this book is made with lust and love

I’m tired. It’s exhausting giving your all to a person who continuously breaks you. I’m mentally, physically, emotionally worn out. Chasing you drained me. Putting my all into you drained me. I stay up until four in the morning thinking to myself how crazy you have made me. You did this to me. What hurts the most is that we both know you are hurting me, but neither of us want to do anything to stop it.
—  How can i love him without hurting myself?
Deep breath. “It was you that I chose as we met eyes for the first time, but I never noticed until talking about you made me confused, my heart would scream, and the thought of you gave me hope that maybe I did have a heart, that love was really real no matter how many times I would tell my friends that I would rather be alone, but they would never know that I’d rather just be with you then to be all alone. Even if it’s crazy, even when I know I can’t have you or you could never feel the same I still hold out hope that my heart, for the first time isn’t lying to me because the only honesty I am giving myself is that I know what my feelings are and I am no longer a child and that telling you how I feel is a risk…I like you.” He never said anything, and she left the rest unsaid as she left the room, continuing in her head; But in reality, I’m going to ask you to break my heart and to turn me away because I need to be let go even when you never had me to begin with. I feed myself hope and pretty soon I will walk out that door and never see you again but first, let me go, I need to be let go… “Don’t go.” Deep breath.
—  Excerpt from a book I will never write // 3

5 Books on Art Provenance
A Shelfie from Kelly Davis, Research Assistant at the Getty Research Institute

Hi, I’m Kelly Davis, research assistant in the Getty Provenance Index at the Getty Research Institute. My background is in English, but I graduated with a master’s of library science and a master’s in art history from Pratt Institute in 2014. Books have been an important part of my life since I can remember. These are 5 that inspire and aid me in my work.

1. The Rape of Europa: The Fate of Europe’s Treasures in the Third Reich and the Second World War by Lynn H. Nicholas (Vintage Books, 1994).

One of the first books to focus on Nazi-era provenance and also one of the most famous. The publication of this book in the early ‘90s launched an international interest in the repatriation of art looted from Jewish art dealers and families during World War II and encouraged organizations to create guidelines such as the Washington Conference Principles on Nazi-era Confiscated Art (1998) and the AAM Guidelines Concerning the Unlawful Appropriation of Objects During the Nazi Era (2001). It inspired me to focus on provenance in my art historical studies and might have been the first step to where I am today.

2. Rogues’ Gallery: The Secret Story of the Lust, Lies, Greed and Betrayals that Made the Metropolitan Museum of Art by Michael Gross (Broadway Books, 2009).

While at the Last Bookstore in DTLA a few years back, a good friend of mine pulled this book out and handed it to me, exclaiming that she loved it and I had to read it. Somehow I hadn’t heard of it, but it piqued my interest as I enjoy nothing more than a gossipy read about the inner workings of established museums. While this isn’t about provenance specifically, and is more “pop” than some of the other academic texts on this list, it’s a fun and fascinating story and will certainly intrigue any lover of museums.

3. Memories of Duveen Brothers by Edward Fowles (Times Books, 1976).

This, along with a small stack of other books written by J.H. Duveen, or about the House of Duveen by those with intimate knowledge of it, have been gracing my desk for months. Like Knoedler & Co., Duveen was instrumental in the migration of European art to America in the early 20th century, and also like Knoedler, the Getty Research Institute owns the Duveen archive. Here in the Provenance Index, we’re interested in seeing what more we can do with stock book records we have on site, so I’m boning up on my knowledge of this great firm. These books are older primary sources, meaning what is said in them could be quite subjective. Of course, this is also what makes them so delightful.

4. Provenance: An Alternate History of Art edited by Gail Feigenbaum and Inge Reist (Getty Publications, 2012).

This book was a gift from Dr. Frima Hofrichter, one of my mentors in graduate school. Frima knew I had been accepted to the internship program here at the Getty, and what gift better than one on provenance published by the GRI and edited by Gail Feigenbaum, one of our esteemed associate directors? If Nicholas’s book was my introduction to “pop” provenance, this was my introduction to the academic career path ahead of me. A collection of essays on topics from collector’s marks to provenance in the Third Reich, reading this acquainted me with a number of respected scholars in the field, and names I would encounter during my time at the Getty.

5. The AAM Guide to Provenance Research by Nancy Yeide, Konstantin Akinsha and Amy Walsh (American Alliance of Museums, 2001).

