#Tahitian girls

[nickysfacts]

Wearing a tiaré flower in your ear is such a small and simplistic thing, yet it carries so much history and culture with it!

🇵🇫🇹🇴🇼🇸

[cheyennelehale]

[iquincey]

[lasirenedesiree]

Slow living by the sea..

･*˚⁺‧͙  🌴🥥 。.・εїз

[aosororityhouse]

Melissa is all ready to perform a traditional Tahitian dance for Tahitian night at the Alpha Omega Sorority House. (10515)

[monicasaiplayground]

10515 - Melissa Heart 2 as a tahitian dancer - OpenArt

[lasirenedesiree]

Compilation of ocean girl aesthetics

[luveline]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐬

Aaron sets the record straight when an overheard conversation convinces you that you’re not good enough for him. 5k

c: fem, hurt/comfort, fluff, suggestive theme (non-graphic implied sex scene). hotch is a good husband. requested here  

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“Honey, this is Clint McMoore. We went to college together.”

You step into Aaron’s side. Clint McMoore is a handsome older man with silvering hair and a beard that looks out of control. His bowtie is loose around his neck, and his cheeks are blotchy with drink, but Clint smiles at you and offers his hand. “How do you do?” he asks. 

“Quite well, thank you.” You’ve been practising fancy dinner talk with Aaron’s friend Emily for weeks. She has all the political background you’d needed to see yourself into the culture. “It’s nice to meet one of Aaron’s school friends.” 

“While you still can,” Clint says with a chuckle. Something about being in your forties is obscene to these men, as though death waits for fifty candles to snuff them out. 

“Clint and I were in the Student Theatre club together, our first year.”

You grin, smile laced with teasing. Each time you’re reminded of Aaron’s young interest in drama, you have to focus very hard on not laughing; the Aaron who has his hand to your shoulder isn’t one you could envision on stage. “Did you perform together?” you ask. 

“Saturday Night Fever,” Clint says. 

They laugh and reminisce. You find these sorts of events hard to keep up with, but you come when Aaron asks because he so rarely asks you for anything. He hasn’t mentioned knowing that you don’t like coming, But perhaps he hasn’t noticed —it’s not like you to frown, not when you’re with Aaron. The way he treats you, he probably thinks you’re the happiest girl in the world. 

There’s a contentedness to be found when he touches you. He spreads a hand against your lower back and you let yourself sink into his side, curled into his embrace and amazed at the giggly laugh he lets out as Clint brings up the ‘King of the River’ tattoo Aaron has hidden beneath his shirt. You’re tempted to kiss his cheek.

Clint asks, “Isn’t that right?” and forces you back into the conversation. 

You’re wearing a dress you panicked over for days. It’s black, cut playfully just above your knees with small petal sleeves. Your necklace is of a delicate chain and a not so delicate pearl —a black Tahitian South Sea pearl that glows pink and green in the light. For you, Aaron wrote, his pretty scrawl inky across a square of scalloped card from atop the box. I’m in love with you. Forgive me for not having the courage to tell you in person. 

Your Aaron is quiet. Some days he comes home from work and doesn’t manage more than a sentence. Some days he can barely speak at all. But there are nights when he holds you to hold you and talks in murmurs against your ear, and he’s good at making calls when he’s away. Talking or not, smiling or otherwise, Aaron finds a way to let you know he loves you, and that’s all you care about. 

“Excuse us,” Aaron says, giving Clint a rare, warm smile, “I’m being flagged by my boss.” 

Sure enough, Erin Strauss is beckoning Aaron with a strange pained look.

“Nice to meet you,” you say quickly to Clint. He repeats your goodbye, and you and Aaron swerve around him. 

“He was nice,” you murmur. 

“Yeah, he’s okay.”

“How come you fell out of touch?” 

“Oh, you know how things go, honey, you forget all the people you meet and make room for new ones.” He kisses your cheek. “And besides, he used to gossip like my mother. Why don’t you go find JJ?” 

“You’ll be alright?” 

“No, maybe not.” He squeezes your elbow quickly. “Go, find some hors d’oeuvres, at least.”

You find neither JJ nor finger foods. The gala you’re attending is being held in a hotel in the richest part of D.C, and the events hall is huge. The ceiling is a fantasy, glass and miles upward, overhead chandeliers dangling lower, dousing the crowds below in a light that’s clean. The rich and powerful gather at the edges of the room, though the performance toward the back of the room is watched by a few tens of couples with flutes of champagne held in gloved hands. 

