “I—” 

“Because I need you to stay. Please. I need you not to leave me. I know it’s a lot and I don’t know why you’re leaving and I’m sure it’s very important and I don’t even know if you want to stay here. Maybe you don’t but—” 

“Wait,” he says, interrupting your rambling. You take a steadying breath as he stands. He tugs his beanie from his head and drops it onto the table. His hair stands on all ends. You desperately want to run your hands through it. But you can’t. Your knuckle pops as you tug a little hard on one of your fingers. “Leaving?” he questions, clearly confused. Alarm bells ring in your head. “Why would I leave?”

“Chan said—” you cut yourself off. Oh you were going to wrap your hands around his throat and squeeze so hard he– “You’re not leaving?”

“No. But you thought I was…you said you need me to stay...” Minho says with a smirk, making his way around the table slowly. 

“Forget everything I just said.” 

“Can’t,” he says, his smirk transforming into a small grin. “Sorry.” 

You could tell him you’d seen the box, a small voice in your head offers. Then you’d both be embarrassed. You snuff it out before it can fully form. If it was anyone else… But it was him. You’d take much worse than one-sided embarrassment for him. 

“Alright. Well, Chan had his fun. I’m going home.” 

Minho steps in front of you, cutting off your exit. “Stay,” he says simply. 

“Why?” 

“Because I want you to.” 

“Why?” 

He huffs out a breathy laugh. “Because I haven’t seen you in two weeks. Why is that, by the way? Chan said—” 

“Chan says a lot of things, apparently."

Minho collapses into the couch cushions beside you and throws his arm over the back of the lounge. You join him. “He said you were busy,” Minho says. “That you didn’t have time for us.” 

“I was… sulking.” 

He presses his lips together, failing to suppress a smile. “Sulking?” 

“I thought you were moving out. Chan wouldn’t tell me why he said you’d talk to me when you wanted to. But you didn’t. I thought you were leaving without even talking to me about it.” 

The hand over the back of the couch moves a little, then he begins playing with your hair—gentle fingers fiddling with the strands that fall over your shoulder. “I think it’s my fault,” he says as you struggle to regulate your breathing. “I said something to him a few weeks ago. Something that may have… caused this. I’ll fix it.” 

His fiddling with your hair breaks a barrier, one that allows you to lean a little towards him and fix the strands of hair that stick on all ends. He’s quiet at first, letting you brush his hair out with your fingers. Then, just as you begin working on a particularly stubborn tuft right at his parting, he speaks, “I would never leave you,” he says. It’s almost a whisper. Gentle and quiet, almost like he hadn’t meant to speak it at all. 

“You wouldn’t?”

He takes your arm, stubborn tuft forgotten. “I thought you knew that. I thought you knew that I…” he trails off as his eyes drop to where his fingers wrap around your wrist. 

“Minho?” you whisper. He looks up. “I do. I know.” 

He blinks, a brief moment of panic crossing his features as his fingers tighten on your wrist. 

“I love you, too,” you add quickly, keen to end his anxiety. “So much.” 

He blinks. Once, twice. Then he drops his head, letting his hair fall over his eyes. He takes a deep breath and you watch as he lifts your wrist to his lips. You can’t see the way he presses a kiss to your skin, his long hair obscuring your view. But you feel it. You feel his warm breath as he holds you there for a moment afterwards. 

Then he lifts his head. 

You catch a blur of his smile as he lunges at you, pushing you onto your back as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. He keeps the majority of his weight off you and you bask in the warmth of him for the minute of two he stays like this. Then he’s sitting up again, tugging you up with him and practically lifting you into his lap. You wrap your arms around him, settling yourself comfortably against him as he releases a contented sigh. 

“Did Chan tell you?” he mumbles as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. 

“I knew before that.” 

He groans, dropping his head back. You can see the tiny mole at his jawline: a target. You press a gentle kiss there. “I knew you loved me,” you whisper. “You’re so good at it.. so full of love. But I—I think I was afraid you’d stop, like when you see a stray cat and you’re afraid if you move it’ll startle…that it’ll leave and you’ll never get to try again. Having you as a friend is better than not having you at all.” 

He lifts his head to look at you. You can see the way he’s fighting it, all the emotion. He doesn’t express it with words, but he doesn’t need to. It leaks from his eyes and from his gentle touches. “I don’t startle,” he grumbles after a moment. 

You grin. “‘M’kay, whatever you say,” you whisper before pressing your lips to his for the first time. 

I’m afraid no one will ever fall in love with me. I feel ugly and unloveable.

I want what they have

Just look at the way they look at each other

So much love

old drawing i made! spooky season is coming yall

also thanks to everyone reblogging my posts! i appreciate that a lot <3 virtual forehead kisses

God I wish I knew other transfems irl, I want a t4t relationship. I want someone else who is hopelessly figuring things out for themselves too. I want to explore each other's bodies. I want to worship them and to love them. And for them to do the same for me. Make me feel like someone who's worthy and deserving of love. Make me blush with excitement while teasing. Make me make noises I didn't know I could. Dig into and love my body that I oh so struggle to love myself. And I'll do the same for you. I'll caress every part of your body with love, tracing sweetness across your skin. And gripping the parts that I love the most. Let me hold you so tightly to my chest so that we can feel each other's heartbeats race. Let me kiss you and learn how to. Teach me the way you want to be loved. And I'll do my best to love you. Cause ultimately we're both just soft creatures looking for the warmth of each other.