The quintessential reference for provenance research, not so much a book you read but one you keep coming back to. Although the guide is being refined as we move forward in the 21st century (see the ArtTracks project at the Carnegie Museum of Art for more info), this book is still the standard for curators, librarians, collectors, and anyone else involved in provenance and the history of collecting. It’s been invaluable for the past few years as I’ve worked on the Knoedler & Co. stock books database. The appendices are particularly useful to a researcher, with information on dealer archives and locations, as well as a list of “red-flag” names to watch out for when dealing with World War II provenance.

crave you

summary: highschool au//popular boy jefferson is pining over studious alex super hard and alex doesn’t notice him (yet) (mention of past jeffmads)

words: 1,140

warnings: none! super fluffy

this is totally incomplete but we can change that ;-)

Keep reading


Riverdale AU: Betty Cooper got all she wanted; she married Archie, has two beautiful redheads, does regular lunch dates with Veronica and works with her doting husband at Andrews’ Construction. Yet, the memory of her loner turned Southside Serpent boyfriend from high school lingered in her deepest, darkest memories… until he returns.

Pairing: Bughead, hints of Archie/Betty

Rated: M

Word Count: 2236

This is my first fanfic (posted on tumblr) so feedback is welcome! Also, if you would like to make any request, prefeably bughead related, I would be happy to oblige :)


Betty Andrews dropped off little AJ and Andrea at Riverdale Elementary School before driving her silver mom van down to the construction site. Archie had landed a big deal with Lodge Industries, it didn’t hurt Betty’s best friend was the CEO, on the land that the poisonous Thorn Hill once stood on. The land had been untouched since the fire almost twenty years ago. Lodge Industries and Andrews’ Construction was going turn the property into luxury condominiums and exercise the old demons planted in the soil. Not like Riverdale needed more rich snobs, Betty had thought.

But before any of that could happen, Betty needed to drive up the paved road that led to her work trailer and the bare bones of her husband’s project. The trailer was empty when she entered and Archie’s father’s old construction hat was no longer on the wall. Her red headed husband must have wanted to get the crew started early. It was late September in Riverdale, and the crew would need to work triple time to get the project where it needed to be before the ground froze.

The blonde unpacked her posh briefcase, a present from Veronica, before sitting down and beginning to go through payroll. She remembers around this time twenty years ago when Jason Blossom’s body was found on the chilled shores of Sweet Water River. It had sent her and her friends on an adventure that brought people together and tore them apart. Betty and her first real boyfriend, Jughead Jones III, were among the people torn apart. It was a perfect cocktail of darkness that had turn Jughead into his father, a Southside Serpent. She had not seen him nineteen years, two months, and twenty-one days. No one had seen him since then. He permanently rooted himself on the Southside and dared not cross. It was like he was a dog with a shock collar.

That’s why Betty Andrews almost pissed her designer skirt when Jughead Jones III swung open the trailer door. He had on heavy combat boots, his weathered old beanie and chains on his tattered Southside Serpent jacket that tinkled when he walked to her desk. She wondered idly if that was the same jacket he got that night the Serpents came to his house and interrupted them having sex. They didn’t completely cock block the two lovers— she believed him when he said he was a Serpent for protection and let him take her virginity. When he started making shady deals in back alleys and kept his lips tight about everything, she knew he really became a snake. He became his father.

He certainly filled out the jacket much better than he did when he was sixteen. His face was hardened, his shoulders broad and face scruffy. She knew he would grow up handsome like his father. But his beauty didn’t distract from the fact he dropped an old black duffle bag full of cash on her desk.

“Jughead?” Was all she could manage. This moment had played this moment so many times in her head, seeing him again. Betty would hug him and punch him and thank God he was safe. Instead she sat like a scarecrow. Her lips were numb and her arms were tingling. It’s like all of life’s answers were in front of her, she just had to ask the right questions, but couldn’t speak. As a matter of fact, Betty had several questions, like what the hell was he doing at Thorn Hill, why was he dropping money in front of her, and… was he seeing someone?

He nodded with that old lopsided grin that used to make Betty swoon. His face showed that he had expected her to act this way. Speechless and in awe. The way she used to act in the privacy of her pale pink bedroom, with his black hair and signature beanie between her white thighs.

“Every great villain makes a reappearance,” he smiled, his voice surprising Betty with how low and careful his words sounded. “The snake slithers back to Riverdale.”

He still spoke like a writer.

“You were never the villain, Jughead,” Betty shook her head, already done with the conversation. Her mind was already spinning with reasons for Jughead’s return and his money. Trying to buy out Archie? Bribe for shutting down the project on Thorn Hill?

“You made me feel like one,” Jughead’s straight face didn’t falter, but his voice sounded small like when they had their fights back in high school towards the end of it all.

Betty didn’t have a response for what he said. Because back then, she had believed he was a villain. He was running drugs she later found out. But with time comes understanding. The Serpents were his family. The only semi-functional family he had and he would do anything to help them. Just like she would do anything to protect AJ and Andrea. But this was no longer about her, or about her and Jughead.

“Is Archie available? I want to talk to him about a deal,” Jughead said.

“No, he’s not available. He’s on site. I’m part of the company, you can speak with me about the deal,” Betty smiled with a hint of the old warmth Jughead felt back in high school. When she touched him, that was he could say to describe how he felt. Warm. And Jughead was hardly speechless.

