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age: 17
alias: BEN
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year, occupation (adult): SEVENTH
Joined: 22-September 13
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Last Seen: Dec 13 2013, 06:05 PM
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Oct 7 2013, 09:01 PM
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Oct 5 2013, 08:27 PM
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<BEN>■</BEN> here we have the only son of bill weasley and fleur delacour. so you know ~ bitches be drooling. <p>
<BEN>■</BEN> seventeen and a ablaze in red and gold, louis is incredibly competitive and will always twist the knife to see how far it can go. pretty much he's a sport junky, constant in quoting teams with sport gear, but he's not a tool by any means.<p>
<BEN>■</BEN> louis is nice and plays fair, although he takes a loss to hard for his own good. he'll hardly stop at a roadblock to get what he wants. having grown up with that in mind, he takes after his father immensely esp. in being the only son with two older sisters.<p>
<BEN>■</BEN> part veela, louis likes his appearance. pulling in girls with mostly flirting is a key of his charm. he'd prefer a solid relationship with a girl that has the same standards and can keep him interested, teasing but not too much so, but making out is always nice too. <p>
<BEN>■</BEN> oui. louis is focused on friends and family ~ that boy you see on and say "he's good" is a forte. throw an arm over your shoulder and drink to a good game. inner most thoughts are kept to himself, unless he trusts you more than his already trusting nature. but still protective, he'll throw you to the rocks if you break a bond. he doesn't fuck around with disloyalty.<p>
<BEN>■</BEN> cross him and get fucked, yeah? seriously you should though, it'll be fun. <p>
<BEN>■</BEN> i hate shippers. read the app for more. give my boy some love.


