#Black Law Street Platform

[trans-axolotl]

"Much ink has already been spilled on Harris’s prosecutorial background. What is significant about the topic of sex work is how recently the vice president–elect’s actions contradicted her alleged views. During her tenure as AG, she led a campaign to shut down Backpage, a classified advertising website frequently used by sex workers, calling it “the world’s top online brothel” in 2016 and claiming that the site made “millions of dollars from trafficking.” While Backpage did make millions off of sex work ads, its “adult services” listings offered a safer and more transparent platform for sex workers and their clients to conduct consensual transactions than had historically been available. Harris’s grandiose mischaracterization led to a Senate investigation, and the shuttering of the site by the FBI in 2018.

“Backpage being gone has devastated our community,” said Andrews. The platform allowed sex workers to work more safely: They were able to vet clients and promote their services online. “It’s very heartbreaking to see the fallout,” said dominatrix Yevgeniya Ivanyutenko. “A lot of people lost their ability to safely make a living. A lot of people were forced to go on the street or do other things that they wouldn’t have otherwise considered.” M.F. Akynos, the founder and executive director of the Black Sex Worker Collective, thinks Harris should “apologize to the community. She needs to admit that she really fucked up with Backpage, and really ruined a lot of people’s lives.”

After Harris became a senator, she cosponsored the now-infamous Stop Enabling Sex Traffickers Act (SESTA), which—along with the House’s Allow States and Victims to Fight Online Sex Trafficking Act (FOSTA)—was signed into law by President Trump in 2018. FOSTA-SESTA created a loophole in Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act, the so-called “safe harbor” provision that allows websites to be free from liability for user-generated content (e.g., Amazon reviews, Craigslist ads). The Electronic Frontier Foundation argues that Section 230 is the backbone of the Internet, calling it “the most important law protecting internet free speech.” Now, website publishers are liable if third parties post sex-work ads on their platforms.

That spelled the end of any number of platforms—mostly famously Craigslist’s “personal encounters” section—that sex workers used to vet prospective clients, leaving an already vulnerable workforce even more exposed. (The Woodhull Freedom Foundation has filed a lawsuit challenging FOSTA on First Amendment grounds; in January 2020, it won an appeal in D.C.’s district court).

“I sent a bunch of stats [to Harris and Senator Diane Feinstein] about decriminalization and how much SESTA-FOSTA would hurt American sex workers and open them up to violence,” said Cara (a pseudonym), who was working as a sex worker in the San Francisco and a member of SWOP when the bill passed. Both senators ignored her.

The bill both demonstrably harmed sex workers and failed to drop sex trafficking. “Within one month of FOSTA’s enactment, 13 sex workers were reported missing, and two were dead from suicide,” wrote Lura Chamberlain in her Fordham Law Review article “FOSTA: A Hostile Law with a Human Cost.” “Sex workers operating independently faced a tremendous and immediate uptick in unwanted solicitation from individuals offering or demanding to traffic them. Numerous others were raped, assaulted, and rendered homeless or unable to feed their children.” A 2020 survey of the effects of FOSTA-SESTA found that “99% of online respondents reported that this law does not make them feel safer” and 80.61 percent “say they are now facing difficulties advertising their services.” "

-What Sex Workers Want Kamala Harris to Know by Hallie Liberman

[rotten-pomegranate]

Adult trio with a reader that has wings

Headcannon Request are open

I’m on a road trip so I’ll be writing 💪🏻

Warnings: it gets smuts in hisokas part, mentions of reader getting pinned down, mentions of Chrollo and illumi using reader to break the law

꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜

Illumi

Illumi likes look at them and randomly runs his hands over them from time to time just to feel them

Definitely finds them useful for locating targets, literally just hands you a photo and tells you to fly over the city until you find them

Will definitely train you to keep them quiet so you can Sneek into places easier

His family is probably cool with you because your kids will have wings and special skills as well

Hisoka

Hisoka is a very sexual being and naturally he finds many ways to use your wings against you in the bedroom

He definitely likes tying them to your back or pushing you into the bed really roughly with them

He also probably randomly comes up and yanks feathers out to see that little jump you do

And if you have a mating call or dance he might go crazy every time he hears it because he knows you want him

He lives flouncing around with you on his arm in public watching as all the eyes go to you and your beautiful wings

Chrollo

If your a bird that takes shiney things like a crow then he’ll probably meat you because your getting chased down the street by the police for stealing and he saves you

Trust that he will get you every shiney necklace or bracelet you could have ever dreamed of

Like illumi he may also use your ability to fly to his advantage by getting you to spy or identify people

And seance crows remember faces he’ll use that to

He’ll love you wings regardless but if they are shiny and black he’ll be head over heals

©rotten-pomegranate- All rights reserved, don’t steal, translate, copy, plagiarize, claim my work as your own or post it on other platforms.

[rotten-pomegranates-fics]

Adult trio with a reader that has wings

Headcannon Request are open

I’m on a road trip so I’ll be writing 💪🏻

Warnings: it gets smutty in hisokas part, mentions of reader getting pinned down, mentions of Chrollo and illumi using reader to break the law

꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜ ꩜

Illumi

Illumi likes look at them and randomly runs his hands over them from time to time just to feel them

Definitely finds them useful for locating targets, literally just hands you a photo and tells you to fly over the city until you find them

Will definitely train you to keep them quiet so you can Sneek into places easier

His family is probably cool with you because your kids will have wings and special skills as well

Hisoka

Hisoka is a very sexual being and naturally he finds many ways to use your wings against you in the bedroom

He definitely likes tying them to your back or pushing you into the bed really roughly with them

He also probably randomly comes up and yanks feathers out to see that little jump you do

And if you have a mating call or dance he might go crazy every time he hears it because he knows you want him

He lives flouncing around with you on his arm in public watching as all the eyes go to you and your beautiful wings

Chrollo

If your a bird that takes shiney things like a crow then he’ll probably meat you because your getting chased down the street by the police for stealing and he saves you

Trust that he will get you every shiney necklace or bracelet you could have ever dreamed of

Like illumi he may also use your ability to fly to his advantage by getting you to spy or identify people

And seance crows remember faces he’ll use that to

He’ll love you wings regardless but if they are shiny and black he’ll be head over heals

©rotten-pomegranate- All rights reserved, don’t steal, translate, copy, plagiarize, claim my work as your own or post it on other platforms.

[epochofbelief]

Strictly Confidential: Chapter Six

A Modern Feysand AU

She’s a law student turned confidential informant. He’s a federal prosecutor with one goal: bringing down her boyfriend for his white collar crimes. What could go wrong?

A/N: I would like to thank "girl i've always been" by Olivia Rodrigo for helping me produce this one. Thanks for your patience and your love on the last chapter. Enjoy, and let me know if you would like to be tagged.

Also, I make no promises on the accuracy of international travel, time changes, and FBI investigations from this point forward. Welcome to the world of fanfiction, everyone--everything is subject to the machinations of my own mind. 😈

Sorry if the editing is crap. Needs must, and all that.

TW: drinking/alcohol

Strictly Confidential Masterlist

My other, completed, Feysand AU: What to Expect When You're (Not) Expecting

Chapter Six

It took Rhysand two days—two days—to get in touch with Feyre after Azriel’s attack.

“I’m going to kill you,” Feyre hissed through her teeth as she stepped onto the Illyria Station platform, the final station on the Prythian City Metro Line. Rhys’s eyebrow rose at the venom in Feyre’s voice, one large hand resting on the small of her back as he guided her away from the train and through the station, up the stairs, and into an awaiting black car.

“You realize you just threatened to murder a federal prosecutor,” Rhys noted as he tapped on the window separating them from the front seats. The driver pulled away from the curb.

“What of it?” Feyre asked. “Bare threats won't get you anywhere in court.”

“Maybe so, but if you do kill me, there are plenty of witnesses on the platform who could testify to your intent.”

“Good luck tracking them down when you’re dead,” Feyre said, holding Rhys’s gaze, his eyes twinkling in the dimness of the car.

Feyre almost smiled back at him, at the way words tripped so easily off her tongue whenever Rhys was around. But she swallowed the urge, instead rolling her eyes and slumping down in the leather seat, Rhys’s eyes tracking her every move. “Are you going to tell me if Agent Lapis is alright or not, or are you just going to press me for more information on—?”

Rhys lunged forward, his large hands covering her mouth. “No names until we get to the safe house.”

He waited for her to nod, his very large body taking up so much space as he hovered over her, the scent of salt and citrus enveloping her at his closeness.

Feyre struggled to suck down a breath, and it wasn't because Rhys was covering her mouth.

“Don’t you trust your driver?” Feyre asked when Rhys removed his hands, her body suddenly cold as he slid across the leather seat, back toward his side of the car.

“Of course I do,” Rhys said. “But we can’t be too careful. After Azriel’s attack, it’s best we take a little more care with our conversations, where we are, who sees us together.”

Feyre didn’t say anything, folding her arms over her chest.

Rhys blew out a breath. “Azriel is fine. He took a bad beating, but he’s had worse. He’ll be on his feet in another day or two, albeit with a few extra bruises.”

“And do you think it was—was—” Feyre pressed her lips together, unsure if she refrained from saying Tamlin’s name because of Rhys’s caution or because she still could barely fathom that someone she had thought she knew might sanction such violent behavior.

Rhys nodded curtly. “We’ll be there in ten minutes. We can talk then.”

The ten minutes passed quickly, Feyre mentally reviewing the information she had gathered in the past few days. She had managed to glean the location of Tamlin’s next business venture by going through his phone well past midnight the night before, slipping his phone from his nightstand and hiding away in the closet until she had found something, anything that might put a stop to everything Spring Solutions was doing.

