Nov 29, 2016
callirem beckoned.
a crown is placed at the the top of steinbeck’s head. comprising of fresh-cut flowers, with their stems cleaned and bent and twined into shape, it rests crookedly among hazy golden locks. poe allows himself the pleasure of brushing his fingers through that soft hair when he straightens the crown, smiling faintly to himself at the tickle along his palms.
“-- there,” he murmurs, lips barely moving to sound the word out. “you always did remind me of something that belonged more in a field of flowers than anything, spending your days basking in the morning sun and swaying with the gentle evening winds.”