You hadn’t worn gloves. Hadn’t thought about it until you got here. Honestly, you felt grateful enough that JJ texted you to tell you to buy a shawl; if you weren’t wearing one you’re sure you’d feel bare. 

What you’re lacking in fancy is made up for by your earnestness, or so you’d like to believe. You aren’t rich nor powerful, but Aaron’s a good man and you his good wife. You work hard, which is more than some of the richest in the room can say. You hold your head high without a second thought. 

The hall is confusing. Tables are set but you aren’t sure Aaron said anything about a dinner service. Wait staff carry silver platters and hold bottles of champagne, but each time you approach one they seem to have already headed in another direction. JJ and Derek are both supposed to be here tonight, but you haven’t seen either of them since you arrived. You cast your gaze for Derek’s figure, searching for an easy gait and a strong set of shoulders. You cock your head waiting for a hint of JJ’s practised, polite laughter, but any familiar signs are gone. You can’t even find Aaron anymore, and your shoes are pinching your toes.

Disaster. You should’ve listened to Aaron when he told you to size up, just you doubted his knowledge of ladies shoes considering how rarely he wears them. Stupid man, you think to yourself, lovingly yet ruefully as you sit down at one of the uninhabited tables to the very side of the room. Knows everything. Tonight, you’ll limp back to the car and he won’t bother saying I told you so, he’s too good for it, which is worse. He’ll give you one of his amused smiles. He might offer you a massage. 

Ridiculous man, you further to yourself, biting back a cheesy smile as you peel your shoe from a sore foot. If you shove your hand deep enough into the toe you can stretch them out a little. 

“Darling.” 

You look up. Clint McMoore’s resurfaced just a table away with his back to you. A sweet-faced woman with brown hair sits adjacent to him, her shoulder under Clint’s hand. 

“You’ll never guess who I just bumped into,” he says. 

Me, you think. 

“Aaron Hotchner and his new wife.” 

“You didn’t,” the woman says. 

“I knew you’d be envious of that,” he laughs. “Charlotte, she’s unbelievable.” 

Your stomach does a strange flip. He’ll say something nice, you insist, but you know his tone is a precursor for gossipy nonsense. 

“I’ve never seen such a mismatched pair,” he says. 

Charlotte rolls her eyes at him. “Well, what were you expecting? They were married after six months of knowing one another. I couldn’t so much as tolerate you until our first anniversary.” 

“Hardy-har.” 

“What’s wrong with her, then?” Charlotte asks. 

“Nothing like that, Charlotte. She seemed perfectly pleasant–”

“But?” 

“But, she’s nothing like Aaron’s usual woman.” 

“Hm, I said as much when we saw their wedding photos.“ They both laugh. “It’s not like she had much of a chance. First Haley, and then that Beth, the designer, she’s in Milan now–”

“He seems rather besotted, in any case,” Clint says. “Very lady and the tramp.” 

“Gentleman and the tramp.” 

“Don’t be cruel, Charlotte.” 

You know in a way that Charlotte is kidding, but you boil up with anger the moment you recognise what it is they’re implying. Then they laugh, and your anger quickly finds itself taking a crueller shape. 

You slip your foot back into your shoe slowly. Your throat feels dry and then warm, like a crux of smouldering coal stuck in your windpipe as you stand, jerkily, hand stiff where it holds your weight on a silken tablecloth. 

You blink and stare at the floor. It’s marble. It’s shot through with dark veins like a drop of ichor in water. 

What the fuck? 

You aren’t sure why you’re leaving the hall until you’re walking down the steps of the hotel and turning along the skirts of a hedge. A low brick wall lies in front of it, just short enough to sit on with your heels. Your coccyx stings with the force of how hard you go down. 

Your head races with hurt feelings. 

You’re not unaware of your husband’s past loves. It comes as no surprise to you that people regard Haley and Beth highly —Haley was extremely beautiful and veritably brave, intelligent, kind-hearted. Beth was funny, Aaron said, and not too much else. Being a designer in Milan hasn’t been mentioned before, but it’s impressive. They’re both impressive, and– and his usual woman. 

You rub the starchy stockings stretched over your knees. 

What had they meant by usual woman?

Mismatched? 

It hadn’t felt mismatched when Aaron asked you to marry him. It wasn’t six months after knowing one another as Clint’s wife suggested, but it wasn’t much more than that. He proposed to you after eight months together, and you were married two months later, which is incredibly fast to some people but it just hadn't felt fast when he asked. It was exciting —it still is. 

