𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝

“It’s how I see it. No one seems to care about us much most of the time. Girls are out there busting their asses day in and day out and…” Luna heard her tone, she saw the look on his face and, loath as she was to admit it, she’d promised to try harder. Ugh, swallowing her pride was always the most bitter tasting shit in the world, “Sorry, I shouldn’t be rude to you it’s not your fault.”

But wasn’t it? Couldn’t she easily blame this man who probably didn’t want this in his news any more than anyone else. She knew this place was more ‘classy’ than the tabloids but their team wasn’t exactly trash to be peddled. She was proud of how far the Arsenal WFC had come and… she guessed for the men, too. She had pride in her team because they were just that: HER team.

Luna crossed, still feeling a bit awkward trying to look professional (and also be sober, if we’re honest), to find the seat she was offered. A moment was spent sat as casually as she could, before she shifted and crossed one leg over the other, posture a little straighter; she was representing not just herself, after all.

“That should be fine. You’re not going to go too personal on this, I assume? I’ve had some dark times in my past and I’d rather not parade them around. I can talk about my history in the sport in the uh… vague, but I really want to focus on what we’ve been doing recently in the now.” Luna was trying to handle PR, this couldn’t turn out well, could it?

.

“If you refuse to appear in the news,” puff piece or not, “I don’t see how that’s going to change,” he paused, and though he smiled, it lacked the warmth he reserved to those dear to him. Quite frankly, it wasn’t much of a smile, but rather something akin to a grimace. Of all people who worked their ass off, footballers weren’t the ones who deserved the most the attention, if you asked him. Farmers were working harder, as were factory workers, and for a salary way below these women, and way, way below these men. “If we want to give the platform to those who deserve it the most, then let me completely remove politicians and entertainers from our screens,” he retorted, leaning into his seat.

“One step at a time,” he agreed. “You’re paving the way for the future,” she was. The more women’s sports were put in display, the more people would consider them, and the more they’d get coverage. It was inevitable. A long wait, but inevitable.

And then he opened his mouth and she blinked slowly, listening to his words and managing the world's most pathetic placating smile as she ate shit and chose not to lash out at him; he could think what he wanted and, just for today, she'd allow that to happen without recourse. Well, unless he really tried to push her buttons.

"I am a fighter and I'll fight for these women until my last breath. They go out there every time and give it their all, just as much as the men, and yet they get half the attendance of a men's game if we're lucky." Luna said, surprisingly eloquent and poised (if still a bit 'snarky' in its overall tone because she really hated that divide) and all the while maintaining eye contact, "You can bring up my past, you can talk about where I came from and what I went through, I just don't want to get blindsided in there."

He was right about her being a fighter, perhaps more than he knew. The underground fight clubs had not yet become a public record thing and, hopefully anyways, never would. She was a mess wrapped in a trainwreck locked in trauma but she was good at compartmentalizing and hiding that for the most part. Drinking helped.

It had to be her. The mobile phone was glued to his hand, left an impression from how long it had been held, a callus forming in the pad of his palm from how many times it twisted around in wait. It twisted once more, screen up, lit up and dashing across Dante's face. Nothing. No. He heard that. He knew better. His thumb swiped at it, wild animal that's been taught one trick for the zoo, pouncing through the screens, closing them out, reopening, refreshing, reviewing, flicking off a speck of ash from the cigarette that dangled above by the edge of his lips with revolt.

Good morning

And no reply? It was noon.

Dante's cigarette was snatched away from his mouth, twirled between fingers, the smoke weaving through him. Once upon a time he hated the smell. Hated everything about it. Hated how it made his lungs feel like they were on fire. The cough that always lingered. But she liked it. The burning tip smashed into his thumb, baptizing the thin layer of skin that had covered over the old too familiar with the ritual.

SMASH

Good morning flickered, cracks formed from the impact against a brick wall, now lying helpless in the alleyway. Dante's breath was taken, siphoned out of him, a grey mist expelling his boiling point. For a moment, his mind cleared. He needed that, even if it was witnessed by another… a type of company that was unplanned for.

"I'm sorry about that…" he began, kneeling down to pick up the pieces. "I really have the worst luck..." Second burner this month.

Ding

Eyes glanced up, hovering up at the person for a moment before offering a breath of a laugh. "You wouldn't mind if I could borrow yours for a moment?"

