a mythic bitch

alba cruz | representative for california 51 | democrat 

[filmtribv]

#same

Margot Hanson, The Magicians (05x05)

[albacruz-ing]

A breathless, humorless laugh is the only thing he can contribute with. “I was complimenting your dress.” Fucking nutcase. “Blame me for your life problems all you want, but don’t pull me into your bullshit. It’s not my fault you can’t handle your coke.”

He sighs, rolling his eyes. Hans only ever wanted a good time — not whatever paranoia comes pouring in through the cracks, claiming a place it’s not up for her to take. Not anymore. Not for entirely too long. “I don’t care Alba. Look in my eyes.” He holds her jaw still, hazel into the blue. It’s not an act; he means it. “I don’t give a fucking shit about you, got it? Nothing I say relates to you. There’s not a bone in my body that wants your approval. It’s not what this is about.” All his words are true; whatever meaning Alba gives to them is her own business. Consequences don’t fall far behind. “You don’t feel like you deserve your spot? That you’re not good enough?” He laughs. She was practically begging for it. “Well, you don’t. And you’re not. That wanna you wanna hear? Well, there you have it.” He lets go, and takes a step back. “Now go. Live your life. And leave me out of it.”

Hans steps away, and cracks the bathroom door open, stepping outside. Good fucking riddance, eh?

Same fucking shit, new goddamn day. But she didn’t have to deal with this anymore, she didn’t owe him anything. She didn’t care, Alba reminded herself, she didn’t give a fuck if he lived or died anymore. “No,” she stood her ground, “You can’t do this shit to me anymore, twist it all around and gaslight me. And I was never the one with the drug problem.” Low blow, Alba. 

He grabs her chin and she flinched, holding her breath and letting it out with a hiss. “Don’t fucking touch me.” It was just a whisper, but it held more emotion than anything else she’d said all night. She jerked her chin against his grip without success, and so she pushed her hands against his chest, breaking contact at last. “Don’t ever fucking touch me again.” It was all she could say. He was out the door, pretending like he wasn’t the one who’d offered to bring her, who’d enticed her here. And yes, she was the same stupid bitch for saying yes, for giving in to that devilish smile and the same naive willingness to forgive and forget that got her into trouble so long ago. It didn’t make it ok, and she knew, behind the cocaine and the anger and the pain and the memory, that this wasn’t what she deserved. She pulled out her phone with shaking hands and called a lyft. The panic attack would come later. But for now, she could ride this high and the anger all the way home. The comedown would be a bitch, like always. 

[albacruz-ing]

“You’re doing great, babe,” Hans lets her know. And to validate his comment: “No personal gain attached.” Somewhat true. “You’re doing pretty damn good.” His hands settle back against the sink. It’s better than her waist. All effects have settled now, most of which Hans can’t quite control. He smiles then, and it’s genuine. “You’re— changing the world, and the whole thing. You’re gettin’ your name across the whole damn country. You’re good— you’re good— and if you must know, I fucking hate you for it.” Hans laughs, hard, at his own assessment. He notices her lips, again. With his condition it’s hard not to, but he wishes he hadn’t. “Yeah, you do. This dress?” Hans eyes her down again — the perfect excuse for it. Must he say anything more?  Whatever sentiment Alba had related to his comment, he understands. He knows she’d only ever tried to make things better, as every other person had deluded themselves to thinking they’d be able to before, but this isn’t where Hans is at now. The coke makes his blood run up towards its highest peak, not the lowest. Not yet. “It’s no help. Whatever you were going for, you win.” Still, talking of the dress. “I can’t fight that.”A side-effect of the blow, of course, but he can’t settle. Can’t look at her and not see lust. He eyes the door then, loud music playing beyond it. Their golden ticket to a way out. “I’ve to,” Hans nods toward it. “I can’t be here with you.” It’s too damn hard if I stay.

She didn’t believe him, how long had he made her doubt everything just to now turn it around with this easy praise. Alba was instantly on edge, even more so than she already was with the cocaine. There had to be something else, something he wanted. He would slip closer with that easy grin and tilt her chin up, then make an ask she wouldn’t be able to say no to. Fuck, she hated herself. 

“Yeah, because I have a fuck ton of twitter followers, big fucking deal against all the goddamn money on your side.” She nearly flinched, regretting the words the moment they left her tongue. “Forget it, I don’t wanna fight with you.” Alba felt his gaze travel up and down her body, and shivered. “No, you don’t to do this, you don’t get to blame me for whatever shit you’re dealing with.” Hazel eyes flashed with anger, “and now you’re going to leave me here?” She shook her head, the same shit as always. She shouldn’t have been surprised, it was the same game he’d always played, manipulative as ever. “You say you’re good, that you’re better. But this is the same shit you always pull.” Alba ran a shaking hand through her curls. “And I’m so fucking stupid to think anything else.” 

[clubdreamm-deactivated20210114]

Don’t care didn’t ask plus you majored in business

[albacruz-ing]

Hans is nose-deep into his next line when Alba starts questioning him, pulling the I know you card, and all. Thankfully, the bone-white powder keeps him from caring. Thankfully, he can manage this just fine.