“Would you marry me, if I asked you to?” he’d said, some seven months after you’d agreed to be his girlfriend. Your head in his lap, his fingers rubbing at the soft skin of your nape. A sleepy Sunday morning like any other, you suppose that was a proposal in itself, but you hadn’t realised that when you murmured, “Yeah, handsome. I would.” 

You thought it was just love. Making innocuous comments about the future is part of falling in love. It’s terrifying to tell someone that you’d like to live life in their lap, but you tell them, and they tell you to go ahead if you’re lucky. 

He asked you to get married a few weeks later. “I had to talk to Jack,” he explained, “or I would’ve asked you then and there.“

You’re a wife suddenly, a step-mother, a partner. Aaron would’ve sold the house and bought you a new one if you wanted him to, but you like his life. You’ve always felt like you fit right in. 

Angry again, you scrub at your knees with itchy palms and practise how you’re going to tell Aaron about his cruel friend. Gossipy was right, what a lark, and you’re not perfectly pleasant, you’re a delight, you hadn’t said one bad word to Clint and you didn’t deserve to be whipped and twisted into a bad joke between sips of Cristal. 

Your eyes burn with the injustice of the thing. 

Rawness overtakes. A thudding in your chest turns painful, neck wrought with tightness as you hang your head. Hiding from the cold air. November brings with it a promise of chapped lips the longer you stay there, biting into your thighs as your hands turn stiff with disuse. 

She was unbelievable. 

“Y/N!” The shout is sharp. You’ve never heard Aaron’s voice at that level or with that level of formidability, carrying from the bottom of the hotel stairs. You twist in shock on the wall and watch in real time as his face fills with relief. “Honey,” he says, calling but not half as scary as he jogs to you, “are you alright?” 

“What?” 

“You scared me,” he insists, bending down to hold your shoulders. “Nobody’s seen you for the last fifteen minutes, sweetheart, we talked about this. You can’t just disappear, you left your purse on the table, I thought something happened to you.” 

You startle at his scolding. “I–”

“You should feel my heart.” 

“I didn’t mean to come out here.” 

“I wish you would’ve let somebody know,” he says. His frown softens slowly, but the concern around his eyes remains. “What?” he asks. 

“Sorry.” 

His eyes finally soften. “No, I’m sorry. It’s alright, I just worry when you’re not with me.” 

“That’s romantic.” 

He holds your cheek, pulling you in, and gives you two gentle kisses. Your lips part instinctively to receive them. “We’ll get our things and go home. It looks as though dinner isn’t happening.” He smiles. “Why were you out here?” 

“Scavenging for food.” 

That gets a laugh out of him, and another nice kiss. “You tried your best.” 

—

Aaron takes you home, and when dinner’s been cleared away, when you’ve showered and he’s undressed, he pulls you toward the bed and kisses you warmly. His eyes track from your face to the tucked corner of your towel, a silent Can I?

You let him take it off. He lays you out, and for a while you’re only his. His wife, his half, his to tease and turn and delight. He says “Beautiful,” against your thigh, says, “Honey, is that okay?” says, “Please, I’ve got it, I have you, just let me have you…” 

After, he tells you he loves you, his voice still ever so slightly high in contrast to usual dulcet tones. 

“I love you, too,” you say. 

His breath comes fast. Your lap is a mess he’d wiped as clean as he could manage, the memory of him bearing down on you yet to fade. He lies on his stomach beside you with his arm over yours, his face turned into you, his nose on your cheek. 

“Are you alright?” he asks softly. “You feel tense.”

“Mm.” 

“No, did I hurt you? You’re rigid.” His hands fret a line down the side of your chest. “You didn’t…” 

You hadn’t said anything, because he really hadn’t hurt you. But the thoughts you’re having now are intrusive —am I okay? you think. Do I measure up? He’s never made any indication that you’ve let him down, not in sex or anything else, but you’re unbelievable. 

You swallow a lump. “Sorry,” you say, the lingering ebbs of pleasure twisting into tears faster than you can stop it. 

“Are you crying?” he asks under his breath. 

You suck in a breath as he pushes onto his hands. 

“These aren’t good tears,” he says. 

He’d know. They’re not. 

Aaron reaches over you to turn on the lamp on the nightstand before settling, his hand cupping your waist. It’s too much suddenly, too bare, he’s too much to look at as you squeeze your eyes closed. “Sorry,” you squeeze out. 