It was even less pleasant when someone loses their shit on their own phone like a lunatic and you catch it with your drunk-ass eyes and are trying to process just how shitfaced you got. Dante's actions were... spirited, to say the least. That wasn't any kind of accident, that was on purpose and she'd know because she'd destroyed more than her fair share of phones (hers and otherwise) in her lifetime.

"Yeah, gonna pass on that one, mate. You seem to have some rage issues going on and I'm not relishing the idea of replacing my phone because you got a bad response or whatever the fuck is going on. But uh.. are you like straight? You're going to be okay and not go off on a killing spree because I don't have the mental fortitude to perfectly remember your face when they pull me in for questioning and that would be a drag."

Luna was so cavalier about everything. You'd think she were immortal with the way she just spoke to people, but underneath it all the honest truth was that she didn't care enough about herself on a personal level to worry after her own safety. No matter how confident and sure of herself she was, part of that assuredness was in her own failures and the way she doesn't deserve good things.

Did she want to be there? Fuck no. Was she showing up because it was important to her girls? Ugh, fuck yes. The problem with coaching a winning team was you ended up getting news coverage. She knew that not everyone was as invested in the WFC as they were the men’s but she knew full well that on a slow news week they’d latch onto anything positive in these kinds of times. So there she sat, surly and annoyed but… at least she was there.

She’d put on something akin to nice clothing, actually looking quite dapper even if she couldn’t afford actual couture and some of the things she wore were blatant knock-offs, it said something that she could afford the knock-offs in her position. She felt silly having bothered to dress for this, but it seemed important and now she loathed herself for the act of caring so much. The war was already brewing in her veins and in her head.

She’d been waiting what felt like ages, about to blow a gasket — literally a hairsbreadth from standing up and stomping out like a petulant child — when the man himself emerged and she lofted a brow. The anger was replaced by confusion. Don’t these people usually have others to fetch for them? Whatever, at least he was here.

“Yeah, I’m the coach of the Arsenal Women’s FC. There was something about needing some interview shots of me for a puff piece.” They probably hadn’t said puff piece, but Luna wasn’t one to mince her words; she knew why she was there and she knew it mattered zero to most people.

If it seemed like she didn’t want to be there, it’s because she didn’t and she had limits to what she’d pretend for the sake of her girls.

“A puff piece. Is that how they put it?” Did this look like the Sun’s editorial floor? If they had an editorial line at all. He didn’t consider trash to be journalism, but apparently, the people disagreed and those kitchen rags sold very easily. If that didn’t tell him all he needed to know about the common folk… “I would rather say they want to put the spotlight on your team,” he didn’t spare her a smile, already jaded by her attitude. This was going to be lots of fun, wasn’t it? “Arsenal’s having a good year, and this time, it’s not just the ladies making it to the Top 4.” He wasn’t sure why he didn’t have Majano instead, but perhaps the Spanish coach wanted nothing to do with them. The press had been harsh with him after all, with his 8th and 5th place in the Premiere League those past two years. Anyhow, the guy wasn’t there, she was and was displaying the sort of attitude he’d expect from her male counterpart.

Though he obviously didn’t do puff pieces, he didn’t feel the need to say it. He didn’t need to convince her of his professionalism, he just had to show it.

But wasn't it? Couldn't she easily blame this man who probably didn't want this in his news any more than anyone else. She knew this place was more 'classy' than the tabloids but their team wasn't exactly trash to be peddled. She was proud of how far the Arsenal WFC had come and... she guessed for the men, too. She had pride in her team because they were just that: HER team.

Luna crossed, still feeling a bit awkward trying to look professional (and also be sober, if we're honest), to find the seat she was offered. A moment was spent sat as casually as she could, before she shifted and crossed one leg over the other, posture a little straighter; she was representing not just herself, after all.

He was in a pub, sipping on a brewski, scrolling through his phone becoming a victim to the void.  This was how Boone Hannigan unwound after a day of hard work.

After a job was completed, the man often found himself too full of adrenaline just to go home. He needed something to take the edge off, a beer usually did the trick. If one didn’t then he tried a second. Then a third. Fourth. Fifth. So on and so forth. Sometimes, when he found himself in an establishment like this one, he’d be chatty. Despite the neck tattoo, Boone could be a friendly guy and strike up a conversation with anyone who’d bite. Sometimes, it was an old barfly, they’d shoot the shit and Boone would wonder if he was getting a glimpse into his future. Other times, it would be a pretty, little thing and Boone would wonder something similar. 

However, tonight was not one of those nights.

