you be the wind
i'll be the wildflower
i'll be the wildflower
In the space between her words, between the weight of her tail settling around his ankle and her teeth scraping across his skin - in that instant, Ipomoea thinks he knows what it feels like to be wild. And in that time he can hear the sound of his own heart beating, like it has been sleeping with the trees and only now realizes it’s time to be awake, and alive, and that it should be running instead of resting.
He wants to run alongside it - even as the line she drags down his neck ends with teeth - to run until his lungs ache and the flowers that follow him stumble and run out.
But only if she runs with him.
He knows it’s her and not the forest holding onto him, and still he presses into her touch. And this time he doesn’t stop to wonder if her kiss will leave a black mark against his skin, or if her breath will dry him up and crinkle him like so many dead leaves. He doesn’t consider what it feels like to be something dying, not when all he can feel is his heart thrumming the way it is. There is nothing in him that is dying at her touch, even if he knows he should be.
Ipomoea doesn’t want to be the wildflower today, or the sapling, or the azalea.
He wants to be the baneberry with its toothed leaves and its poisonous berries. He wants to be the oleander and the hemlock and the nightshade, and all the things that take instead of give. Today he wants to be something selfish, because maybe then he would take what he wants instead of wishing for it. And when she plucks a single flower from his crown he half-wishes she would tear the whole thing free along with it, as if taking it away would let him become something, someone, else.
So he leans in, and his eyes never leave her’s when he presses his lips to the flower and imagines that he’s kissing her, instead. He wants to know if her skin is as soft as the petals before they turn brittle, and pale, and flake away to dust.
“Then I’m glad it’s winter.” He breathes the words into the petals, and Ipomoea does not notice the way the trees shiver at the sound of them.
And when he smiles there’s a quirk to his lips, as he takes the flower and passes it back to her like it’s a secret they’re sharing, just the two of them. “- For now.”
@thana @llewelyn
that poor flower is probably having the worst time between their magic
also po is blind and does not notice llew at all
He wants to run alongside it - even as the line she drags down his neck ends with teeth - to run until his lungs ache and the flowers that follow him stumble and run out.
But only if she runs with him.
He knows it’s her and not the forest holding onto him, and still he presses into her touch. And this time he doesn’t stop to wonder if her kiss will leave a black mark against his skin, or if her breath will dry him up and crinkle him like so many dead leaves. He doesn’t consider what it feels like to be something dying, not when all he can feel is his heart thrumming the way it is. There is nothing in him that is dying at her touch, even if he knows he should be.
Ipomoea doesn’t want to be the wildflower today, or the sapling, or the azalea.
He wants to be the baneberry with its toothed leaves and its poisonous berries. He wants to be the oleander and the hemlock and the nightshade, and all the things that take instead of give. Today he wants to be something selfish, because maybe then he would take what he wants instead of wishing for it. And when she plucks a single flower from his crown he half-wishes she would tear the whole thing free along with it, as if taking it away would let him become something, someone, else.
So he leans in, and his eyes never leave her’s when he presses his lips to the flower and imagines that he’s kissing her, instead. He wants to know if her skin is as soft as the petals before they turn brittle, and pale, and flake away to dust.
“Then I’m glad it’s winter.” He breathes the words into the petals, and Ipomoea does not notice the way the trees shiver at the sound of them.
And when he smiles there’s a quirk to his lips, as he takes the flower and passes it back to her like it’s a secret they’re sharing, just the two of them. “- For now.”
@thana @llewelyn
that poor flower is probably having the worst time between their magic
also po is blind and does not notice llew at all
