give our heart

you say this is how we learn. we love and we lose and this is how we learn. we give our hearts to boys who lock them in boxes and take them 2,000 miles away, and this is how we learn. we let boys we barely know kiss us in places we stop recognizing, and this is how we learn. we write poem after poem about the one who got away, but the one thing we haven’t learned is that we are the one who got away. we’ve gotten away from ourselves, we’ve given our lives to lonely boys in bathroom stalls, and we never actually learn. we stop recognizing our features when we look in the mirror and we become people we have to learn about, again. our hands are not our own, our smiles are not our own, our laughs are not our own: the things we once held close to our chests stop belonging to us. you say this is how we learn. this is how we learn to build up walls, to protect ourselves, to be the mothers we never had. we have our love taken from us and we never get it back, we come to a point where we are running on empty and we have nothing left to love ourselves with. you say this is how we learn to stand up tall, to lock our hearts away, to lock ourselves away, to become the kind of person people see and can’t figure out. you say this is how we learn, but if i’ve learned at all, it’s that i don’t know anything.
—  we learn how to lose ourselves without really learning anything
CP bachelor AU: part 12

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11


The clouds that threatened rain earlier in the day have subsided, bunching themselves cosily near the horizon as though they’re aware that what Laurent needs more than anything else is a good sunset to serve as a backdrop. Laurent sits in the grass near the edge of the headland, looking down onto the dark sand of the beach. The water shades abruptly from turquoise to teal a few hundred metres offshore, a meandering divide that becomes less and less distinct as the sun creeps down.

Part of the reason Laurent has been so strict with the show’s budget is that he’s been determined, all along, to produce a finale that is truly spectacular. Sunsets over the ocean aren’t exactly easy to come by, on Australia’s east coast, and it’s an irony of geography that the nearest west coast belongs to another country entirely.

But that makes it better, Laurent thinks, gazing out over the vista of Te Henga. Crossing the sea. The romance of destination.

“I don’t suppose you’d be prepared to give us a hint,” says a voice from behind him.

“And spoil your authentic, on-camera emotional response?” Laurent shoots back. “Please, Jokaste.”

Jokaste steps up next to him; Laurent has to tilt his head to take her in. Her hair is braided back, one plait forming a headband and the others looped intricately into a knot at the back of her head. She’s wearing a long flowing dress of pale lavender, just a shade away from overtly bridal, and it somehow manages to accentuate the porcelain of her skin instead of calling out unpleasant pink or yellow tones. Laurent makes a note to give someone in wardrobe a bonus for that.

“You do know who he’s going to choose, don’t you?” she says.

“Of course,” Laurent lies, cool and easy.

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spiritual stages of Nearly Witches

this song is a blessing
1) the kid choir thingy group signing the french intro and us singing along to it and wondering what the fuck they’re saying
2) the awesome ass instrumental after??????
3) “MY WINGTIPS WALTZ ACROSS NIAVE WOOD FLOORS THEY CREAK INNOCENTLY DOWN THE STAIRS” fucking rising from the dead to give this line our heart and soul
4) “DRaaaAAAAaaAAAAg MEL O DY MY PURCUS SIVE FEET SERVE COBWEB HEADACHES” if i could type the way i scream “drag” in this song, i just did. spaces are little staccatos
6) “dodododo dodoDODODO” FUCK ME
7) “HERE I AM COMPOSING A BURLESQUE, OUT OF WHERE THEY REST THEIR NECKS” is it JUST ME or do you guys also sing it in the valley girl squeaky voice that brendon does in the live performances?????? BECAUSE ME
10) “I ONLY SHOOT UP WITH YOUR PERFUME” i take off in a foxtrot partner dance at this part, like i’m on so you think you can fucking dance or something
12) dead bc ryden
13) thats it

kiLLING TWO MEMES WITH ONE STONE with swanky meme squad @maqui-chan @pemprika @exucaribur yo waddup homies

I have never believed in love at first sight, that we are able to give our hearts away upon one view or that after just one glance we are in love. But I do believe the second I saw your eyes, I loved them. And the moment I saw your smile, I loved it. And the instant I heard you laugh I fell in love with the sound. I have never believed in love at first sight but I do believe that after one glance in your direction I have belonged to you completely.

anonymous asked:

Would you do another thing with Daja? Or maybe Lark or Rosethorn. Because I'm currently questioning and I envy the easy acceptance of their gayness/bisexuality. There's no way in hell my family would be okay with me not being straight so yeah, I'd kinda like to live vicariously through them for a bit sorry for asking.

don’t ever be sorry for asking kindly for things, nonny. this one’s all yours.

when they come home from namorn, a lot of things happen—

little bear comes running and cleans all their faces while briar complains about his manly pride and nice clothes (he gives the old pup a belly rub later, when no one but daja can see him go soft and tired, because he knows she will not taunt or comfort, just stand). 

glaki comes pounding out of discipline cottage, wraps around tris like the vegetable garden is twining around briar, the way evvy is pretending she doesn’t want to, and tris pets glaki’s hair and tries not to remember how much she has grown without her.

sandry will step back into her uncle’s court the next day, and she will be sure, suddenly more sure than she’d been the whole ride back, that she had made the right decision. the citadel will smell like sealing wax and old stone and dried ink. when she steps into her uncle’s study, there will be a mantle of responsibility returned to her shoulders that is just the right weight, that is just what she wants. her uncle will look up from his letters and the light of pride in his eyes will be better than all the riches and legacy of the inheritance that she signed away to a good man. 

for now, though: “i thought the snow might give your roots frostbite,” evvy sniffs at briar. 