“What did I do?” he asks, holding you carefully. “Please, sweetheart, what’s hurting? I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s not you.” 

“But something does hurt?” 

“No, no, I’m okay.” You cover your face with your hands. When you start to sob, it shakes the entire mattress, Aaron’s hand wobbling where it cups your ribs. 

“Please.” His thumb works a soft spot into your skin. “Honey, please, you can’t cry now without telling me what’s wrong.” He tries a laugh, but it falls flat. “Honey. Honey.” 

It wasn’t the sex. He never does anything wrong, he’s so gentle even when he isn’t, and if he did you’d only have to tell him, but the rush of being touched by him so nicely, fuck, the way he’d been looking at you, the way he took your face into his hand as he moved —you’re not trying to be a crier, but he makes you feel like you’re everything and you’re just not. 

He looks sick. 

“It wasn’t you, it was at the gala,” you manage. 

For a long while after, you can’t get a word out. You shiver and sob as Aaron scoops you into his chest, his nose in your shoulder waiting for you to calm down. He rubs your waist, fingers parted and waving slowly as he shushes you. Not to make you stop, though. He’s reassuring. 

“What happened at the gala?” he asks quietly. 

“It’s so stupid.” 

“No, it’s alright. Can you tell me what happened? Did someone hurt you?” 

You wrap your arms around his head. It really is stupid, you feel smaller than an ant under the shadow of a giant heel. Aaron doesn’t waver when you struggle to answer, feeling around behind you for a pillow and helping you against it. He kisses your forehead. “Let me get you something to wear.” 

You catch his wrist. “It wasn’t you, wasn’t–” You lift your chin. 

He kisses you. “Okay,” he says simply. “Let’s get dressed.” 

He dresses quickly, bringing you underwear and one of your sleep shirts, a loose fit. You shuffle into them and watch him patiently as he cleans the small mess of the evening away. You’re sniffling softly when he returns to you, sitting with his back to your thighs. 

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry if I read things wrong. I never would’ve initiated anything if I knew you were feeling like this.” 

You laugh weakly, worriedly, looking at him through your lashes. “It made me feel better,” you admit.

“If this is better, you must’ve been feeling awful.” 

You relax as he puts his hand on your thigh. 

“In the time I left you to talk to Strauss, something upset you. JJ and Morgan didn’t see you. So someone in the gala said something or did something that made you leave. If you tell me who it was, I can make sure it doesn’t happen again.” 

“You’re trying to bargain with me,” you mumble. 

“I’m just telling you what can be done. I can take care of things.” 

“It’s nothing… nothing so severe. You’ll wonder why I–” You give an unexpected sob. “Made all this fuss.” 

“I don’t think I’ll wonder,” he says. 

You laugh through tears. These ones are slow, your eyes already itchy from crying. 

“Please tell me.” He tries teasing instead of sternness, lowering his face to yours. “Or I’ll cry too.” 

“Aaron.” 

“I will. You think I can’t, but seeing you crying like this, it’s more than enough ammunition.” 

You let out a breath, admitting defeat. “Your friend, Clint? I overheard him with his wife. He didn’t have very nice things to say about me.” 

“What could he possibly have to say?” Aaron asks with a frown. 

You pull the sheets up your legs. “He said I’m… unbelievable, and I don’t think he meant it kindly. Said that I’m not your type, and that I… I had no chance of measuring up, because of who you’ve been with before. They were laughing about our wedding photos.” Your throat feels pressed into by a hot poker. “They said we were the gentleman and the tramp.” 

His eyes squint. He looks disgusted, and for an uncomfortable moment you feel like it might be directed at you, but then he scoffs. “What a crock of shit.” 

“Aaron!” you laugh. 

“What could Clint McMoore possibly know about marriage? This is his fourth wife. And to imply that you’re any sort of calibre below the women I’ve dated before isn’t just misogynistic nonsense, it’s not true. You are the most beautiful women I’ve ever met, and what’s that supposed to mean, gentlemen and the tramp?” He gives you such an earnest glare of confusion that you can’t for a second doubt what it is he’s saying. “I’m sorry, honey, I think he’s allowed himself a few too many nightcaps over the years. Perhaps he’s suffered a stroke.” 

“Aaron, don’t say that,” you chide, secretly very pleased. 

