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closed ft. @fcrrokinesislocation the hephaestus cabin
It's a little late to be doing this, the night before, moon high in the sky, and it's not like she didn't have the opportunity to start earlier, but it seemed stupid then â up until the moment it revealed itself to be practical and necessary. Maybe it's her mother's blessing, a whisper in her ear telling her to just fucking do it, figure it out, make it work â what else does a child of Athena know how to do if not that?
That's why she's standing outside the Hephaestus cabin, fist pressed against the door, another deep breath before she knocks â a brittle little shave-and-a-haircut â with a CB radio in hand. It feels stupid again as soon as she knocks, but she's committed, and Madden's nothing if not indulgent to her whims. "Madden? I'm looking for Madden. Open the door. I know it's late, whatever, it's for quest purposes."
"Wanna make it so the crystals in this guy work with... whatever kind of channel we want to tune into. Think we can do that?"
closed ft. @ptolomeas
location one of jo's hideyholes, somewhere by the strawberry fields
Dull, clipped fingernails drag along the clay walls of the trench, scalloping each ray of sunlight pouring through the thatched roof. It's a well-disguised location, despite being pretty close to camp. She did a good job choosing this one, and a better one constructing it. All by her lonesome, no special gifts involved (save for a few safeguards around the entrance â she wouldn't necessarily require her mother's help with this if she had access to a hardware store, but that's the tradeoff for this life).
If she was smart, she'd have kept it to herself. But she's never been half as smart as she likes to think she is, so she's sitting knee-to-knee with Bunny, the army surplus canteen she traded O.C. a pair of fishhook earrings and a friendship bracelet for handed back and forth between them. They're playing one of her favourite games. She names a wine for Bunny to try and make. Jo tastes the wine to see if she actually knows what it is, enough to see if Bunny managed it. "This can't be a Zinfandel. I'm so certain I'd die on it. Aren't they white wines? I swear I've had a real one before."
She takes another long swig â doesn't matter what kind of wine it is, she can taste the alcoholic content, and by the Gods, she will have her nerves soothed before they're sent out. Even if they're cutting it a little close to the deadline. Whatever. It's not like she knows how to drive, anyways. Nerves, yes â she's a little nervous, so what? This is so far beyond her capabilities. There's a reason she's so paranoid. There's a reason that, despite her hatred for camp, she hasn't left since she arrived, hasn't even tried, has begged not to be made to.
She's scared. Thank the Gods for Bunny. Thank Big D in particular.
She reaches across the space between them, to hand the canteen back, but also to let her hand linger against Bunny's, to reach up and brush her cheek. It's a little more affection than she'd usually allow, but she's a little tipsy (more than a little tipsy), and she just â Gods, Bunny's sweet face. Her eyes, those big tired eyes, the eyes of her friend â Gods, her friend! What a thing for someone to be, Jo's friend. And for Jo to be Bunny's friend â almost unbelievable. Someone so special.
It's not what she really wants to ask. It's not the right question â the right question is too embarrassing â and she won't get the right answer â if Bunny said what she wanted to hear Jo wouldn't believe her â but it's the best she's got, with half a second before Bunny stops drinking and starts talking again.
"Who would you hang out with? If I die out there. Like. Like this."
OPEN TO: @brinksgirlship for joanna brink !
LOCATION: cabin four, camp half blood, long island, new york.
"Like I said, repeat anything the plants heard, and the next joint I roll for you will fall apart on the first drag," Homer says, but his threat is half hearted. A few afternoons like these made it clear that Jo was good company, and somewhat trusted. Somewhat was as far as Homer went with most. "If we're on the same page, I can tell you what my string of pearls heard from the grapevine by Cabin Twelve."
He shifts on the edge of his bunk, one pushed to the corner between two windows. A more theatrical fit than most with significant more sanity behind it had earned him its location despite only being at the the camp for six months. It gave him the opportunity to be tucked away from the rest, and the best morning sun.
Lying back against the small bit of wall between each veil of glass, he passes the joint to Jo with little care for the ash that falls on the silken sleeve of his kimono. Fingers etched with ink pull back momentarily for one more drag, and then he offers it again.
"I would never invite that kind of karma into my life. What do you take me for? What does the grapevine take me for â is it the grapevine? Or the string of pearls? I never know what to take literally." She takes it more personally than she should. Joanna's not a gossip. She spends most of her time checked out from the grapevine entirely. She hardly even knows half these people, not enough to care about their petty dramas, much less share it. Not that he would know â she knows it's not a personal attack. But it makes her a little bitter. She wouldn't even ask if there was something else to do, something else to talk about. If there was a way for her to ingratiate herself to Homer... without speaking. Without having to be a person about it. He doesn't seem interested in offering her that out. "If the joint falls apart â are you telling the bud to do that? I feel like you're not even capable of rolling bad. Your hands just know what to do."
She does take the proffered joint. Not directly. She brushes the ash off the sleeve of his kimono, and circles his wrist with her hand, pressing his fingers to her lips. She holds them there for a long moment as she inhales, feels her shoulders square, pull back. She draws them back inwards as soon as she pulls way, slumped and rounded and unobtrusive. Her hand lingers around his wrist, finger tracing. She should be better at this, but Homer's on a different level, and when she tries to match him her lungs always fail her. It's a sad, wheezing little kitten-cough when she exhales, short gasps to pull fresh air into her lungs. There's little to find in the thick haze of the cabin, so she swallows it down, keeps her wheezing squarely located in her chest, and tries not to white-knuckle through it while she's touching him. She raises his hand up, grey eyes half-lidded, interested without being too invested. "These stains. What's this from? Do you draw or something?"
