#good luck being a political journalist now bitch

[thewater]

TW: sexual harassment

feeling loved right now. the guy who sexually harassed me for a year was on my university’s magazine editorial team. every time this magazine would post a tiktok, my flatmates would comment things about how it’s crazy that they have a sexual predator on their team.

today the magazine dm’d them and asked them what they were talking about. after explaining. the magazine has said they have been removed from their position!

a win !!

[vanityeols]

Dangerous Ride 》 Jungkook F1 Pilot AU

PART 1.

After your boss gave you the hard task to interview the most famous, hot and womanizer F1 pilot Jeon Jungkook, you considered yourself the luckiest columnist in Celebrity Magazine. C'mon, have you seen him? And he is single, for God sake...

"Bring me a good article. I need juicy news about him. Write a front page deserving article or don't even bother coming back young lady." Your boss's voice echoed in your head the whole flight.

You settled down in the hotel in Monaco after your flight from New York, and you are now near the bar area, preparing for the interview. When you turn around, you drop your notebook on the ground and when you are about to catch it...

Oh, god! It's Jeon Jungkook. Just the man I was looking for.

He beats you to it, and hands you your book.

"I think you dropped this."

He looks amazing. White shirt, black suit, messed black hair. What a man...

"Thank you."

Jungkook stares at you with a seductive smirk on his lips and takes a seat next to you. Please greek God, if you come any closer I won't be able to keep my hands to myself.

"A water please". He orders and turns to face you. "Do you want something?".

"I'm already served..." you smile politely.

"I'm too late as it appears." He smiles back.

You can't help but notice his perfect features, his magnetic aura. He is incredibly good-looking. Jungkook catches your gaze and smiles.

You are about to introduce yourself, but he and his husky voice beat you to it.

"I'm Jeon Jungkook".

"Yeah, I know. I'm Y/N."

You stare over the crowd of reporters with a few racing drivers giving press conferences. "Aren't you supposed to be there?"

He nodded, looking back at them. "Yeah I should, but I'm not a big fan of the media."

Which makes my task so hard to complete.

"Oh let me guess. You are a fan of privacy."

He smirks and leans closer to you. "How did you know?" Ok, too close loverboy.

You shrugged and looked down to your water cup. "Gossip flies around."

He nodded and licked his juicy lips. "So will you be watching the race tomorrow? I suppose you're here for that?".

"Indeed I will. In fact I came here just to see you.." you told him, tucking your hair behind your ear, in a innocent but at the same time flirty way.

He eyed you from head to toe with an arrogant smile playing on his face. "Then, I better take the pole position".

"Oh, someone is being confident."

"I'm being realistic."

You're impressed by how easy it is to have a conversation with him. Rumors say he is not nice to interviewers. But they also say he loves to play around women so you must be one more easy target to him.

He leans toward you, his woody scent galvanizing your senses. Keep your cool Y/N, keep your cool. A ghost of a smile spreads on his face when he notices your breath fastening by the sudden proximity.

"I better go, I don't do social appearences too long." He whispered in your ear, before pulling away subtly.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Jungkook."

"Likewise, beautiful. Will I see you tomorrow night?"

"Tomorrow night?" I asked, confused.

"At the after race party. I would love to see you there."

OK Y/N AM I DREAMING?

"Maybe, who knows."

He smiles before brushing his hand behind your back. "I don't accept no's or maybe's lady Y/N. I will be waiting for you tomorrow night."

And with this, he leaves. And there you are trying to hide your blush. Damn is he hitting on me?

You go back to your room and text your bestfriend and colleague, Hanna, who's a huge fan of Jeon Jungkook.

"I just ran into Jeon Jungkook in the hotel bar."

"LUCKY BITCH!!!! I'm so jealous right now. What happened?"

"Well...he wants to meet me tomorrow after de race."

"Is it a date?"

"Of course not! I still need to interview him."

"But you know he is single, right? But as your bestfriend and a huge fan of him, I need to warn you. He is never serious about relationships. He never goes out with the same woman twice. In fact we never heard of him having a girlfriend officially, but he is a playboy. Believe me, I know a looot about him."

"Interesting. A man like him doesn't scream engagement, I know. But it's not like I want to have something with him. I just need a few answers to my juicy questions, that's all."

"But Jungkook wasn't like that two years ago. Something must have happened. My theory is that a woman screwed him over. That's why he is single for so long. You should try your luck. The bad boy falling for the cute and petite interviewer."

"Hanna, that's ridiculous."

"You two are very alike, trust me. But at least he enjoys the pleasures of life."

"Ok, I got it Hanna. I'm not here for this. Anyway, I got to go."

"Good luck babe, you got this."

The next day you are getting ready to watch the qualification race, and even though you brought the best of your clothes with you, seems like you got nothing fancy enought to wear. I'm meeting Jungkook tonight, I should dress up well, it's an exclusive party invitation only.

You pick a tight black dress a little above the knees with long sleeves and a heart shape cleavage. To finish the look you added a beautiful gold necklace, black high heels and a black purse. Your hair was perfectly straight, falling down your back. To finish the look, you added a red lipstick to your lips and voi la.

A few minutes later, you are watching the qualification race of the Monaco Grand Prix in the VIP area. You spot Jungkook's red car as the crowd cheers for him with thunderous roars.

"And Jeon Jungkook is leading the qualification race! He's bending the track to his own will." You hear the voice of the commentator on the speakers.

In a flash, the drivers pass in front of the crowd, leaving the screaming, brutal sounds of their engines behind them.

"Jeon Jungkook is driving a blistering speed, and Kim Jongin is on his tail. Unbelievable! It's only the qualification race but neither of the two want to slow down. This opening lap will tell us which one of the- OH MY GOD!" The commentator gasps.

Jeon Jungkook tries a dangerous maneuver. He is in a skirmish with Kim Jongin. With all eyes on him, he loses control of the car. Tire squealing. Air hissing and....CRASH.

"AND JUNGKOOK CRASHED".

Your heart almost jumped out of your chest. "Oh my god!"

He slams brutally into the barriers. The audience starts to worry and falls quiet. A minute later, Jungkook gets out of his cockpit and waves at the crowd assuring he's fine.

"Oh no, the judge gave him a black flag...." you mumbled, biting your nails.

"Our favorite, Jeon Jungkook has been disqualified. He won't participate in the Grand Prix. This time his reckless maneuver was penalized!"

You see Jungkook getting out of his car. He smashes his helmet on the ground and strides toward his pit. Man that was intense. It must have been terrible for him.

As much as you wanted to talk to him and see how he was feeling, you didn't get the chance to. Journalists were fast to run to him and all you could see was cameras flashing, and he doesn't really like that, like he told you before.

A few hours later you were at de VIP party. All the elites are there: models, celebrities, racing pilots. E everything was peefectly designed. The decoration was spot on. The atmosphere was magical, glamorous, like a Gatsby's party.

And like all great parties, there is drama...and troublemakers.

This can't be true. What is he doing here?

You spotted Park Jimin, aka your ex boyfriend, dancing with some random supermodel, grinding against her hips. Just the sight of him turns your stomach instantly. And to make the mood even better, he spots you right away, smirking when he caught your eye. I know he is from a very healthy family, but why is he in this after party, in Monaco?

"Well, well, well, Y/N, what are you doing here?" He looks at you from head to toe. "And....so elegant...". He walks towards you and you freeze. That good looking bastard, cheated on me with my at the time best friend. He was the man who broke my heart, made me feel worthless, destroyed my vision of true love. Now thanks to him I never believe anyone who tries to get close to me.

"You can stop right there. I appreciate the compliment. Now if you excuse me..." you gave him your best fake smile and rush towards the bar area, as far from him as possible. You call out a bartender, determined to drown your misery and the terrible memories you have of Jimin. "Give me something strong...".

"Coming right up lady." The bartender winked at you and disappeared to get your drink.

You looked around. Your ex having the time of his live. Couples kissing, others flirting...

And here I am, feeling miserable. Not being brave enough to talk to men. Too much of a good girl to be risky and flirty with someone. You shake your head, biting your bottom lip.

Shot after shot, you forgot why you were here in the first place. Anger is getting the best of you. You were about to ask for another shot, when a strong hand grabbed the cup from your hand and pushed it aside.

"Apparently misery does love company?" Jungkook smiled, genuinely, before taking a seat next to you.

Finally someone to make my night, a better night. Hi eye candy.

"Do you need some help? I mean, seems like you have a lot going on in here." He points to his head.

You rolled your eyes at him. "You crashed your car earlier. It seems like you have your own problems to solve."

"Ouch" he placed a hand on top his chest with a hurt (playful) expression. "Ok I probably deserved that one. But what happened to you today?".

You took a deep breath and looked right at him, resting your chin in the palm of your hand. "I ran into my ex boyfriend. Yeah, bad luck. I found that douchebag in Monaco. What a coincidence. Of all the places he could go, he is here. In this party. Almost having sex on the dance floor with some supemodel. You grabbed your drink and took it down with one gulp.

Jungkook blinked and looked around. "Where is he?"

"You see the guy with the white shirt wearing black pants? The one next to the blonde supermodel? That's him."

Jungkook nodded. "What a bad haircut. And to be honest he looks like a robot trying to dance. If you ask me, you are way out of his league." And when he said that, his hand rested on your thigh. "Way too attractive miss Y/N..."

You looked down at his hand and then back at him. A playful grin on your face. "Mr.Jeon Jungkook, are you flirting with me?"

You both laughed. Jungkook bites his bottom lip, something he seems to do a lot to his own good, and pulled you closer.

"Why don't we make this night better for both of us?" His breath mixed with mint and alcohol is sending shivers down your spine. His hand is now down your back. You drank way too much already and it's not helping.

You remember what your bestfriend Hanna told you about him being a womanizer and only doing one night stands kind of things. But you were tired of being the good girl. Tired of not having adventurous memories because you were too good for your own good and ttonight.Damn tonight, a hell of a man was in front of you. Wanting you as much as you want him and even if it's one night only, the present is what counts.

I wanna live this moment.

You look at his perfect lips, wondering how it would feel like to kiss Jeon Jungkook.

And just like you, Jungkook is staring back at your lips, waiting for you to do the first move.

"Like what you see?" You asked, feeling daring.

He smirked. "Oh, I'm definitively enjoying the view."

You licked your lips, tracing your fingers down his arm. "You must know I'm here for business."

Jungkook nodded "is that so?"

"I'm a columnist."

He shrugged. "And?"

You remember your boss's words. "Interview Jeon Jungkook, give me juicy news, write a front page deserving article or don't even bother coming back young lady."

"...and I'm here to interview you. I've been trying to do it all day..."

His expression changes. As if he was...mad.

