Each of the women of the Palmetto State Foxes handle sexism in a different way.
Dan smiles serenely, allowing whichever asshole to finish his spiel before snatching him by the front of his shirt and spelling out, in no uncertain terms, the error in his entire existence.
Allison examines her fingernails before launching her attack, directly at their face. Sometimes it’s a punch. When she’s in a particular mood, she scratches. She never says anything afterwards, and no one asks her to.
Renee hums and forgives them. They are even more forgiven when an angry group of little old ladies shows up at their door later. They’re from Renee’s Bible study group, and as little and old as they are, the ladies are seasoned veterans.
for the writing stuff thing: harry as a cop's son and pansy as a mafia daughter and the rest is up to you tbqh
P L S & THANK YOU
harry and pansy have a history, sort of–they were in the same sixth grade class until pansy’s overprotective father got paranoid and moved her to the private school across town, right?
but harry doesn’t remember her, really, not that well, just that she’d been dropped off in the mornings in a jet-black s-class mercedes with bullet proof windows and a white-gloved oddly young driver with a russian accent and a name tag that read antonin.
anyway, he hadn’t liked her, even at 11, because she’d made a show of announcing how incompetent and untrustworthy and stupid the police were when harry’s dad had come in for career day, and she’d dumped an entire cup of chocolate-vanilla swirl pudding all down the front of hermione’s commemorative state spelling bee t-shirt, and she’d been friends with draco malfoy, who everyone knew was the only son of the most corrupt mayoral candidate in history.
harry barely remembers her, is his point.
regardless, a decade later, his remarkably thorough background check for the police academy includes a seemingly unimportant note about a possible connection to pansy parkinson and then he’s being offered–”you can decline, harry, you don’t have to prove anything”–a top-secret highly difficult undercover assignment to infiltrate the parkinson crime family.
he accepts, of course.
which is how he finds himself carrying a distressed leather satchel, and wearing a pair of too-snug corduroy hipster jeans, and standing at the back of a lecture hall for a sex & sexuality lecture while he looks for–
there she is.
and he doesn’t know what he was expecting, because she doesn’t look any different from her surveillance photos, but seeing her in person–dark red lipstick and blunt-cut bangs and an expression that shouts boredom just as much as it does dangerous–it sets harry’s nerves on edge in a way he hadn’t anticipated. at all.
still, he’s on a mission, so he drops into the empty seat next to her, shoots her the lopsided smile he’d practiced in his bathroom mirror for twenty minutes that morning, and nervously clicks and unclicks his ballpoint pen.
she stares at him for a moment too long, eyes narrowed, lashes thick and sooty with mascara, and then she smirks. harry’s mouth dries out.
“you’re at least a little believable,” she drawls, and even though her tone is lazy, languid, her posture is stiff and her gaze is sharp and harry absolutely cannot fathom how off-balance he suddenly feels. “the last one they sent was, like, practically middle-aged, right, he had a trucker hat on, like, sorry it’s not spring break ‘95, sirius, your aarp card’s in the mail, though! ugh. hate cops, honestly.” she stops, tilts her head to the side, considers harry with a molasses-slow sweep of her eyes across his face, his jaw, his chest, lower–”no offense. i’m sure you’re wonderful at your…job.”
and harry knows that, right now, this situation can go one of two ways; he could nod, and grimace, and make his escape back to the station, and pretend none of this ever happened. it would be fine. he would be fine.
he could pay more attention than he probably should to the hot, churning lurch in his gut. the violet lace strap of her bra peeking out of her jacket. the curve of her waist and the length of her legs and the intriguing, slightly chipped corner of peacock-blue nail polish on her ring finger and nowhere else.