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swinging by my neck ―
𝐥𝐮𝐧𝐚, 𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑎𝑑𝑛𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑏ℎ𝑎𝑛. otherwise known as: viridescent blanket, 𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝖾, nobody can hear you scream in the middle of a forest. girlhood, godhood, the lines blur + really, have they ever been 𝙳𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙲𝚃 ? i get mean when i'm nervous like a bad dog / i'm not a violent dog, i don't know why i bite / why does everything you love bear gouge marks ?
from the family tree.
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bitterness has lingered on his tongue since their hasty exit from salem. the moment of their failure still burning with intensity: icy darkness ( abandoned by the sun god ) the shrill of shrieking and the sting of claws. leaving so early, running away, without so much as a glimpse of the fate they were tasked with a washout far too public for him to swallow easily. solace found only in the failure of their counterparts — being battered by a fight less humiliating than being dragged back to long island like misbehaving teenagers by the god of thieves. the archery range a likely place for him to end up in the aftermath, the hiss of arrows a distraction from his discontent. an unexpected presence dampens his escape. it’s late enough now that the night has begun to overtake the day, her skin aglow under moonlight the way his was in the sun. gifted as the children of ares may be with weapons it was the hunters he loathed encountering at the archery range, their gifts shared. “ disappointed ? ” eyes flicking downwards as she speaks, “ you artemis devotees, ” voice not jagged or rough, yet there’s a sharp edge to his tenor, shielded from further investigation only by the ease of his being ( beckett could never be considered cruel or snide, not when his voice flowed melodic and sweat stuck to his skin like a gloss of armour ). “ always think you could do better, ” pausing, “ heard you didn’t even have to do any proper fighting. ” he crouches now, meeting her at floor level, a wicked smile replacing his discontented smirk, “ you smell like wine, ” eager for distraction in any form “ is it bunny’s ? that stuff may as well be absinthe, ” rocking backwards so that he’s sitting across from her, “ hate to see you drinking alone, ” it’s half an offer of his company half an offer to take some of the wine off of her hands, neither a particularly good deal ( besides, the honest truth was that he had been nipping at his flask since the night at the motel, whisky warm from his skin but a good enough vice ). “ and what are your thoughts on the news from the underworld then ? ”
there’s a familiar ache in the fine - strung tendons of her arms, dull throb the only thing besides wine that’s come close to quenching 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚛 … but beckett threatens to upset that, to disturb the uneasy calm she’s clawed back. son of apollo, so forthcoming with a graceless charm that 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗅𝗌 + 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗐𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 with equal horrible measure. twin deities must work a bit like magnets — attraction, repulson, two ends of the same damn spectrum. really, it only makes sense that they’ve found each other here, crosslegged on the floor. his question — rhetorical, she’s sure — hums in meditative contemplation. 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝘀𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗲 𝘂𝗽𝘀𝗲𝘁, if he were to perish out in salem ? “ no, i'm not disappointed, ” is the answer that spills ; tilt of her head accompanies, like she’s sizing him up. feeling it out: is there relief attached, to knowing that he’s not dead ? ( her answer remains unchanged: yes. that’s a dangerous thought, + one she’ll leave alone. ) “ i never said that we’re better. ” her defence comes quick, a muted mutter that’s almost lost to the way she swigs another mouthful of wine that makes her throat burn something violent. “ bit hard to fight when you’re crammed into the drunk tank. ” what is it about his presence that coaxes an almost - humour into her words, fighting a 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄 that threatens to undo the funereal glower she’s worn since returning ? aria tamps it down, bites on the insides of her cheeks where the skin already bears the shape of her 𝚖𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚜. at the mention of her ( bunny’s ) wine, her grip tightens momentarily … before she’s nudging it forth. might as well. “ suit yourself. ” the mention of the underworld pinches the planes of her face into something unpleasant, harsh / nothing like the divertment that had almost loosed a smile from her only 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 before. “ i don’t know. it makes me … nervous, i guess. scared. ” barefaced honesty, at last.
fated for : open ⋆ for all .
location : sundown by the sound, the night of june 22nd.
