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Okay sO I figured I'd put something out there on the far off chance that I get lucky: I fell in love with this dress ages ago but at the time was in a rough spot and didn’t have the money to buy it. Now I can’t find it anywhere, I’ve been searching for months. It’s called Dark Fairy Tale, I believe the brand is Ista Mori (the original listing I saw said Beaver Duke)? Both the OP and JSK are gorgeous and if anyone can help me find where to buy it or someone who is selling it second hand I’d be beyond grateful because I can’t seem to find anything from my own searches 😭

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(Sirius was so in love, so hopelessly in love. He told Remus as such, babbling in soft words under the gentle city lights, tucked between white buildings and blue rooftops. His accent was more pronounced here, Remus noticed, but over the years it had softened, into something less aristocratic. It was a secret, a quiet knowledge between the two of them, passed like notes between corridors and Remus could only just grasp at the meanings but he loved it all the same. The lights, the city, the Eiffel Tower in all its glory, Sirius. The words he offered so freely, without care. In the evenings they'd stroll past the Seine, talking. Just talking. As if the world didn't exist. As if it could never catch up to them.)

Okay but this is so pretty I love it?? The atmosphere is Gorgeous I just. Ahhhhhh. So nice!!

December got away from me and I never finished all my Advent gifts. I just wanted to wish my friend @jepierrex a very Happy New Year. Here is a little Wolfstar in Paris just for you.

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You ask me to write poetry as if you’re asking for a pen, but my mind is not something I can trade away like ink on a page. You ask for the impossible, the distance between my thoughts and yours, tell me to fill the gap and yet never say what I should do when I reach your front door. Do I knock? Would you let me in? You, who is made of a billion promises I’ll never hear and a thousand secrets I’m glad to say I’ll never have to keep. The space between us is small, the palm of your hand against mine and yet we both know I’ll never bridge it. People ask for art as if it was ever mine to give away, but it’s not, it’s not, it’s not. It was always yours to take, I am simply the messenger never allowed enough beauty to paint.

Bottled thoughts from another lifetime #120

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I am so so incredibly happy and proud. Today the results came in for the Australian Marriage Equality postal vote, and the result was yes! I'm so grateful and relieved and surprised and thankful and you'll probably hear more of this later but. Thank you Australia.

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#thatslytherinfeeling when you catch someone cute sneaking you a second glance on a day you made an Effort to look good.

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Another Inktober sketch

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I am not a poet, I speak in too few words, in riddles, in tongues, in rhymes. And I’ll make your name rhyme with mine when you whisper it into my ear late at night. I know I’m too young to be talking about such things but time is not a line from one end of my mind to the other, time is a road that crosses itself too many times to ever know where it’s going.

Bottled thoughts from another lifetime #119

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ig: i__hateyou

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Inktober, day 3

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The world is a slow crawl across your skin, scraping flesh from bones, and I'm sorry, I'm sorry. If I could drag you back from the edges of eternity I would, but I've only brittle bones and too little faith left to give away.

Late Night Thoughts #2 // The world is a damn fine mess

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Au Revoir

Sirius, whose first language is French. Who starts hogwarts with a thick accent that curls around his words, and an oddly formal manner of speech for an 11 year old. And it’s not stiff, not at all, he speaks in flowing prose, everything he says is so carefully crafted and delicately delivered and Remus Lupin thinks he speaks like an angel. Of course, he’s teased mercilessly for it by the other kids in their year, and manages to drop it in a few weeks. Remus pretends he doesn’t hear the boy whispering to himself late at night, practicing making his vowels more English. More harsh and grating. Less pretty.

Sirius, whose first language was French, who learns to make puns and witticism in English, but writes in French when no one is looking, with carefully dotted i’s and loopy, curving s’s and f’s. Remus knows his parents write to him in English, because Voldemort speaks English and the Blacks speak little French nowadays past the harsh lines of their motto. Off course, that isn’t to say they don’t have their own ways of saying things without being understood. They just don’t need French to do it.

Sirius, whose first language, first love, was French. Back when his mother loved him she’d read him poems at night, about the moon, about the stars. She stopped when her stomach began to swell, when she realised she had another chance, when she realised Sirius had taken her words to heart, that he truly believed he could touch the stars if only because he loved them so. Foolish boy. The stars were hers to have and hers alone.

Sirius, who when Remus tells him he loved him, babbles nonsensically in french. Sirius who, as he gets more comfortable, begins to throw around the occasional word, then phrase. And by their fourth year he’s speaking in a fluid mix, all elegant poetics and flowing statements, every word so carefully planned and gods Remus loves it, loves the way Sirius’ voice seems to catch in his throat and bubble under his tongue and reach into Remus’ head. Sirius, who when he cries can’t muster up a word of English. Sirius who, when James dies, can’t muster up a word at all. And when Remus greets him years later with a soft “Bonjour”, months after that terrible night in the shack, Sirius just stares tiredly, and whispers back “Hello”.

(He never speaks a word of French again, not until one night when he sees James, no, Harry. And Remus can’t hear a damn thing, but he sees the words on his lips. A farewell too soft to hear. Harry doesn’t notice, doesn’t understand, never knew. But Remus knew. Remus knows, that slight smile, the whispered “Au Revoir”, the faded eyes. He knows he knows he knows. He wishes he didn’t.)

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The first time you let her down, don’t cry, she is the one meant to look weak, shaking beneath the weight of your mistake. Kiss her as if she’s made of paper, cross your fingers behind your back when you promise you’ll never let it happen again. The second time, cry. She’ll come running, sorry, wide eyed and wondering what she did wrong, forgetting it was you, it was always you. The third time, beg. She’ll leave you anyway, but beg just the same. She is not the kind of girl to be manipulated so easily, you may have her wrapped around your finger but a string can still become a garrote when pulled too tight.

Bottled thoughts from another lifetime #118

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Inktober days 1 and 2

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The things I would do for you sit pretty on the tip of my tongue, pray I never have a need for them. If only because the sun presses against your skin more carefully than anyone I've ever seen, and the things I would do for you cut deeper than knives. The things I'd do for you are an echo of a girl who stood trembling in the doorway, watching two giants play at war. And the things I'd do for you I would only ever have to if the sun grew too hot and melted you from within.

Bottled thoughts from another lifetime #117

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the edge of another summer

twitter / ig / prints

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"She makes me feel breathless, like we're the only two people in the universe." - A little comic about cute girls and finding ways to fit my body

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I'm so scared that I'll never amount to anything, that the sum of me is nothing less than everything I was never able to do. We won't be remembered. Does that ever terrify you?

Late night thoughts #1