I know he hates the media, but I would hate to be fired.

"It's for a women's magazine. You sure know you have a huge feminine fanbase who would love to know more about you...."

Jungkook gives a deep breath and nods. "I see..but what about you? Not the Y/N columnist, but the real Y/N...."

You raised an eyebrow, obviously confused.

"What about me?"

He wrapped an hand around your wrist and pulled you close to him, his grip gentle, his lips brushing your earlobe.

"Would you like to know me?"

[artificialqueens]

game of survival, chapter 2/? (branjie) - holtzmanns

AN: Fic title taken from the song Game of Survival by Ruelle. I love music way too much and may or may not have created a playlist to go with this fic - here’s the link for anyone who wants to listen.

Vanessa Mateo doesn’t falter. Not after fighting tooth and nail to get where she is, facing off against rivals that are both literally and figuratively larger than her while never once backing down.  

Watching the flames eat away at the walls of her office, however, tearing them down in a cloud of smoke and ashes, is enough to start to shake the strong foundations that she’s created for herself.

Her team is here, a flurry of movement and panicked calls and whizzing around her like flies while trying to figure out what to do. Someone (A’keria?) who is able to actually function in crisis has called 911. A myriad of firetrucks and police cars are already here with firefighters suiting up to confront the blaze that has started to spread to the building beside it.

Vanessa is glad that those around her are doing something, at least. She still hasn’t moved from her spot on the sidewalk. Her brain feels grey, all static and buzzing noises that are blocking any rational thoughts.

“Okay. Run me through it again. What exactly happened?” A’keria’s voice cuts through the fog, her campaign manager ever persistent and looking for some sort of answer. Not that Vanessa has one to give to her.

“I don’t fucking know, okay?” Vanessa’s voice comes out snappier than intended, if A’keria’s raised eyebrow is indicative of anything. She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose with two fingers. “All I know is that it blew up in front of my face and I only just missed becoming toast with it.”

A’keria’s face softens, hearing the slight break in Vanessa’s voice. Her hand is on Vanessa’s shoulder, as reassuring as she can be with the woman who is in charge of her paycheck. “We’ll figure this out. Silky is already on the phone to get more security because we’re going to need it on you 24/7 - don’t even try to argue with me.”

Vanessa huffs but doesn’t fight back. She’s been fiercely independent throughout this campaign, and the idea of continuous supervision makes her want to run and never leave her apartment again. However, she can’t deny that it’s necessary - not with the crackling noises of an office now turned to blackened dust continuing to echo in her ears.

A police detective grabs Vanessa as soon as A’keria turns away from her. “Just one more time ma’am, can you explain what happened? Working on getting this timeline straight.”

His reedy voice makes her wince. She tries her best to hold back the choice words that she so desperately wants to let out - the ones that she can’t freely express to anyone who’s not on her team, now that she’s running for office. Still needing to portray a wholesome image and all that.

Vanessa takes a deep breath, attempting to compose herself. She flashes the detective a polite smile: her ‘political’ face as A’keria calls it.

She’s gotten better at keeping her emotions in check as the campaign has continued, moving the heart that she normally keeps on her sleeve into a safer space inside of her mind. Her team has been grateful for it, having to intervene with less and less damage control as she’s stopped being completely honest with whomever she feels has wronged her in any way. She’s starting to feel like a rich white woman, slowly learning how to get what she wants with fake niceties and smiles that mask the true emotions that she holds back.   

Vanessa is honest with the detective for the most part, recalling the sped up walk to work after the longer than normal lineup at the coffee shop that morning. She falters, though, when she remembers the wild eyed woman that she had spilled her coffee on.

The one who barely noticed the spill and instead pulled Vanessa close and shielded her from falling debris when the office exploded. The one who disappeared right afterwards, like a fucking blonde and tall fairy godmother that Vanessa now feels like she’s imagined the entire time.

But she hasn’t, right? The woman had been real and there. Or at least, Vanessa thinks she was.

The detective clicks his pen while waiting for her to finish, the incessant noise making her eye twitch. Vanessa has to hold back the sharp words about to roll off of her tongue that so desperately want to tell the man to shut the fuck up.

“I’m sorry Detective, that’s all that happened, really. I was walking to work and it blew up in front of me. I’m just so relieved that none of my team was there, it could have ended so much worse.” The diplomatic answer rolls off of her tongue so smoothly that she almost believes it herself.

Vanessa doesn’t know why she holds back on mentioning the woman - she can easily describe her to the police and give them a potential lead. But something is off. The woman doesn’t fit in the picture. The way she grabbed Vanessa was as if she knew the explosion was about to happen, sure. But then why would she protect her?

The detective fixes Vanessa with a stare, searching her eyes for any evidence that she’s lying. He doesn’t find it, judging by the way he thanks her and turns back to his notes.

She lets out a breath, turning her gaze back towards the building. Or at least, where it used to stand. She knows she’s lucky, that the team is lucky. They didn’t lose data; backups of plans and budgets and work for the campaign saved online in the cloud.

Still, she’s now lost her base in an explosion that definitely was not an accident. She almost lost her life.

Her run for congress is her baby - it’s what she’s been working towards for almost her entire adult existence. Years of dead-end jobs, living paycheck to paycheck on meagre wages, waiting for her turn to burst onto the scene and make an impression. This year has finally been her chance.

It’s clear, though, that someone doesn’t want it to happen. She’s big enough of a threat.

Part of her wants to run, to quit the race with her tail between her legs and go back to a life of anonymity. Vanessa pushes the thoughts down. She doesn’t falter. She hasn’t in the past, and she won’t now. Good fucking luck to anyone trying to stop her.

When Silky hangs up the phone and comes up to her to provide more details around her extra security, Vanessa doesn’t argue. She can handle some suits surrounding her in order to keep pushing forward. Let the bastards who attempted to kill her try again. She doesn’t go down that easy.

Maybe the blonde will reappear, saving her life once more. At least she’ll be able to catch her fucking name next time.

The next few days are chaos as they’re caught up in a media storm, her publicist Ra’jah fielding never ending calls from news outlets that need Vanessa’s perspective on the attempt on her life. Vanessa provides diplomatic statements in interviews, droning on about how grateful she is for the public’s support and how she’s more committed than ever to the campaign.

Vanessa sits back on a couch as A’keria directs the various team members and volunteers assembled in the latter’s living room, which over a few days has transformed into makeshift campaign headquarters. She’s willing to let her campaign manager take the lead for now and get them moving forward. She’s fucking exhausted.

Silky drops onto the couch next to Vanessa after A’keria finishes speaking, nearly knocking files out of her hands.

“Jesus, Silky.”

Silky ignores her and instead gestures to two men in suits that are standing in front of them. “These are the lovely knights in shining armour who will be part of your security detail. Hopefully they’ll keep you from going kaboom.”

Vanessa’s mouth turns up in a wry smile. Silky may be crass, but she is funny. The dark humour feels necessary at a time like this, and it’s something that her college friend and now deputy campaign manager is always able to channel.

Vanessa sticks out a hand for each of them to shake, to which they oblige without any change in facial expression. Both have handshakes that could stand to be stronger. Not quite off to the best start.

“If you try to run from them, I will come after your ass. So behave.“

Vanessa snorts at Silky’s faux threatening tone. “Why, you don’t think that they can keep up with me?”

“No, I think they can. I just think that you’re too good at getting yourself into…explosive situations.” Silky wiggles her eyebrows as Vanessa grabs for a couch cushion and smacks her with it. “Ow, bitch!”

“God Silk, still too fucking soon.” Silky is the only person that Vanessa wouldn’t immediately fire for such a stupid and morbid pun. “You’re alive, aren’t you?” Silky ducks the next time that Vanessa lifts up the cushion. “Ha, missed that time. Anyway, let these nice men follow you around. The only time, actually, that you should let men follow you around.”

Vanessa tries to ignore the men indeed close behind her as she heads home from A’keria’s place a couple of hours later. She regrets walking instead of taking an Uber, the crowds on the busy downtown street positively stifling as she keeps her head down and pushes through them.

She needs sleep. Or maybe a bath. Perhaps both, to prepare for the press conference that Ra’jah has scheduled for her tomorrow. Vanessa can already hear Ra’jah’s voice in her ears berating her for inevitably losing her temper at a journalist. It happens at least once every time, no matter how hard she works to keep her emotions in check. It’s what the public loves, though, her ability to call others out when she needs to.

Sure, it’s made her quite a few enemies. But none of them have tried to kill her…Oh, wait.

Vanessa has to hold in a snicker while coming up to a busy intersection. Silky’s stupid sense of humour is starting to rub off on her.

She wonders if she should feel more afraid, rather than immediately jumping to gallows-esque jokes. Shouldn’t she be worried about her safety, after almost getting killed?

Vanessa knows she’s not invincible. She knows her size, and that there are bigger dogs out there who could probably crush her if they wanted to - both literally and figuratively. She’s not stupid.

It doesn’t mean she has to give in, though, to fear and anxiety and worry about those trying to intimidate her. Sure, the consequences are higher than a simple school bully trying to push her into a locker. She’s just not ready to go down without a fight.

She just needs a plan, her team can’t only be on the defensive, they need to show their strength-

A woman. Tall, blonde. Separated from Vanessa by a few people on the sidewalk.

The woman turns her head as she reaches into her bag, side profile instantly recognizable. Vanessa’s seen that face, she knows that face-

“Wait! You!”

The woman freezes for a second before she turns her face away abruptly, disappearing into the crowd. She’s fast. But so is Vanessa.

Apologies tumble from her lips as she pushes her way through the overcrowded sidewalk, leaving her security detail behind as she tries to follow the blonde ponytail that’s so painfully close, only a few meters if she could just reach-

“What the hell?”

The woman is gone. Vanessa looks around wildly as she tries to catch her breath, stretching up on her toes and straining her neck because there’s no way the woman could have disappeared that fast without a trace. She saw her - the same woman who she spilled her fucking coffee on and who grabbed her during the blast and then disappeared without a trace, vanishing into nothing. Just like now. Vanessa’s sigh in frustration is strangled.

“Are you alright, ma’am?” The two men acting as her security detail catch up to her, trying and failing to hide their wheezing breaths.

She brushes them off. “I’m fine. Did you see…have you seen…never mind.”

There’s no point. She’s gone again. Vanishing like a fucking ghost who has developed a penchant for stalking her.

Vanessa had started to doubt her memories about the woman the more she thought about her, if she even existed at all. The office explosion had happened early in the morning after all; maybe she had been half asleep and still dreaming.

Standing stock still at a busy intersection and ignoring the small crowd forming (“Is that Vanessa Mateo?” ) as she cranes her neck and tries in vain to spot her, Vanessa comes to three conclusions.