miami had left a sour taste in phia's mouth that now refused to fade. even mr. d's overly - potent wine — the kind that she always refused on the basis that its taste clung to the tip of her tongue for what felt like days after imbibing — did nothing to wash florida from her consciousness. the quest was a mark, a tattoo, something she was stuck with. waking up in her bunk in the hermes cabin at daybreak on the 19th, morning mist clinging to the grass, she felt as if she'd fallen asleep first at a slumber party and her so - called friends had doodled unknown embarrassments on her features. perhaps it was a ridiculous thought, but the preacher in elk falls would baptize his congregation in the river, citing the divine capability of natural water sources. if the feeling refused to lift, then perhaps she needed to be reborn to be rid of it. antithetical, really. to who she was by her very blood. but last ditch efforts were rarely motivated by logic. she'd been wading around in the night - darkened water of sound for twenty minutes to no avail. she still felt wrong. being witnessed in this moment of — what? further weakness? a step beyond her usual pathetics? — regardless, it shames her. " just — don't ask, " phia calls from her position of holy sogginess, voice carrying easily over the water's surface, desperate to mitigate her strangeness in the face of the reputation she already had for it. she sinks into the water slightly, realizing too late and with heated cheeks that it's unlikely they would've spotted her at all if she hadn't called out.
passage of time is meant to heal all, lay comforting bandages over wounds + kiss them better — + maybe there’s a SHRED of truth to it, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾. ( no comfort brought, of course, to those who are young, stubborn, nursing a shame that burns red - hot + furious. ) the sleeplessness that has come to accompany her anger is something new, a thoroughly 𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐲 turn of events that leaves indigo pressed deeper than usual into the shadows beneath aria’s eyes. miami will not leave her / she can’t shake the sense that there’s a divine DISAPPOINTMENT about it all, that the gods have arms crossed + brows furrowed at the bitter tang of their failure. disquiet of it all draws her to the sound, lone figure curled into herself, gazing out at silvery ripples of the moon on water — for once, it doesn’t bring her any ease. ( oh, artemis, we’re in deep shit now. ) phia’s call shakes her from a 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 - 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎, + her shoulders creep up in the faintest shrug in response. “ wasn’t going to. ” her glance towards phia is fleeting, not entirely dissimilar to a stone that skips only twice before sinking to sandy sea - floor. spindly arms wrap around knees drawn tight to her chest, fingers tapping meaningless staccato against the fine bones of exposed ankle. “ can’t sleep ? ”
CLOSED. ↷ aria + bunny, in cabin twelve. the evening of their group's return, june 21st, 1977.
miami will always be etched into her bones. marrow is tarred, everything feels sticky with it — this dissatisfaction is like the 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗉𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗍. vexed fingers will press + press at it in the days to come, failing to heed warnings / shocked when the flesh breaks, when SPOILED flesh is exposed. their 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 to camp had been swift, + her departure back to 𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 even more so: ice - cold shower rinses her of the salt that still clings to skin, but it doesn’t wash away the peculiar ache that settles just below her ribs. her hair, damp + plaited, no longer sings of the gulf of mexico, but she idly toys with the idea of cutting thick rope of it off with shears ; impulses play at the tips of her fingers, + 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒, she chooses the least destructive. she chooses wine. slipping into the midst of bunny’s madness feels a little like coming home, in a way that aria can’t comprehend. it’s the chaos of it, a mirror image of her own, maybe … irrespective, it’s a comfort. 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑: “ can you… ? ” it is a plaintive, desperate question. she pushes plastic water bottle forth, a sort of pleading in honey brown that 𝐕𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐒 can’t bring themselves to speak. she doesn’t need to. cross - legged on bunny’s bedspread, aria is pink - cheeked, scrubbed, devoid of the liner that usually rings her eyes + subsequently, 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗱𝗲𝗳𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗲. that constant ethereal glow that shimmers around her seems brighter than usual, a pulsing thing, a separate entity that grows stronger with her despondency. “ please ? ”
CLOSED. ↷ aria + beckett — - later in the evening @ the armoury. june 22nd, 1977.
tumult becomes tempest — storm that started brewing the minute red + blue began to blink, casting seven shadows in techicolour / reaches its crescendo several hours later, returned unceremoniously to 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍’𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜. ( she’d woken up early, too: watched the 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐒 of early hours fade, tracked the way blinding disc rose. it feels like a fucking waste of a morning now. ) cue the thick of it: thunder rumbles, lightning crackles, 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐 is fired at skewered target, like shooting the everloving shit out of it can erase the feeling of utter failure that swallows her like 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗰𝗸𝘀𝗮𝗻𝗱. weapon discarded, lithe frame is now slumped on the floor sipping ( read: chugging ) wine that sends her head spinning … she’d be content with it, the resignment, if the sound of featherlight steps echoed + the unmistakeable fragrance hadn't wafted in. fucking bergamot and mandarin. “ you survived. ” tone doesn’t waver, flat + unaffected by the quirk of one thick brow ; the water bottle she grips belies the fact that it’s not hydration she seeks. ( water isn’t the colour of odysseus’ sea. neither does it share the same 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐆𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐘 that’s stained the crescents where her teeth have sunk in. thank the gods for bunny hopewell - ward. ) aria doesn’t quite look at beckett, doesn’t raise a gaze so resolutely aimed at the floor / sullen girl, indulging in a good old - fashioned wallow for the second day in a row. “ heard it was a close call. ”
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No! Jackie! Wake up! Jackie, wake up!
