#but she's also a sex worker !!

[idolomantises]

explaining to twitter users that lili being a sex worker doesnt mean she's cheating on her wife

[wis-art]

Lucy is a sex worker who loves her job and finds it very fulfilling to work in a brothel, at first she joined a bit ashamed and desperate for cash because nobody wanted to hire a red devil looking girl, but she found out she actually really thinks it's fun and she really likes taking good care of her customers. Also her girlfriend loves her and supports her.

Lucy and her gf wiki:

[will-the-ghosts-go-away]

[squiggle3worm]

I never noticed that it was implied that after Sally went missing Gabe was cheating on her.

“She was interviewing him in our apartment, in the middle of a poker game, and there was a young blond lady sitting next to him, patting his hand. A fake tear glistened on his cheek. He was saying, ‘Honest, Ms. Walters, if it wasn’t for Sugar here, my grief counselor, I’d be a wreck’…”

Gabe never actually cared about Sally so why would he have a grief counselor besides keeping up appearances for insurance or something. If she is an actual grief counselor why is she comfortable being called “Sugar” unless it’s her first name. That’s not impossible but the amount of people with that name is so low it would be surprising. It’s easier to assume Gabe was cheating on Sally that it is to assume Sugar was there for any other reason.

We already knew that Gabe was abusive and a horrible person so I guess it’s not that shocking he’d cheat on Sally too. It just went over my head when I was reading it as a kid.

[fedtothenight]

not to be anti-woman or anything but it does fill me with a certain sadness to see a young woman with incredible talent in whatever field resort to onlyfans

[thesmokinpossum]

I can't believe y'all almost made me pay to go watch po*r th*ngs in theater without telling me that the whole thing revolves around a hardcore born sexy yesterday trope with a side dish of pseudo necrophilia where a woman with the brain of a litteral foetus who don't have periods or body hair (but do have boobs!) find joy and freedom by having a lot of sex with a bunch of men, shoving a apple up her vagina for some reason and joining a brothel (but it's a cool socialist brothel and all the girls looove being there, don't worry guys), all of that written and directed by two men, I'm never gonna trust you guys after this one lmao

[atopvisenyashill]

george is so annoying for naming the otherys women bellegere, bellenora, bellonora, and bellegere again. i mean there’s narha too which is a very pretty name but come on. did we have to use bellegere TWICE george. just invent another name!! it can literally just be bellEgere and bellOgere again.

[mermaidsirennikita]

Midnight Angel (my break the glass Kleypas of the moment) is a little slower, but is picking up now that our heroine (Tasia, erstwhile Russian escapee and current governess) basically just told our hero (Luke, single father, her boss, has hook for hand) that SOMEONE needed to tell his 12-year-old daughter about periods and probably sex, and he's like "Well, that's the worst thing I've ever heard, but go ahead"

before being like

"how do you know all your information

(about the sex, we can infer)

is CORRECT"

which is honestly one of the weirdest ways in which a man could hit on his employee

[carbonateddelusion]

thinking about leah... one version of her was going to be a teenage prostitute

I'm a lil hesitant to touch that again because of stereotypes about trans women, but it's definitely in my mind right now. the 80s story is extremely dark so I think it'd be realistic and fitting

[homo-sex-shoe-whale]

Hi I’m sorry for all the anon hate you’ve been getting I hope you have a nice day <3

It’s totally fine! I am honestly so self-absorbed that most insults mean nothing to me because I don’t believe you. Especially coming from someone who doesn’t even know me. I believe I’m a goddess who’s better than everyone, so if you call me ugly or dumb or whatever I just don’t believe you.

It’s like if you said the boogeyman or the tooth fairy was coming for me. It doesn’t really mean much

[divinekangaroo]

just enough to let me drown - pettiot - Peaky Blinders (TV) [Archive of Our Own]

Ch 1 | Ch 2 | ? | ?

During S6-E5, starting with Tommy meeting Diana at the narrowboat, how he gets back to Arrow, that particular Dinner, through to Tommy returning home after dropping Jack Nelson off at the train.

Tommy was running out of women who didn’t look like other women. If Lizzie found out, he’d have only redheads left to fuck in his old age.

No. No old age. Only this.

.

Diana Mitford/Tommy Shelby, Past Oswald Mosley/Tommy Shelby, Tommy Shelby/Lizzie Stark, Past Oswald Mosley/Lizzie Stark, Jack Nelson, Charles Strong, Small Heath Sex Worker | Reference to Incest, Dehumanisation, Cigarette Burns, Disassociation, Racism, Class Issues, Intrusive Thoughts, Extremely Dubious Consent, Post Rationalisation, Flashbacks, Dyfunctional Relationship, Self Harm, Oral Trauma, Trauma, Plausible Deniability, Close POV/Unreliable Narration, Horrible Dinner Parties, Prostitution, Shame, Hurt/Comfort, Eating Inedible Objects, Vomiting, Pre-Seizure Markers, Where Fascism becomes a Personally Targetted Sexual Nightmare, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Falling Off the Wagon, Unreliable Memory, Hoarding, Orgasm Control, Innuendo, Ethnic Slurs, Trying (so fucking hard!) to Communicate (emotion is the enemy of oratory!), Spiralling, Purposeful Ambiguity, Failed Love Confession/s

.