“Alright then. I gathered enough money to buy the old drive in. I already had a discussion with Veronica and she is accepting my offer. Now, I’ve come to Archie to hire him for the construction.”

Betty scoffed and stood on her nude heels. None of this seemed plausible. Veronica, her bestie, would have told her if her first love was back on this side of town and had enough money to buy such a valuable piece of land.

“Veronica would have told me,” Betty accused.

“I swore her to secrecy.”

“What do you plan to put there?”

“Rebuild the Twilight.”

Jughead was still the hopeless romantic, the nostalgic loser who just want to find a home. Betty sympathized with him. There were moments when she sits in the fancy restaurant where Pop’s once stood and craved the smell of grease wafting from the kitchen and the taste of classic vanilla slurping down her throat. She often revels in those memories of high school… the memories of Jughead. He understood on a level Archie was never able to. He had unwavering belief in her and accepted her emerging darkness. Betty reminded herself that it was unfair that she didn’t accept his.

“It took you twenty years to get the money?”

“I’m not The fucking Penguin from Batman, Betty. You think I’m some kingpin. I’m still Jug,” he shrugged. “I’ve always been him. The one you grew up with. The one you once loved.”

Betty finally came out from behind her desk. It was her layer of protection that she used to hopefully keep her from what she wanted to do since his rugged frame entered the trailer. But the doe eyed pleading of twenty years ago, the same eyes that begged her not to leave him, now begged her for something else. He wanted to rebuild the Twilight to make things go back to the way they were before.

And in that moment, with the chill outside of impending winter, with her husband outside those doors, with a Southside degenerate in front of her, she too wanted things to go back to the way they were before.

Jughead read it in her eyes. He read her like a book he wrote himself. He knew every word, but he was impressed how they took on a shape of their own.

“I’m sorry, Juggy,” Betty said, stepping ever so closer to him. He smelled like pine.

“You know when you use to call me Juggy it made me weak,” his voice was barely above a whisper.

Betty was even lower, “I know.”

Jughead’s callused hands gripped Betty’s face and pulled her pouty lips to his. As soon as they made contact, it was like they were in FP’s trailer again, that rainy night, full of love, lust, and teenage hormones. Betty stopped the kiss only for a moment to swipe credit card statements and timecards and Jughead’s money, all for her husband’s business; onto the floor so she could back up onto the cheap desk and pull the dark-haired man’s hips closer to her’s by hooking her hips around him.

The old lovers wasted no time in shedding Jughead’s jacket, ripping off his ripe beanie and shedding Betty’s beige blazer as their lips kissed each other swollen. With the blazer gone, Jughead had open access to Betty’s neck, which he fully took advantage of. His suctioned kisses left saliva along her neck and down her chest. She knew she would be purple and have some explaining to do, but at this moment, it was her and Jughead, trapped in the time machine of the trailer; back in high school with high stamina and insatiable desire for one another’s bodies.

Betty did the honors in raising Jughead’s arms and taking off his plain white tee. She paused to take in his chest. This was not the body of a boy—but the body of a man who has seen the darkness. Despite almost being forty, his chest was tight and black hairs splintered down his stomach and into his black jeans. She raked her fingers over his chest and he smiled like a Colgate commercial because he knew that she was impressed. Archie may have been hot in high school, but that was high school. Archie may have married the only woman Jughead had ever loved, but right now, the sight of his body alone was leaving his former best friend’s wife breathless.

He picked up where they left off and unbuttoned her slick polka dotted blouse to reveal a white lace bra. Her nipples were hard and begging for Jughead to release them. He noted how quickly he took her bra off compared to when they were teens, but her eyes went blurry when he took a pink nipple in between is lips and tugged on the other with his fingers. He looked up at her as he sucked on her breast, and that look of innocence he had in his eyes as he had a mouthful of her tit made Mrs. Andrews groan and slide off her skirt without warning. Her underwear went too; there wasn’t any more time for foreplay. It seemed like her life depended on Jug’s cock being inside her. Jughead wanted to savor this moment, he doubted there would ever be another in the history of Riverdale, but Betty’s dragged Jughead’s pants and boxers down without asking permission. She found herself on her knees in front of his member. It was longer than she remembered, thicker too, but she was ready for it. She gave a few appreciative licks to his bulbous head, making Jughead’s moans rumble throughout his body and down to his groin. Betty smiled at the effect she still had on him.

Betty resumed her position on her desk and laid there in only a pair of heels, lips swollen and parted, begging for Jughead. The little hairs around her scalp fell loose from her ponytail and curled, framing her face like a pair of hands. Jughead put his hands there instead and held her face as he entered her. It had been twenty years since he had found himself here, nestled inside the white-hot heat of Betty’s vagina, but it felt like he never left. They just stayed like that for a few minutes.

