strength comes from within

a shy kiss. 

a forehead kiss.

a cheek kiss.

a nuzzle kiss.

a neck kiss.

a hand kiss. 

a hug + kiss combo. 

a dying kiss. 

a bleeding / bloody kiss. 

an assertive kiss. 

a nonchalant / uninterested kiss. 

a kiss to your muse’s shoes. 

a blown kiss. 

a sad / crying kiss. 

a quick kiss. 

a happy kiss.

a teasing / sensual kiss. 

a platonic kiss. 

a clumsy kiss

i will always do a platonic pair — even family 

i will ALWAYS take your females

i want your muses of color 

i will do aus that are canon (and not) 

aus that don’t involve romance 

i am okay with you losing muse for a thread

i want multiple threads even with the same muse 

tag me in posts 

(   ♡   )   “   Lumos,   ”   she speaks softly, a whisper in the wind, and her empyreal eyes are aglow as a glimmer of light appears atop her wand, albeit with a slight sputter.  Sleepy does she seem, lids barely lifting as she blinks back the gloom of the room; even so, she seems eager  —   almost excited.  Careful of the cots, she wanders   —   searching   .  .  .   shuffling her feet in the faint light; she knows he is here, somewhere.   “   Freddie?,   ”   dulcet does his name leave her lips, a name spoken so softly, so sweetly, as though she thought the silence of the dimly lit room would shatter.   “   Lunabelle?,   ”   comes a voice so familiar; and all her ailments are stifled as she steps briskly towards his cot.  She slows as she comes closer to the curtain by the bed, nearly breathless as hand hovers before it   —   it has been months, months since his death, and all it has taken to bring him back was a wish.  A wish; an old form of magic, thought to be dangerous, and they’ve taken it upon themselves to use it.  Fear finds her, and for a moment her mind drowns her in dread   &   doubt; what if, what if, what if.  So many thoughts, so many troubling things that she cannot breathe   —   what will be the consequences of their action?   “   Luna?   ”   It is his voice that draws her from the depths of her mind, and she’s moving again, slipping ( anxiously ) past the cloth partition.  Yet every bit of doubt, every bit of fear vanishes when she sees him; he is all the same, just as he had been.  Eyes like honey, his hair as wild as it always was, a sly smile   —   all the imperfections a dream could not detail; and all of the consequences of the wish are worth it, come what may.  He was worth it.  A tingle ‘tween her eyes stirs a smile of her own, and she lunges forth, embracing him.   “   It feels as though I am dreaming,   ”   she says as she inhales; he even smells just as before.

@luckcfthedraw​ said: ❝❞ … / Paisley.

Send in a ❝❞ and my muse will tell you one of the following after a random number generation. | ACCEPTING. number: 16.

    Honestly, he wasn’t quite sure if the smirk on his lips could become any larger than it currently was. It definitely reached his hazelnut gaze. It stretched ear the ear and he can’t stop the small chuckle that rolls so easily off his tongue. He knows this move considering he’s done it a few times on his own, and he takes the steps to close the distance between them, bodies pressing ever so slightly, head tilts down to look directly into her gaze. He moves one hand, left hand, up to rest gently, palm flush against her cheek, gaze lightening up brighter as his right hand moves to rest easily upon her hip, fingers gripping slightly, pulling her closer, tighter to his body.

“Don’t make me beg, Paisley.”

    Farms had always been INTRIGUING to Bellamy Blake. They had a sense of pure PEACE to them. A way of making the world seem so FAR away and show that all of his problems, his DEMONS, are simply ages away. That nothing truly matters the way it does when he’s out in the REAL world. When he’s facing his PROBLEMS and fighting his DEMONS. When he’s got a gun in his hand, fighting a war he didn’t cause but he’s always been a better SOLDIER than a good MAN. Left hand rises, fingers TRACK through onyx, messy curls as he offers a smile to the beautiful BLONDE in front of him. He feels oddly dressed. As if he needs a DIFFERENT set of attire than his fitted v-neck, fitted blue jeans and his COMBAT boots.

“What else is there to do out here on a farm? Besides from just staring at horses and letting your mind clear itself.”

    Tongue darts out, WETTING dry lips as he walks into the bar. He’s THIRSTY for something to burn as it CASCADES down his throat. Something to take away the DEMONS inside of his brain. To remind him that he can be normal for a little while and that not EVERYONE is expecting him to be a hero in his own wake. A breath, a SMIRK dances over tired and worn lips as he makes his way through the throngs of people DANCING, of them pressing up body to body, feeling each other and quite literally FEELING each other. A breath and he joins in for a moment, body moving in TIME with the pulsing beat of the music that surrounds him. Getting lost in the moment of time for a moment, LONGER than just a moment. He’s enjoying himself for one of, if not, the FIRST time in a very, very long time. Marine LIFE was not easy. Being your sister’s protector, was not easy. He did not DESERVE easy in this long, hard life he lived. He PULLS away from the crowds he’s dancing with as he makes his WAY to the bar, smirk growing slightly as he SPOTS her. A beauty surrounded by those that couldn’t reach that peak she has. The way her HAIR hangs. The way her lips move when she speaks and her SMILE.

“What’s a guy gotta do to get a whiskey around here?”

His brothers were married for the most part, the eldest had been married longer than the rest, his sisters were married, and the only ones not married would probably be expecting a wife and husband soon with graduation around the corner. Tristan broke tradition for as long as he could but when his twin brother walked down the aisle he knew that he could no longer count on Jeff’s immaturity to keep his parents off his back. Barely a year later, Tristan was sitting in the same country club wearing a slightly nicer suit in the same dark blue. He sat down at the circular table with his ankle resting on top of his knee as his long hair fell into his eyes.

The read out would say that Tristan Oswald was the 6th child, 5th son of a large family that made their money in oil, real estate, murder, and extortion if they were making a cheeky shortlist. They would talk about Tristan Oswald graduating from high school at 14, MIT at 18, and he still found himself going to school for more degrees between working odd jobs at different colleges and labs. The read out with leave out the curious case of his constantly bruised knuckles and the mysterious way he disappeared for days, occasionally weeks at a time. His parents paid a lot of money to keep their little genius away from large scandals. 

“You have to speak to her, Tristan. I can’t sit here with you all night.” Charlie, the youngest of his siblings teased, “go on over there, talk to her and try to not be strange.”

“I’m not strange.” Tristan frowned deeply, standing from his seat and button his jacket after straightening the silken blue tie with small yellow ducks across it, something his parents hated but Tristan was an adult who couldn’t be controlled…well he couldn’t be controlled beyond being told who he would marry.