Illyria was a pleasant enough town, if a little run down. The small main street the town car carried Feyre and Rhys down boasted a few cafes, a restaurant or two, and even a bar. Feyre caught sight of a bookstore, already closed for the evening, at the very end of the street, and something else that might have been an arts and crafts shop. She continued to observe as they left the main street and entered a series of residential neighborhoods, partly because she had never visited Illyria before, and partly because it gave her something to do in such a small space with Rhys mere inches away.

At last, the driver turned into a gated neighborhood full of quaint historical homes. The car pulled into the driveway of a red-brick home, two stories tall, with black shutters and white columns. Feyre unbuckled her seat belt as the car pulled around the back of the house, entirely out of sight of the street.

“Home sweet home,” Rhys said as Feyre rounded the car to stand next to him.

“Home?” she stammered, turning to stare up at him.

“One of them,” he said. “Once upon a time.”

Feyre narrowed her eyes as he strode up the back steps, producing a small key and unlocking the back door. He stepped back to let her enter first, and Feyre slid past him, her elbow brushing his stomach as she set foot on the dark wood floors.

Rhys followed her, flicking on a light switch, a warm glow flooding the hallway as Feyre delved further into the house.

Warm dark floors stretched down the long hallway that spanned from the back door directly to the front, the rooms of the first floor on either side of the hall. To her left was a small kitchen, with white appliances, light wood cabinets, and forest green tile backsplash. To her right was a closed door that she guessed led to a bedroom or office. Rhys ushered her toward the front of the house, gesturing to a small sitting room to their right. Across the hall from the sitting room was a small dining room. Both rooms boasted floor to ceiling, built-in shelves bursting with books and trinkets of all shapes and sizes.

Feyre settled herself onto a grey couch in the sitting room, gazing around the small space as Rhys ensured the curtains facing the street were drawn shut.

“This is your house?” Feyre asked as Rhys, satisfied with the curtains, crossed the plush red rug to the fireplace on the far wall, leaning down to start it with the push of a button. Flames danced to life in the hearth, Feyre’s brows raising at the sight. The house itself felt old, quaint. But the fixtures—the fireplace, the chandelier above them, even the appliances in the kitchen, were all quite modern.

“I grew up here,” Rhys said. “It was my mother’s house. My father didn’t want it—hasn’t been here in years—after she died. He gave it to me, told me to sell it if I wished. I thought about it for a while. It’s too far from the city for me to live in full-time. But I couldn’t stomach the thought of someone else living here. So I decided to keep it, update some of the appliances, the heating system, all that, thinking one day I would sell it for a higher price after all the improvements. But I… haven’t.”

“It’s lovely,” Feyre said.

Rhys gave a brisk grin, sitting down on the couch across from Feyre and clasping his hands between his knees. “Azriel and Mor should be down any minute.”

Feyre's brows creased, but Rhys shook his head. “Azriel’s staying here while he recuperates, and Mor arrived about an hour before us to check on him and make sure things were in order for this meeting. It's nothing... like that."

Feyre nodded, filing away the information for later.

They sat in comfortable silence while they awaited, and the creaking ceiling above Feyre told her Mor and Azriel were aware of the scheduled meeting and coming to meet them any second. Indeed, they emerged from the narrow staircase that occupied part of the central hallway, Azriel’s face several shades of black, blue, and yellow bruises.

“Gods above,” Feyre breathed, leaping to her feet and meeting Azriel halfway across the room. “Are you alright?” She asked, arms reaching toward him before she realized she wasn’t sure what to do with them.

But Azriel softly gripped her upper arms, his swollen lip breaking into a small smile. “I’m fine, Feyre. Occupational hazard.”

Feyre let Azriel lead her over to the couch after she greeted Mor, who had frozen in the hallway, gazing wide-eyed at Feyre and Azriel. At Feyre's "Hello," Mor swallowed, stepping into the living room at last.

“You were truly concerned for him,” Mor noted, taking a seat next to Rhys as Feyre forced Azriel to sit down first before she settled herself next to him.

Feyre folded her arms, glaring at Rhys. “Ask his Royal Highness the United States Attorney.”

“She threatened to kill me for making her wait this long,” Rhys admitted, eyes never leaving Feyre’s.

“Well, you’ve seen me. I’m fine,” Azriel said in that soft, but cutting, voice of his. “And I appreciate it, Feyre. I really do.”

Feyre tore her gaze from Rhys’s violet eyes and met Azriel’s hazel ones, nodding once before she strengthened her resolve.

“I know where Tamlin’s going next,” she announced.

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

One week later, the plans were arranged.

Cassian and Mor would board a plane for northern Washington State, hours after the private plane Lucien and Tamlin had chartered that would take them to the same place. The agents had arranged to rent a car to follow the two Spring Solutions higher-ups to the manufacturing plant that Tamlin had arranged a relationship with. Thanks to the vague map Feyre had found that first night of her sleuthing, the group had determined the estimated location of the exchange—the place Tamlin would accept responsibility for the non-compliant environmental materials. Then, the FBI Agents would trail whatever transport Tamlin had arranged until he either stored it or disposed of it. At that point, they hoped to have witnessed enough illegal activity that there would be plenty of cause to make an arrest—or at the very least to bring charges against Tamlin and Spring Solutions and end the illegal operation once and for all.

The plan made sense, despite the limited information it was based upon. The agents had planned everything to perfection. The intel Feyre had provided had allowed them to skirt the problem they had run into time and time again—because Tamlin and Lucien flew privately, under an ever-changing roster of company names other than Spring Solutions, and were careful to take nondescript vehicles to the private airport, it was difficult for the FBI to follow the duo when they jetted off to consult with their next client. But Feyre’s provision of the location had changed everything. The entire case might be resolved in less than a day.

Feyre, however, was pissed.

She had provided the information. She was the one who continued to stay with Tamlin, who still slept in his bed, in order to get this information for the FBI. And yet she hadn’t been invited to come along for the bust.

It was infuriating, and the worst kind of insult. She had spent the better part of an hour arguing with Rhys, Mor, and Azriel about it as they had discussed the information in Rhysand’s mother’s home that night a week ago.

It all came down to protocol, however, and civilians weren’t to be pulled into such dangerous surveillance activities if it was avoidable. And unfortunately, Feyre was a mole and nothing more. Cassian and Mor were the FBI agents, and they would be taking the lead in the investigation. Not even Rhysand was going.

Feyre lay on her couch, her casebooks unopened on the coffee table next to her as she stared at the clock on her phone. She was at least trusted enough to be told what time Cassian and Mor’s plane would be taking off—2:27 p.m.

Feyre rolled her eyes. What an honor.

The clock turned to 2:28, and she knew they were gone.

Feyre sighed, rolling off the couch and laying on the floor for a minute. Then two. Then three.

If they didn’t catch Tamlin—what then? How much longer would she need to stay here?

Feyre knew she could change her mind at any point. The FBI, and Rhysand, wouldn’t blame her. But what then? How could she live with herself knowing she had taken away the FBI’s only viable opportunity to bring down Spring Solutions?

No, Feyre didn’t have a choice. She was in this until Tamlin discovered her treachery or he was behind bars.

Eventually, Feyre peeled herself off the floor and padded through the empty apartment toward her closet.

Sure, it was 2:28 pm on a Friday, but Feyre didn’t have plans for the rest of the day.

Or the rest of the weekend.

So why not jump into her pajamas and read for her Corporations Law class until her eyes ceased focusing properly?

Feyre snorted at herself as she flicked on the light in the closet. Here she was, an informant for the FBI, a job that sounded so glamorous, so important, so mysterious.

And yet it was mid-afternoon on a Friday and Feyre was already shedding her bra for the day.

What was her life?

She sighed as she crossed to the enormous dresser against one of the walls of the closet. She shoved aside the suit jacket Tamlin had worn that morning, hastily discarded over the top of the dresser, the fabric emitting a faint crinkling sound as it hit the floor.

She had just reached into the drawer to retrieve the tattered old t-shirt and sweatpants that she slept in when she froze, slowly turning to gaze at the navy blazer, crumpled on the floor at her feet.

Because that crinkling sound. . . That wasn't just fabric.

Feyre knelt, sweatpants forgotten as she fished through the pockets of Tamlin’s jacket. A month ago, she wouldn’t have even considered doing this. Wouldn’t have been so hyperaware of everything having to do with her boyfriend, so anxious that the sound of what was probably a gum wrapper wouldn't have raised her hackles.

But a month ago, she hadn't known her boyfriend was a criminal mastermind.

Feyre drew out a small slip of paper from the inside breast pocket of the jacket.

It was a receipt.

A receipt for a set of plane tickets.

And in tiny black script across the top was the destination of those tickets, scheduled for that day, October 7th, at 10:53 a.m:

Dublin, Ireland.

Fuck.

---------

“Where the hell are you, Feyre?”

Rhysand’s voice was so loud in her phone speaker that Feyre actually held it several inches away from her ear as she responded.

“The airport…”

“You’re kidding. " Feyre heard what sounded like a door slamming in the background of the call. "You are actually calling me because you thought it would be fun to give me a heart attack as a prank, and you’re actually home right now, on your couch, watching The Nanny or whatever ridiculous show you and Mor were discussing the other night in Illyria. You’re not at the airport about to board a flight to Dublin because your boyfriend purposefully set a red herring in case anyone was on his tail.”

Feyre didn’t respond, just smiled at the woman manning the security line Feyre currently stood in, shedding her shoes with her one available hand, the other holding her phone to her ear.

“Feyre. Tell me I’m right. Tell me you’re not at the airport.”

“Can’t, sorry. Oh, hold on, gotta send my phone through the x-ray machine thing.”

Feyre ignored Rhys’s protests, placing her phone on the x-ray belt, call with Rhys still active, before she stepped into the line to go through the human scanning machine.

It was at least five minutes before she made it through the line and retrieved her stuff from the security belt. To her surprise, Rhys was still on the line when she retrieved her phone.