CLOSED. ↷ aria + ezra — - recently disembarked off the hms haunted, in the florida everglades. june 18th, 1977.
furtive, it is, sends a bright spark of something that feels an awful lot like 𝚂𝙷𝙰𝙼𝙴 skittering down the length of her spine whilst she sneaks glances at his ; sunlight and shadows dapple son of hermes something golden. they all still bear saltwater tang — twisted up + away from her neck, remnants of the gulf of mexico drip from sodden hair. ( the discomfort of it is 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐥, but task at hand is a helpful distraction ! the everglades crawl with creatures whose bellies growl with an 𝗎𝗇𝗌𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋, and her tongue is tied in knots explaining the purpose of their quest / soothing a 𝗦𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗣 - 𝗧𝗢𝗢𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗗 𝗖𝗨𝗥𝗜𝗢𝗦𝗜𝗧𝗬 that’s aimed, laser - focused, at them. some are more forthcoming with their attitudes than others — ) “ alan says you’re lucky he’s already full. ” throwaway comment gurgles up, thoughtless, but she’ll nod towards a particularly lazy - looking alligator, whose gaze is far less predatory than some of his brothers’ — “ apparently, you look quite delicious. ”
THE FIRELIGHT FLICKERS, casting shadows on her contemplative expression. aria's question echoes in her mind, frustration simmering beneath the surface, and rosie can't even blame her for it.
it’s been months since she's last seen her goddess, and that sense of abandonment lingers in the air with the smoke. she's tempted to stir that pot, to point out that maybe, just maybe, with even the slightest bit of guidance, the problems currently facing the inhabitants of camp half-blood would unravel like a poorly-woven braid.
her lips part, then close again, a silent dance of uncertainty in spite of the temptation to share her true thoughts.
her banishment is a fragile subject, a broken promise that cuts deep.
in her moment of hesitation, the loyalty takes over, the same way it always does. to speak ill of the supreme huntress, to unveil the cracks in a divine facade, feels like betraying the core of her being.
so she offers a vague response, opting for diplomacy over raw truth. ❛ she's always been elusive in her ways, ❜ rosie finally murmurs, her tone stoic, steadfast.
why attempt to unravel the intricacies between the mortal immortal and the gods themselves?
in some other lifetime, idyllic alternate universe light years away from this, rosalynn’s presence would be something of a balm / oh, how she’d 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐔𝐏 ! crimson - red rose, blossomed + made something beautiful, aria would derive solace from sister - in - arms. frustrations would bleed out, spat into flickering inferno + burnt to smithereens, peace would come easy in response. ( fairytales like that, 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗎𝗋, they’re not made for the likes of her. ) brutal realist, even at her most tender: i’m not meant for good things like that. perceptive little thing, she watches the hesitation, the swell of what feels like something painful, something real, rise to the surface + get swallowed in the tidal wave of a loyalty she’d die to understand. already - devastating line of her jaw grows harder, tighter. wrong fuckin’ answer. “ elusive. ” grip could shatter 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 - 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜, if she clutched it too hard. aria’ll settle for an overdramatic roll of the eyes, sends silent prayer that laying sarcasm on thick will pancake over the thin criss - cross of her hurt, papercut on raw marrow. “ that’s one word for it, yeah. ”
a vibrant streak of envy lights bunny up from within — muted by the time it reaches the surface, dulled by an ever present apathy that suffocates and breaks. bunny hums, eyeing the hunter while settling into her seat, then cutting her gaze to the campers with a succinct hum. they fix and gather and replace, putting the day before behind them, doing a better job at faking normalcy than any attempt bunny could try to muster. she places the pack of cigarettes on the arm of her chair and starts to play with the lighter, allowing herself to respond, “ no, he often does not, ” and laugh. “ no, i think he thinks it's beneath him. ” she sets the lighter down then, and picks up the pack, flicking the lid open and offering one to aria with a quiet sigh. “ and your olympian? ” the question slips through her lips before it can be halted. curiosity surrounding the goddess of the hunt and her silvery, immortal followers — maybe a deeper longing, a yearning to kneel and pledge oneself followed closely by a knowing that some people aren't made for things like that. what would bunny do with immortality, really? the answer, shining behind her eye lids is: the greek tales don't shine the greatest of lights on the immortals / you would fit in perfectly. she clicks her tongue briefly and continues, “ is she supervising? or is that your task here? ”