One: the woman is real, not just a fabrication of her mind attempting to make sense of the explosion.

Two: she’s fucking involved in this whole mess, there’s no doubt. Vanessa needs to find out how.

Three: for the second time, she had been nearly in Vanessa’s reach, so tantalizingly close.

Vanessa needs to get to her.

All she can think about is the flick of the woman’s blonde hair, the long legs with the infuriating ability of helping her escape not once, but twice.

She ignores the rational part of her brain that is screaming at her about safety and having others involved for backup. The woman fucking saved her life, for Christ’s sake. She wouldn’t kill her. Or at least, not right away. Vanessa is good at talking herself out of situations.

Besides, this time, she’s going to have a plan.

Two can play at this game.  

“What the hell are you setting up a camera for?” A’keria’s voice is tired as she looks at Vanessa, who is fiddling with the device outside A’keria’s apartment building.

Vanessa doesn’t look up as she positions the camera between the leaves of a flower arrangement. “Just being careful, is all.”

“Don’t be getting all paranoid on me.”

“What’s wrong with some extra security?”

“Look.” Akeria’s face softens. “We’ve got you, okay? We’re not going to have a repeat of the office anytime soon if we can help it.”

Vanessa nods, waving her off. She ignores the sigh that she can hear falling from A’keria’s lips as she walks away.

Perhaps it’s a blessing that A’keria is mistaking her behaviour as a reaction to the explosion of the office. How the hell is she supposed to explain that she’s trying to catch a woman who has been haunting not only her thoughts, but her whereabouts too?

She didn’t tell A’keria about the woman after the explosion either, the same way she didn’t tell the police detective. Her brain had been too fuzzy to do so at the time, and each passing day makes her want to keep the situation to herself.

A’keria wouldn’t get it. She’d tell Vanessa that her mind is playing tricks on her, that the woman on the street afterwards was just a lookalike. That there is no way there is something fishy about her.

So what if Vanessa wants to keep it to herself? She doesn’t need a team to fucking find out what is happening once and for all. She’s going to find out on her own, and has all the backup she already needs. The woman isn’t going to know what hit her - quite literally.

Find me at @plastiquetiaras.

[dangerwatson]

            SO, MS. WATSON. YOU WANNA MAKE A DIFFERENCE.

It’s ya girl Lin back on my ‘ let’s cry about a beautiful woman together ’ bs. Here’s MJ ! It’s long, but that’s to have all her relevant information in one place should you ( or me more than likely ) need to hit it up for future reference. I’m excited to have her here ya’ll.

BASICS.

Given / Birth Name : Mary Jane Watson Nickname / Preferred Name : MJ, Red Alias(es) : N/A Birthdate / Age : June 19th 1991 / Twenty - Seven Place of Birth : Montoursville, Pennsylvania Current Location : Little Italy, NYC Gender Identity : Cis Female Sexual / Romantic Orientation : Disaster Bisexual Ethnicity / Race / Cultural Heritage: African - American && German Marital Status : Single Occupation : Field Reporter && Political commentator for Weekly Review Religious Beliefs : Agnostic. Raised Christian.

CHARACTERISTICS.

Height : 5′8″ Weight : 135 Body Type / Build : Entirely Average. Could stand to go to the gym, but honestly who has that kind of time. Don’t compare her to fruit she hates that. Eye Color : Green  Hair Color / Texture : Auburn. Worn natural, 4b curls and all. Sometimes braided, sometimes weaved, sometimes in bantu knots or covered by headscarves. She’s very particular with her hair - touching it can and will lead to physical harm against the perpetrator if unwelcome. Recognizable Features / Scars : Big ol’ dimples and a slight cleft chin. Dusting of dark freckles across nose and chest. Speech Patterns / Accent : Has a deeper voice, boarding whisky worn. Because she’s moved around the majority of her childhood MJ has no discernible accent, giving her a modulated tone that’s perfect for clear annunciation across media platforms. Languages Spoken : English, French, ASL Powers / Skills / Abilities : No powers, however MJ has a nose for good stories, and tends to follow wherever they take her.  Overall Health : Good.

RELATIONSHIPS.

Order of Birth : Youngest Number of Siblings : 1 Father’s Status + Relationship : Phillip Watson, alive. An abusive alcoholic, former High School English teacher. No relationship amends have been made. Mother’s Status + Relationship : Madeline Watson nee Rains, deceased. A starry eyed dreamer, former actress turned stay at home mother. Left Phillip after he struck Gayle, bounced both children through various family members. Passed away shortly after from congenital heart failure exacerbated by stress and lack of access to treatment. Sibling Status + Relationship : Gayle Watson, older sister by almost five years. Unlike MJ, continued to have a relationship with their father. Married her schoolyard sweetheart and had two children. He divorced her around the same time MJ graduated high school, leaving both sisters ( and her nephews ) living under Aunt Anne’s roof. They’re nearly estranged. When she visits her aunt and nephews, both sisters make a point of keeping their conversations short -- if they happen at all. Loyalty / Affiliation : Outwardly neutral, though subject to change behind closed doors.

PERSONALITY.

MBTI : ESFJ Hobbies : Dancing. Doesn’t matter where, when, why or how. Catch her pulling an n*sync routine in her living room at 4 PM on a Tuesday. MJ also has a knack for exploration. There are a lot of ( read : free ) things to do around the city and magically finds them all. Who cares if you have no interest in the Fungi Festival, there are booths everywhere for a quick way to kill an afternoon. Tried needlework one afternoon, didn’t stick and now there’s an abomination of mutant looking cats hanging above her bathroom door. Bad Habits : Smoking. Fixing / hyper - focusing on her hair when uncomfortable or stressed. Jumping head first into the dating scene only to find out it’s the shallow end. Providing 20 second long fart sounds whenever someone asks “how are you?” Taking care of others before taking care of herself. Three Positive Traits : The silent Mom Friend. Allow me to explain : MJ is traditionally that bitch^tm making sure you get home okay after hanging out, she ensures your soul is as well nourished as your body. For all of her outward party-girl aesthetics and a forced mean girl perception on her by others, she makes sure her friends are in good headspaces. That they feel encouraged to follow their ambitions and ultimately celebrate every success no matter the size. It’s the type of selflessness that she’d wanted for herself growing up, so I’ve labeled it as her BEST trait. She’s incredibly outgoing. An extrovert through and through, getting her battery charged by being around people. It’s what makes her an attractive personality. When in a battle of small talk, MJ not only listens and remembers those small shared details but she knows how to keep the conversation going without making it seem like a chore. I love how in tune she is like that, girl vibes hard with new and old friends alike. Finally, MJ would make a professional bargain hunter blush. She grew up poor and as a direct result is extremely careful about what she’s doing with money. And yes, being financially responsible during these trying times as a Millennial trying to earn that bread is pretty much a given good quality. We all wish it wasn’t, but here we are. Three Negative Traits : MJ is stubborn to a fault. When she digs her heels into something it’s hard to get her to stop until a desired outcome is achieved ( or undesired, event depending ). While this is usually reworded as a positive asset —- being so DRIVEN and MOTIVATED —– that’s simply not the case with her. She’s lived through all consequences resulting from this inability to budge and none of the supposed rewards. Been fired from more jobs than she’d care to admit for telling former bosses where to shove unrealistic worker expectations, or coworkers where they can file passive aggressive bullpucky. She’s also incredibly stunted emotionally. As mentioned, she’s a silent Mom Friend, but reciprocation of her actions isn’t met with as much of an openness as one might expect. MJ keeps her feelings to herself, and it usually builds up until she suffers a full scale breakdown triggered by something mundane like … dropping a fry or seeing a lady bug stepped on. Decompressing is a word in her vocabulary, for sure, but it was easier to partake in as a 20 year old than as a near 30 year old with responsibilities and bills to pay. Picky puts it in palatable terms, but MJ knows what she likes and how she likes it. When she doesn’t, then she’ll quickly find a preference. In the meantime we’ll say she’s very particular about what styles she likes to wear, how her make up is, how her hair looks, and over all what image she’s presenting to a general public. It’s a habit she hasn’t been able to shake. Moral Alignment : Neutral Good

ASSOCIATIONS.

One Song : Dead and Lovely - Tom Waits One Quote / Piece of Art : “Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful.” One Fear : Following the Watson Women path of horrible no good very bad mistakes and poor life decisions. One Strength : Persistence One Object : Breathe Right Nasal Strips One Place : May’s kitchen One Food : Garlic One Scent : Cinnamon. One Lucky Charm : Old tattered friendship bracelet

-----------------------

Pretty typical “American Dream !” 50′s family dynamic. Everyone looking great in their Sunday best photos, father with a steady job, stay at home mom to save on daycare, two daughters and a stray cat named Sir Stinkybottom.

Father started facing emotional breaking points brought about by lack of what he considered satisfactory income and inbound midlife crisis. Turned to drinking, ( turned into a right train wreck. )

Mary-Jane, Gayle and Maddie hopped from various family member’s couches to crash for a couple of weeks at a time during the separation process from Phillip.  This lasted a year.

Maddie passed away when MJ was around 10 and Gayle 15, Gayle instantly taking up the role of Mother Figure to MJ’s wild child foil. MJ maintains she doesn’t remember all that much about her mother while Gayle remembers everything and that becomes a point of contention. 

Father returns into their life. It’s messy, he eats away at their still developing ego’s like the cancerous human blob he’s chosen to become. Their Aunt Anna, who they live with, intervenes when she can.

Gayle gets the fuck outta there by marrying her high school sweetheart, moving to the midwest and popping out two adorable munchkins named Kevin and Thommy.

MJ has the pleasure of dealing with their dad alone for the next five years. Which she does by a little thing called home avoidance. Garners the reputation quickly as a party girl at Midtown, someone ready to go anywhere and everywhere at any time. 

Began solidly working around fifteen to help Anna out, sometimes in Diners, sometimes in retail. Her ability to sell her brand began early and honed with surgical precision during these years. All currently reflected across media platforms where she became a 2010 influencer ( and paid for little more than modeling ).

Started college at seventeen, typical move. Took 6 years for her to finish as she paid her way through without loans. The last thing MJ wanted when finally breaking out of Queens was a student dept choker. Graduated at 23 with a dual bachelors in journalism and political science.

Bounced between larger broadcasting industries for a few years as an underpaid intern before growing concerned by their lacking criteria. The burnout was real.

Tirelessly sought employment at her favorite ( but SMALL ) news agency. By luck of the draw she was screen tested and hired on for a slot as field reporter.  

She’s been with Weekly Review since. Now having two years under her belt ( still extremely Green in her industry ), she’s pushing for higher scope investigative journalist pieces. And for once, they’re not telling her no.