“Turn around right now. What are you planning to do when you get to Ireland? Find Tamlin and confront him yourself?”

“Of course not!” Feyre exclaimed, checking the departures board and smiling as she saw that her flight was right on time, although in her eagerness to get to the airport, she had arrived much too early. She had at least an hour before boarding the flight that would take her from Prythian to New York, where she would transfer to a flight to Ireland. “I just want to follow him and record everything he does.”

Except for vague background noise, and something that sounded like the rumble of traffic, the line remained quiet for several long moments.

“I swear, Feyre Archeron, if I die before I turn thirty, it’ll be because of you and this gods-damned case.”

“You’ll thank me later!” Feyre said brightly, and hung up the phone.

An hour later, Feyre had shuffled toward her gate with the rest of those boarding her flight to New York. She had spent the last hour consuming two glasses of wine at the airport bar, her productivity while reading for her Environmental Law class sharply declining as her glass emptied. Her original intention had been to stick with one small glass of wine so that she might fall asleep more easily on her flight.

But after half an hour of staring at her textbook, a sizable pit had formed deep in her stomach. Was she truly flying to Ireland for the weekend? Chasing Tamlin halfway across the world to—to what? To make up for the fact that she had fallen for the red herring Tamlin had left in his emails, had given the FBI wrong information, and sent them in the complete opposite direction of Tamlin’s true destination? She had nowhere to stay when she got to Ireland, no idea where to start on finding transport to whatever location Tamlin had arranged his rendezvous.

So Feyre had ordered another glass of wine, and downed most of it in the last ten minutes before her flight started boarding.

Thus the world had taken on a softer light, a slower quality that had loosened Feyre’s shoulders so much that she didn’t even care about the nearby toddler who had been crying for the last half hour, or the strong smell of weed emitting from the woman in front of her, or the enormous man who was standing a little too close to her, smelling of citrus and the sea and—

Feyre whirled around.

“What are you doing here?” She demanded when her eyes met violet ones, the intensity of Rhys’s gaze reminding her of her tipsiness.

“You thought I was going to let you run off to Ireland by yourself?”

Feyre bit her lip, suddenly wishing she hadn’t had that second glass of wine. Rhys was so poised, dressed in his signature black suit, pressed to perfection even after what must have been a long day at work. The shadow of a beard graced the lower half of his face, and his sea salt scent caressed her, pulling her closer. . .

Feyre blinked once. Then twice, reaching an arm out to steady herself against one of the barriers used to corral the boarding line.

Rhys's eyes narrowed. “Are you—drunk?” He asked, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice.

Feyre folded her arms. “I’m not drunk,” she insisted. “I had a two glasses of wine.”

“You can barely stand up straight,” Rhys noted, pocking her shoulder with a finger.

Feyre flashed her palms up at the prosecutor. “I’m fine, see? I was having a perfectly wonderful time until you decided to show up and crash my spontaneous trip to a foreign country.” She didn't mention the wave of relief that was sweeping through her even now, as she realized she wouldn't be leaving the country for the first time all by herself.

“Did you tell Mor and Cassian?” She asked, changing the subject, although the creeping grin on Rhys’s face told her he wouldn't let this go anytime soon.

And for some reason, Feyre didn’t mind that he found her amusing.

Tamlin would have told her she was being unprofessional, would have chastised her for doing something as unsafe as getting a little tipsy in the safety of an airport. Even though he and Lucien drank during their own travels, Tamlin would see Feyre’s unsteadiness as a weakness, something she should only do with him around.

And while Rhys was laughing at her, she didn’t feel . . . judged. Teased, yes, and perhaps a little embarrassed. But not ashamed.

Rhys gave a curt nod. “They’re staying the night in Washington and flying back tomorrow. Weather conditions are awful up there, so no planes, even private ones, are going up until the morning.”

“Will they fly over to meet us?” Feyre asked, falling into step beside Rhys as the line started moving, bringing them closer and closer to the gate.

Rhys shook his head. “If this trip is as short as Tamlin told you it would be, by the time they got to Ireland, they would have to board the plane to come back again.”

“So we’re on our own,” Feyre muttered, allowing the flight attendant to scan her boarding pass.

“We’re on our own,” Rhys echoed as they stepped onto the jetway.

------

It was a very long night. Feyre slept for most of both of their flights, occasionally waking up to turbulence or to use the restroom or eat the snacks the flight attendants provided. Every time she did, Rhys was a solid presence next to her, wide awake and reading through various legal documents on his laptop, his privacy screen preventing her from glimpsing much. If he slept at all, Feyre never saw it.

When they touched down in Dublin, Feyre jolted awake, something soft against her temple. She looked up, blinking the sleep from her eyes as she met Rhys’s stare.

“Sleep well?” Rhys asked, shifting in his seat, the movement jostling her.

She reared back, tearing her forehead from where it had been resting on Rhys’s shoulder. “Yes, I—I did,” she said, sure her cheeks were burning bright red. She had slept on his shoulder. Had probably drooled all over him while he read his professional legal documents and thought of her as a very silly, very impulsive young law student. “Sorry,” she said, running a hand through her hair.

But Rhys only shrugged, folding up his laptop and sliding it into the backpack beneath the seat in front of him. “No need to apologize. I’m positive my shoulder is much more comfortable than the window.”

Feyre huffed out a breath, a grin tugging at her cheek as she thought about just how muscular Rhys's shoulder was—if it was more comfortable than the window, it was only by a margin.

“What time is it?” She asked.

“Dublin time?” Rhys looked at his watch, Feyre’s eyes tracking the flick of his wrist. “About seven am. . . Prythian time? Two am. What time did you say Tamlin’s meeting was?”

“Not until this afternoon—two or three.”

“Plenty of time to find a hotel, then, because someone decided to come all the way over here without a plan,” Rhys said, his fingers gripping her chin lightly for a fleeting moment, his lips pursing as he gazed down at her.

“Come on, Night,” Feyre said, following him from their seats and out into the aisle. “Live a little.”

Feyre regretted those words two hours later, after the only hotel with a vacancy they could find had one room available--with only one bed.

“Are you sure you don’t have anything else? We’ll even take a bed and a pull-out couch,” Feyre pleaded with the receptionist, who was so busy staring as Rhysand that Feyre doubted the woman even heard her question.

“What was it you said to me on the plane, Feyre darling?” Rhys asked, glancing down at her from the corner of his eye, his fingers tapping on the front desk. “Live a little?”

Feyre groaned, exhaustion tugging at her limbs, at her very soul, despite the sleep she had managed to find on the plane. “Fine.” She snatched the keys out of Rhys’s hand and stomped over to the elevator, arms crossed.

“I can sleep on the floor,” Rhys offered as Feyre led the way down the hall, her suitcase rattling behind her.

“That’s ridiculous,” Feyre said. “It’s a king bed. Plenty of space.”

What was she saying? No amount of bed space would be enough if she was sharing it with Rhys. He was so . . . all-consuming. Feyre could feel him behind her even now, though she knew he was several feet away.

She unlocked their room, Rhys’s arm sliding above her head to hold the door so she could drag her suitcase inside.

"Thank you," she said quietly, swallowing at the gesture.

Neither of them spoke as they took turns in the bathroom, each taking a quick shower to rinse off the travel. Feyre let Rhys go first, insisting that she had to call her father anyway. But instead of calling, she sat on her side of the bed and thought about what Tamlin would say if he knew she was sharing a hotel room with another man.

Even if her relationship with Tamlin had an expiration date, even if it was over in Feyre’s mind . . . It wasn’t over in Tamlin’s.

Sharing a bed with Rhys, sleeping on his shoulder, flirting with him . . . It was one of the worst betrayals, no matter what Tamlin had or had not done. She knew her boyfriend would be livid if he knew about what she was doing with Rhys. Even if nothing had happened between them, even if Feyre wasn’t sure she felt anything more than sexual attraction for the federal prosecutor who had suddenly turned her entire life upside down... It was wrong.

Even if being with Rhys brought out a side to her that had long been dormant. She spent all of her time with Tamlin and Lucien these days.

How long had it been since she had joked with a new friend? Spent time with someone who shared her interests, her career path? Done something just because she wanted to?

She had booked an international flight without a second thought, for crying out loud.

She had never done something like that before.

And Rhys had followed. With some grumbling, yes, but he hadn’t tried to drag her out of the airport or convince her to change her mind.

And perhaps he cared more about indicting Tamlin than he did about Feyre’s safety, but . . . Feyre couldn’t shake the feeling that Rhys understood just how badly she wanted to see Tamlin pay for his actions. That he understood the guilt that clawed at her in the middle of the night, the guilt that told her she should have seen it, should have recognized that there was something fishy about Tamlin’s business, should have done something long ago to stop it, something that might have prevented what Rhys’s sister had endured…

Feyre was startled out of her spiraling thoughts by the sound of the bathroom door swinging open, Rhysand emerging in nothing but black sweats, his hair still damp from the shower.

Feyre’s mouth went dry.

“I, ah, left my shirt out here,” Rhys offered, crossing the room to his suitcase, every muscle on display.

Feyre bit her lip at the sight of his cheeks, which had turned every-so-slightly pink, before she averted her gaze.

She didn’t say anything, simply grabbing her stuff and shutting the bathroom door behind her.

Tamlin would certainly object to the sight of a shirtless Rhysand.

Feyre took a very, very cold shower.

---

Taglist:

@rhysiedarling @shedoessoshedoes @popjunkie42 @adreamof-spring @that-little-red-head @witch-and-her-witcher @cinnamonmelody @azrielover @1islessthan3books @jenahid @toporecall @martzja @marinated-fish @riribbonss @tunaababee @acourtofbatboydreams @clockworkgraystairs @muaddib-iswriting @queenofdivas

[anteroom-of-death]

Pretty When You Cry

Synopsis: DCI Hegarty picks up a certain type of to-go order.