“doubting my training,” rosethorn warns. “i taught my boy better than that." 

it’s when rosethorn hugs briar that evvy breaks down and squeezes him tight around the ribs. briar presses one cheek into evvy’s kerchief, tangles a hand in rosethorn’s habit and doesn’t let go until he knows he can grin like he can’t smell woodsmoke on even this peaceful air. 

while glaki chases chime around the yard, tris watching like the fond sister she pretends she’s not, while briar teases evvy and sandry buries her face in the sensible cotton smell of lark, daja slips out the garden gate. 

daja climbs over the flat walks of winding circle until she finds frostpine’s forge, its little bedroom tucked above it, the sharp scents of the metals and the rounded undertone of coal and wood. she wishes everything else were so easy to distinguish by smell as copper and tin, gold and iron. 

his hug is bone-crushing, acrid, and his eyes are clever and dark when he pulls back and looks at her. frostpine gives her a spare apron of his that she’s almost big enough to wear now and a hammer that’s swimming with his magics and they strike metal, shape and sweat in silence until the day is over. daja makes hinges and crafts sigils for some heavy lock boxes that she’s sure even briar would have trouble breaking into. she makes a bucketful of nails, for old times’ sake. 

they forsake the warmth of the baths, after, and go plunge into the sea instead, like they’re hot steel they want to quench. daja’s not sure she’s the right temperature for this, the right hue of glowing red. what if it makes her brittle, not strong? what if her ore was poor quality in the first place? a trader turned lugsha, who weaseled her way back in; a woman who loves beautiful women and then leaves them. 

frostpine gets the story out of her, because he is safe the way she has known few men to ever be, because there are few people more patient in silence than she is but he is one. daja has never had a broken heart before, and she has never been one for many words, but she tries to explain. 

sandry will try to help—she will take daja out riding, keep her moving, because that is how sandry outruns her griefs, always has. she pours her heart into other things, other work. 

tris will give her books to read, because they give you a way out to better things, because they give you something to put between your face and a world that’s not interested in looking at you right. 

briar will take her out to meet pretty young women, like delicate flowers, and daja will feel sooty no matter how well she scrubs her smiths’ hands clean. 

but frostpine listens quietly. he asks her if she can smell the little bits of metal in the waves, the buried treasure far offshore. “your nose has gotten better,” he says. “i’m sorry about rizu.” they dry off, then soak in the communal baths after all, and then he walks her back to discipline. he kisses her on the forehead, warm hands on her cheeks, bristling beard ticking her nose, and says, “you might want to talk to your foster mothers.” 

"you know, rosie broke my heart once,” lark says companionably, when daja does ask, shyly, over tea and honey and milk. rosethorn blushes furiously and daja stares. lark starts to tell a story and rosethorn stomps off to find a stronger tea. 

they tell daja stories of lark the young acrobat, who fell in love with every pretty girl who came to her shows and didn’t kiss one. it’s late and they are all sleepy, guards down, when rosethorn talks about the first boy she loved, haystacks and very young promises, angry fathers. lark was the fourth woman rosethorn decided to love, and the other three names roll off rosethorn’s tongue, easy. daja listens hard for something like sorrow, like regret, and doesn’t hear it. 

“we are a lot more than the places we have decided to lay down bits of our heart,” says lark, “or the people we have offered to give our hearts to. but that’s one part of you all the same: who and what and how you love. i know it hurts right now, chickadee, but you loved her and she loved you. that matters, no matter if it lasts. living, you get bruises. you get strong muscles and bones that don’t heal right. you get so many homes and broken hearts. you live in all those places and you don’t always get to choose which ones to keep.”

“you’re a hardy one,” says rosethorn. “you’ll outlive it.”

“what rosie means is: we love you, and we’re here if you need it.”

after, daja climbs up to the thatched roof where they watched clouds get born as children. the sun is rising. she has her heavy brass-tipped staff and her own smallest chisel. she wants to carve something into the metal here, into the life’s story written out in the circling design. it might be rizu’s name. it might be her own. 

The reason why borderlines get so upset over our favourite person showing love or caring about others is because of how we perceive caring and love. To us, caring about our favourite person means giving our entire heart to them. Making our life completely about making them happy and adoring them as much as possible. And we can only give ourselves so completely to one person at a time. So when the favourite person then expresses caring or love towards someone else, we perceive it as them offering themselves completely to that person and that they don’t care about us (since we think that you can only care about one person at a time). And that’s why we get so hurt by it. Not because we’d like being mean and jealous, but because we genuinely feel abandoned and unloved when it happens because we don’t understand normal caring or love.


     ↳ sotus: the series (2016-2017)

“The gear represents our unity. And it’s very important because it was hard to obtain. It’s because of its importance that it is considered to be the heart of the engineering student’s heart. To the point where they say the gear is within the heart…the heart is within the gear. If we give our gear to someone, that means we’re giving them our heart.”

graysoulztheuniter  asked:

I'm not sure if you'll answer this, but I am a 17 year old and every time I go into target I am tempted to ask for a sticker, but get too embarrassed or worried that the cashiers can't give them to anyone but kids. Should I bring my sticker-searching escapades elsewhere or tempt fate at target?

Never fear! We can give stickers to whosoever our hearts desire! Ask away!