This is where she was supposed to be. This is where she imagined herself twenty years ago on a September day much like this. Jughead’s place is in between Betty’s legs, looking at her adoringly like he is now. He still loved her, and although she didn’t want to, she never loved Archie like she does Jughead. They couple could no longer take the heat of one another Jughead started to send lazy thrusts into Betty. It wasn’t lazy in the way of not caring, but lazy in how it was slow, how his entire length pulled out and dove back in at an excruciating pace so she felt every pulse and vein throughout his loving cock. Betty was seeing stars, those yellow cartoon ones, when he fucked her so expertly. She sat up so their bodies could be as close as possible. She pulled him closer and squeezed like she was trying to squish them together until they became one. Jughead gradually sped up until he was a piston firing into her twenty years of built of love, hate and loneliness. His right hand found her clit and rubbed forceful circle around the bundle of nerves as their mouths engaged in wet kiss and licks.

Betty let loose first, crying out Jughead’s name certainly and lovingly. Knowing that she needed this just as much as he did made his cock pour all of its love into her. Their bodies were sweaty and heaving, but the two didn’t move. Jughead pulled out from her but Betty wouldn’t let him go. She kissed the shell of his ear before she whispered, “I’m not making the same mistake twice, Jughead. I’m not letting you go again.”

We were never meant to last. Our love was like watching a tornado meet a hurricane, messy and disastrous. You were used to being in control and I was sick of being walked on. Every push you made, I pulled back. We fought like the waves of the ocean, crashing down upon one another and where I preferred scathing words and you liked your burning fists, it hurt all the same. We were blind with animalistic lust for each other, tearing into one another at night as a symbol of our chaotic love.
The only sane action we ever made was that night when you told me you’d always love me and I said you were the only one in my heart, and we turned our separate ways knowing that our natural disaster love was made to destroy other people’s homes, not each other.
—  Alexandra Joan Alexander
he told me to show him how much I loved him,” she said “so I clenched my jaw and fingered the hem of my panties as he watched with a smug grin.”

show me more.” he said “show me how much you can’t live without me,”  but I knew I could live without him. I knew I could go another day and the sound of his favorite song won’t linger in my heart longer than needed.

“I knew that I didn’t want him,” she paused “but I knew I needed him. I needed him because he made me feel alive.”

“show me more,”  he whispered.

the looming hint of satisfaction etching across his face

“show me.”

—  a. eun
I fell in love before I knew what it really meant to love and feel loved. I always loved the wrong people with my right intentions. I always loved them for beauty and intelligence before I realized I had nothing to offer. That’s why I picked up the pen. I became a poet years later, but I believe I was always one. The road leads to the same ending. I was born a poet, I will die as a poet. I always loved today, I do. Even if I hate it now. Valentine’s Day, the only holiday where lovers had an excuse to love another. It was bullshit and a scam. I fell for it every time. Would you be my Valentine? Give me a kiss just one more time. The way she slammed my back into a wall and took my first kiss is something I could never give to you. The winds blowing past your hair and you bend over to pick up dropped love letters, I could never deliver those to you. My lovers of yesterday still haunts me in every way. From the way I attempt to describe love to the way I want to be loved. You know the scary thing? I loved them like how I wanted to be. For beauty, that’s why they always left. I was never beautiful enough. For pretty eyes, that’s why they left. I had chinky eyes filled with scratchy darkness, the kind near stars we could not see. The entire black night rests within me. I was never good looking enough, but I chased their beauty as I fell apart. The sex sells quote, that too is bullshit. I loved one for her body and let me tell you now. The hardest lesson to learn is lust and love. There is a big difference. If I loved you, I’d respect your body in ways that it made you feel like a book with a perfect cover. If I had lust for you? You’re in trouble. The lines are blurry. The lights are off. The hands reach and I’m afraid, the soul is weak. I’m left speechless as I hung onto the last parts of sex. The cuddling, being held, a warm embrace, those are the best parts of the relationship that lust forsakes. The sweet innocence you can take from someone, you can never give back. You can only hand them blood. Your blood. I am no angel. We are as we should be and destined to be, raised by our environment and our inner demons. I will apologize as I breathe through my coffin. She’ll see my soul leave this place shattered in a million places that she once tried to stay. She was a writer just like you. Filling my smile with more fucking poetry. That’s why I hate today. It’s a reminder of how dead I am. How I chase the outer appearance of the love aspect. How I don’t respect anyone or anything. How I can verbally abuse her to the point where silence is our only conversation. Yes, it’s true. I am, but another cliché. I was going to write you a happy poem. Fourteen for the days we had to wait for today, but I decided to remind you and myself of why I don’t deserve you. Or your flowers. Or roses. Or fucking daisies. This is why I fucking hate myself. No fucking metaphors. Just blood and another reason not to call you mine. You have my heart in a black trash bag cut into bits, but you still called me beautiful. That’s why I’ll always love you, sweet daisy of mine. You broke me a few times, but it’s okay. For as many times as I broke her, I deserve to be broken. I broke you right back. I’m sorry about our future and how it’ll never happen. I have guilt in my soul and this fucking poetry isn’t enough for me to attain redemption. I’ll write songs about you. I’ll write about you. I’ll always love you. Goodbye. Sleep easy each night and forget about me as you dream lightly.
—  This is why you’re my Valentine.