A/n: shout out to @queerconfusionthings , @malcolmtuckerapologist and my girlie from tiktok who don't have a tumblr. Uh this is a fairly dark fic. Noncon but still fun. Yay. Mix otc meds, please I dare you. (No I dotn.) Maybe I'll do a sequel. Idk. I heart dacryphillia.

The girl was walking through the empty streets, long after midnight. Her skirt, riding up over her ass, tights clearly torn. Her form was hunched over, her handbag slapping the side of her in a rapid pace that matched the wobbly, pained gait.

Her heels were obviously too high.

Drunk, possibly high. Perfect.

This could be fun.

He trailed the car behind her. He was in his unmarked police car; this would be easy. He briefly flickered on the roof lights. Let her know that she needed to stop.

She did, exactly like a deer in headlights. Good, she would do excellently. Compliant, warm looking. She was clutching a poor excuse for a jacket, the whites of her eyes tinged red. She pivoted as she shook. She cleaned some snot off her nose. Or perhaps some other substances.

One could never be sure with these tramps off the street.

He got out of the car and approached her, in clear benevolence.

“You’re out too late, aren’t you? No johns at this hour.” He leaned against the car.

She bit down on her torn, smudged bottom lip. Clearly guilty, clearly nervous, clear admissions.

She seemed unable to form words.

A look of confusion spread across her face. A feeling of warmth and stiffness spread across his lap.

“I’m sorry! Officer? What?” She rocked back and forth in her platform heels, uneasy.

“Solicitation is a hefty fine.” He toyed with his prey. “Seven years and all…”

He took a step forward towards her. She took a stumble back.

“What?” Her eyebrows rose to the top of her forehead. She backed herself into the wall of the sidewalk where she stood. Her heart rate was almost palpable and certainly delicious.

“A cheap whore like yourself ought to know better.” He played the role of stern, yet forgiving cop. “I’ll take you down to the office and book you on something lighter. Disorderly conduct. A minor crime. No need to worry. I’ll probably get you a lighter sentence. Be a good slut and crawl into my car…” He reasoned, popping the door of the side of car open.

“I swear! I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m just coming back from the clubs!” Her breath hitched and she showed a smudged stamp on the back of her right hand.

“Don’t resist arrest. That’s an additional sentence.” He lied through his teeth. It was only the vagueness of the law that he could extort. Only violence could up the charges.

“Don’t resist me…” He flashed her a smile as he whispered loudly.

He banked on her ignorance of the laws. Most civilians were oh so ignorant about it. It made his life easier. Especially slow nights like this. He rolled his neck and rested a heavy hand on her shoulder…

“Just get in.”

“I swear! I’m fine! Please let me go!” She begged, pathetically. Tears starting to rim her over-lined eyes. Smudging the thick clumps of her mascara. She started to rummage through her bag.

Oh, she was pretty crying. His cock was almost fully hard. It was all stars and big, sloppy grey-black tears staining her whorish face. A picture of innocence. His cock jumped up and pressed painfully against his boxers. He groaned a bit aloud. The little slut was resistant and kept playing up this false candor.

He got his gun out of its discreet holster and held it to her stomach as he pressed harder down on her shoulder.

“You’ve two seconds to get in. Don’t make me escalate this.” He slid his tone of voice from ordering to almost a mocking plea.

She inhaled and swallowed hard. She started sobbing harder as she easily lost her balance and tripped into the car.

He crawled in and shut the door behind her. It was so difficult to maneuver with his cock practically breaking through the layers of fabric.

“You’re so easy. Aren’t you? Hmm?” He purred as he stroked her face with the muzzle, the front sight grazing the hairs of her brow.

She was beautiful. Her little fists balled up and trying to resist the urge to assault him. At least she was clever enough to not push her luck and actually assault him. She was trembling.

“I’m just like one of your cheap clients. You give me you, and I’ll not kill you.” He bargained, showing her that he would be reasoned with.

“I’m sorry. I think you have the wrong person!” She shook herself. Clearly resistant on her part of their little bargain.

He grabbed a giant fistful of her hair and yanked her up and shoved her onto the console, twisting the cuffs he had onto her wrists through the middle of the head rests.

Hegarty put the gun down and unzipped his pants, pulling his already-leaking member out of the fly of his boxers. It was large and pulsing as if thinking on its own.

He pulled up her skirt and tore her tights further. The only barrier left were some depressingly unsexy black panties. Rather basic. Just a flickering of lace around the top and bottoms.

Out of annoyance and a surge of betrayal of this common tramp, he tore them off and balled them into the front of the car. He’d keep them for later.

He looked at her exposed cunt and chuckled to himself quietly. There seemed to be a thin layer of slick coating the lips.

“Good girl, already so soaked for me. I bet your cheap clients just love how desperate you are. You must take cock like it’s nothing!” He pick up the gun and traced it down her spine before resting it at the base of her neck.

He carefully cupped the round curve of her ass with his free hand. It was just right, and perfectly able to be parted cheek by cheek as he marveled at it. This little whore was perfect for him. Just designed to make a good man like him fall.

He would have spent more time marveling at it, but he was giving himself one hell of a case of blue balls.

She needed fucked.

He needed to fuck her.

He scooted himself up further and pressed himself inside her warm and tight hole.

She let herself yelp; it was a small, plaintive tone. Very delicious. His cock twitched inside of her. From her lips escaped a groan. She clearly got off on this. The big, bad man had her here, strung up. Not only were her cries so melodic to listen to, but he felt her pussy moisten around his cock.

“You’re so tight for a prostitute.” He purred. He felt her walls fluttered tighter around himself.

“Cry for me. You might prove your innocence if you do.” He guided her further with the gun moving from her neck to her skull as he lay down over her. He took his arm and flung it under her, arching her head deeper onto the tip of the gun. His hand went down her top and he grasped her breast. It was soft, easily bruised. He pinched down hard and scraped his nails against the tender flesh of her nipples.

A moan escaped her lips, despite herself.

“What a proper slut you are for me. So good.” He dished out the praised.

“Don’t worry, no one can hear you in here. Nor see you. Perform for me.” He said as he slammed his shaft further in and out of her.

She thrashed in her cuffs as she let out a hiccup and coughed hard through her choking tears.

He pulled the hammer once and moved it down to the cervical vertebrae.

“Don’t fight. You were doing so good. Be good. Right?” He pulled his head further and looked at her, he was fully in her now. Her eyes glistening like the shine of a far-off planet. Absolutely breathtaking. "I'd hate to blow your pretty little brains out all over my clean car..."

He gripped her throat and squeezed it hard as he sped up for a while. Her labored breath came out in such a delightful way. He played with the idea of snapping her neck. He could do it; it would be so easy to cover up her death.

Ultimately, he decided against it.

But he did choke her further, harder. His large hands and long fingers wrapped almost completely around her neck. Squeezing it was enough to get him harder yet. He could feel his thumb nail meet the corner of his pinky finger.

He lightly shook her neck as he rotated his dick in her hole…hips thrusting in multiple directions.

He continued to pound into her. She accepted her position once more. Her body relaxed more and more…

He felt her leak in spite of herself. Wet, slick and coming from her increasingly tight cunt. He also felt herself piss herself a tad. (Or was she a squirter? He leaned towards that theory.)

Soon enough, he felt his ball empty into her. He grunted and let himself stay inside her as he slumped over her. He removed the gun and stroked her hair and the raw skin if her neck. It could almost be mistaken for care.

“You did that so beautifully. I can see why you’re doing this…” He cooed into her ear.

He un-cuffed her. Quickly pulling down her skirt and popping open the door from a button in the front.

He quickly put himself back in his pants and reached for his wallet, taking a massive wad of cash and chucked it at her.

He pulled himself into the driver’s seat, and pulled down the window.

“Keep yourself safe and law abiding.” He ruffed out. She was on the sidewalk and grasped herself and her belongings. Tears still leaked from that beautiful face of hers. The makeup was so artfully smeared, it looked like something a high-end label would do if it were grunge-ing out.

He smiled at her in a fair and threatened way.

He sped out away and towards the highway.

☆☆☆☆

Two weeks later- A very confused girl received a parcel in the mail. Kiki de Montparnasse. She didn’t recall ordering it.

A gift note fell out:

Skeptically, she opened it up. It was a halter bra and a thong with matching cut-outs. Mesh, black. There was also a black maxi dress with a mesh torso area…

Everything was exactly her size.

“I’ll be seeing you soon. Keep prepared, little tart. -dci.”

She shuddered and looked around. Unsure of what she felt, she felt herself cry.

She felt on display and exposed. How did he find her? And why?

She placed the box on her bed and stared at it...

What did that crooked cop mean? And why her?

[agathasstrap]

ᯓᡣ𐭩 welcome mi amor!

𝜗𝜚ྀི — WRITING REQUESTS ARE NOW OPEN

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about me: my name is callie, and i'm from peru! I spend a lot of time working and studying towards my dream of being a pilot. i want to travel the world, and i'm very very invested in learning the cultures/customs of different people. for much of my life i've found film as a way to escape the things around me that were difficult or hard, and it was always a way to immerse myself into a new world that was more positive and exciting. i can play the guitar and the drums, i can draw really well, i love sushi, and i love to read. i go for runs a lot, usually a mile or two a day, and my favorite sweet treat is peruvian chocolate. films and tv are a big part of my life, and i'm super excited to be able to share this love with so many people across this platform. i'm pretty new to tumblr, and even though i speak english fluently it is not my first language, so please be forgiving!

my interests/fandoms: as i said, i really like television, so here are a few of my favorite things; killing eve, agatha all along, grey's anatomy, supernatural, loki, stranger things, loving annabelle, the sex lives of college girls, hunger games trilogy, yellowjackets, wandavision, legion, parks & recreation, the witcher, grand army, harry potter, all of tim burton's movies, yellowstone, sweeny todd (specifically the demon barber of fleet street), oceans 8, carol, cruella, law and order svu, orange is the new black, derry girls, how to get away with murder, wednesday, n.c.i.s., bridgerton, elite, and criminal minds!