Boone was not looking to make friends of any kind. All he wanted was to sit at the bar, drink his beers, like a couple thirst traps on Instagram, chain smoke half a pack and then go the fuck home.

Just as easy as Boone could make a friend, he could make an enemy. When the empty seat beside him was claimed with eager hands, when the stool squeaked as it was being dragged away, Boone’s head shifted towards them. He barely looked at the fellow patron, in fact, he didn’t at all. His eyes were still glued to his phone, his fingers double tapping the screen, and a heart appeared  in between a pair of tits. 

Even so, Boone couldn’t help but be an asshole. 

“Yo,” he began, “You’re not gonna ask if its taken?”

She didn't care where she ended up as long as there was alcohol. The preference was for it to be cheap but when it came to booze she really didn't care, the cheap stuff got her just as drunk as the expensive stuff but if all they had was pricey? She'd pay it to obliterate the thoughts for a while.

What she hadn't expected was the crowd at the bar and the idea of continually trying to break through people's friendliness just to get a drink sounded about as appealing as chewing glass. So when she saw an open stool, even though it was next to another patron, at the bar she decided to grab at it and tug.

Her instinct hadn't been to start a fight, but the second he said that she jerked the stool sidelong away from him a bit, "Don't fucking flatter yourself, I'm not here for you or anyone else, I'm here to drink."

In some random room in the houses of parliament. How your character ended up here with August is up to you! I do feel a bit sorry for them tho <3

tw: bomb threat and august being august

“Not much of a safe room, is it?” August scoffed, as he watched the Thames flow just outside the window he was leant against. “Pop a sniper somewhere,” he gestured vaguely to the other side of the riverbank, “Over there, and BAM, they’d JFK me before the door was even closed and locked.” Seriously, he’d expected a bit more protection, considering he was the Prime Minister, and someone had called in a bomb threat on the houses of parliament. Cooped up here with a bunch of civilians was practically demeaning for someone of his stature. What the fuck was he supposed to do? Talk about inflation for the next few hours? 

The room was a stark, featureless space with one window and a single, flimsy door. A table and a few chairs had been haphazardly arranged in the center, and a small TV was mounted on the wall. The room was cramped with only three people in it. Himself, his one security detail who had accompanied him to the loo and then this poor civilian who probably hadn’t expected to end up locked up with the PM and the man dedicated to holding his cock while he pissed. 

No, actually, he was right. They weren't safe. They were pretty far from safe and she'd gotten swept up in the flow of his team trying to get him to safety and ended up at the very core of why a bomb threat MIGHT exist. Great, just fucking great.

"Could be worse, you could be sitting on the bomb." came a reply before Luna could stop herself. Snark was her flavor and it came in so many degrees. She really shouldn't be like that to someone who could ruin her life with the snap of his fingers and seemed rude to boot — something about him was seriously off and she could tell — but something about that legitimately made her want to be more saucy.

We talked about this, came her brain, this is how you keep getting into fucked up situations!

"Yeah, if we're doing favors and he's getting his phone back I'd love mine too, at least I can do the tinder death crawl while I sit here and wait..." That was less snarky towards him and more snarky in the general vicinity of him about something he was already snarky about. That counts as behaving, right?

No.

It really didn't seem like any of the other people in the area wanted to say much at all, however... and she hated that kind of pointed silence that was only broken by the arrogant... well, one arrogant; she added her own in to mix it up.

“Who was on schedule next?” Harold called out through the open door, only to find silence. Lovely. Had he sent Lydia onto some chore again? She was efficient, but he also had heard how close she was to his predecessor, and let’s be quite honest, he wasn’t really a fan of that man. The only reason he got the evening news spot so late was this guy after all.

She'd put on something akin to nice clothing, actually looking quite dapper even if she couldn't afford actual couture and some of the things she wore were blatant knock-offs, it said something that she could afford the knock-offs in her position. She felt silly having bothered to dress for this, but it seemed important and now she loathed herself for the act of caring so much. The war was already brewing in her veins and in her head.

She'd been waiting what felt like ages, about to blow a gasket — literally a hairsbreadth from standing up and stomping out like a petulant child — when the man himself emerged and she lofted a brow. The anger was replaced by confusion. Don't these people usually have others to fetch for them? Whatever, at least he was here.

"Yeah, I'm the coach of the Arsenal Women's FC. There was something about needing some interview shots of me for a puff piece." They probably hadn't said puff piece, but Luna wasn't one to mince her words; she knew why she was there and she knew it mattered zero to most people.

~ Fight Like a Girl