[bunnyboy-juice]

EEEEEEE!!!!!

[otherion]

the thing about william i really like is that the man is a fucking coward. serial killers notoriously target vulnerable people and he fits that to a T. he targets kids, he targets his employees, he targets his own children. he knows that the only people who would take a night shift at freddy's are people who don't have a better option, random people who've hit hard enough times that they need this paycheck that bad. he knows that kids are easy to isolate and there's no chance of them overpowering him. he knows that his children are legally his property.

he only targets people who can't fight back, too, and if he's worried about someone being able to he kills them indirectly. he kills employees through inaction, maybe doesn't even do it for a reason other than it being something he is allowed to do because they signed a contract saying that their families, if they have any, won't even know they're dead for three months. he can't even kill michael in person because michael is an adult now. he might be able to hit him back. he's not a little kid anymore who he can punish for locking his door knowing that he's too small to defend himself. the only people he ever kills directly are kids younger than eleven, and after he almost gets caught the first time he makes robots to do it for him.

which is what lets him succeed. it's why he gets away with it for so long. none of his victims survive(except jeremy, who is left unable to tell anyone even if he figured it out), and none of them have people left who can fight a successful businessman with lawyers on his side(which they must have if he was allowed to keep opening new locations after every single one of them had to close on account of child murder).

but it's also what ultimately kills him. he went back to the scene of the crime, and the ghosts were there, and he was so, so scared of getting hit back this one time that he freaked out and put on the springlock suit in a desperate attempt to regain his position of complete power. despite being the man behind the slaughter, he's just... that scared of a fair fight.

[archive-z]

it’s post-yr-wip wednesday, so enjoy more scenes from my forthcoming follow-up to krapp’s last tape, this time ft. events from the viewpoint of alice molloy, 1985-1989 ✨ all yr canon-typical content warnings for disordered substance use, pregnancy trauma, AIDS crisis-related death, child endangerment, codependent relationships with multiple concerning/unethical power differentials, etc.

“What mad Nijinsky wrote

About Diaghilev

Is true of the normal heart;

For the error bred in the bone

Of each woman and each man

Craves what it cannot have,

Not universal love

But to be loved alone.”

from “September 1, 1939”, by W. H. Auden 

It’s 1986 and Alice Molloy sits on the steps of San Francisco City Hall. She has been Alice Molloy for, approximately, the past thirty minutes. She is twenty-five years old. She looks out across Van Ness Avenue, at the War Memorial Opera House. She’s never been to the opera before. She’s never been married before, either. 

She rolls the name around in her mouth: Alice Molloy, Alice Molloy, Alice Molloy. She likes it. She feels like a snake that’s shed its skin, and now relaxes on the warmth of a sunned rock. She wonders how long it will take her to forget that she had any other name before this one. 

There is another her, maybe — scared and strung out — still inside, wandering the atrium. Maybe there is another her buried in a grave in Evergreen Cemetery. 

But this Alice, the one here on these steps, in this waning late afternoon sunlight, is Alice Molloy. She is Alice Molloy, with her newborn daughter, and her new husband, and their second-floor, one bedroom apartment near Buena Vista Park.  

—

December 6, 1985. The CDC recommends delaying pregnancy until more is known about the risks of mother-to-child transmission of AIDS. As of December 1, there have been 217 reported cases of AIDS among children under age 13, and 60% of them have died by the time of publication.

In Paris, their apartment is cold and there’s black mold around the windowsill. Daniel has a persistent cough. Alice wakes up nauseous. 

Three months ago, in San Francisco, Daniel gets an advance for a novel and insists they spend it all right away. 

Though he’s covering with bravado, Alice can tell he’s nervous. He’s never had more than a couple hundred dollars to his name, and never expected to have his sobriety tested in this manner either. 

They book two transatlantic tickets to Paris and a sublet in the Latin Quarter.

Alice wants to chainsmoke at café tables on crowded streets and imagine stories about passersby while Daniel scribbles in his notebook. She wants to go dancing. She wants to see the Mona Lisa. Alice is twenty-four, Daniel is thirty-two.

(Over the past several months, Alice has planned more funerals that she cares to count. She is perpetually in the final hospital visit-cremation-memorial service cycle. As the most junior member of the organisation, her duties tend to be administrative: making payments and filing bank receipts. By cash and by cheque, payments are made to the crematorium, the ambulance, the reception hall, to the sandwich caterers, to the company that rents the folding chairs and plastic table cloths, to the leaflet printers, and the delivery trucks. At the end of it all, someone has to fold up the chairs and turn off the lights. That someone is Alice. 