I saw it advertised in assorted DC Comics, as I had seen the ads for the previous issues, but I didn’t quite know what a “fanzine” was, so I never sent away for any of them. Until this point. This particular issue of THE AMAZING WORLD OF DC COMICS was said to contain “The SHOWCASE Story.” Knowing that the silver age Flash first appeared in SHOWCASE, and desperately wanting to read that first Barry Allen adventure, I convinced myself that this magazine must reprint that key story, and so I convinced my Mom to send away a dollar-and-a-half for a copy, which eventually turned up in the mail.

What I got wasn’t a comic at all, but a well-produced insider’s look at DC–one that I really wasn’t able to fully appreciate at the time. THE AMAZING WORLD OF DC COMICS was produced in-house by DC’s youngest staff members, the so-called “Woodchucks”, many of whom would go on to a place of prominence in the industry. The “SHOWCASE Story” was a lengthy article on the history of that since-discontinued magazine, and its place in comic book history. I was pretty fascinated by it, despite my disappointment at not getting to read that first FLASH tale.

There was also a lengthy article/interview with Sol Harrison and Jack Adler about their long association with the firm. Adler was the person in DC’s production department who had innovated the greytone process that had been used on a number of excellent covers in the 1950s and 1960s. The centerspread to the issue reprinted this one from GREEN LANTERN #8, the cover to a story that I had actually read a few months previous in DC SPECIAL.

There was also an extensive section previewing upcoming issues that had yet to be released, which fascinated me and made me lust after some of these comics–most of which would end up in my hands in the weeks ahead. This was preceded by an article about a group of fans in NY for the Super DC Convention visiting the offices while costumed as the Legion of Super Heroes.

Next came a short mystery story, which I loved, as it was all about a comic book writer. It’s actually one of the cruelest stories I’ve ever seen, and I completely understand why somebody at DC thought the better of it and pulled it from the regular books, running it only in this limited edition fanzine. The story is a bitter slam at the then-recently-deceased DC author Bill Finger–the co-creator of Batman and Green Lantern and writer of thousands of individual DC stories. Here, he’s cast as “Phil Binger”, a compulsive procrastinator whose best stories are the lies he tells his editors in order to get an advance on his paycheck. As a kid, without the context to understand what I was reading, I loved this tale, and the zany Ramona Fradon artwork really made it sing. But it’s a story that, once you understand what it was really about, is stomach-turning.

Next up was the latest in a series of articles concerning how a comic book was put together. This installment was about lettering and production, two subjects that really didn’t interest me all that much. Still, I learned a bunch from it–in fact, a while later I got my own Ames Guide for ruling lettering guidelines as a result, though I don’t think I ever actually used it for very much. My homemade comics at this point were still being drawn in ballpoint pen, so I couldn’t quite see the point in ruling a bunch of lines that I was just going to have to erase again anyway.

And the issue closes out with a two-page comedy filler by Jack Kirby originally intended for the second issue of the aborted IN THE DAYS OF THE MOB Magazine. There were a bunch of images in this little two-page short that I was enchanted by–I found Kirby’s comedy work more entrancing than his contemporary adventure stuff, an opinion that would change in the years to come. 

Little Purple Clouds.

And so, in the pouring rain, his body slowly turned to face her, exposing his bloodstained eyes..
“What is then? What does ‘Love’ mean to you?”
Her tears running races with the rain drops as they hit her face.. she paused, knowing her answer was simple.
“.. would you stand with me, intertwining our fingers in serene silence, knowing the entire world was burning down behind our backs? Would you come kiss me in a sea full of deadly creatures just because I ask for one more? Would you still fight for me on my worst days after I’ve already ripped your entire heart out and let me piece it back together? Because I would find a thousand daisies for you in a field of roses.. That’s what it means for me. I’ll love you until the world burns cold.”

C.B -I’ll write a book one day

Our love is a dangerous one.

We feel pain.
We feel deeply.
We feel nothing.

And yet we feel everything.

