it has been one of my greatest dreams to beat the living shit out of something at least once so god fucking help anybody that ever tries to assault me because i will be brimming with every violent urge that i have ever tucked away in my entire life
“I also thank Angelina for dressing in hijab while she visited not just Iraqi refugees but refugees in Afghanistan and Pakistan. Not only did she look good in it, she showed respect and appreciation for their culture and religion and made sure that the focus was not on her looks but rather her mission.”
This photo carries so much emotion
I love her I have no words
take notes, whites
remember when you put your glasses on for the first time and you realized you could see leaves on trees
J.K. Rowling should have published The Cuckoo’s Calling under the pseudonym Mark Winjiglo and then revealed in a very Tom Riddle-esque way that it is actually an anagram that says, “I am J.K. Rowling.”
the really shitty thing about being told that youre smart your whole entire life is that as soon as you dont understand something you just kind of completely shut down and his this big shitty crisis because maybe youre not as smart as youve always been told
Favorite missing book quotes → Harry’s difficult life
Okay but imagine person A of your otp picking up sleepy person B and carrying them to bed and person B just snuggles their face into person A’s shoulder you know on second thought don’t imagine that
Imagine your otp getting drunk and cooking together.
We are walking in the park on a quiet evening in mid September. My hands are still not used to the way yours feel in mine so I’m short of breath and red faced. I blame it on the exercise. You laugh and say that we should start jogging and I look at you with so much disdain that your cheeks colour.
The evening settles on my shoulders and you take your jacket and wrap it around me. I level a sceptical glance in your direction and dryly say “this isn’t a romantic comedy, I’m not cold you absolute tool.”
You shrug, rub your arms and murmur “just in case.”
For the fifth time that day I think about how you are too good for me, and selfishly hope that this is something you never come to realise.
"Hey," I say quietly, scuffing the toe of my shoe in the dirt, "what would you do if I died?"
I’m not looking at you but I can see the sharp twist of your head in my periphery. You stumble and it takes a moment for you to regain yourself. I don’t comment.
"Why would you ask that?" You say sharply, your long ambling stroll has slowed.
I shrug and keep walking, “just curious, I guess.”
"Hey, wait." You tuck your hand under my elbow and turn me swiftly to face you, cupping my arms inwards. You peer at me through your hair and brush a hand over your eyes. "If you died, I’d forget how to do the simplest things. Like how to count, or ride a bike or make toast."
You pull me closer to drop your chin onto my head and I can barely hear you now.
"If you died, I could watch the sunset a thousand times and still not be able to tell you what the colour red looks like."
You’re standing against a wall, holding onto a girl whose knees you’ve shot without touching. Holding, but not in the way you’ve ever known it. Hold like you’re drowning, hold like you’re buried, hold until your arms are trembling from the strength of it. She’s elastic against you, she’s all wilting and drooping and long long lashes hiding eyes painted black from wanting. She won’t look at you because she doesn’t know how to without spilling desire.
You’re both talking a language that neither of you can understand. But it sounds like ‘please’ or it sounds like ‘touch me everywhere.’ But this is more than your fingers or your mouth. This is the five seconds that it takes to peel her self-conscious away from her body. This is the five minutes of holding her hips between your hands and pressing your fingers into the stretch marks there and saying ‘you’re so fucking beautiful.’ This is really meaning it. This is thanking God for your hands and their ability to feel. You think maybe the dip of her sternum is forgiveness. This is how the soft of her against you makes your breath ragged. This is your chest heaving and sweat on your upper lip. The way you’ve forgotten the first name of every girl you’ve ever touched. The way her hair feels between your knuckles when you yank it. The noise she makes.
This is the hour that it takes for her to believe that you want her, skin and all. And when she believes you, you’ll know. Her defences will fall off her like water. She’ll shrug the sweater off her shoulders and that strip of bare skin will drive you so crazy that you’ll think about it for weeks later and it’ll make you hard again. You’ll text her saying that you’re thinking about her and your colleagues will ask why the freckles on your cheeks have connected to turn you bright red and you’ll mumble something about the sun. It’s not the sun. It’s the way she fell apart when you bit her neck and moaned honey into her throat. You’ll both be so brimming the ocean will rise jealous to see you. You’ll meet a girl and she’ll trust you and it will feel like undressing with all your clothes still on. It’ll feel like the raw of a wound and the relief of healing. She’ll put her throat in your open hands and close her eyes. This is what trust looks like.
Dip your fingers into her swollen mouth. Lean closer, breathe the words, you’ll fill her like this: ‘you are so beautiful and I’m going to put my hands everywhere.’”