[atc74]

Streets of Fire

Chapter 1 - Henrietta Prescott

Word Count: 1613

Pairing: Dean x OC Rory (yeah I know)

Series Warnings: Canon level case,violence, harm to loved one, implied smut

Summary: Dean meets a local girl on a case and as luck would have it, the evils of the world know she got involved with a Winchester. Will Dean sacrifice his chance at happiness to keep her safe or will her simply being alive put her in danger?

A/N: Thank you to @luci-in-trenchcoats​ for taking her time to beta this.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean grumbled, the heel of his hand hitting the steering wheel with such force it caused the car to swerve slightly. “Sam, you said this would be a milk run. Now here we are, two days later and we have exactly squat!”

“It’s bad intel, Dean. What else can I say? I will hit the police and coroners reports again tonight; try to find whatever it is we are missing,” Sam apologized, but really it wasn’t his fault. Another hunter had called them in for help on this case, then skipped town. The Winchesters had plans for him, but that would have to wait. The residents of Grand Island, Nebraska were in danger.

They knew they were dealing with a ghost of some kind. The body of the woman formerly known as Henrietta Prescott had been cremated upon her death over a half century ago. They had reasonably deduced they had a cursed object on their hands. The only problem with that was that Miss Prescott had owned an antique shop filled with all of her own belongings. Some were family heirlooms, some she had collected and held on to for quite some time, giving all of them meaning to her in one way or another.

When Ol’ Henrietta died, her estate, including the shop and all of its contents had been auctioned off, as she had never married and had no children or next of kin. The county, thankfully, had kept meticulous records, so the boys had in their possession catalogs of every item that had been sold, both in her house and the shop. There were five ledgers total, each over a hundred pages.

Dean let out an exasperated sigh as he pulled into the motel lot and up to their door. He shut off the car and turned his head to look at his brother. He knew it wasn’t Sam’s fault, but he was still frustrated.

“Sammy, let’s change out of these monkey suits and head to the bar, find some local talent and blow off some steam, maybe make a quick buck while we’re at it, huh?” Dean smirked in the dimly lit car.

“Ahhh, wouldn’t that be nice? You go, have some fun. I’ll hit these books again and try to find the object. Dean, there are hundreds, probably thousands of items there. We might be here a while,” Sam sighed in resignation and unfolded himself from the car.

~*~

“You sure you don’t want to join me, Sam?” Dean prodded his brother, one hand already on the doorknob.

“Yeah, you go ahead. I’ll be fine. Just, uh, don’t wake me up, okay?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, okay. I got it. You’re never gonna let me live that one down, are ya?” Dean laughed a little.

“Dean, you tried to bang the waitress...on my bed... with me in it! So, no!” Sam chided his older brother.

“Whatever, don’t wait up,” Dean rolled his eyes, then left the room. Sam listened for the rumble of the Impala to fade away before he cracked a beer and the first ledger.

Sam decided to dismiss furniture items; sofas, chairs, beds and anything of the sort. He tried to concentrate on anything that may have had real meaning; jewelry, mirrors, specialty clothing. He was midway through the second ledger when he caught something he’d missed before. There was a wedding dress on the ledger, along with pearls and a pair of nineteenth century shoes. There were several items that Sam thought held promise, but he kept coming back to the dress. Henrietta had never been married, so why did she have a wedding dress in her belongings?

Sam pulled up the county records, looking for any record of the person who had purchased the dress. Luckily all three items had been sold to the same person; Carolyn DeWitt. Sam was relieved to discover she only lived about forty minutes away. He grabbed his coat and his phone to call Dean, then noticed it was already eleven o’clock. A little too late for a house call, he decided, so he replaced his jacket on the chair and changed into his lounge pants and retrieved his original copy of The Wizard of Oz. Sam settled into his bed and cracked open the book. He didn’t get very far though, and it slipped from his hands as he drifted to sleep.

~*~

The shrill ringing of his phone woke Sam the next morning when Dean called to tell him to get dressed for breakfast. It was already nine; Sam never usually slept that late, and Dean was never up this early. Ten minutes later, Sam was dressed and leaning up against the side of the motel when his brother pulled up. There was a woman in Sam’s seat. He grumbled about not fitting in the back but opened the door and got it.

“Heya, Sammy! This is Rory; Rory, this is my brother Sam,” Dean smiled wide at his passengers, pulling back out onto the main road.

“Nice to meet you Rory,” Sam reached over the seat to shake her hand.

“Sam, I am so happy to finally meet you! Dean has told me so much about you, I feel like I have known you forever,” Rory gushed with excitement.

Sam hoped that years of lying to people about the evils of the world have honed his ability to hide the bitch face he wanted to sport. They had only been in town for going on three days now; when did Dean meet this chick?

Dean pulled into the only restaurant open this time of day and the three piled out of the car. The restaurant wasn’t busy, given it was a Tuesday and they found a table in the corner.

“Well, good morning, Rory, Dean,” the petite and plump server dragged out Dean’s name like she knew him. “What can I get you two this morning? Oh! Who is this handsome gentleman you brought with you today?”

“Hey, Gladys, this is my brother Sam. Sammy, this is Gladys,” Dean introduced them, placing his arm around Rory’s shoulders, pulling her close to him and nuzzling his nose in her hair. She giggled and looked at Sam, like they were sharing some secret at his expense.

“Hi Gladys, may I get a coffee and water, an egg white omelet with spinach, mushrooms and feta, please, with a side of fruit?” Sam politely gave her his order, flashing her his best smile.

“Anything you want, handsome,” Gladys fanned herself a little with her order book.

“I’ll take the pancakes, today Gladys, side of pig and coffee,” Dean winked at the older woman.

“Hey, G, can I please get the eggs benedict, coffee and an orange juice,” Rory placed her order and Gladys gave a salute and headed back to the kitchen.

“So, Dean, come here often?” Sam looked quizzically at his brother, one eyebrow raised.

“Well, let’s see; breakfast yesterday, lunch yesterday, breakfast today, three times, Sammy. Gladys likes me,” Dean bragged.

“Sam, Gladys is my aunt, so I come here everyday for breakfast and lunch. I have been bringing Dean with me the last couple of days. She takes very quickly to attractive men. By the time you guys wrap up your investigation, she’ll probably convince you to give her your number!” Rory exaggerated.

“Rory, how did you meet my brother?” Sam couldn’t wait to hear this.

“He let me beat him at a game of pool the other night and I just can’t seem to get rid of him,” she replied easily, bumping Dean’s side with her shoulder.

“Her bed is better than mine, Sam. I have two words for you: tempur-pedic,” Dean whistled and Rory stared at him with doe eyes, her chin resting in her hands, like he was the funniest person she had ever met.

“Aurora Mae! You know better than to put your elbows on the table, child,” Gladys scolded her when she returned to the table with their beverages.

“Sorry, G,” Rory said softly, returning her hands to her lap.

“Aurora Mae?” Dean questioned her after Gladys retreated.

“Yeah, kind of a family name. All of the woman in my mother’s family were given the middle name Mae,” Rory admitted. “I didn’t care for it as a child, but it is part of who I am.”

“I like it, it suits you,” Dean commented, causing a blush, as it ran from her neck all the way up her cheeks.

The three chatted all through breakfast like they had known each other for years. Sam watched the most normal thing in Dean’s life since he can remember. With the exception of lying to her about who they really are and what they do, Dean seemed to have let this woman with the auburn hair, steel gray eyes and sparkling smile into his walled fortress. Sam sat back and witnessed the miracle.

Rory revealed she was a journalist for the small newspaper in town, but she was also a freelance writer for a few national papers as well. Sam knew he was going to like this woman and her naturally curious nature the moment she brought up the deaths they were in town investigating.

“Sam, Dean told me a little about the case you are working on. I have some research you might be interested in. I was just telling Dean on our way here this morning that my grandfather originally covered the auction for the paper in 1961. I still have all of his notes and the original print. I thought it might come in handy, since all the dead people bought something of Miss Prescott’s,” Rory added perceptively.

Forever Tags: @iwantthedean @chelsea072498 @paintrider13-blog @d-s-winchester @just-a-touch-of-sass-and-fandoms @just-another-busy-fangirl @winchesterprincessbride @waywardjoy @like-a-bag-of-potatoes @mamaredd123 @ellen-reincarnated1967 @sis-tafics @katymacsupernatural @tankcupcakes  @wonderange @meeshw777  @tmccarney @ruprecht0420 @theoriginalvicki @hexparker @nanie5 @docharleythegeekqueen @megansescape @notnaturalanahi @impalaimagining @mrswhozeewhatsis @blacktithe7 @emoryhemsworth @dracotomanddeansprincess23 @bringmesomepie56 @devilgirlsarah @spnbaby-67 @emilycollins11 @myoutletforfanfiction @deansangelgirl @mizzzpink @jerk-bitch-and-an-angel @kayteonline @rockhoochie @percussiongirl2017 @fanfreak07 @tattooedmomster13 @sandlee44 @moonstar86 @uttertrash--butlikecutetrash  @squirrel-moose-winchester @growningupgeek @charliebradbury1104 @evansrogerskitten @feelmyroarrrr @itseverythingilike @smoothdogsgirl @evyiione @ashstrom87 @supernatural-jackles @ryantherandomhero  @love-kittykat21​ @kathaswings​ @crispychrissy​

Dean tags: @akshi8278  @iamabeautifulperson18 @suzannebeaketa @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @deandoesthingstome @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @boxywrites  @sparklesuperwholock88  @ericaprice2008   @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid   @tardis-full-of-fallen-angels

[themyskira]

In honour of Tony Abbott being headbutted, I present: Who should you fight - Australian Prime Ministers edition

Barton: On the one hand, it seems undignified to throw down on one of our Commonwealth’s founding fathers. On the other hand, wherever he is now, there’s a very good chance that he’s completely hammered, so you can whale on him without fear. You may want to think about your life choices, though.

Deakin: His nickname was Affable Alfred and he thought he could talk to ghosts. Go for your life.

Watson: However the fight goes, it will be short and unmemorable.

Reid: In 1898 he spent an hour arguing in favour of federation before a packed Sydney crowd, before turning around and carefully enunciating the arguments against federation for another hour, earning him the nickname Yes-No Reid. Play your cards right and you might be able to convince him to fight himself for you.

Fisher: Tell Billy Hughes that Fisher was talking shit about him and let things take their course.

Hughes: Go for it. The worst he’ll do to you is squeal about being ambushed to the press and then found the Australian Federal Police.

Bruce: Show him an episode of Black Comedy and wait for his racist White Australia-loving brain to collapse in on itself.