There is an impersonality to the deaths, she finds. Sometimes people with bring a framed photo of “the deceased” to the memorial service — a sister, a daughter, a girlfriend, a roommate, a friend. When there’s no photo, she often pictures Raequel. Twenty-two now? Would she look older? Or younger? Paris presents itself as a respite). 

Paris��� crisp October turns to a drizzly November and finally to a frigid December. Any argument that sparks between Daniel and Alice is swiftly resolved by swallowing one’s pride and huddling together under their singular scratchy wool blanket for warmth. 

In Paris, Daniel has coughed for three months. He’s smoking his packs twice as slowly because he has to take bone-rattling, hacking coughs after every few drags. 

In Paris, Alice throws up three days in one week. 

(They have both danced around this. It is the heavy, silent thing they neglect to mention. Daniel is sick. Alice is sick. With what — who knows? Fading track marks testify to their rich, independent histories of indiscriminately sharing needles and swapping bodily fluids with, at best estimate, one quarter of the Bay Area’s creatures of the night). 

In Paris, over dinner, Alice tells Daniel she’s pregnant. 

She tells him she’s pregnant and he says yeah. 

He’s staring at the cigarette in his hand, poised over the ashtray and Alice can see the gears turning inside his head. France permits elective abortion up to ten weeks, she can see him thinking. She can tell he’s doing the math in his head. 

She tells him she’s pregnant, and he says yeah. 

They finish their meal in silence, but Alice is too nauseous to keep anything down so throws up again in the brasserie’s toilette. After she’s finished, she presses her head against the cool metal of the cubicle door and then kicks it violently several times. 

When she re-emerges, Daniel has already settled the cheque. He’s got  another cigarette in his mouth, this one unlit, and he’s chewing on the filter, eyes still staring into middle distance, gears still turning. Alice has stuffed her jacket pocket with extra towelettes in case she needs to throw-up in a public garbage can on their walk back to their apartment. 

—

“We both could have it —“ Alice’s train of thought twists and weaves, running the alternatives and counter-alternatives too fast to keep track of until its a circular, tangled mess. “It would be born sick,” she says. 

“We don’t know if we—“  

“But we could. What if it’s born sick? If it’s— if it’s not able to grow?”

“Failure to thrive,” Daniel supplies. 

“I know whatAnd, in a heartbeat of indignation, Daniel ask, “What? What do you want? Do you expect a child to consent to being born?”

“Maybe the hospital finds out! Maybe it’s — taken away from us. Because it’s our fault. How could we live with ourselves?”

“We make a choice. We live with it.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Look.” Daniel presses his hand to her cheek, and his eyes fixed on Alice’s. “If it’s wrong — does it matter?” His thumb traces her cheekbone, over the scar on her eyebrow, where it turns from dark to blonde. “All human decisions are made like this.” He kisses her eyebrow. He sounds surer and steadier than Alice has ever heard him before. “No parent knows what will happen to their kid. What does it matter if it’s wrong? There is no wrong. Just you and me. Me and you. And I want to be with you. Forever.”

Later, Daniel proposes and she says no. Things are falling apart. She doesn’t trust that the centre will hold.

On their last day in Paris, they go to the Louvre. Alice wants to see the Mona Lisa. 

—

San Francisco, 1989. Alice Molloy is twenty-nine. 

A week after the World Series Earthquake, Daniel’s mother calls him from Modesto to deliver the belated news of his father’s passing, the post-script to his unattended funeral. Daniel interrupts the daily pre-school drop off routine in order to purchase a self-obliterating quantity of heroin. 

It’s thirteen hours before Alice finds him. When she finally does, he crawls to her on his hands and knees. He clutches her legs, sobbing, shaking, and high. She says nothing to him, and her cool and implacable assessment of the situation is this: I take care of you, I’ve always taken care of you. I love you, I’ve always loved you. You and me, me and you. Daniel would not die here. Their dance would not end like this.

Her fingers grasp his matted curls, and she gently forces his head back to meet her gaze. With a thumb, she carefully wipes his grimy, tear-stained cheeks. She whispers to him: I forgive you. Of course I forgive you. How could you doubt such a thing? I have forgiven you of everything before now. I would forgive you every time, even this. 

And Alice knew this: Daniel was hers. And he would never runaway from her again. 

Outside, Lena is asleep in the backseat of the car. She is three years old. 

[pog-mo-bhlog]

It's wild how people just don't care about the material affect jkr's wealth and influence have on Scottish trans people, people who need to access rape crisis centres, and sex workers

[gen13ordinaryheroes]

Kind of want to post unpublished WildCats (2006) #2 script Priscilla bugsex scene to know if the masses think this would have counted for adequate bisexual confirmation but also like. Uh.