cobweb smoke, coy curl of its carcinogen plays at aimless shapes when she exhales first drag — note the 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭 it brings, the way the stiff line of hunter’s spine slumps when an itch is scratched. eyeline will follow companion’s, take in the rushed attempts that younger campers make at normalcy. ( good thing she’s 𝙶𝚁𝙾𝚆𝙽 enough to choke back a snort that begs to ensue, if she thinks about it all a second too long. what the fuck do any of ‘em know, about what it’s like to play pretend, 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝖾 - 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 defined by nine - to - five roster + a rat race designed to inspire antipathy of the lowest regard ? ) safest place, best place, is with her knees curled tight to her chest + a steady drivel of smoke, in and out, far away from the humdrum chaos of it all. “ not here. ” something sour rankles somewhere just beneath the roman - empire rise + fall of her shoulders. how pitiful, really, that the most she can proffer up of the life - long cause she’s dedicated herself to is that of an apathetic shrug, midnight gaze that darts anywhere but bunny’s when she’s mentioned. ( and the frustration 𝑺𝑬𝑬𝑷𝑺 through / same way that poison does, a slow and insidious leak ; excise it early enough, and sacrifice is minimal. how far has it crept, that incisors sink into the flesh of her cheek when artemis is mentioned so casually / cruelly ? ) “ i wish. she’s still got me on this whole … trial basis thing. come back when you’re twenty - three ! like two years is going to make a difference. ”
OPEN. JUNE 8, 1977. WHEREVER POOR, UNFORTUNATE (BUT MOSTLY POOR, THANKS JIMMY) SOULS COLLIDE @ CAMP HALF-BLOOD. EARLY EVENING.
eoin finnegan emerges from the tombstone chic confines of cabin one looking as rested as a live wire. exhaustion, however, is a privilege reserved for the perishable goods called people and the uniformed guns called the police. look alive, soldier. no home other than this one to fight for. no cannon fodder other than the cracking voices consonant with campfire songs from the fields of punishment to keep from wandering into the woods and turning up spouting theories about the comeback of ulster paramilitarism as ignited by a coalition of squirrels to die for. he sighs loudly enough to send a hurricane spinning towards south africa and descends to find a trustworthy source of fashion advice.
in one hand, you see: an oversized reefer jacket handcrafted by only the most arthritis-having artisans in the world. there are splotches of navy blue reminiscent of the great brine and its unknowable depths next to splotches of russet brown reminiscent of dog poop. not even daedalus could divine the structural destruction that is the conga line of mismatched buttons. wool lining houses little over ninety-nine per cent of half-blood hill’s rodent population for incredible prices.
in the other hand, you must know: the exact same fucking jacket. with the exact same fucking stains.
it takes all of five seconds for him to find someone worthy of stroking his ego. he taps them on the shoulder. tap is a generous term for the action that demonstrates his generosity with lethal force. he preemptively decides to deny indemnification, which is more thinking than what’s been put in this encounter. trust him, most honourable person in a powdered wig since orpheus or george onslow or whomstever it was in that overpriced painting on the overpriced postcard, he was just helping them out of lyre tuning duty. that’ll do it.
“help.” a demand, not a suggestion. the rollicking, maverick charisma of his monotone voice holds their attention hostage, he assumes. even now his eyes scan, as though staring hard enough will attune them to the frequency at which sirens slice through the sound barrier. the ugly kind, that is. “which should i wear when they come back?” the musty, misshapen lumps of linen nightmares are presented with a flourish. after a moment, he clarifies: “to avoid arrest.”