Scullin: Was swept into office a scant week before the 1929 Wall Street crash. With his luck, he’ll probably fall face-first into your fist while trying earnestly to negotiate a nonviolent resolution.

Lyons: An avowed pacifist and appeaser, he once made a point of calling on Mussolini to assure him of Australia’s friendship and was in favour of making concessions to Hitler. Go ahead, steal his lunch money. He’s not gonna stop you.

Curtin: I know you think you can take him, this shy and unassuming bloke, but John Curtin has stared down world leaders and media barons without blinking.  At the height of the Second World War, he told Winston Churchill to shove it. You’re small potatoes to him, my friend. Don’t fight Curtin.

Chifley: He is a nice man who once turned down a formal dinner invitation from the King because he was embarrassed that he didn’t have the right clothes to wear. He also led a radical reformist government and tried to introduce a form of universal healthcare two decades before Whitlam finally sealed the deal. Why would you fight Chif? You monster.

Menzies: Please, fight Menzies. It won’t achieve anything, on account of him being dead for forty years and a virtual demigod of the Liberal Party, but goddamn, he deserves it.

Holt: If you can find him, be my guest.

Gorton: The man was an Air Force fighter pilot. On the other hand, he’s also been dead for fifteen years, so you have the upper hand here. The question is, why would you fight him when you could be getting drunk with him instead? Dude has a demonstrated lack of brain-to-mouth filter and you know he has some rip-roaring stories.

McMahon: Con: he’s a sneaky, untrustworthy, inveterate liar who will absolutely try to pull one over you if you start something. Pro: he’s thoroughly incompetent at it. Once tried to steal a tape recorder from journalist Laurie Oakes, claiming it was his, leading Laurie to point out that the radio station’s name was engraved on it. This is the calibre of man you are facing. You can absolutely take him.

Whitlam: Don’t fight Whitlam. Team up with him and smash the establishment together. CRASH THROUGH OR CRASH, BABY. WE WILL REVOLUTIONISE THIS JOINT OR GO DOWN TRYING.

Fraser: Tough one. Before he was a cuddly humanitarian, he was a bloodthirsty political player who ended the careers of two prime ministers, and that’s not a guy you want to face down. Safest proven tactic is to bamboozle him by getting him drunk and stealing his pants.

Hawke: Offer him a yard of ale and goad him into defending his world record. Whack him with a beer bottle while he’s distracted. Beware, though: while you may well prevail, this will only add to his legend as the Aussiest PM.

Keating: You might be able to take him, but is it worth the emotional devastation he’ll rain down on you with his cutting verbal tirades? Don’t fight Keating. He’ll do you slowly.

Howard: Oh, friend, you’re twenty years too late for that to be of any help, I’m afraid. Sure, you can take him, but punching a senior citizen in the face is poor consolation in the wake of the Pacific Solution, the Iraq War, the Marriage Act amendment, the republican failure and a decade of fear-mongering and bigotry.

Rudd: You can definitely take Rudd, but the question is, do you really want to? He looks harmless enough, but 95% of his body mass is pure megalomania and spite, and if you take him out you can bet he’ll dedicate all of his energies to bringing you down with him. Don’t fight Rudd. Easier to let him implode on his own.

Gillard: You can throw down with her, but it’s just not gonna be a satisfying experience for either of you. You’ll get yourself riled up over her leadership failures, then once you’re in the room with her you’ll start to see her side of things and somehow you’ll be even more frustrated. She’ll start to win you over with her personal charm, leaving you thinking, goddammit, why did we never see this side of her as PM? Then some asshole will start chanting “kill the bitch” from the sidelines and you’ll just feel shitty about the whole damn thing. You’ll both share a tired look and mutually agree to call it a draw. In the end, nobody wins. Much like her prime ministership.

Abbott: Not worth it. For one, the bastard works out to a disgusting degree. And if you do take him down, he’ll just accuse you of being a rabid lefty whose actions prove his point that marriage equality only hurts people. I know it’s hard, I know how punchable his face is, but please don’t fight Tony Abbott. It only encourages him.

Turnbull: Go ahead, fight Malcolm. He’s proven himself all too willing to be the Liberal Party’s personal punching bag just as long as he gets to sit in the top office. Half the party will probably hold him down for you.

[willpowerbutch]

Donald Trump: An Investigation, Part 1

By Willpower Butch

It is the wisdom of many erudite historians that what social, economic, and existential ills are not caused by the government are the work of anal omnivores. Since the untimely French vacation of eminent manly man Jack Palance in 1963, the core of the American political regime and the organized wedding pansies have been one and the same. In an age where many crimes go unaccounted for -- from ukulele loners to interactive Barbie phalloplasty kits -- one matter in particular is near to the substantial biceps of Manly Men! Magazine’s editorial staff. By way of investigating Paul Dano’s illegal gaysexualization of Sad Gandalf’s dick magnet, correspondent Paragon Shag proceeded with all haste to the residence of Donald J. Trump, America’s most prominent true crime celebrity and sheik of sexual harassment on earth, who could surely answer his enlarged questions. Armed on this holy mission with only a family-size canister of drugstore blush, he embarked from his Rhode Island property on Good Friday, 2017, ignorant of the Spanish activist poetry that awaited him.

 Cant-bro I: Escaping the Wood

Passing from the cul-de-sac of his condemned bourbon mattress into the backwoods from Gus Van Sant’s Japanese suicide fetish, Shag felt his ankle hair shrivel into nanciful fuzz. His heart was stopped by a flood of genteel dignity. “Lesbians,” he whispered, pouncing behind a boulder just as the grotesque silhouette of a buzz-cut, muscle-shirt-clad pregnantagonist emerged from the tight opening between two arched fruit trees. Slowing to adjust her pocketless denim, the mammarian sniffed the air carefully. Upon detecting the spice of heterosexual perfection, she made her way to Shag’s rock. She halted before it and touched the surface, causing the stone to crumble into the chalk of a million surprise Ecstasy fellatios. Shag clutched his package as he came indecently into view of the she-man.

“You think you can infect us with rape culture?” she screamed. “We may all be vegan indie rappers, but that doesn’t mean we won’t enjoy watching you spin on a medical dildo to the soundtrack from The Joy Luck Club, Testomorph.” Her eyes glinted with body-positive armpit worship. “This is for Wonder Woman.” Brandishing her boy band-scented implements, she approached Shag, channeling the evil power of quinoa. “Say goodbye to your white privilege.”

Suddenly, a monster truck of sacred light descended from the treetops, and before them appeared the long-dead ghost of Mickey Rourke. Shag recoiled in manly courage, but the fair-weather Buddhist was undeterred. “You think you can fight me with a freezer-burnt church stroker? I have the miracle of childbirth on my side,” she snorted with disdainful laughter.

The shade crouched low, drawing his gargantuan arm back, and took a deep drag from his coal cigar. “Children are pussies,” he roared, and with that, he let fly his fist. It connected with her chin, sending the womosexual high into the air, into the sun, vanishing from sight like Dominic Monaghan.

Shag exhaled his morally ungay emotion. Left alone with this stranger, it occurred to him that the phantom may not be all that it seemed until, finally, it addressed him. “If I have to look at these goddamn trees for five more seconds, I’m gonna beat them into popsicle sticks.” Shag relaxed then, reassured that it was truly the spirit of his late gym partner.

“Help me, sir, for I am on a butch task to make Donald Trump answer for his Edith Piaf slippers,” appealed the correspondent. He then bit off his own breast envy and broke down into a display of armless push-ups. Moved by Shag’s engorging virility, Rourke flexed his affirmation, and the two individual men set out in vague, unlubricated proximity of each other.

After a distinguished silence, Shag asked Rourke how he had come to know of Shag’s throbbing adventure.

“The guy who told me to come is the baddest motherfucker of any of us,” said he. “He makes Arnold Schwarzenegger look like Jean-Claude van Damme.”

“No,” replied Shag in disbelief. “It cannot be.”

“You bet your ass it’s David Carradine,” shouted Rourke, kicking a squirrel.

Heartened by the muscular attention of his hero, Shag and his comrade boarded the train to Satan’s province and began their long travail.

Cant-bro II: Limbo

When Shag awoke, they had arrived in the first circle of hell. “Why is everyone bent over?” he asked. “Is this some sort of Episcopalian ritual?”

“No, man,” came Rourke’s hushed warning. “It’s the Greeks. God threw them in the bullshit for inventing shade.” So distressed was my friend the correspondent at the sight of ethnics trying to deal with Joan Crawford that he fell back swiftly into a troubled sleep.

Cant-bro III: Gays

He came to once more to the sound of innocent children being corrupted by manga. “Where are we now?” Shag inquired of his guide and then noticed heterosexfully that Rourke was sitting by the opposite window, a crossbow lodged under his heroically swelling nipples. “Are we under attack?”

“Yes,” the manly man growled back. “We are under attack for our marriage.” It was then that Shag heard a loud synthesizer from without the train, and the car pendulated. Thrown up against the glass, he saw with his own eyes what was destroying America: dozens of small gays ramming up against the cabin like erect wasps, violently knitting war film bisexuals. In the center of them emerged a glittery, Baileys-drenched ‘70s muscle stripper, the sight of whom caused Shag’s blood to freeze. “Darling! You came back for another taste of my see-through ice cream!” purred the woman. It was Ben Whishaw, undulating in his bead skirt as he stroked a hand sensuously through the bristles of his porn mustache. Aroused by the presence of sweaty men, he came to alertness out of his Tylenol-induced strip-tease and, after disentangling himself from a blonde naval street predator, he leapt through the open window beside Shag.

“My love!” he exclaimed, demurely licking Shag’s stratum of chest hair. “Don’t be afraid. I’m a changed man. Look!” Whishaw touched his upper lip proudly. “I’ve become a straight!”

“Don’t listen to Hindu Rachel Weisz,” yelled Rourke. “She’s tryna slip white wine in your vodka!”

Shag karate-chopped the wall, sending a number of homosexists flying. “I will never fund your bearded child pageant!” he declared. With that, he lifted Whishaw high above his head and tossed him back out the window like a paper mache lioness. “Go peddle your human protein shakes elsewhere, Boy George!”

Soon, Paragon Shag slumped back in his seat, exhausted by his sacred duty to resuscitate divorce. The manly men’s train pulled out of the gay wastelands skillfully, and as it did, they heard in the distance the nasal voices of trendy Jesuits seducing Mahler fairies at a midnight Waffle House as they descended further into America.

Cant-bro IV: KFC

“What is the meaning of this?” Shag demanded as their vessel nose-dived into a lake of fiery chicken grease. “You cannot tell me that the ‘90s is here, too?” Rourke shook his head and indicated out the window, where Shag beheld a remarkable thing: an enormous structure in the shape of God’s preference of men, its tip aglow with yellow lights. It read, ‘Drumpf Shaft.’ Shag looked upon it with his mouth open, doused in pure, volcanic admiration.