“I’m good,” he tells her, coming back up. It’s not a lie, not really — he is good, or as good as he’s felt in years. Not perfect in any way, and not to a normal person’s standards, but he’s better than she’s ever seen him. Not that it translates now, in this cramped yacht bathroom, cocaine all over the sink, their pupils blown out wide. “Doin’ really good. This,” — of course, he means the drugs, — “isn’t usual. But it’s fun sometimes. Got promoted. Have some good things lined up soon.” Marriage, sure, but she hasn’t earned the knowledge of that yet. Hans inches in, touching his forehead to hers. Alba’s eyes, this beautiful hazel he remembers well, are as hypnotizing as he’d ever seen them. “But that’s all you get t’ know.”  

He steps back, collecting the rest of their fun into two final clean lines. His, and hers. There’s a clear invitation: ladies first. “How are you?” He asks, mimicking her tone. “Not bullshit.” He smiles. ”I know you.”

Once his turn, Hans says then, “I like that dress,” nodding towards it, shaking his head and he lowers himself to that one last line. “I really like it.” It hits just as he’d expected it. Vivid, blissful. Like everything, and nothing at all. “But that’s you, yeah? Always makin’ my life harder.”

I’m good. She let out the breath she was holding. It was probably a lie, she was used to that from him - just like old times. But part of her actually hoped it wasn’t a lie, that he was good. Another part of her, the bitter damaged shell of who’d she been back then - the girl he’d used and abused and shattered - wanted him to hurt. Wanted him to suffer some sort of cosmic justice. Yeah he was fucked up in his own way (PTSD was a bitch and all that), but was she so terrible to want him to not be so fucking good? 

“Congratulations on the promotion, I’m sure you deserved it.” It was genuine, she held her tongue on any bitter sort of comment about his job. “All I get? Tease.” Alba meant tease more for how close he was, how he pressed his forehead to hers, staring into her wide eyes in that way of his. She wanted to look away, but couldn’t. She wanted to kiss him, but didn’t. It was almost more intimate than if had he fucked her against the sink. He finally broke contact, and offered her the final line which she took a bit too eagerly, craving the electric numbness. 

“I’m - “ she paused, trying to sift through the artificial chemical joy for something real, “okay I guess. It’s like - ya know you try all this shit and have all these ideas about what power looks like and what it is and you fight and you fight but then you get here, you get what you want and like? What if it isn’t what you thought it was? What if it’s not enough, or like - I’m not enough? Fuck -” she always got rambly at this level of cocaine use, he likely knew. “I mean, I’m doing something real and important but it doesn’t? Like feel like it?” 

He turned back to her, eyes running up and down her body and she felt a familiar chill. “Thanks.” She meant it, but her face dropped slightly at his next comment. “Me? Making your life harder? That’s not exactly how I remember it.”

[albacruz-ing]

ツ tori !

[albacruz-ing]

ツ (for whoever!)

(and now from the not private official account) 

[albacruz-ing]

ツ

[albacruz-ing]

ツ

[albacruz-ing]

ツ for ginny!

[albacruz-ing]

ツ

[roleplayerpositivity-blog]

Send me a ツ to see a tweet my muse would post/make about yours

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[royisms]

@albacruz-ing

     Amanda was busier than ever, and she knew her friend would be, too, but there was one thing she always had time with, and a bottle of it was sitting right under her arm as she rang the bell by the front door. “I know you said not to bring anything, but– this is for me,” she defended herself quickly as Alba finally opened the door and she was allowed in. “Listen, these elections? I think I might not make it to November. Wouldn’t be surprised if I just collapsed from lack of sleep and over stress.”

[albacruz-ing]

The doorbell rang and Alba dropped her phone, easily startled as always. She knew Amanda was coming, she’d literally texted ‘here’ - and yet the doorbell always sounded so startling. Rolling her eyes at herself and collecting the thing off the ground (luckily not broken), she ran to the door and opened it with a smile. 

“Offended that you think I wouldn’t have enough for both of us.” It was said with a false sort of pout, Amanda would know she was joking. “More the merrier, come on in.” They walked through the apartment and into the kitchen, Alba pulled down two wine glasses and handed Amanda the bottle opener. After pouring herself a glass - it was rosé vibe tonight- she raised her eyebrows at the complaint. 

“It’s just like 111 days, you can do anything for that long.” She took a sip, slyly peeking over the top of her glass. “Or is it not the campaign thats causing you to lose sleep but perhaps the opponents?” 

[oliverzafar]

@albacruz-ing​

Oliver knows what this looks like. He’s done his reading, he understands perfectly fucking well that a Vice President has been historically useless, and he’s heard all about what FOX News has to say about what this means for his political future. But just as he’s aware of all of that, Oliver’s also all-too-aware that he’s never been one to listen to precedent. Historically, a Vice President taking a driver’s seat role in an administration is a rarity, sans with the exception of his good buddy Cheney - but historically, a gay brown thirty-something shouldn’t be the Vice President to begin with. 