𝜗𝜚ྀི — tags to look for from now on include ;;

# strap&yap – for any rants or blurbs!

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[beardedmrbean]

The Market of Sweethearts has nothing on Brooklyn’s seedy Penn Track.

East New York’s notorious open-air sex market has seen an explosion of scantily clad prostitutes in the area near Pennsylvania Avenue, prompting a local pol to plead for cops to crack down as parents are forced to shield their children’s eyes and residents wake up to used condoms scattered across their condo parking lots.

“We need the same attention the police department is paying to Roosevelt Avenue, to bring it out to East New York … to help address the issue,” City Councilman Chris Banks told The Post.

The Post encountered nearly a dozen skimpily dressed hookers Wednesday night, standing beside parked city Sanitation Department and semi-trailer trucks along Georgia and Malta avenues, bringing sleazy drivers to a stop and even jamming up traffic as they chatted up potential johns.

“You’d like to hang out?” one prostitute, who wore black platform boots and a tiny skirt exposing most of her derriere, asked a Post reporter.

After offering sex for $120 or oral for $85, she advised, “I know a spot we can go,” before being turned down.

Another woman on the block promised a good time in the backseat of the scribe’s Chevy Malibu for $140. 

“You don’t have tinted windows? We’re going to have to fishbowl it,” cooed the sex worker, who wore thigh-high boots along with a red and black leather jacket.  

Longtime locals bemoaned brazen prostitutes hawking sex in broad daylight, less than four blocks from PS 306.

“Had there been an early response to this, it would’ve brought the activity down, [but] it’s been allowed to fester over the last couple years,” said a frustrated Banks, who supported the recently passed hotel licensing bill aimed at cracking down on “bad actors” profiting off the illicit sex trade.  

Through Oct. 27, police have made 18 prostitution-related arrests along the Penn Track, including 12 for patronizing prostitutes, compared to 19 during the same period in 2023, with 16 johns being busted. During this period in 2022, just four arrests were made in the area, all for prostitution. 

Migrant women staying in nearby shelters are believed to be fueling the prostitution surge at Penn Track, historically the domain of young black sex workers, Banks and a women’s advocate said.

The prostitutes are being extorted by pimps, the advocate explained — some of whom have been busted for allegedly forcing girls as young as 16 to work the streets and gunning down rivals in flesh-peddling turf wars. 

“It’s all pimp-controlled,” said the advocate, who requested anonymity. “You can’t work independently there.”

City Hall and the NYPD have made “a lot of verbal commitments” to provide additional resources for tackling the prostitution in his district, but “we haven’t seen the boots on the ground,” Banks said.

An NYPD spokesperson said police have focused their patrol efforts in the Penn Track area and will continue to address the issue.

City Hall spokeswoman Kayla Mama said Mayor Eric Adams “has made it clear that lawlessness, particularly the exploitation of women, will not be tolerated or ignored.”

While roughly 50-plus cops were seen patrolling Roosevelt Avenue on a Wednesday night two weeks ago, The Post observed only a pair of cops in an NYPD cruiser and in an unmarked car around the prostitution hub over the course of four hours Wednesday.

“Be careful,” two officers in the unmarked sedan warned a reporter they initially believed to be a john. “You don’t want to be in The Post.” 

[melkyt]

Persona 5 AU,

Luffy starring as Joker, having punched some rich asshole who was abusing a women on the street. This got him arrested, Garp doesnt do shit and neither does any of his family, he is a minor so he gets off with community service but due to the scandal so he ends up being kicked out of the small village

Shanks is the one who takes him in, only saying that he owes Garp some kind of favor. He gives him the attic and tells him not to get in the way

(Shanks is going to be attached to Luffy in 2.5 seconds and Luffy is going to help him with Uta who is having a tough time, she becomes the phantom thieves hacker xd, anyone who played the game gets where im going with that probably haha)

Law starring as Akechi 😈

Which makes the asshole that Luffy punched be Doffy heh heh.

Luffy who is used to people failing him, and double crossing him since a young age taking care of himself for the most part, immediately clocks that Law is hiding something. He isnt sure what, but its there at the back of his mind.

He doesn't saying anything though, enjoying Law's company as he comes by Shanks' bar/coffeeshop where Luffy has started working along with his bazillion other part-time jobs

Law saying he likes the coffee, and that is why he stops by.

Luffy knowing well that he cant make coffee for anything and that its gross, doesn't buy it. Though he decides to ask Makino, a neighboor next door to teach him how to brew coffee, and later to make easy food when Sanji joins them

He is doing all this because he wants to see Law smile, and also its totally a bribe so they can be friends (get those music notes 🎶 Luffy xd)

Eventually when all the palaces are torn down and they reach Doffy's there is a fight between Law and Luffy,

Law being dramatic about how those short few months was the best time of his life, smiling at Luffy and them telling him to get out of there and take down Doffy for him, the steal door crashes down between them. There is a whispered confession of love that Luffy doesnt quite hear

Luffy trying to break it down, only to hear a gunshot and blood seeping under it. Law does not answer. Luffy going numb as they never even had a chance to say how they felt, it always felt as though they had all the time in the world. He finishes the palace despite the twisting pain.

Unlike the ending of persona 5 where its vague but we see a hint that when Luffy in this case would be leaving for the train

Law sees him board and gets there to late, as the train takes off, a missed connection, or atlwast it would be if Luffy didnt catch sight of him. Catches sight of familiar black hair and bright golden eyes.

Luffy jumping of the train, getting more then a few scratches, but he doesnt care, scrambling up the platform and hugging Law, returning the confession without even a pause.

They kiss and everyone is happy!

(Though if i was being angsty, where Luffy doesnt see him and the world is rebooted and Luffy's dream/desire is for Law to be with him, to be alive. Only for Law to not have died but Luffy doesnt know that, and he is confronted with a wish where he either has to save the world or save Law. Luffy being the kind of guy who will burn the world down for those he loves almost says yes to the dream

Until Law as a wild card snaps out of the trance and snaps that he is alive! He's here but he didnt want to burden Luffy, which gets Luffy angry about it, and he channels that amger at whoever the villain is that trapped them in the dream xd

Person 5 Royal extended end never leaves my thoughts about how much angst they stuffed into the story thread between akechi and joker xd, that as Lawlu is chefkiss)

[christinescupofcoffee]

Dear Prudence

something that crossed my mind the other night while I was watching law & order and I was just drawn to Mike in particular—I always have been drawn to him but more so when I found out Linus is British.

I’m two for two in portraying two British men as sexy and twisted (Steve first, and now Linus). It’d be something if I dropped a Bowie one shot on the 8th, then I could say I dropped acid before the 20th 🤪

Michael waited at the train station with a quick glimpse down to his watch. It was a month ago when he had seen her and she left the precinct in exasperation. Connie had been her usual kind self to him, but from a distance, he could tell that she had the wrong idea. He had chased after her to tell her of a different story but nevertheless, the memory had left him with heaviness in his chest and a wave of nausea in the pit of his stomach.

“You lawyers are all the same,” she spat before she stormed away and into the rainy New York avenue; she had echoed something that she had maintained since that night he and Cyrus had met her up in Buffalo. The girl from the high desert of Nevada now relocated to the cold of upstate and tried her hand at the city, and yet the grit of it all seemed to have broken her. His grit seemed to have broken her.

Despite his efforts, he couldn’t change her mind about it, about him. Even as the human torch of a defense attorney with a bottle of scotch in hand, he persisted. An iron heart with a heart of diamond, one that knew how to break through to the other, and he knew that he could convince her. And yet, even with his ways of convincing and finding his way under her skin, she always seemed a little more distant than he had been acquainted with. Something perturbed her.

Since that first day up in Buffalo, she remained on his mind. Connie had that narrow heart-shaped face and short bob of dark hair, but she had something else. Those long inky black waves and ringlets down along her back, and those tender brown eyes that seemed to gaze on back at him like the soul of the earth. Her skin carried the kiss of an olive and her full breasts were always accentuated by something snug and low. She was sensual and lush without even trying. She always wore a hat as well, either a violet fedora or one of those big floppy sun hats with a black lacy ribbon tied about the crown.

Michael glanced down at his watch again, and he knew that he had caught the right flight. He was looking for a hat accompanied with long dark hair set amongst the crowd in the train station. At least it stopped raining outside; but even with the rain having stopped, at some point, the crowd had stopped and thinned out right before him. Buffalo wasn’t that far away, but he could feel the anger from her as if she stood right next to him.

It was only a month ago, but he could still hear her words.

He turned his gaze back to the rest of the platform and thought of going back to the street for a walk down to the bar for a shot.

He could feel her presence behind him, and he turned again to see her striding off the car before the parlor. She had done her hair up in a snug bun at the back of her head: she had bangs cut, such that they accentuated the brim of her red wine-colored bowler hat. She wore a thin black velvet dinner jacket over a snug black button-up shirt with the top two buttons undone to show off her chest, black trousers which hugged her legs, and black leather Doc Martens. Her eyes met with his in steely fashion, but she showed him a smile nevertheless.

“Smiling despite your pain,” Michael declared to her as she stopped before him with her hand on the strap of her travel bag. He gestured for her to come on closer to him, but she hesitated. “Come on, doll. You know you are my little doll, right?”

She sighed through her nose and looked on into his deep blue eyes. They met eye to eye, and more so when she nudged the brim of her hat over her brow some more so he could see her bangs.

“Little doll with the blue-eyed boy from the gutter,” she declared, and she set down her bag and threw her arms around him. Her breasts felt as full as ever, and the curvature of her back seemed to fit his hands like it was made for them.