“Why,” Shag breathed, “I don’t believe I have ever beheld such an attractive spectacle.” The thing rose so high and proud that it blotted into the sun, casting the netherworld in moist darkness. “It must be so wonderful on the inside. Shall we try to see it up close?”

Losing patience, Rourke disciplined my friend with a majestic bitch parade. “That’s how the queers get you,” Rourke cautioned him. “One day you’re admiring each other’s towers, and the next he’s licking Halloween glitter off your sliding back door.” Shag swallowed his disgust, and his arm hair grew three inches in manly indignation. So that’s what happened to James Franco, he thought bitterly.

Their train continued to slice through the countryside, leaving far in its wake the many fabulants of years past who had made the world today such a cataclysm of Nancy Sinatra hookers. A rare calm befell them. As Shag stretched out again, lulled by the peaceful monsoon winds and the biblical throw-downs of slap-fighting car wash preachers, he confided in his companion. “If it could only be like this always. Always men. Manly men. The manliest-tempered ungay fruit ripeness of muscle manliness. Men.”  

TO BE CONTINUED

***

About the Authors

Admiral Willpower Butch cemented his reputation as the 21st century’s most important journalist when he became the first member of the press to condemn Antonio Banderas for seducing America. Today, his various masculine pursuits include stealing the rest of John Waters’ mustache, hacking down the Amazon with his fists, and not having cried since Rock Hudson was born. His friend and faithful correspondent, Paragon Shag, is driven to righteousness by the memory of Colin Firth’s heterosexuality. Their secretary, Dead Summer Days, is the kind of guy who practices karate in public restrooms.

[siircns]

okay, so i’ve been meaning to do this for a while because i’ve had a bunch of new muses that i want to put out there. so under the cut is some information about a variety of new and new-ish, some returning and some that just don’t have much, muses that i’ve got. give it a quick read, and then give this post a like if you’d wish to have a starter from them! (i’ll come to you about which muse).

tenley harding. 23. aspiring screenwriter, personal assistant. los angeles. barbara palvin.

so tenley is my precious little bean, she’s such a sweetheart. she loves soft things, she loves to write, her favorite place in the entire world griffith park because there’s this little spot she always goes to sit to write. she’s a stationery fanatic from hell, she spends way too much money on it (she gets it from me, sorry). but honestly she’s just an unintentionally reclusive sort of person--she’s not shy by any means, but she always ends up by herself, which she’s not entirely against. super friendly little bean. tenley is currently working as a personal assistant (where is dependent on verse or plot) while she’s trying to make it with her screenwriting. super friendly, but sometimes comes off as flakey because of her inevitable, unintentional habit to be reclusive. pansexual, biromantic.

dahlia taylor. 27. travel photographer and journalist. from melbourne, australia, but her present location is always changing. margot robbie. 

tbh she is the most relaxed, most laid back, most chill of the chill people you will ever meet. dahlia has basically been travelling ever since she finished high school, never really feeling like australia was the place she was supposed to be even though she’ll never call anywhere else home. she’s always had this sense of adventure--kind of made her the most problematic child in the entire world because she’d always go wandering off. dahlia picked up photography when she was about twelve or thirteen, and when she decided to leave home, it seemed like the best thing to do. she’s very used to roughing it on her travels, camping frequently unless she knows someone or meets someone willing to put her up wherever she is. heterosexual, heteroromantic.

isa laghari. 30. ceo. new york city. priyanka chopra.

honestly the most ruthless and heartless human being ever. she just cares about getting the job done, rarely has a personal life other than the occasional active efforts to get some sex in to blow off some steam. she honestly spends more time shopping and going to couture shows than she does having genuine human interaction tbh. also an avid workaholic, and don’t expect her to apologize for it. i mean she HAS a heart but good luck finding it y’all. heterosexual, heteroromantic.

valentia benitez. 18. college freshmen. washington d.c. madison beer.

okay so her dad was previously the head of the fbi and as well as an analyst for the cia, and now he serves as secretary of state. she was born in new york while her feather was at the fbi there, but has lived in washington since she was about seven or eight years old. val is very much a little preppy baby, and she’s a-ok with that. she lives of ralph lauren and tommy hilfiger, and spending summers up at the hamptons and out on yachts. but my little angel is studying sociology and political science because, while she’ll never admit it, there’s a lot about how her father conducts himself and his politics that she doesn’t agree with. she’s very used to being the perfect daughter, daddy’s little princess, that she’s still very very far from finding out who the hell she is all on her own. bisexual, heteroromantic. 

rylee agrona. 26. underground boxer, fitness trainer, bartender, single mother. new york city. elizabeth olsen.

so she’s my tough lil cookie, she literally will kick yo damn ass if you even look at her the wrong way so #havefun. literally takes no shit from no one; has no tolerance for men who don’t have their shit together or can’t handle her. her daughter is three years old, basically had her with some guy that basically didn’t have his shit together or was able to handle her, so... she’s not even sure where he is now. but rylee literally kicks ass on the weekends to make money to spoil her daughter and everything. she’s always been the tomboy??? type and honestly the thing she gets the most amusement from is guys hitting on her at the bar she’s working and basically like throwing them out herself #suchfun. bisexual, biromantic.

javier vargas. 35. physical therapist. chicago. oscar isaac.

my lil dad bean he’S MY ONLY??? DAD muse oh my ok so he’s got two kids (his eldest is his daughter who is about seven or eight, and his son is around four)--his marital status is verse dependent, so like yea those kids can be your female’s or whatever, just let me know what’s happening, but his kids are non-negotiable. his kids are his whole world. he works as a physical therapist so he’s like pretty well off for money. even before his kids, javi has always been the type that tries to take care of those close to him. he’s like the reliable friend. but do not??? take him for a pushover, this bitch gets pissy when shit not looking up tbh. he sounds cliche i’m sorry pls love him. heterosexual, heteroromantic.

rhett cohen. 33. pediatric surgeon. denver. taylor kinney. 

ok precious bean he’s so good with kids, he’s such a lil smarty pants, so he became a pediatric surgeon. he can be a bit??? of a hardass, he’s very good at remaining professional when he needs to be, but he’s also the cutest lil softy with the biggest heart. he actually comes from new york where he grew up among the bratty upper east side, and after his little sister died, it kind of drove him to do what he can to save??? lives. he moved away from his gross ass robotic parents to denver, and he always spends christmas over in other parts of the world doing charity work because he’s?? i don’t wanna call him the do-good type but he’s very much in line with the idea that he should use his many privileges to do more than just spend too much money on houses and clothes and penthouses and stupid decor. heterosexual, heteroromantic.

paxton miller. 21. MIT student, part time software designer. boston. jack gilinsky.

y’all he’s my lil itty bitty nerd. he’s literally glued to his computer all day long. he’s been into computer since he was about nine, could build one on his own easily, and is intending to work in engineering on a much more....space-related level. he’s my precious babe that knows way too much about all things science, HATES geology (don’t ask) and ya. he’s not overly experienced in the world of romance, but my lil babe loves hanging out with his friends so pls don’t mistake him from one of the incompetent geeks of the big bang theory thnks. bisexual, biromantic.

[thingsdoingstuff]

Kenosha and “Projects”

     I will admit something up front. I am pretty naive and optimistic when it comes to my hopes for humanity. So, when I found out about the shooting of one African American in front of his car happening directly in front of his family, I was distraught. On top of this, a 17-year-old went out and declared vigilante justice on protesters and was seemingly taken in by the police as a friend (story and CNN has a much better take on this one. story) I can’t really think of a much better example of a double-standard. A literal murderer and an alleged sexual abuser getting treated entirely out of proportion to their supposed crimes, they are of two different races and being found by the same police force. 

     Now, to cover my ass, a disclaimer.

     This is for me to share my opinions and start a gentlemen’s discussion. Whether you happen to be a gentleman, a lady, transgender, gay, bisexual, lesbian, African America, Native American, Asian, African, Persian, “The One Percent,” a cop, identify as a dog, named “Gordon,” or have sixteen toes makes no lick of difference to me unless it is valid to the conversation at hand (so do feel free to pitch in so long as it doesn’t get personal ‘lest I shall ignore thee). Your opinion is still valid and should always be valid in just about any community as most of the things we do was humans create a little discrepancy called “morality” in which we are entitled to believe anything is wrong so long as we can agree to disagree and by the end of the day we haven’t wrung each other’s necks. All that having been said barring mentioning the fact that I respected your opinion until you wrote it using the stiff end of your raging hate boner and still will so long as you put it back in your pants.     Furthermore, as these are my opinions, I am automatically wrong and will be regarded as such by about three thousand people by the time I have finished typing any given sentence. Feel free to gloat as much as you like so long as you don’t step on anyone’s toes and that includes the white ones, since last I checked all races and creeds were granted immunity and there wasn’t an asterisk at the end.

     Killing people of a specific race more than anyone of another race constantly has made our nation’s police force look undeniably racist, but there have been times that I’ve wondered whether or not it was truly hate that brought it on or just the fact that veteran cops jump to solutions of violence faster, because they’ve lost discipline over the years. However nothing defines racism like a good-old-fashioned double-standard. And while ‎all the evidence to our nation still having many pure racists in it is very apparent, I choose to give the benefit of the doubt whenever possible. Now, George Floyd’s death was obviously racially charged as well as many other police shootings on African Americans, but if you ever needed proof of inherent racism, just look at Kenosha and tell me there’s nothing personal about that load of honky.

     I’d be remiss if I didn’t propose a solution, because one of my many problems with mainstream media is that all public journalists complain and bitch and moan about how bad things are and never come up with any solutions or make any attempts to fix anything. But the root of the problem is deep-seeded racism that has been present since day one and attacking the actual root just happens to coincide with another issue that flat-out racists have brought to the forefront of media recently: Low-Income Housing.

     Now, hear me out, because this may sound bat-shit insane, but after the civil war and reformations, African Americans were still second-class citizens with very little money and very little housing opportunities. Fortunately, banks aren’t so biased nowadays as anyone with the potential to pay off their loan can buy a house and for the sake of interest, the banks make money. But there’s still so few opportunities left.      So the government decided to pitch in and build some houses themselves in their own neighborhoods, meaning the government can earn it’s money back by cutting the funding to those areas and it always adds up as such. Year one: no problems, there’s protection in numbers and everyone is content living in their own houses at an affordable price. Years later: the drugs start rolling in and the “projects” become dangerous and violent, because there’s still no opportunities and little funding. Hence, inner city schools have a reputation for being crowded, run-down and ineffective. Hence the infrastructure always looks decades old and corrupt with cracks and scars. Hence the people living there are always down on their luck and looking for a way out of the slums; then the people looking for said opportunities have to make some risky moves to get out. That’s when the violence starts and the police start doing some horrible shit, because they automatically assume “bad guy, black guy,” because of the area’s known track record for gangs and cartels and other nefarious stuff.