<CENTER><div class="codesbymerc"><a href="">thanks merc</a></div></CENTER>

Sep 30 2013, 06:23 PM
<div class="appbg">

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<div class="appdescs">ADAM PRUCHA. SEVENTEEN. GRYFFINDOR.</div>
<div class="apptextbg">
<div class="apptext"><style type="text/css"> ben {color: #ac0825; }</style>
<BEN>■</BEN> The cold tore at your skin, pushing you to ascend hundreds of feet into the atmosphere. Admiring, you would think time after time. How simple the pain made you feel in your confident nature. With strive, the fire you ignited pushed back the chaos, that little bit of cold that took enough focus to extinguish. It was seconds when you heard the cries of your own passion; your willingness to fathom that pain was only the side effect of cracking the sky. It was beautiful, your mother would tell you with her lips on our forehead, while your youth angst kicked away and secretly smiled later that no one was more right. Modest was kicking the rocks too far. Two steps forward and no steps back, the cold turned to a light fog. You emphasized the point, acknowledging the cold as nothing more than a metaphor for dare. With every spike of your beating heart, you absorbed the word, the mission, the step you would take over the boundary to greet dare face to face with a confident acquisition. The risk was one scale lower than result you thought with every stride of being. You were and remain too passionate, with luck shaking its head, with all ascending treads.<p>
<BEN>■</BEN> No one more than your blood would speak volumes on the love that treated your youth. To try was intensive and the dumbest of mistakes with bonds of hierarchy watching your mind emerge. 'You're just like your father', you would hear them say with beaming glances or gathering embraces and admiration of just how handsome you truly are in all aspects of your family surname. Rough, unlike that of a diamond, you broke the silence and stared at the shells built into your cottage. The fire lit in your blood had no motivation to move forward without the affection of your family. The fog, that you always found light in, would vanish into the air with only you, balancing on a thread of composure. Like that of your father, you pushed aside the obstacles, you jumped over them. Like that of your mother, you knew beauty was physical as well as passionate. Like that of your older sisters, you felt the soreness of musing humor, while keeping vigilance. In morals alike, fortitude never was lost in your shaping. Blood was revere and the finest fuel, without it you would only recognize irrevocable collapse of the construct you desired for.<p>
<BEN>■</BEN> Mud was your truest confidante. It stained your clothes and smeared your cheeks, irritated your mother and gave your father a chuckle. Lion heart, ablaze with red, gold, must, and most predominately, will. You shaded yourself with sun streaming past the layers of mud, with enthusiasm that would could break your bones. You could taste it on your tongue, the spectrum of flavor never leaving your memory. It was your prime, the like you expressed with shining eyes and carnivorous grins. Avoid loss was inevitable, dragging you to a solid state of irritation and dejection that lasted until you noticed the seconds you spent dwelling. Gasoline on fire, the irritation was crystal and often damaging, still that drum beat did not die and you treated the damage as a boulder to climb over. The dimension that you avoided most was defeat, for it was transparent to the sideline eye and could potentially take driver's seat to your downfall. And as the year passed into the seasons and the tide of the waters that expanded into eternity outside your doorstep varied, you taught what growing meant and the attributes you coveted. It hardly faltered, stunning you still, in your definite nature.<p>
<BEN>■</BEN> Smoke clears the landing, stone columns appear as the engine lives. Never had you knew of being nervous as you had with the sound of your shoes on the stone. The unity of sisters did not solidify comfort, instead it acted as a short lived mental pill. It was the immense destination, alive with family tales and adolescent growth, that gave meaning to the ecstatic shiver that tracked your veins. Entry bestowed you in red and gold, much like your father and the surname you kept. The walls confined you while your mind took a wrecking ball and tore them down with an thundering crash of debris. Smart, not too smart, you acquired a more tasteful approach to the opportunities that begged at you. The brave nature that gave tune to symbols of courage did not stop you on the shore, only the means to dive into the mud diverted. You are sport, intelligent with suave and bold charm, with gravity pulling you to aspects that gave you support of success. Seasons passed with dying trees to flowers blooming and you still only ever sprinted on the path that would lead you to what you wanted. Denial was a futile course for you; the smoke had cleared.
<BEN>■</BEN> An adolescent, patient in keep with a tinge of aspiration, you held a confidence that soared to endless height. Feelings of attraction were clockwork while genuine interest of love, to grasp in mud painted palms, did not shift its difficulty. You gave thanks to your father for the handsome and your mother for the Veela blood. The strive to lure a woman was appealing, a bold standard you never sought years latter. Grand was the success imploring you to cater your genetics with every glance to nearly every compass point. Standards were set, you had not truly explored your want to be less than your own facet. Quality was the golden lock on the closed doors you had not toyed to open to the simplest of companionship. It sparked a dangerous red and you would have it stay so constant. Most would dwell given you were go lucky and figurative to falling deep in affection with close ties, while you teased them with the key. Keep your head high, as your father told you more than enough. 'You'll find what you're looking for, if you keep your line of sight to the north'. The bother was little, tacked to a cage that would rhythm to your heart beat. Affection was simple with the pleasuring crave of contact, with love the backdrop of a line you hunted to cross soon.<p>
<BEN>■</BEN> Heavy is the head that wears the crown. You wear your crown tipped upward, giving the metal a view of the road you are on. You place it on your head the morning you wake up from deep sleep to the moment you shut your eyes for the course of the night. When a win is within the reach of your fingertips, you are arrogant with only good intentions. The win is yours to want and to beat others that stand in the way of you slightly grazing it. To lose the sight of the target, tall, wide, with a red sphere that calls to you, does not rest well in your scope of thinking. Your head is no heavier than the moment you lose contact; time in resentment. Your fists break cliffs while your inner mind evaporates to a cloud of disappointment. Irony invites itself to your doorstep and tells you that a mistake is opted for improvement and stopping in your place will weaponize your bonds. The hand of cards you possess as fifteen turns to sixteen and the clock only moves forward, is a royal flush of spades. You settle your focus, with that aspire sex appeal, remembering that the gun is always in your hand to favor.
<BEN>■</BEN> Lost in an endless summer, warm with the taste of mud and ardent intensity. Your time triggers eighteen like a loaded gun, the barrel smoking in the soft light. Still, you never fell from your own height, to the ground below. The impact left an impression had you taken left instead of right. Had you ever changed in opposition to your will, the path would have led you to a place slated with limitation. The lion roars with the fury of gusting winds and you thank the cold pain on sore knees and bare skin for the trouncing that shattered your core with a catch twenty-two that broke irony. Seventeen fighting with an arm around your best friend's shoulder, you are not alone; you have never felt alone. Perfection does not exist with you nor do you aim so, but you sure as hell land pretty damn close in your deep eyes. The summer has not let you down, you still live in the heat. The point of fire, you burst into flames with every flight and land with provision. Working on your means is vital; time will take time. Nothing will break your core, your motivation, your flaws, still you live fiercely in the endless summer and reminisce of kicking rocks in your youth.

<div class="appinfo">BEN. TWENTY. PACIFIC. PM.</div>

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