—  dearestmemory

You know what I thought about? When Victor first came to Japan how difficult it must have been to find Yuuri’s home! I recently spent a while in Japan and even though I wanted to learn Japanese for the trip, I didn’t do it. Big mistake. In Tokyo and Kyoto somehow you managed to find your way without the ability to understand Japanese characters. But it was still hard. Especially, when just a few people can speak English even in big cities… nonetheless, everything worked somehow out. But then we came to our last hotel, a Ryokan in a small cost town in the east of Japan. We travelled there from Tokyo and let me say one thing- it was the hardest part of our trip. While the train had the stops in Latin letters, the busses didn’t. We couldn’t understand a thing. Just by pure luck we find our hotel.

But my point is- imagine Victor:
After the famous banquet incident Victor was, let’s say, pretty interested in Yuuri. In the month after that Victor probably tried to learn some Japanese in order to impress him at their first encounter. Moreover did the world championships take place in Japan and Victor hoped so much to see Yuuri there and speak with him in his native language. But Yuuri didn’t show up. A bit frustrated Victor wasn’t as eager to learn Japanese anymore. He still practiced sometimes, but he didn’t learned as hard as before. There could be a chance Yuuri didn’t want to see Victor so why should he spent all his free time to learn such a difficult language for a man, he danced with once. Victor was sad and frustrated and angry but he still wanted to see Yuuri.
And then he saw the Video where Yuuri skated his own routine so beautifully and so full of emotion Victor made up his mind. He booked his flight to Japan immediately losing no more time. Full of hope and love and a bit lust, Victor was very optimistic. He was sure that the journey to Hasestu, to Yuuri would be an easy one. He had been in Japan before at least, he could even speak a bit Japanese. Nothing could stop him now.
And then he arrived in Kyushu. The airport was not a very hard task as the signs were all in English and Victor could speak English fluently. But once he tried to find a bus or a taxi or a train to Hasetsu Victor realized, that he should have learned the Japanese alphabet a bit more. He. Cant. Understand. Anything.
Totally lost and confused Victor had no idea where to go and asking someone wasn’t helpful either. Nobody seemed to understand even the most simple English phrases. They were all so kind and really tried to help Victor, but all they could do is speak something in Japanese very fast so Victor couldn’t understand them.
Again, Victor was frustrated. But at the same time so eager to find Yuuri. Yuuri called him through his skating, asked him to come to Japan. And here he was, unable to find his way. But giving up wasn’t something Victor would do. So he asked everyone he could ask. With his mobile phone and with impressive pantomime skills he tried to explain his situation and his destination. And eventually, after what it felt like years, he sat in a bus that would bring him to Hasetsu, to Yuuri. With Maccachin at his side Victor was rather proud of himself. On his own he overcame the language barrier and soon he would see Yuuri again.
But of course, it wouldn’t be that easy. Even though he found the Ryokan Yuuri’s parents owned rather fast, he now had the problem to book a room. The woman who probably was Yuuri’s mother was kind and did all she could, but her English wasn’t very good. It took half an hour until Victor was checked in.
Afterwards Victor tried to decide what to do. Yuuri wasn’t there yet and he didn’t know when he would come. So he decided it was the right time to try the onsen and wait there for Yuuri. And the moment he let himself sink into the water he knew it was the right decision. Immediately his muscles relaxed and all the stress from the journey disappeared. And lying in the water Victor was once again totally determined to properly learn Japanese.

Youth Made Me Wicked

I don’t like you, at all
You don’t read books, you say you don’t get art
You think artists are idiots who do not live in reality
You don’t watch drama movies, you think you’re too smart

I don’t like you, at all
But I still find myself knocking at your door
Many nights a week to fuck you senselessly
Maybe it is right, I am a whore

I don’t feel guilty, at all
I know you’re falling for me, gradually
I see it in the way you look at me, touch me
I’m just waiting to get bored of you, and leave

Leaving you with
Those petty poems of wickedness
I wrote for you, maybe
You’d finally get the art
Of being betrayed.


At this age, we’re all trying to find ourselves. And yet the truth is, I’ve lived just long enough to know that people have so many more layers than what books and movies make it seem like. We can’t just be defined by adjectives like nice or friendly. We’re made up of feelings; We’re lust and passions and screaming at 2:00 am. Don’t limit yourself to simply a character. Rather think of yourself as a piece of music. A song with piano and drums and even the triangle. A song with violins and saxophones and trumpets. Tubas and clarinets and flutes. The banjo at moments and sometimes even the piccolo.
—  You are so much more than just English class adjectives
the story of he and she

{ this is just something i happened to write and has little to no significance. this is for all of the young sirius fans out there. enjoy!}

she hadn’t always fancied him.

he was fit. his long dark hair hid his fears, and she saw under his locks of coal. he was tall and sturdy like the trees in which he sat under to avoid class. he was anything but sirius. the pranks and jokes were only offered in the place of magic, not allowed on 12 Grimmauld Place. his smile was pure and rare, somewhat sweet and careless. the way his head leaned back when he laughed was angelic. his smirk was pure magic in itself, attracting the loneliest and most desperate of souls.

he was carelessly beautiful, but she hadn’t always fancied him.