“Our wedding photos,” he says, his hand drifting further down your leg to rest just shy of somewhere more intimate, “are beautiful. You look beautiful. Clint would’ve writhed in jealousy in the pews if he’d been invited, because he would’ve seen it for himself.” 

“I just sat there while they laughed at me,” you mumble.

“What were you supposed to do?” His hand travels out, to your hip, and then he holds you by the waist with both of his hands. They have a way of making you feel encapsulated, big and strong and careful on the bump of your hips. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Nothing,” he says, meeting your eyes with his usual tender-hearted compassion. “You weren’t supposed to do or say anything.” Aaron appears younger than he is for a second, his eyebrows raised, eyes big and brown as they track over your lips. “Honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise he was like that. I’m sorry you had to hear that.” 

“I guess I’m just worried he’s right.” 

“He’s not right. You are everything to me.” Again, he puts weight on the word, roughly said, like it takes a lot from him to say it. “I’m lucky to have been with women who were beautiful, and intelligent, but if there’s a question of you measuring up, there’s no competition. I’ve never been this in love.” 

You take a shaky breath. “Never?” you ask. 

He holds your gaze. “I knew it when we met. That's why I couldn’t wait to ask you to marry me.” 

“You said you weren’t getting any younger.” 

“Well, I’m not, but not everything’s about my age, you know,” he says, giving your waist a playful squeeze. 

”You said it.” 

“I did. That felt easier to say than, if I don’t marry you soon I might implode,” —he shuffles forward, encroaching on your legs and pressing his lips to your cheek— “would’ve just,” —he kisses your cheek, before turning your head— “wasted all that time waiting for someone else’s idea of the right time,” —and he kisses the other cheek, his nose skirting up your face— “wishing I was your husband when I could just,” —he smiles into your eyebrow as his hand slips under your shirt, holding your bare back— “ask.” 

“I’m glad you asked me.” 

You’d cried then, too, but it was less to do with a rush of adrenaline that knocked you out of balance and more to do with how lovingly he’d taken your hand as he asked. You knew from that moment on that someone was going to take care of you for the rest of your life. He’s doing it right now. 

“I love you,” you say, forcing your arms over his shoulders. 

He pulls you in so much that you lift from the mattress. 

“I love you. Are you sure it wasn’t me that upset you? I have to check.” 

“No. What you did to me wasn’t particularly upsetting.” 

He laughs. “Are you sure? You can look a little teary–”

You shush him quickly.

He tips your head to the side to kiss your ear. “Maybe next time, you can tell me about whatever upset you beforehand.” 

“And you can make me feel even better.”

His laugh is nearly inaudible, but his lips are by the side of your head. You hear it, the warmth of his breath kissing the shell of your ear. 

—

Aaron likes to see you in your sweatpants. You look nice in everything, especially your dresses for the evening events he often drags you to, but he likes it when you wear sweatpants because it opens a window. You’ve purchased the wrong size, too big and too long, but you’ve tied them at the waist and you make do. You’re wearing the big shirt he helped you into the night before, sitting on the couch with your ferried breakfast. 

The night before has been washed away, no sign of tears or upset. You have a clean, bright face, one he’d quite like to kiss, or hold, or have pressed to his neck, but none of this is unusual. Your eyes look sore, if he really looks. He’ll make you a compress after breakfast. 

Dropped off by Jess an hour ago, Jack sits beside you picking at the breakfast tray. You’re sharing a plate. You don’t ever mind. 

“Are you eating that one?” you ask. 

Jack immediately nudges half of a chocolate chip pancake your way. “Was the gala fun?” 

“Uh, sure. Saw your dad’s friends. But they had a weird thing with the caterers and we had to get dinner on the way home.”

“You could’ve made dad cook.” 

“I guess, but we were tired. What did you have for dinner?” 

“Jess made spicy chicken. It was amazing.” Jack squints at you. “Your eyes are puffy, Y/N. Are you sick?” 

“I think I might be a little. Not enough to make you sick too, don’t worry.” 

Aaron piles the last of the pancakes onto a plate and carries them to you in the living room. “Here, you two.” 

“Did you eat?” you ask. 

He loves you, bending over to kiss your forehead right in the middle. “Yes.” 

“How come they didn’t have dinner at the gala, dad? I thought that was the whole point,” Jack says. 

He sits down next to Jack on the couch. You cut a big square of pancake and grin at him, seemingly pleased with your breakfast and Jack’s sense of humour. 