Michael held back and cradled her face in his hands. He ran the pad of his thumb along her bottom lip and he leaned in for a soft kiss. A soft kiss despite being filled with fire.

He then moved back and gazed into her eyes.

“I have missed you all too much,” he confessed to her in a breathy voice, and then he stroked her shoulders. “Come on, doll.” He picked up her bag for her and slung it over his shoulder. He offered her his hand on the walk out to the street, to which she gladly took up the offer.

“There she is,” he declared. When they reached the street, he lifted a hand to flag down a cab.

They headed back to his apartment to begin their evening together.

“Would you like a shower before we get things started?” he offered her.

“I could definitely use one,” she replied as she set her hat down on his nightstand. He showed her a little smirk at the sight of those filmy bangs and the way they hugged her brow.

She bowed into the bathroom and proceeded with her shower. As Michael himself changed his clothes, out from his suit and tie to a royal blue shirt under his black jacket, he thought about sneaking in there with her and joining in on the shower. He shook his head and ran his long, lanky fingers through the long wave of blond hair upon his head. The night had to be perfect, and thus, things had to wait.

She switched off the shower and he sat down on the edge of his bed to put his shoes back on. It wasn’t until he laced up all the way when he could smell her shampoo and the steam from in there. Michael glanced over his shoulder to see that she held the door ajar by about an inch. He could hear her changing into something different.

“How you doing in there, doll?” he asked her.

“Just about there, baby blue,” she called back, and he smiled at that nickname.

The door squeaked open, and he clambered to his feet to find her wrapped in a fitted dark red velvet top with a low halter neckline, black silk dress trousers, and her long dark waves, now black as night with the caress of water, tousled about her shoulders like a mane. Not a lick of makeup one, but Michael still picked up her bowler hat for her.

“Believe it or not, I’ve been told that this wasn’t sexy enough,” she told him.

“Are you kidding me?” He was stunned by that as he dusted off her hat and gently placed it upon the crown of her head to accentuate her bangs. She showed him a little smile, and he maintained the little knowing smirk.

“Really, whoever said that to you has obviously never seen the full range of sexy,” he assured her. She bowed her head and giggled at that, but then she continued onto her bag to fetch her black leather flats, like a pair of ballerina shoes that looked like nothing more than for lazing around his apartment instead of walking.

“It’s gonna be a bit of a walk, you sure you got it alright?” he asked her, slightly concerned.

“I’ve walked all over Reno in these things,” she assured him. “And Buffalo. And Syracuse. They’re tough little things.” She glanced over her shoulder at him with a twinkle in her eye. “Tough little things like us.”

“You got that right, doll face,” he assured her with a quick flick of his eyebrow.

“Doll face?” She chuckled at that, and she stood back up and straightened out her top, and he couldn’t resist looking down her neckline. She wagged her finger at him. “Hey, no peeking.”

“I’m not allowed to peek?” he playfully pouted.

“Not yet, anyway,” she promised him, and he raised an eyebrow again. They left his apartment and returned to the street right as evening was beginning to fall. The rain had stopped but the feeling remained in the air around them as they continued on into the heart of downtown of the city that never sleeps. Michael could feel her fingers link up with his own down by his hip, and she showed him a smile, albeit one that still carried that air of agony to it. Indeed, when she looked away, the smile faded.

“Everything alright?” he asked her over the noise of the street. She kept her gaze locked on the street before them.

“I was reminiscing on the last time I came down here to the city,” she confessed, her expression blank. “I keep telling myself that it was just the one time.”

“Yeah, you can’t do New York once,” he assured her. “Trust me on that, too.” And all the while, he wanted to know more about her, about what was residing behind those bangs and that hat. He was the hardest defense attorney the precinct had on hand: he could probe into their minds as if he had a chisel and hammer. Surely, he could find his way through the cold stone that surrounded her.

Soon, they found themselves by a long low stone wall and wrought iron gates on the side before them. Tall yew and oak trees surrounded the inside of the wall before them.

“A cemetery?” she wondered aloud.

“One of the biggest in New York, doll.” Michael rested a hand on the iron gate and nudged it open. “I remember you telling me that fewer things are more exhilarating than spending the night with the dead.”

“Spend a night with the dead and also with veins of silver surrounding you,” she recalled. “The old abandoned silver mines back in Virginia City, not too far from Reno, and the old colonial neighborhoods in the heart of Carson City.”

“I’ll take you back there one day,” he vowed, and he led her into the graveyard, past the sprawling low tombstones and the odd mausoleum. There was one tree in the middle of the cemetery, a tall elm with scraggly bare branches with the incoming darkness of winter. Even with the barren branches, there was a small black tent set up underneath as well as a weighty white horse blanket and a black wooden box.

“It was raining,” he explained. “But I wanted us to have something good because I knew you were coming. Whatever it was that I did to upset you, I wanted to make it up to you.”

She parted her lips and softly touched his face.

“It wasn’t you, Michael,” she assured him in a voice so soft that she nearly breathed the words. “It’s just…” She stopped.

“What?”

“I had been fucked over too many times,” she told him, and she set her hand on his shoulder. “I had always heard things about attorneys and lawyers is that they’re all crooks.”

He shrugged his shoulders at that. “Some of them are,” he stated with a straight face. “Some of them do actually want to help you, though.” He gestured for her to have a seat on the horse blanket under the safety of the tent. They were away from the street so no one could catch them in the act.

She sat cross-legged on the blanket while Michael opened the box and took out a bottle of wine plus two small white ceramic glasses.

“Madeira for the girl from Ipanema,” he said as he poured her a glass. She smiled at that, and more so when he handed her the glass. She took a whiff of the wine, which smelled lush and sweet; it was as dark as the incoming night around them. Michael poured himself a glass and held it up to her.

She followed suit, and they gently clinked the glasses together. With their eyes locked upon each other, they sipped on the wine in unison.

“That’s wonderful,” she remarked. “So sweet.” Michael set his glass down on the lid of the box and showed her a small handful of chocolates as well as a loaf of ciabatta. “How romantic. Chocolate and bread.”

“Not just any old chocolate and bread,” he promised her with a chuckle. “This bread is a Portuguese loaf called mafra. And this was the darkest chocolate I could find without giving you a punch in the belly.” He handed her some chocolate, which she happily took for herself. With a small serrated knife, he sliced off a few pieces of the bread for the two of them, and she took a couple of slices for herself.

“You’re hungry,” he remarked as he took a bite of bread himself.

“I haven’t eaten since this morning,” she confessed with a shrug.

“Should’a eaten something on the train,” he said with a shake of his head.

Once they finished their bread and chocolate, he took something else out of the box: a small red book that looked fresh off the shelves from a place downtown. In the ambient light from the street, she made out the word “Ariel” on the front cover.

“Bedtime story?” he offered her.

“Please,” she obliged, and she leaned in close to him away from the rain. His cologne engulfed her and he could protect her from the cold. She sipped on her wine as he read “Lady Lazarus” to her.

His thick New York accent with the low tone of his voice coalesced into a gentle hum, at which she nodded off right next to him. At some point, he dozed off as well.

They awoke to the continual sound of the rain around them, at which Michael turned to her and rested a hand on her slumbering face. The hat was dry and her face was dry. They were in such a small space, but a small space would have to do.

He adjusted her hat for her when she stirred awake and looked on at him through the darkness.

She picked up her wine glass for another big sip, and she tucked it back into the black box between them. Michael tucked the book into the box next to the wine bottle and the remainder of the loaf of mafra as well, and she put the rest of the chocolate back after that. Once he slipped the lid back on the box, she held onto the sides of his face and pressed her lips onto his, at which he responded with his arms around her. He reached up under her blouse to unhook her bra. She responded by gently nudging him back onto the blanket so she was on top.

“Baby blue…” she breathed as she moved her lips onto the side of his lanky neck and the collar of his shirt. Before he could even so much as unhook her bra, she lifted up his shirt and showed off his lanky little body to the world. Michael kept his arms up over his body as he let her have it her way with him.

Her fingers down his chest and onto his stomach, at which she moved her fingers down to his crotch. He arched his back from the feeling, only for her to move on back up to his face to lock eyes with him again. Before she could do anything else, he held onto her breasts with both hands. She gasped and let out a soft, shuddered moan as he massaged both at the same time.

“Yes… that’s it… that’s—it!” she whispered to him.

He then moved his hands around her back again, that time to unhook her bra for real that time. He didn’t want to ruin that lovely blouse of hers, but he did want those breasts to be as tight as stone. Once his fingers found their way inside of the cups to fondle those mocha-colored nipples, he could feel her reach down inside of his pants again, that time to fondle him down while he was doing the same unto her.

She breathed harder, that time right in his ear. The sound of her breathing was only making him wet in his own right.

Her fingers slithered up around the end of his tip and up inside there. He responded by moving his one hand down inside of her pants and then her soft dark red panties.

She was as wet as the falling rain all around them. All it took was a little bit of fingering on the head of her clit, at which she arched her back and buried her head into his chest. The bowler hat fell onto his face, much to his amusement, but he persisted with the swipes on her clit. She persisted with the touches on his dick, which was as wet as the world around them.

She tugged down his pants for him so she could have a better grip on him. She breathed hard and fast as he used two fingers on her. He was two knuckles deep on her when she finally sputtered it out—

“Go inside,” she told him. “Inside my lips—”

“To your spot?” he choked out, and he moved his fingers to her lips for a feel of her spot up inside of her lips. She lay her head on his chest again and breathed harder and harder from the feeling. It had been so long that he forgot how good it felt to please her there.

“Michael—Mikey—you crazy bastard—” She couldn’t help but laugh, but then he wriggled his fingers on the ridges of the spot again, and she gasped and softly groaned from the sensation. He released onto her fingers rather than his pants, but she never let go of her grip on him. Panting, she kept her head on his chest. He let out a low groan, followed by a whistle and a lick of his lips. She lifted her head and nudged her bowler hat out of his face; his legs were soaking wet, but it made no difference at that point. Michael lay his hand on her back and held her against his chest.