This is what’s circulating in his mind as he sits across from Alba, a grin on his face and a cat draped over his lap (or rather, lap and chest - Meow Zedong never really understood the concept of condensed spaces). He invited her to his own place rather than bothering with his office, hoping the air of familiarity and hominess will make her feel more at ease about their talk. “How has the House been treating you?” he asks now that they’re settled. “I remember how overwhelmed I was by everything during my first few terms. Feel free to just vent, nobody gets it like somebody who’s been there.” Then, before he forgets, “Oh, my bad, I never asked if I can get you anything. Coffee, water, a bite to eat?”  By ‘I’ he means ‘somebody else’, but the sentiment is still there.

[albacruz-ing]

Buildings like this had been built to intimidate, Alba knew this as she stepped through the security laden drive. Not quite the White House but still, the Residence stood there like an accusatory matron, a pointed glare that seemed to say you aren’t welcome here. But supposedly that had all changed with the current occupants. Bi-latinx President with a young gay MOC Veep - it still felt quite literally too good to be true. Alba had learned one thing in DC, and it was to trust the bit of anxiety that lived in her stomach. If something looked too good to be true, it usually was. The same sort of empty progress promised with Wright. Who cares if something actually substantially changes? Look how progressive and ~diverse~ our ticket is! Pay no attention to the old white men behind the curtain! 

Once, she’d believed in Oliver. And maybe she still did, maybe she hoped he’d pushed the President on things that actually mattered, instead of seemingly capitulating for a cushy ceremonial job and a promise that, perhaps, he could try again in eight years. She kept these emotions as well hidden as she could, smirking at the cat treating Oliver like its own personal lounge. 

“It’s fine, you know, nothing like a bunch of old white men talking over me in committee meetings! Feels just like college. I had to sign a stupid birthday card for some old republican who calls me Maria.” She rolled her eyes. “What are the ethics on getting Merritt to sign my name on shit like that.” Alba appreciated toe sentiment in him offering. “Coffee would be great if it isn’t too much trouble. The Jolly Green Giant at the front door called me ma’am and yep I hated that.” 

[filmtribv]

#same

Margot Hanson, The Magicians (05x05)

[albacruz-ing]

It’s clockwork. Off of each other, here in this forced intimacy, a sudden wave of memory comes flashing back, every move and every beat exactly like what younger versions of them had come up with. Alba steps aside and he follows suit, cleaning up two lines for good measure. You’re gonna kill yourself, he can almost hear her voice play over in his head, a warning that had never worked. If only it’d been an omen. Hans comes back up, checking around his nose with his thumb — already making way for her again. “Thought you were a good girl now,” he comments. He smiles, his heart beating just a little faster. “Good girls don’t do this kinda stuff.”

Wasn’t there some movie like this - something shitty and romcom-esque she might have seen in college or after. Two long lost lovers, slipping back into their old selves magically or something. This wasn’t that. It was familiarity and drugs and habit, and Alba hated herself for all of them. They were too close for comfort, but she felt safe in this tiny bathroom with Hans. Somewhere, the tiny blackened part of her that still loves him worried - too much too soon, how much had he drank, would she need to stop soon in order to look out for him, what was going on now. But she didn’t say anything. 

“Please, I haven’t been her in ages, just because I left you doesn’t mean I became a good girl.” She wanted to say something about the inherent misogyny in that term but also Alba liked free drugs and so she bit her tongue. Two more lines and she was set. Her hands lingered on his arm, the closeness of the space seeming to necessitate it, but really she liked the way it felt to pretend to be 25 again without a care in the world. It was dangerous. They both knew it. 

“How are you, really? No bullshit, I know you.”

[merrittaylor]

WHO: Merritt & Alba. WHERE: Alba’s Office. WHEN: Approximately 2:00pm, July 2nd.

Merritt only knocks once before opening the door to Alba’s office, not even waiting for a response before letting herself in. The knock itself was more of a formality than anything, a show of professionalism to anybody else who might be watching – she liked to think that she now knew Alba well enough that knocking on the door to her office wasn’t strictly necessary. Or maybe she was just impatient. Most likely the latter.

“For you,” She says, holding up a stack of papers as she steps through the doorway, putting them on Alba’s desk before taking a seat opposite the desk. “They’re not urgent.” She says, “Just a signature here and an initial there. Nothing world changing today, I’m afraid.” 

@albacruz-ing​

[albacruz-ing]

Congresswoman Cruz had a very strange relationship with the Fourth of July. It had never really felt like a holiday for her, instead a celebration of White America and their perfect families. It had gotten better, she supposed, but generally Alba tried to avoid this. But she was expected to attend the President’s event, and would have to grin and bear it. 

A knock at her door interrupted this minor pity party, and she sat up from where she had her head down on the desk, greeting Merritt with a smile that was more like a grimace than anything. 

“Remind me why I let you talk me into this again?” She smirked, just so Merritt was sure that Alba was joking. “Here’s where I am supposed to say all legislation changes the world or some bullshit like that,” she looked at the papers in front of her. “And this is a birthday card for some old white man who calls me Maria. Excellent.”