play nice, act normal. truth be told, it’s not her 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗’ 𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚘 with command issued betwixt gritted teeth ( jesus, aria, just act … like a person, i guess, please- ) but christ, let it be known that it’s hardly her favourite. easier, perhaps, when EXTENT of so - called abnormalities included quicksilver tongue, tempest of an attitude that swells + dissipates, thunder on the goddamned horizon — less so, of course, when she glows. auroral shimmer of that eternal devotion, it’s hard to DAMPEN around police. aria’s entirely convinced that it’s twice as bright, + that when her shoulder judders with a tap, it’s probably something along the lines of … hey, torch, wanna tone it the FUCK down ? “ oh, god — - ” can’t 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐏 herself, relief + horror wrapped up in guttural sounds that she hasn’t managed to swallow down ; 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗀𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗁 ? s’pose anthony burgess didn’t get quite that far. “ the one on the right. ” cant of the head, burnished curls swing towards jacket of her choosing. jesus, fuck, it’s ugly. “ looks the most … ” english language be damned, dictionary definitions die somewhere between the cavern of her throat and the tip of her tongue. “ … normal - person ugly ? ”
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CLOSED. ↷ aria + rosalynn. entirely too close to the bonfire.
firelight tangles with gaunt planes, amber waltz across 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 cheekbones ; pretty little moth curled so goddamned close, woodsmoke will cling to the inky tangle of aria’s hair for days now. a proximity test, as it were: how close can i get / 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗎𝗌, for the wax to drip opalescent rivers down ? ( play it normal, honey, ignore the dread that’s been steadily building, buried 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 in the shape of your vertebrae. force a smile, happiest little camper around, no, sir, this isn’t anything suspicious … + no amount of sun - warm strawberries can shake that bitterness, the indignant sense that maybe they’re onto something. alleged cult activities. 𝗂𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇’ 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗍𝗌 … ) “ i don’t suppose she’s around. ” another pull off a pony - necked bottle, contents dwindling rapid, her temper has a taste. dark gaze redirects itself, ringed in flaking mascara + indigo stamps of a sleeplessness that’s plagued her as long as she dares to remember — it settles on rosalynn for just a moment, but that’s MORE than enough. just asking about the huntress supreme feels like swallowing 𝒓𝒂𝒛𝒐𝒓𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒔, rather than choking down another mouthful of lukewarm beer. “ she never is. ”
OPEN STARTER .ᐟ @ THE FRONT PORCH OF CABIN 12 with BUNNY, AN HOUR PAST MIDDAY / CONTEMPLATING THE RECENT EVENTS WHILE PRETENDING NOT TO CARE ABOUT ANY OF IT.
∗ the camp busies herself with the strenuous task of piecing her bits back together, and bunny does very little to help. a spare weapon tossed in the right direction, and a demigod turned around toward the forest ( because that's where they belong, but bunny does bite her tongue ), and only because they're on her path ( an early path, a trip to the big house and back, mostly empty handed ). everyone today seems to have questions, but nobody has answers — not that bunny would bother asking any of the other campers for answers, but demigods talk at a certain volume, one that makes for good listening. her glasses hang on the front of her shirt, perpetually unworn, while she twiddles her thumbs, seated in a lounging deck chair on the dionysus cabin. it makes for a perfect view of camp, and all her moving parts. bunny says, to a passing demigod, reaching into her pocket for a silver lighter ( and a pack of cigarettes, to share, of course ), "say, have you seen mr. d? i figured he'd want to play some pinochle after that debacle." a lie, and not a very concrete one.
indelicate art of it all, like assembling a 𝚓𝚒𝚐𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚙𝚞𝚣𝚣𝚕𝚎 ; it demands a patience, a steadiness. careful consideration, + a quiet exhalation: what was / 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 / what we must do. ( and for what it’s worth, the mortal police haven’t rattled her in a long time. they are a noted figure in the tattered shreds, the tapestry of her childhood … 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾, inner sanctum, chain reaction has got her biting the insides of her cheeks ‘til copper floods senses, iron blooming along the slip of her tongue. ) it’s the change of it all that sets her alight, foul mood like a fucking inferno, + god knows that there are gods bigger and bolder than her that bear 𝘀𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗰𝗵 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗸𝘀, icarus flown too close to the flame. “ not yet, actually. ” solace stolen, then, in 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 ! she’s done her part, settled herself back into something that looks like the glued - together semblance of what she calls home. 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚜 - 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 - 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚞𝚌𝚎 on lounge chair, a dark gaze trails pointedly to bunny’s cigarettes. ( just ask, aria. jesus. ) “ i don’t think he’s supervising. ” no shit, sherlock. bunny’s father has never been known for his divine convenience.
ALL OF MY DEVOTION TURNS VIOLENT; DOGS
ethel cain // @rbhvleo // mitski // laika cigarettes // ajj // silas denver melvin // cephalopodunk games // gilla band // david lynch
JENNA ORTEGA as Cairo Sweet in MILLER'S GIRL (2024) • Official Trailer
JENNA ORTEGA AS TARA CARPENTER | SCREAM VI (2023)
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