she met him in her second year. he was rather awkward then. feet too big for his body and hair messy beyond belief. the pranks were escalating. he was imperfect and young and absolutely lovely.

he was small and odd and she didn’t know the meaning of the word fancied

they grew up together. moody, wormtail, padfoot and prongs. lily was like family and they were friends to arouse mischief with. they studied together and grew taller and cheered on quidditch and grew wiser and talked by the fire for hours and grew up.

you were growing older and she didn’t fancy him.

he was 16 when he reached his breaking point. his name was blackened and his clothes messily hide themselves inside a chest with a distant destination. he was empty and numb. hands composed of bruises and ice and he was weak.

he was broken.

he grew stronger the following years. the negativity slowly deteriorated from his life and the burning fire and her smile filled him with happiness. there was fear for the unknown but joy for what was present.

he was stronger.

they grew closer that year. he was healing and she was helping. she was insecure but hid it behind snide remarks and books. they talked, for hours, watching the stars, cold, bare feet and warm hearts yearning to hear more about each other. it wasn’t romantic, it was love through the bonds of friendship. she never budged or pushed. they talked of theories, stories and previous years and for those passing hours, he forgot everything that permanently grounded itself on his shoulders.

he was free and careless once more.

they became the best of friends. she would read to him and he would fall asleep to the sound if her hushed and sweet voice. he would show her adventures and push her out of her comfort zone. he taught her how to hold her liquor, or tried to. they laughed and danced and dreamed.

they were content.

he discovered lust and left her in the dust. they grew apart and he didn’t seem to notice. she engulfed herself with books and herbs. he surround himself with heather and claire and other women that cured his needs. she learned how to hold her liquor. he felt empty again. she fell in love and he fell apart.

they were no longer they.

she loved the boy was hazel eyes and blonde hair. he was lanky and quite. everything sirius wasn’t. he was her first. she kissed him. and made love to him and no longer read books to keep herself occupied.

she was happy.

padfoot was a mess. the bags under his eyes were constant and his ties were never tied. he saw her, with the hazel eyed boy and his heart ached. she was laughing and he looked at her with everything he hid inside himself.

he missed her.

weeks passed and he stayed to himself. no more girls. no more nights of fun. no more. the group was all together, drinking and warming their hands by the wood, burning fire when she came in, puffy, red eyes adorned her face and her cheeks were damp with tears. he was at a loss for words. she hurried herself away and lily followed in pursuit.

he was trying to reconstruct while she held back tears.

she told lily everything. the boy with the hazel eyes was not who she thought he was. they were too different. he preferred girls who weren’t herself and she had seen it first hand. he grabbed for her, wanting for her to forget the events she had witnessed but she ran and let the tears fall.

she was heartbroken.

she buried herself into her studies and padfoot into his. he couldn’t get himself to talk to her. he missed her. they way she would rant about pointless things. or the way she whipped away his tears when it got too much.

he missed their friendship and how things used to be.

she got over the hazel eyed boy. she made the quidditch team and so did pad. he said hello. and she said hi back. they made progress.

he missed her. and for the first time in a while, she admitted that she missed him too.

they were the best of friends again, with more adventures and shots of firewhiskey. they don’t leave each others sides. he notices little things now. like how long her hair has grown and how she plays with her hands when she’s nervous. she notices small things too. like how he clenches his fist and jaw when he gets mad. and how he talks in his sleep.

they’re falling slowly, like leaves in autumn.

How I imagine Severus and Hermione when they get married

In bed, he treated her the way he treated his potions. He watched her and memorised every move. He watched for her reaction when he pinched a nipple, listened for a moan when he kissed her neck and paid attention to her flinch when he bit her lips.
He loved the blush that appeared on her chest, the way she breathed deeply and let it out slowly when he entered her and how she held on to his back when she came. The fact she still blushed when they were done never failed to amuse him, always left him happy, especially as she always drew him in for one final kiss.

He rarely laughed but when he did, she loved to watch his cheeks turn red from how hard he was laughing. When he smiled she watched the way his eyes took a rare shine. Although he didn’t seem like it, he loved to hold her, she loved the feeling of his arm wrapped around her after they made love. He gave rare kisses but they were always full of love.
She loved the way he moaned out her name as he came in her, the way he held eye contact with her as he entered her, and the smile he gave whenever they were done.

They looked at each other from across the room, the noise of the others drowned out as they locked eyes. He raised his goblet for her and she returned it with a smile and blush.

They had the rest of their lives together, and they had been married just a week.

The quiet evenings of books and wine, the lustful nights of passionate sex and the afternoons spent in deep discussion and debates, the lazy mornings of early kisses and hurried hugs. All this he had with her but honestly, nothing made either of them happier than when they both confessed they didn’t want children. A match made in Heaven.