     I thoroughly believe that people of all races have equal potential to do great things and become industry leaders or successful celebrities, but the ability to actually act on that potential may be diminished by third party sources. Unfortunately, those third party sources are basically all controlled by the government, so the factor that has been limiting potential for centuries and still is would be the government and for once, I actually believe they can fix it.

     If you’ve ever gone on a drive around your town or city, you’ve probably taken a note of some of the houses and buildings that you see. Citing that a specific building has perhaps been unoccupied for a very long time or that a specific house has been for sale for decades. I for one have witnessed the same, massive red-brick house have the save bank-owned lock on it for seven years and it’s right in prime real-estate territory. So, to eliminate the slums throughout America and redefine a stereotype that’s kind of become a self-fulfilling prophecy, what if the government bought preexisting houses from banks throughout the United States, remodeled them and sold them at the price of the remodel? Now, maybe I made this up myself or maybe I’m just stealing this idea from someone else without realizing it, but at least then, the government can’t sanction off specific districts and plummet an entire population into poverty over and over again when they are inter-mixed with every other population.

     “But what if people don’t accept them and there are casualties?” you may ask. obviously, this plan isn’t without its faults, but the citizens of the area aren’t nearly as immune to being prosecuted as the police in inner-city areas, and having large houses with plenty of black family members or friends/roommates grants extra protection from angry neighbors and police. Plus, we don’t need to put them in states/communities with dip-shit racists that don’t understand the “melting pot” analogy. And with the “melting pot” analogy on our minds, I’m sure everyone would be happy if the “melting pot” had a smoother more consistent flavor across the whole thing, instead of one corner being extra spicy while the rest just tastes like cheese wiz on grits with a side of mayonnaise.

     Once again, I may be a total idiot, and feel free to tell me I am. I feel like a conspiracy theorist writing this essay, but actually fixing the negative stigma wafting around the country and giving equal opportunities to the marginalized all with one simple change to shit we’re already doing seems like a perfectly predictable outcome here, since extending opportunities to every minority means no need for drastic measures for both police and marginalized citizens.       So, tell me if I’ve been spending too much time in my own head. Tell me why your opinion is correct. Tell me what you think of our political situation and how it can be resolved, but don’t tell me that it’s hopeless. If you truly believed that, you wouldn’t still be here. As a wise man whose name I don’t remember once said: “If you love something, you critique it, but if you truly hate it, you leave it behind.” For most people, if you truly hate what you’re eating, you throw it away, if you like the taste, but not the texture, you bitch about the texture and you keep eating. American pie can be pretty gritty every once in a while, but we keep eating, because we know it gets better, because this freedom tastes better here than it does elsewhere and because we’re holding out hope that it will get better with change, respect and reform.

     Yours truly,

Jiminy Fucking Christmas.

[artificialqueens]

game of survival, chapter seven (branjie) - holtzmanns

AN: Just a heads up, this chapter has mentions of past domestic abuse and gun use. Thank you writ for being the best person to bounce ideas off of and a great cheerleader and beta <33

The congressman checks the burner phone every couple of minutes, trying to will the confirmation from the hitwoman to come through faster. He tosses it down onto his desk in disappointment and frustration each time, despite the fact that he had only given her the job earlier in the day.

He just needs Vanessa Mateo gone. Sooner, rather than later. She’s a fucking thorn in his side that just won’t shut up. If she has the chance to continue with her attacks on him and rile things up, he’s not going to be re-elected. And if he’s not re-elected to congress, he’ll bomb during the Republican primary. Which means he won’t reach the Oval Office, the place he deserves to be-

He’s getting ahead of himself.

Mateo needs to be taken out of the equation first.

He wonders how long it’ll take the hitwoman. He’s heard a lot about her – Hytes – from colleagues, how she’s good at getting rid of messes and anyone who dares to cause a little bit of trouble. She fucking cost a shit ton of money, but he needs the best to get it done. It can’t be traced back to him, not if he wants a smooth road to the White House. It’s good that his morals have become questionable, the higher that he’s climbed the political ladder.

He hopes that Mateo suffers a little bit, at least, when she dies. Women like her shouldn’t be able to get away with being as crass as she is. Not when it affects his congress re-election campaign. Especially when she’s not even in Congress yet. Just a woman who is getting way too ahead of herself – a small fish in a big pond.

He, on the other hand, runs the pond. It needs to stay that way.

There’s a series of bangs on his office door, making him clutch the phone tighter. Hytes couldn’t have killed her already. Could she have?

The congressman exchanges a look with his bodyguard, whose expression of confusion on his features matches his. The guard creeps near the door, opening it slowly with a gun ready to fire if needed.

It’s not Hytes. The men who walk in are a bit too grimy for his taste, leather jackets that smell of cigarettes with bruises and scars that mar their faces. The congressman holds back judgment. God knows he’s dealt with shadier types during his time in politics. Following all the rules doesn’t exactly get you far.

The man at the front of the group regards the congressman with a tilt of his head. Staring him down. The congressman raises an eyebrow, waits. He’s not the type to play into theatrics, especially from those who enter his office unannounced.

When the man opens his mouth to speak, the voice that comes out is raspy, evident of lungs tainted by years of nicotine. “A little birdy told me you hired a blonde supermodel to kill for you.”

How did this man already know? The congressman only hired Hytes today-  

The man snorts at his expression, one that he knows is doing nothing to hide his surprise. “Word travels fast.”

“What exactly do you want?” He’s not going to put up with some lowlife traipsing into his office and wasting his time. Not when he has more important shit to do.

“Got a proposition for you, congressman.” The man’s hands come to rest on his desk as he leans forward. A bit too forward, into the congressman’s personal bubble. Why hasn’t his bodyguard pulled this man back yet?

Nonetheless, he wants to know. “Go on.”

“You want to get rid of a woman. So do I. What say you we team up?”

He scoffs at the man’s smirk. Who did he think he was? “Number one – too vague. Number two – what’s in it for me?”

The man leans forward, tapping his fingers on the desk. The congressman’s nose wrinkles. “Let me finish talking, first of all. You want Vanessa Mateo out of the picture. I want Brooke Lynn Hytes gone.”

Wait – “The assassin?”

“No, the famous journalist. Yes, the assassin. Who else?”

The congressman’s brow furrows. “She needs to get rid of Mateo for me.”

The man looks at him as if he’s five years old. The congressman wants to smack the condescending look off of his face. “Let me spell it out for you. We can kill her for half of the price that you’re paying Hytes. We’re gonna let Hytes take the blame for it, get caught. You get what you want for cheaper, we get what we want at the same time.”

“What do you have against Hytes?” The congressman can’t help his question. He’s curious.

“She gets her nose into places where she shouldn’t. Taken some of the hits that would normally come to us. Killed a few of ours under the guise of a job. A fucking annoying bitch that won’t go away.”

The congressman raises an eyebrow. “There’s politics in hitman circles too, huh?”

“We stay out of each other’s way. Except for her. She needs to go.”

So. The man and his crew are invested too. The congressman doesn’t really care to know much more about them, but having leverage? Knowing what they want out of the situation? Priceless.

“Half price, huh?”  

The man snorts. “Knew those would be the only words you’d care about. You’re all the fucking same.”

The congressman shrugs. “Would prefer not paying a shit ton of money to Hytes, that’s for sure. How do I know you won’t be able to link your killing back to me?”  

He has that assurance from Hytes, from her history. From testimonials from others about her…excellent performance on the job.  He doesn’t know shit about these people.

“What, you want a reference or some shit?”

The congressman ignores the tittering from the man and the people behind him, leans forward. “No. Just collateral.”

“Go on.”

“You get the money after you kill her. And after Hytes takes the blame for it. To ensure that it doesn’t come back to me.”

The man grins at him. Sticks out a hand to shake. “You have a deal.”

“There’s a couple of leads around the men – who they are, who hired them. None so far as to who killed them.” Yvie’s voice on the burner phone is scratchy, far away, the service at the cabin less than stellar.

Brooke lets out a sigh of relief. “No suspects?”

“Not as of yet. You’re good, girl.”

“Thank fuck.” Not that Brooke cares much about herself being pursued by police; she’d be able to outsmart them. She knows how they work. 

Brooke is more worried about the woman sitting across from her on the couch. The one who is feigning reading an old issue of Reader’s Digest from 1996 that she’s taken from the coffee table, but is most definitely listening in on her conversation. The one whose lips had brushed against hers moments before the phone had rang, a promise of activities to be resumed at a later time. 

Brooke doesn’t want Vanessa to be trapped in this mess. Sue her. 

“What’s their plan going forward?”

“Edwards is the main lead on the case, so my knowledge is just what I’ve overheard in the bullpen and around the tasks she’s relegated to me to do. I know they were trying to trace the bullets you shot with. No leads around that.” 

Brooke’s lip curls up. There never are any. Not when she scrapes manufacturer information off of the bullet casings herself before using them.

Yvie continues, the sound of her flipping through paper notes audible on the other end of the phone. “They have that congressman as a person of interest, but no luck linking him in a concrete manner to the case yet. Or to Vanessa Mateo’s office explosion. Any developments on your end?”

“None.” Brooke grits her teeth, running her fingers through her hair. “The only concrete evidence I have is that he fucking hired me. Not that that can be useful to anyone on the case in a way that doesn’t implicate me.”

“You’re really in it now, huh?” Yvie’s laugh on the other end is wry, though infectious.

“Am I ever not?”

“True. You’re a fucking mess, but I love you anyway.”

Brooke fights off a smile. “You better, after so many years of friendship. And so much grunt work as uniform cops.

“And me saving your ass time and time again.”

“That, you absolutely have.” Brooke can’t deny it. 

She’s lucky that she has Yvie. That she still has Yvie, after so many changes in her life. Someone who has stayed a ride or die friend for her, despite everything that she’s done. Someone who has tipped her off whenever police have been closing in on her. Someone who’s let her stay one step ahead of the authorities.

Sometimes she thinks she doesn’t deserve it, not really. A semi support system. Though she’d never want to give it up.

It’s not like she doesn’t help Yvie, giving her leads that she’s picked up from the circles that she runs in. She’s helped pull cases together from afar more than once.

She wonders, sometimes, what it would be like if she was still a detective. She hasn’t lost the aptitude for it, using the skills now still while researching targets. Police training doesn’t get scrubbed from the memory that quickly, not when it’s etched into the brain with what feels like a dull knife.