“Wow,” he breathed out in a broken voice. “Oh, my lord, I have missed that so much.”

“I have, too,” she confessed, still out of breath.

Connie burst into his mind, but he was all about her at the moment, and he never wanted to let her go. She lifted her head and looked into his face through the darkness.

“You have got to be here,” he advised her. “If there is any way I could bring you here to New York from upstate…” His voice trailed off.

“I have too much pain in Manhattan,” she confessed to him. “Manhattan and a part of Brooklyn as well. Too many bad memories and things I would rather just not think about anymore, Mike. I can’t—I can’t—” He pressed a finger to his fingers and quietly stopped her.

“Whatever it is, I can protect you,” he vowed. “It is my job to protect people and dig them out.”

“It’s more twisted than that,” she said, and she lay her head on his slender chest again.

“Even the worst of twists can’t stop me,” he insisted. “It’s always a challenge but I can do it.”

He lay his dry hand on the back of her head to keep her close to him.

“I guess I can do it with a broken heart,” she confessed as her voice filled with tears.

“Broken hearts are no match for Michael Cutter, my dear Prudence,” he vowed, “my little doll.”

[eretzyisrael]

by Phyllis Chesler

Just last week, pro-Palestinian Arab demonstrators tried to stop Congressmen Richie Torres and Mike Lawler, from speaking about Israeli-Arab peace through the Abraham Accords at the 92nd St Y in New York City.

Approximately twenty to twenty five protestors stood up in waves, one after the other, yelling out "Free Palestine" and "Genocide is not peace." It took about twenty minutes to clear the room. The assembled audience booed them and eventually started yelling "Get them out" and "Yeah, free Palestine from Hamas."

Torres sat on the platform entirely unfazed. Afterwards, he tweeted: "No amount of Astroturf Anti-Israel agitation is going to bully me into supporting a ceasefire that perpetuates the genocidal terrorism of Hamas. I refuse to be intimidated by a fanatical fringe that represents no one and nothing but itself."

This demonstrating-in-waves is hardly original. It is an Islamist/Marxist tactic long in use.

For example, in 2008, female students, members of the Muslim Student Association (a creation of the Muslim Brotherhood), chose to interrupt my friend and colleague Nonie Darwish's lecture about eight Iranian women who were facing execution and about Sharia law. Each hijabbed student sat at the end of each row, cleared their throats rather loudly, and then proceeded to leave, one after the other, for the bathroom. Their interruptions continued as Nonie spoke.

In 2010, ten Muslim students interrupted Israeli Ambassador Michael Oren's lecture at the University of California's Irvine campus. They continued to heckle and shout him down. "Michael Oren, propagating murder is not an expression of free speech" and "Sir, you are an accomplice to genocide." Amazingly, the students were charged, found guilty and sentenced to three years of probation, 56 hours of community service and fines.

For the last twenty years in America outside lecturers, professors, and students have been bullied, cancelled, and shut down all across America. Loud mobs have harassed politicians at their homes, on the street, and while dining out with their families.

These anti-Israel demonstrators have also disrupted High Culture.

In October of this year, at least 1,000 pro-Palestinian Arab hordes demonstrated outside the Opera House in Sydney, Australia. The government had illuminated the House in the colors of the Israeli flag following Hamas's 10/7 brutal terrorist massacre against Israeli civilians.

More recently, at the end of November, climate (!) demonstrators managed to interrupt and delay the performance of Wagner's Tanhauser at New York City's Metropolitan Opera House for one hour. In tried and true Alinsky/Marxist/Black Lives Matter/Antifa/Islamist form, the protesters sat in different parts of the audience and then, one by one, they stood, screamed, dropped banners over the balconies, resisted being escorted out.

Makes sense. Environmentalist poster child Greta Thunberg has moved on from saving the planet to "doubling down on (her) anti-Israel stance, accusing it of "genocide" in Gaza. She has taken to chanting "crush Zionism" at rallies.

I guess all those who need attention go where the action is.

Such demonstrations, delays, and interruptions are precisely what I'm talking about when I say that a Red/Green alliance is trying to destroy Western culture and civilization.

Right now, we are living through near-constant demonstrations replete with drums, megaphones, and loud and aggressive marchers; they are shutting speakers down, blocking the entrances to trains, obstructing traffic by blocking roads and bridges all over North America.

Slowly, surely, our sense of safety in public spaces is being eroded.

These "smaller" but almost continuous interruptions have begun to unravel our democratic rights to free speech, lawful assembly, civil society, and street safety. This is what I mean when I write that Islamists/Marxists are destroying Western culture and our civilization.

They must be stopped

[ineedtherapist]

Dayum, It's been AGES and tbh I never thought I will ever came back but here I am alive and well (sadly).

Haven't write in ages tho so I'm starting off with my fav and slowly gonna work back up, gaining momentum and shi.

Hope y'all enjoy my two cents hhshsha

-al <3

Post Phantom Blood Robert

Robert general HCS Prt 1

Generally speaking, he's amazing. Like real type of amazing that people seldom realise since he's the side character and got outshine;

used by the plot to hype the main character.

The only different is that instead of Jonathan, bro got subscribed to a thick ass plot armor (unlike certain blonde 💀🙏🏻)

Robert who literally lived in Ogre Street.

Who make a living there, survived his childhood there which if anyone say it was an easy feat then ig we all are a certain high tech CEO thay bought a social media platform and banned artist compared to this young lad.

Ain't no way that's a small feat.

But then how did Robert did it?

That place was littered with scumbags and people doing cracks,it was criminals R&R with black market operating 24/7 like a damn 7-11.

And you're telling me, this hunk of a man managed to grow up somewhat save until he reached his adulthood?

"He's build a tank!"

My homies. To be able to even grow that damn big at that time where the police is as loose as the law whilst plague and poverty come hand-in-hand; and people's corpse piled up at the side of the street like a garbage heap is a work miracle itself.

Robert is smart. He's lucky and he got the looks and the charms needed to survive in that hellhole.

He didn't even come close to those who rule the Ogre Street but he's a convenient dog for those who did.

Know that place like the back of his hand. The people, the layout. Things that died and things that stay alive. Keep an eye out all the time and vigilant.

When, what, where, how. Those are the questions he always kept himself updated on. He know it and act upon it, waiting for the right time.

Robert act like a dog on a leash when in reality he's a stray one, pretending for the sake of survival.

An instinct one adapt in the harsh world where the strong devour the weak. Survival of the fittest.

Maybe he's a fallen noble, maybe he was already there the moment he opened his eyes but one thing remain the same for this man : he's alone. always is.

Has no one to rely on, to asked or question what was happening around him.

An orphan most definitely.

" Survive. Survive. Survive."

Like a broken tape, those words are repeated, buried deep inside his soul, become a part of him as he grew older.

Robert who's a smooth talker. A lady killer. An amazing conman yet never lied outside of necessities.

Robert whose mouth are as foul as it can be, even Dio seem like a saint compared to him.

And what makes the man so charming? The reason why one such as myself is deeply infatuated with him?

Robert was kind.

Despite living and growing up in a literal satan's den, he had always been kind.

Naturally, in order to survive, the line of his moralities start to blurred as the days passed and yet he didn't forget who he was.

Robert tried his best to survive and didn't yield to the others and then;

He met Jonathan

and that kind soul finally meet a reason to leave that place.

Before, he had nobody, no one to give his heart to. His loyalty. No reason to leave that place. A stray dog without an owner.

and then he met him.

Jonathan Joestar.

His saviour, his owner. The one whom he swore to be by his side no matter what happened.

Everything start to makes sense. Everything start to feel right. And his soul had never been more at peace more than anytime other than being by his side.

part 2...?

[theoutcastrogue]

Distributed Denial of Secrets — the nonprofit transparency collective that hosts an ever-growing public library of leaked and hacked datasets for journalists and researchers to investigate — has been a major source of news for organizations like the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Wall Street Journal, The Guardian, BBC News, Al Jazeera, the Associated Press, Reuters, and Fox News, among others. It has published datasets that shed light on law enforcement fusion centers spying on Black Lives Matter activists, revealed Oath Keepers supporters among law enforcement and elected officials, and exposed thousands of videos from January 6 rioters, including many that were used as evidence in Donald Trump’s second impeachment inquiry. (Disclosure: I’m an adviser to DDoSecrets.) But not everyone is a fan. DDoSecrets has powerful enemies and has found itself censored by some of the world’s biggest tech companies, including X (formerly Twitter) and Reddit. The governments of Russia and Indonesia are also censoring access to its website. Shortly before the 2020 election, Twitter prevented users from posting links to a New York Post article based on documents stolen from Hunter Biden’s laptop, citing a violation of the company’s hacked materials policy. After intense pressure from Republicans, Twitter reversed course two days later. This was widely covered in the media and even led to congressional hearings. What’s less well known is that earlier in 2020, in the midst of the Black Lives Matter uprising, Twitter used the same hacked materials policy to not only permanently ban the @DDoSecrets account, but also prevent users from posting any links to ddosecrets.com. This was in response to the collective publishing the BlueLeaks dataset, a collection of 270GB of documents from over 200 law enforcement agencies. (German authorities also seized a DDoSecrets server after the release of BlueLeaks, bringing the collective’s data server temporarily offline.) When Elon Musk bought Twitter, which he has since renamed X, he promised that he would restore “free speech” to the platform. But Musk’s company is still censoring DDoSecrets; links to the website have been blocked on the platform for over three years. Lorax Horne, an editor at DDoSecrets, told The Intercept that they are “not surprised” that Musk isn’t interested in ending the censorship. “We afflict the comfortable, and we include a lot of trans people,” they said. “Transparency is not comforting to the richest people in the world.” [keep reading]

[fairest]

Mourning for Whiteness

Thinking about this today as I have been since 2016.