Attract A Crush Spell

Hey so I’m new at this magical stuff and I decided to create a spell to catch the attention of my crush at prom tomorrow. (Because I barely created this curse right now, I will post the progress of the effectiveness, so stay tuned)

I made a reverse part in case it anything bad or anything unwanted happens, but it must be done right after the casting



-White Candle & Wax (I used a white patchouli scented candle)

-Blank Paper

-Pen (I used a metallic silver colored pen to symbolize the brightness that will make me stand out at prom tomorrow)



Light your candle preferably a few minutes before you cast this spell (Just to melt the wax). Then on your blank paper draw a big enough heart that can contain about 6 lines of words. Inside the heart write your crush’s name in the biggest letters, and then a few things that you hope would come out the spell. (I wrote “Notice me,” “let me be his attention,” etc.) The words should eventually end up like an upside down pyramid inside the heart. 

Also write the first chant below on the same piece of paper, or if you’re using a small paper write it on another one (Save Trees)

Cut the heart out of the paper if your paper is too big. Fold the paper hotdog style while saying what you wrote in the heart out loud. Go outside ( it was night time when I did this. I thought maybe the moon can help)

Once you go outside, set the candle down and slowly lower the folded piece of paper into the flame of the candle. While setting the paper on fire say this chant and think about your crush:

1) “*Your Crush’s name with the last name initial* notice me
with this spell of actuality
Nothing fake, nothing phony
Nothing but true beauty
Let your heart decide what it wants
But don’t rush into any wrongs
This is my wish so mote it be”

Let the paper burn for a few minutes. (I set the paper inside the candle because the candle is in a jar)

Once a few minutes has passed (Still stay outside) blow out the candle. There should be a lot of smoke so now say this chant until all the smoke had disappeared:

2) “*Your Crush’s name with the last name initial*
Let the smoke follow thee”

You should be thinking of the smoke as it will go through your city through the wind and spread like wildfire. Think of the smoke reaching your crush.

To reverse this spell *Must be done right after spell* (Optional)

I made a backup in case anything goes wrong. This part just sets up the reversal

To reverse this, go back inside and take the burnt black paper and set it on a napkin (To prevent any ashes from falling on a surface) and with the candle wax drip the candle all over the first written chant (As stated above to write chant #1) And now say this chant while doing so:

3) “Once I break this wax reverse this spell
Anything goes wrong
Notify me before time tells”

Then place the burnt paper that should have your crush’s name on time of the dripped candle wax on the paper with the spell and pour more wax on top while still chanting.

Finally, fold the paper to close it (Hopefully your wax is still a liquid) that way when the wax dries, it sticks the paper to itself. And put some more wax once folding tightly for more protection

Set the folded paper into a hidden place (A drawer, jar, empty tissue box, shoe box, etc)

Now if something happens that you don’t like, just open the paper and the spell should be reversed.

Thank you for reading and I’ll be posting any updates on my progress.

the swollen tongue of of a carnelian moon dripped through the void in their linen curtains, shutters open wide like a lover’s arms beckoning the humid caresses of the midnight air, stars small spotlights on the burning skins of the two bodies lying in bed, brainstatic with red wine and lust and loneliness.

they made love.

they made love to cover the loneliness, to convince aphrodite they could override the gut heavy paranoia that we will realise that we are only ever always alone, and they tried- they tried to rip their hearts open and pour themselves gluey into all the cracks the other couldn’t fill, had drilled into themselves wilfully, had had broken into them involuntarily; they sighed incoherent prayers to a god who had gone to sleep riddled with amnesia for His children, they whispered to eachother through beautiful kisses “my darling / i love you / please / my love / my honey / yes” each word carrying the weight of all their existence, all their disappointment, all their honey and every tear. their hands intertwined as though they were more than just matter, more than just two walls of body trying to crash into each other and softly slowly crumbling, under the weight of so much desperation and expectation, a human connection of soulfire burnt to ash in one night.
—  excerpt from a book i’m writing called ‘nobody’s room’ abt a sapphic romance ft. an nb character, loosely set somewhere in the mediterranean
The Biggest Leap.

People always promised me that love would be the most beautiful cure to absolute madness.. it would be the most flawless blooming flower that smelled sincerely pleasant in the spring and appeared even more glorious in the winter but in the years I learned about love, it never proved itself to be so healing.
Love kept you wide awake at night and made you feel absolutely crazy in the morning.. made you star struck at 4am fearing things you never thought you would ever be scared of and left this prominent feeling of uneasiness that would nestle itself in the abyss of your stomach, to a point you couldn’t mask the pain, on the nights you were scared to end up broken.
It could be unforgettable and leave this euphoric feeling of happiness that healed the hard to reach, the impossible wounds but it could be the reason you felt the most empty in the silence of your own room.
Love was the metaphor no one understand but without regret, fought to die having.

C.B. - I’ll write a book one day.