đđđđ. dusk, cutting it a little too close to the bonfire for comfort
đđđđđ. the strawberry fields
đđđđ. @brinksgirlship
smelling earth, worms, and fruit not yet ripe enough to rot, eli watches the stars blink awake. there are so many of them, here on this pinky tip spit of land on the atlantic. if eli had any skill for counting, he might have even tried just to get lost in the thousands of them. as it is, he lies in esteemed company, and it's rude to take it for granted. not to mention poor hosting.
"hey," he starts, knocking her knee gently against jo's in the tall grass. then, with more insistence. "you're hogging the fucking spliff. c'mon, that shit is primo. joooooooo."
joanna rolls her eyes, and lets the smoke roll off her lips. the spliff dangles between her fingertips, her hold loose and lazy, her gaze unrepentant when she turns towards eli. one more drag before she hands it back, pulling deeply, filling her chest and holding the smoke as she passes it to them, head tilted back, throat exposed. it's not like anyone's looking. anyone that counts, anyways. eli's different. she's grateful for it.
she draws her knees up to her chest, though not before knocking back in gentle reciprocation, handing the spliff with it with some hesitation. she lets their fingers brush. it's not particularly intentional, not flirtatious, not anything. one of the small, precious comforts of eli: how little it matters. "i thought the point of this was watching a pretty girl smoke. is that not enough for you?" she pauses, lets it hang. "it is good. who'd you get this from? tell me you didn't pay for it."
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CONTENT WARNING FOR : allusions to child abuse, violence, sexual self-harm / of dysphoria, cissexism (sans explicit transphobia) / nothing explicit except for my potentially corny attempt at what i've taken to calling joanna brink truisms (thank you jenny)
girl who will never be enough for her mother
girl who will never be pretty enough for the mother who wasnât pretty enough
girl who will never be strong enough for the mother who was made to be strong
girl who will never be clever enough for the goddess of cleverness
(girl whose mother still misses her) (girl whose mother does love her unconditionally) (girl whose mother cannot truly know her and can love her because of it)
girl with two mothers. girl with two very similar, very different mothers. girl with two mothers and many, many masks between them
girl with two mothers who are both goddesses. one is an old god, a very old god. a god who has been discarded by history. a god who uses her children to feel relevant as the times pass her by. the other is a new god, of the new kind of gods, who was made god when thought becomes real, like she was made daughter when thought becomes real. a god whose domain is all-encompassing and whose flock consists of one (when she and her mother are speaking, itâs a touch-and-go thing). god who uses her child to give her purpose and smothers her in the process. god who only expects her daughter to answer her calls on holidays
girl who has seen every mask and cannot seem to impress any of them. girl who has felt unable to impress for so long that even if they did approve sheâd be blind to it. girl who is the least of her mothersâ children
girl who was never a very good boy
girl who makes a better boy now than she did when she was one (rude and obstinate and useless and stubborn and refuses to justify her own existence or shower as often as others might like)
girl who did not grow into a girl gracefully. girl who did not want to be a girl. girl who was desperate to be a girl. to be allowed to be a girl
girl who is soothsayer. girl who knew it would be easier for everyone if they just let her before they let her. girl who had to say thank you instead of i told you so once she was allowed
girl who fights the urge to shave her head every day. girl who fought tooth and nail to grow her hair out when she was 10. girl who ran away the first time over this. girl who has not cut her hair since, out of something like defiance
girl whose mother would ask her why she would do something like that to her pretty hair if she did
(girl whose mother held her down as she cried the last time she sat in a barberâs chair and said do it do it just do it fast it doesnât matter how it looks)
(girl who couldnât look in a mirror until it was back down to her chin)
girl who canât stop looking in the mirror now that itâs long and silky and blonde, just like all of her motherâs other daughters
girl whose mother would not approve of how much time she spends looking in the mirror. girl who can hear her mother ask if she really thinks sheâs pretty enough to be this narcissistic
girl who will kiss anyone who looks at her with even a fraction of the obsession in her own eyes in the mirror. girl who will fuck anyone who looks at her like sheâs less than dirt. girl who isnât sure if sheâs trying to prove them wrong or right. girl who decides it doesnât matter, itâs just about feeling something
girl who has been chased. girl who has spent her whole life being chased. girl who has been chased and chased, even in the place made to be a refuge
girl whoâs fought and killed the monsters
girl whoâs fought and killed the monsters and knows enough to like them better than heroes and gods
girl who knows what it means to hate the best of them for their better nature. girl who knows what it means to be hated for her base instincts
girl who has been chided softly enough over the purpose of her weapons. girl who has been told that theyâre not meant to hurt people. girl who wonders if that old ass ever even read the fucking stories
girl who does seances. girl who lights the cabin on fire three times. girl who gets candles banned in the cabins
girl who doesnât have any ghosts to talk to, so she steals other peopleâs
girl who cannot talk to ghosts, who knows people who talk to ghosts, who refuses to ask for help in her morbid undertakings
girl who does things the new way, the wrong way, when the old, correct way is (hypothetically) available to her. girl who does it like this because itâs not about the doing it, itâs about how it makes her feel. girl who does it because itâs really about how it makes other people feel about her
girl who doesnât seem as worried as she should be about the mist parting. girl who is acting like she has it all figured out. girl who is acting like she isnât scared. girl who is acting like she isnât scared of the way her stomach clenches in anticipation of monsters and pitchforks as much as it does in fear
will update this with wanted connections bc i have some in mind i just . need to write them out and this is late and weird enough already T_T + a legible tl;dr . also coming soon
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