Toni Morrison November 13, 2016

This is a serious project. All immigrants to the United States know (and knew) that if they want to become real, authentic Americans they must reduce their fealty to their native country and regard it as secondary, subordinate, in order to emphasize their whiteness. Unlike any nation in Europe, the United States holds whiteness as the unifying force. Here, for many people, the definition of “Americanness” is color.

Under slave laws, the necessity for color rankings was obvious, but in America today, post-civil-rights legislation, white people’s conviction of their natural superiority is being lost. Rapidly lost. There are “people of color” everywhere, threatening to erase this long-understood definition of America. And what then? Another black President? A predominantly black Senate? Three black Supreme Court Justices? The threat is frightening.

In order to limit the possibility of this untenable change, and restore whiteness to its former status as a marker of national identity, a number of white Americans are sacrificing themselves. They have begun to do things they clearly don’t really want to be doing, and, to do so, they are (1) abandoning their sense of human dignity and (2) risking the appearance of cowardice. Much as they may hate their behavior, and know full well how craven it is, they are willing to kill small children attending Sunday school and slaughter churchgoers who invite a white boy to pray. Embarrassing as the obvious display of cowardice must be, they are willing to set fire to churches, and to start firing in them while the members are at prayer. And, shameful as such demonstrations of weakness are, they are willing to shoot black children in the street.

To keep alive the perception of white superiority, these white Americans tuck their heads under cone-shaped hats and American flags and deny themselves the dignity of face-to-face confrontation, training their guns on the unarmed, the innocent, the scared, on subjects who are running away, exposing their unthreatening backs to bullets. Surely, shooting a fleeing man in the back hurts the presumption of white strength? The sad plight of grown white men, crouching beneath their (better) selves, to slaughter the innocent during traffic stops, to push black women’s faces into the dirt, to handcuff black children. Only the frightened would do that. Right?

These sacrifices, made by supposedly tough white men, who are prepared to abandon their humanity out of fear of black men and women, suggest the true horror of lost status.

It may be hard to feel pity for the men who are making these bizarre sacrifices in the name of white power and supremacy. Personal debasement is not easy for white people (especially for white men), but to retain the conviction of their superiority to others—especially to black people—they are willing to risk contempt, and to be reviled by the mature, the sophisticated, and the strong. If it weren’t so ignorant and pitiful, one could mourn this collapse of dignity in service to an evil cause.

The comfort of being “naturally better than,” of not having to struggle or demand civil treatment, is hard to give up. The confidence that you will not be watched in a department store, that you are the preferred customer in high-end restaurants—these social inflections, belonging to whiteness, are greedily relished.

So scary are the consequences of a collapse of white privilege that many Americans have flocked to a political platform that supports and translates violence against the defenseless as strength. These people are not so much angry as terrified, with the kind of terror that makes knees tremble.

On Election Day, how eagerly so many white voters—both the poorly educated and the well educated—embraced the shame and fear sowed by Donald Trump. The candidate whose company has been sued by the Justice Department for not renting apartments to black people. The candidate who questioned whether Barack Obama was born in the United States, and who seemed to condone the beating of a Black Lives Matter protester at a campaign rally. The candidate who kept black workers off the floors of his casinos. The candidate who is beloved by David Duke and endorsed by the Ku Klux Klan.

William Faulkner understood this better than almost any other American writer. In “Absalom, Absalom,” incest is less of a taboo for an upper-class Southern family than acknowledging the one drop of black blood that would clearly soil the family line. Rather than lose its “whiteness” (once again), the family chooses murder.

[denimbex1986]

'It has been 10 years since Thomas Shelby (Cillian Murphy) rode the horse through Small Heath, Birmingham. So to celebrate Peaky Blinder’s 10th anniversary, the franchise has released fresh new merchandise consisting of mugs, posters, metal signs, and of course, caps — don’t worry, the caps do not have sewed-in razor blades. So unlike the show itself where everything happens by order of the Peaky Blinders, the tables have now turned — it’s your time to shine, and their job is to deliver.

The collection includes the iconic Peaky Blinders cap, a mug with Peaky Blinders art with themed packaging, nine new posters, and a framed Newspaper collector print for the 10-year anniversary. The poster designs range from black-and-white vintage art featuring Cillian Murphy and the rest of the gang to cheeky and bold quotes.

Creator Steven Knight Says There is More to Come for 'Peaky Blinders'

Steven Knight’s Peaky Blinders revolves around the Shelby family's rise to power in the criminal underworld as they navigate through a world of violence, political intrigue, and betrayals. Thomas Shelby is a war-traumatized and ambitious individual with one goal — to expand the family's influence and wealth while dealing with rivals, law enforcement, and other criminal organizations. Of course, Tommy is not alone in this and is accompanied by his three brothers — Arthur Shelby (Paul Anderson), John Shelby (Joe Cole), and Finn Shelby (Harry Kirton) — his aunt, Polly Gray (late Helen McCrory), and his sister, Ada Shelby (Sophie Rundle). The series ended after a six-season run. However, it seems as if Knight wants the fans to keep believing in Thomas Shelby’s words, “I will not stop until I can find a man I cannot defeat.”

Recently, Knight himself came forward to celebrate the 10-year anniversary of the franchise on different social media platforms of the franchise and said:

“It hardly seems believable that it’s ten years since Tommy Shelby first rode that black horse through the streets of Birmingham. The phenomenal global success of the show is down to the brilliance and hard work of the loyal team that makes it happen. Ten years on and the story is not yet over. Watch this space."

Needless to say, the story is not yet over, though it may be a while before we return to the Peaky Blinders universe. The series also starred multiple more famous names on and off, including Tom Hardy, Sam Claflin, and Aiden Gillen...'

[atthecenterofeverything]

on that note I know it's a very online phenomenon but people on here need to stop talking about street protests (especially registered, cop-approved ones) as, like, the most radical, effective thing you can do (that's even better than calling your representatives!). protests in europe and the US carry a real risk of violence especially for black and brown protesters and can be one of the manifestations of a mass movement but at the end of the day the police would not allow them if they actually threatened the status quo seriously. we go on the streets go walk go yell go back home. it's a piece of theater begging people to listen. millions of people have been marching for Palestine since october, millions marched for Iraq and Afghanistan, against the Vietnam war etc and it did next to nothing. and these were some of the most massive protest movements in the western world in recent history. this is not at all to say to not protest (everything is useful right now, or that everyone has the same positionality when it comes to breaking the law) but I think as Marxists we can all be serious about this. while of course keeping in mind that THE most useful and radical things you could be doing are not things that are at all safe to be discussing on a public platform.

[buckevantommy]

Adherents describe it as “less thoughts, more vibes” and if you’d rather be hot than think, the candy-pink, velveteen look that Britney and Paris made famous two decades ago is an unambiguous signifier of chosen modern levity. Ever the instinctive entrepreneur, Paris is – right now – retailing plush, 93%-polyester luxury on her website, so, yeah, a real thing is happening. 

[...] learning the aesthetic exists to satirise the impossibility of meeting contemporary standards of femininity by aggressively performing them makes me desperate to embrace its slutty, pink resistance [...] Alas, I am more than uncomfortable in microskirts and a midriff top and the mere idea of platform shoes reminds me to call my physio. Wide-eyed pouting by the young registers as ironically Lolitaesque – but on a face like mine, it can only ever read as mockery. 

Yet my jealousy persists, because how wonderful it is that activist young women and their friends have found a way to channel such a flagrant, public up-yours to the culture of gender policing that grows more exclusive and dangerous by the day. I mean this literally. There is a terrifying Venn overlap growing between capitalist criteria for feminised perfection and radical-right political demands to restrict the franchise of “womanhood” to ever-narrowing groups. 

This last has anti-transgender protesters and actual Nazis on the streets of Melbourne and anti-trans laws in the US already kicking lesbians out of public bathrooms, given their visible unwillingness to perform gender the way extremists insist they should. 

Meanwhile, the “tradwife” model homemakers of social media perform a highly merchandised ideal of womanliness without bimbocore’s snideness or irony. If you haven’t worked out tradwives are a soft power comms assault from the far right yet, the memes they post on Musk Twitter really – really – should give it away. 

Older women paying attention have realised that the ambitious Nazi/anti-trans crossover events agitated for in US legislation come from wanting to rebrand women as mere vessels for patriarchal reproduction. If you think ageing female bodies maintain any social value in that calculus, you are wrong. Note the recent laws passed in Kansas restrict the definition of “female” to those still producing “ova”. If you are an infertile, childfree or menopausal woman, a cultural tradition of being made to feel unwomaned by these experiences is now no longer just a nasty social habit. It’s reality under Kansas law. 

So what’s the appropriate aesthetic for the non-crop-top-compliant to express their resistance and refusal? There have been attempts to define a #cronecore and #hagcore but last time I let my greys grow out and wore a flanno to the shops, the messaging conveyed was hardly subversive. So now I have put in my order for a new tracksuit. My preference is black and hooded, and while I’m not out to culturally appropriate the aesthetic of the Ikkō-ikki I can certainly see the value of culture-jamming, gender-troublemakers learning how to vanish in a crowd. So let me now herald the arrival of the #NinjaCrone aesthetic. 

In the public theatre of gender activism, imagine an army of assassin-attired older women haunting the dreams of every Nazi, tradwife, anti-trans-bathroom authoritarian and anti-abortionist and making them as afraid of us as the loud sluttiness of our bimbo sisters makes them uncomfortable. We’re invisible to patriarchy anyway, so let’s weaponise the social performance of the ageing woman as anonymous, omnipresent … and capable of anything.

The bimbos get it: the far right have already declared their gender war. If you want to fight it, grab a mask and suit up. They will never see us coming. 

[x]