Send me a ✿ and my muse will react to your muse putting a flower in their hair.
He’s a bystander by all accounts, a no one for her to recall or remember in typical fashion. Another human. Another creature lost in the fragments of a memory so far gone with her own personal deceit. And how she barely feels in that sparse moment, a lapse of instinct and self-awareness, the press of a palm and floral expanse into tresses born of ebony bloom.
In her own reflection she spies a contrast of colors, radiant in their petals and stock — crimson, lapping with white and gold. Where those star-gazers? A late blooming flower in the heated summer months, known for it’s beauty and aroma. Not that it mattered at all, truly. Furrowing her brow, she pauses, turn to take the boy so brazen in stock. It’s broad daylight, her reprisal cannot be that of her true behemoth nature, but inside she stumbles over words and heat rises to her face with an almost acute coloring.
Teeth grit but she makes no move to remove the gift from her tresses, instead lips part to whisper gratitude or curses — no one truly knows, not as she shuts her mouth and simply huffs before strutting away.
the nerve of some strangers.