Fantastic Beasts WLW Ships as Aesthetics
Goldstrange: The smell of freshly baked bread, lying in long grass with the sun beating down on you, kisses in a kitchen while covered in flowers, the distant hum of cicadas, a hand rubbing your back, a bundle of freshly cut sunflowers
Rosegold: The gentle clinking of wine glasses, the feeling of satin on fingertips, the click of heels against the pavement, an expensive chocolate melting on your tongue, the steady weight of another hand on the back of yours, a violin playing through the wall
Seraleta: A firmly pressed blazer, the sunlight that catches on rings, the first sip of a newly opened bottle of champagne, the humming of a lullaby in another language somewhere above your head, a finger delicately tracing your lips
Seratina: The laughter echoing out from a quiet bar, another hand firmly clasped in your own, the golden hours of the afternoon shining in through a window, wildflowers and daisies woven into hair, a shy kiss given when no other eyes are looking
Seraqueenie: Bouquets of roses left on tables and desks, paper lunch bags full of the results of old family recipes, a thumb wiping away smudged lipstick, a whisper against the shell of your ear, the night sounds of the city somewhere faintly in the distance
Seragini: The click of sharpened nails against a firm surface, the rhythmic pattern of heels dancing across a wooden floor, a flash of teeth from a stranger on the street, drinks that leave lingering hints of mint, a soft breath against a bare shoulder
Buntina: Shy glances in between breaks in the conversation, a laugh that was unexpected and yet left a warm feeling in your chest, the smell of freshly picked lemon grass, worn denim overalls that are fraying at the knees, home-made biscuits sprinkled with cinnamon, feather light fingers against an elbow
Bunleta: Stray leaves tangled in unruly hair, hands streaked with rich dirt, a hand wrapped lightly around your waist, the crackle of newly picked barely, ginger sitting on your tongue, watching the dawn rise with bated breath
Clarena: A whispered question in the dead of the night, a brush of the fingers across a wet cheek, the scent of bedsheets washed in lavender, the laughter of children outside a window, the soft press of lips against the crown of your head