âťť SEROTONIN | cricket + sophie
when she skips through the camp, her palms are coated in pollen and the sticky sap of flower petals. she picks dried twigs from her hair, peeling a leaf from her jumper. cricket tugs at her dark curls, her palm shaking through it as they loosen the tangles against her shoulders, and sighs. there’s always so little to do when camp is made for the night - so quiet, so still. she’s taken to finding ways to entertain herself, these days; not all of them are polite, and not all of them are safe, but they’re just enough to keep her fingers from itching.
today, however, her need for extravagance is marred by fatigue; so instead, she entertains herself with just a few little flowers. spoilt, wilting flowers, dying or already dead, a bouquet she goes to tuck like an omen one of the group member’s bags - smelling of rot and decay. she arranges the flowers carefully, humming idly and working at an unworried pace despite being so open to view at the scene of the crime. she knows the bag belongs to one of the more uptight members within the group (and she’s hoping for something of an interesting reaction); but that person isn’t around, right now, and no one else seems too bothered with what she’s doing.
until, of course, she hears a set of footsteps behind her. the owner of the bag isn’t due back yet; she assumes this is someone else. cricket stiffens without turning around, already plastering her typical, dazzling white grin onto her lips before saying. “no, this isn’t mine, but i’m not taking anything! not even browsing; just leaving a gift.”
