#gardenostic

         “ that is maybe literally the gayest course of action we could POSSIBLY take. ”

cronus has always been prone to feeling green.   jealousy and envy course through his veins as easily as shallow love does,   as easy as it is for him to open his maw and spew vile flirtations at anyone willing to lend an ear.

the grass beneaths his boots is green,   yes,   and he doesn’t doubt that should he rip it out from the soil it would appear again should he will it.  

so he does.  

he crouches down,   grey hands clutching lucky clovers and morning wet blades,   and he tears.   he’s pitiful,   oh,   he knows,   but not in the way that he wants   —   he sees more than he lets on,   the upturned noses and the shrewd looks.   he knows.   he knows,   and he doesn’t care   /   he cares too much,   and destroying the grass in only satisfying for so long before he rips it out a final time with a half - baked wail,   attempting to pitch it away like one would with a baseball.

but grass is grass,   not a ball,   and so it floats to the ground not even a meter away from him.

“     shut up.   don’t talk.     ”     someone has watched him throw a tantrum like a wiggler and he doesn’t want to know who.   instead cronus huffs,   plants his rear on the now destroyed patch of dream - bubble grass,   and draws his knees up to his chest.

“     fuck—     ”     he lifts a hand   (   it’s shaking   )   and runs it through greased back hair,   releasing a glub from parted gills   (   and for once he doesn’t feel embarrassed by it   ).   he flicks his fins,   a habit more so than an actual need,   to spread the moisture his gills provide.   cronus finds the lack of something to chew on a bother but he knows he doesn’t have the will to summon forth a pack at the moment,     “     why are you even here ?   to watch big ol’ ampora throw a fuckin’ fit ?     ”

a humorless laugh.   he presses the butts of his palms into his eyes,   groaning,   wishing to disappear.   it doesn’t happen,   of course.   the dream - bubbles hates him like that.

“     well,   tough luck,   chief.   missed your chance !     ”

         right now, her hands are gloved and in the dirt, and the flowers she’s messing with look great. you don’t KNOW what breed or strain or whatever the fuck they’re called is, but HEY, they’re gorgeous, and you wish you could bottle that up. HELL, you wish you could bottle ALL OF THIS up, keep a vial stuffed away for future reference --- ‘cause the way your best friend smiles when she declares that everything’s done? priceless.

         “ so what flower’s that, anyway? ” you glance up from your phone, eyeing her over your shades --- it’s a nice fucking flower, THAT’S FOR SURE.

misc sentence starters.