“So.” Yvie’s voice is all business again. “Vanessa Mateo still with you?”

Brooke looks over to the topic of their conversation, who has switched over to a National Geographic from the 1970s. One that Vanessa is absolutely holding upside down as she tries to listen in. Subtle.

“Yeah.” Still alive. Hopefully will remain alive, if Brooke has anything to do about it.

“God, you’re really something else. Always knew it would take just the right pretty girl to get you to fall over yourself.”

“Oh, shut up, Yvie.”

Yvie’s resulting cackle on the other end of the line makes her own face break out into a smile, even though she has to hold the phone away from her ear due to the volume. It’s not like she can even deny how Vanessa has completely fucked up her usual goals, usual demeanor and ability to get things done. How Vanessa has completely shifted Brooke’s priorities by just daring to exist in proximity to her.   

“Talked to her team a few days ago.“ 

“Yeah?” Brooke perks up. She wonders if it would be helpful to bring them onto the same page, have them work together.

“Her publicist still maintains that she has bronchitis, and I quote, has ‘absolutely no voice’ and is ‘incredibly contagious’ and that we’d‘really need a warrant to reach her, she’s really out of it, you wouldn’t want this bug anywhere near you, goodbye, Detective.’”

Brooke holds back a laugh. “A solid excuse.”

“Hey, as far as the captain knows, the bitch has bronchitis. I’m not gonna be the one to tell him that she’s sitting in a cabin in the middle of nowhere.”

“Thanks, Yvie.”

Brooke can picture Yvie shrugging on the other end of the phone. “Hey, do what you gotta do. We’ll sort this shit out, okay? Find out if that congressman can be linked to the explosion and those men after you. I’ll keep you updated on what we find here as long as you do the same.”

“You know I will.” It’s true. She’ll always have Yvie’s back.

Brooke hangs up, tosses the burner phone onto the couch beside her. Vanessa’s magazine drops from in front of her face almost comically as she turns to Brooke.

“You weren’t fooling anyone with those pretend reading skills.”

Vanessa sticks out her tongue at her. A professional, buttoned up politician. Absolutely. “I’ll have you know I learned a shit ton about commercial whaling in the 70s from this magazine.”

“Oh, have you now?” Brooke can’t help but grin in her direction, at the way that Vanessa is holding up the magazine like it’s a trophy.

“Forget this, now that you’re off the phone. You were talkin’ to someone named after an Eevee Pokémon or something?”

Brooke snorts. “Not Eevee. Yvie. Full name Yvangeline. Though once a coworker called her that and she broke his nose. Didn’t get in trouble for it, miraculously.”

Brooke can read Vanessa like an open book, and sees the hundreds of questions that flit across her face that she wants to ask but doesn’t know how.

She’s used to guarding both her past and present like they’re precious metals, ones that could be tarnished by exposure to any other person. Vanessa’s face, open and inquisitive and holding back while waiting for her to speak makes her want to take pity, give Vanessa a little bit to work with than she has in the past day.

How much would Vanessa be able to tarnish her heart, anyway?

“She’s a detective from my old district, still works there. Still Robbery-Homicide. We went through the academy together, got each other through the early years. We’ve stayed friends. She still helps me out from time to time now. ” Brooke thinks back to them partnered as uniformed cops, being the only two women in their department when they started at their precinct. How they worked their asses off to stand out amongst the men

Brooke almost misses that time of her life, with the stiff uniforms and the late night shifts. A time where guns were still an unfamiliar weight in her hands, where her practice with them was limited to shooting ranges and paper targets. When she was still green and optimistic and wanted to do good things, to make a difference.

“So you were a cop.” Vanessa’s shifted slightly close to her, cheek resting on her hand as she listens, but doesn’t push.

“Yeah. I was.” Not anymore. She’s not that person, hasn’t been for a long time.

“You and Yvie were close?”

“Still are. She had my back after things happened, even though I didn’t deserve it.”

Brooke doesn’t miss the burning curiosity on Vanessa’s face, as if she’s trying to figure out how to draw the information out of her without shutting her down. 

“What happened?”

The debate of whether she should tell Vanessa pulls back and forth in a tug of war in her head, a battle where she’s not sure which side is the one that she wants to win. It’s easier just to keep that sequence of events far, far away from ever reaching the surface. Stored deep enough in the recesses of her brain, where she can’t ruminate over them and get sucked into the black hole of ‘what ifs’ again.

But there’s Vanessa’s hand, resting over hers. Squeezing her fingers. Pulling her from the memories to the present, to the couch that they’re sitting on and the noise of crickets chirping outside the cabin window.

Vanessa’s thumb traces back and forth over the outside of Brooke’s hand, as she’s uncharacteristically quiet, and waits.

“It was six years ago. Homicide case, a 38 year old woman. Death by blunt force trauma. Left behind a 12 year old daughter.” She can feel the natural lapse back into her reporting mode from when she was a detective.

“Main suspect was always the husband, after previous run ins with the police over domestic abuse. Though his alibi was verified by his buddies. Not airtight by any means, but enough that we needed a warrant to needle him further.” She picks at a loose thread on the couch as she remembers his smug fucking face. “I knew it was him.”

Vanessa’s grip on her hand tightens as she takes a breath and continues, ignoring the thorns in her lungs that tear every time she pulls in oxygen to keep herself talking.

“The daughter had the signs, too. Classic bruises, flinching under any sort of gaze, but…the system is broken. CPS didn’t fucking do anything during the entire investigation, despite the many calls. I managed to finagle having the kid move in with her aunt during the investigation, at least. Kept her away from him for a little while. Left her my number if she needed anything.”

Brooke remembers the girl and the way that she would fold in on herself, how her rare smiles never seemed to meet her eyes. How she brought the girl a muffin one morning when she came in for the second round of questioning. How she wanted to keep her from ever getting hurt again, not that she had that power.

“She called me, absolutely hysterical on her aunt’s phone one night when I was working late. The banging on the door was fucking loud enough to come through on the other end of the line. His swearing, too.” Brooke bites her lip. “Took the cop car, siren blaring and all to get there and step in between him and the girl before he fucking killed her.”

The gun he waved around with the smell of alcohol on his breath. The way he had the girl and her aunt backed up against the kitchen counter. The way she dove in between them, not thinking straight and police procedure be damned.

“I shot him.”

Vanessa’s soft gasp pulls her out of the memory, one that threatens to cover her in a black ink stain that she’ll never be able to wash off.

The way the blood spread on the kitchen floor tiles. The way the aunt squeezed her shoulder, whispered a fucking thank you as her shaky hands lowered the precinct-issued gun onto the counter.

“I got to claim self defense. Had enough bruises forming on my arms to do so, hence the honourable discharge. Didn’t cover the fact that what I did was completely out of line as a public service officer.” Her voice is flat, matching the grey static that takes over her brain, makes her feel numb the way it had been in the aftermath. How the disciplinary hearings, the meetings, the eventual return of her gun and badge felt like it they were happening to someone else, making her feel like she was watching the events play out from afar.

Vanessa whistles, low and under her breath. “Holy shit. There wasn’t an appeal process, or anything?”

“The damage was done.” She shrugs, not looking at Vanessa, her eyes instead watching the specks of dust floating under the light of the lamp. “Higher ups don’t care about nuances. They care about who makes them look bad – and how to get rid of them.”

“I’m sorry.” Vanessa’s hand squeezes hers. Brooke finally looks at her and feels relief that her fucking eyes aren’t full of pity. She isn’t looking at Brooke as if she feels bad for her. Brooke doesn’t need that.

“How did you…” She watches Vanessa pause, brow furrowed as she tries to figure out how to word her next statement.

Brooke finishes it for her. “Start killing people for a living?”

Vanessa raises her hands up in mock surrender. “You said it, not me.”

Brooke thinks back to a few weeks after her discharge, when she was a bottle deep into shitty whiskey and sprawled on her kitchen floor. How the incessant ringing of her cellphone had dazed her, fingers struggling to answer the call from her old mentor from the academy. How she had met him for drinks in a dingy bar in her hungover state the next evening, head pounding as he told her there were still ways to make money if she wanted to, because she had the talent for it. They way she had clung onto his reassurance, the thread of possibilities that he had dangled in front of her, being so worn out, tired, needing something, anything to keep her going. How she hadn’t noticed how much he had changed since being a clean-cut instructor at the academy.

She remembers her first kill. Her first purposeful kill, that of a nightclub owner who had a penchant for abusing his employees and undercutting their pay. One that her old mentor had taken her out to celebrate for afterwards. How it seemed okay, sustainable, that she was doing somethinggood , maybe, by getting rid of terrible people. Before things got bad and her old mentor had gotten in too far over his head and dragged her in, only to die-

-she can’t.

“A story for another time.” Not today. Not when the memories are making her hands clench in fists and sweat form on her brow, her heart pumping the blood through her arteries and veins fast enough that she feels like she’s burning up.

Vanessa’s hands are on hers again, fingers gently opening up her fists and tracing soothing motions onto her palms. “Another time. Sorry. Didn’t mean to push.”

“It’s fine.” It’s not. She feels exposed, torn open, not quite sure how Vanessa has gotten her to fucking open up about shit that can’t surface. Not if she wants to keep her head on straight and in one piece.

“You’re…a good person, Brooke. You don’t fuckin’ look like you believe it with that facial expression you’re throwing at me, but you are.” Vanessa ignores her scoffs, continuing on. “I’m in politics, I’ve seen despicable people. You’re not one of them.”

The laugh that comes out of Brooke is bitter, stilted. “I kill people for money. Forget that fact?”

Vanessa shrugs, unperturbed. “So far, you seem to still be at a perfect score for only killing the shitty ones.” She nudges Brooke’s shoulder. “You haven’t killed me yet either, you fuckin’ softie.”

Softie? She’s a hitwoman, for Christ’s sake. She’s not soft.

Vanessa giggles at her offended expression. “I said what I said.”

“I’m not soft!”

“That growing smile on your face says otherwise.”

With that, Vanessa places a kiss on her cheek, moving closer and leaning into her side, the way she’s done so since they slept together for the first time the previous day (then a second time, then a third, then a fourth). Vanessa is tentative at first, as if she doesn’t want to spook her.  It isn’t long, though, until Brooke feels her own tense body begin to relax underneath Vanessa’s weight. 

She lifts up an arm as her breathing begins to regulate and lets Vanessa snuggle into her, before she wraps her arms around her, tugs her in close. She can feel the poisoned memories that have been seeping through her veins begin to pull away underneath Vanessa’s warmth, retreating back into her brain into the boxes that she keeps them in most of the time. She’s in control of them. For now.