“It was a disaster, that’s all. No food, barely any wine, and terrible, awful company.” 

“I thought Miss Jareau went?” 

“She did. But besides her and a handful of others, it was a party for sad old people.” 

“And you didn’t have fun?” Jack asks. 

You laugh so hard tears gather in the corners of your eyes. Aaron cups Jack’s shoulder, surprised when his son doesn’t duck away from the touch. The older he gets the less affection he requires, so it’s nice for Aaron to hug him sideways and be allowed, better that you finish your choking laugh with a hug of your own. “Jack, thank you for that. I think you cured whatever illness I had,” you say.  

“Hey,” Aaron says. 

You run your hand up his neck. Your wedding ring catches against his jaw. 

“It was worth going, though, to see your step-mom in her nice dress,” Aaron says, peeling away from Jack so he has room to breathe. 

Jack turns to you, and his smile is audible, “Do you have any pictures?” 

“I didn’t take any, sorry.” 

“Just think of her now but in a dress, and that’s how beautiful she looked,” Aaron says. 

“Dad, don’t be gross,” Jack says, cutting into the pancakes with his fork.

“It’s not gross, it’s just a fact.” Jack drops pancake down his front. Warm chocolate chips stain his t-shirt. “Missed your mouth, bud. I’ll get a rag.” 

He’s up as quickly as he sat down, running his fingers along your arm and to the palm of your hand, touching you until he can’t. He heads back into the kitchen. His phone is beeping on the table, screen flashing with each new text. 

Penelope: boss, I think the thing you asked for is illegal 

Penelope: also, I assume you were kidding? 

Penelope: so while making it that every link on McMoore’s computer freezes the desktop would’ve been very very funny, I didn’t do that 

Aaron had been kidding, emphatically, because illegal activities aren’t his style. It was a sarcastic suggestion, and yet he’s disappointed nonetheless. 

Penelope: I just signed him up for a bunch of recovering narcissists forums and an email subscription for self help, and maybe also a free online class about manners and etiquette 

Penelope: And I ordered that big canvas for you. It was the one of you guys cutting the cake, right? 

Aaron texts her back quickly: Thank you, Penelope. I couldn’t work out the dimensions online. 

Penelope: You’re welcome! I live to serve :D 

The canvas will look good in the entryway, Aaron believes. Somewhere you can see it, and remember exactly what it is he thinks of you; his eyes glowing with love where he’d been staring at your face, his hand guided yours atop the knife as he traced your features, and you cut that first, fat slice of cake. 

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thanks so much for reading! please think about commenting, liking or reblogging if you enjoyed I love knowing what you think!❤️

also small note: this fic is in no way meant to diminish haley im a haley supporter usually (these days at least!) and I just didn’t mention her for brevity’s sake

[bullet-prooflove]

5500 Follower Celebration: Tears of Pearl - Eliot Spencer x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @madisonbroxson1 @hazel-eye-coffee-shop-girl-blog  @readings-to-share  @sameenbyhat

Companion piece to:

Star - Eliot realises he's made a terrible mistake.

The Worst Thing - There's only two people that know the worst thing Eliot has ever done.

You’re wearing pearls,  Tahitian black pearls to be exact.

 It’s the first thing Eliot notices because it’s an unusual choice for a woman of your calibre. You society girls usually prefer diamonds, the bigger the better. That’s the first indication you’re not like the others, it’s not the last.

He spends a year getting to know you as your personal protection specialist. You hate the fact you have a bodyguard but he was hired by your fiancé Moreau after threats have been made by some of the people he’s pissed off.

“I can’t have anything happening to my investment.” He tells Eliot as he sits across from him at a desk that costs more than most homes these days. “This marriage opens up a lot of doors for me, gives me connections I wouldn’t have access to.”

“What does her father get out of it?” He’d asked as he flicked through your dossier.

“A cash injection into some of his more problematic businesses.” He’d said as he lounged back in his chair. “He can’t stand the shame of failing.”

You are everything that Eliot does not expect from someone whose a daughter in one of the founding families. He sees the work you do with those charities, the way you immerse yourself in it as if you’re trying to make up for the sins of those that came before you. You’re not content with cutting a cheque, you need to be involved and not in the public shit either, the stuff that would get you recognition, but the grassroots stuff. Teaching kids to read, sitting with the elderly who have no families and then there’s the homeless, the people who don’t have a voice.

The first time you sit down next to a veteran in the street Eliot almost hurls you right back up because you, you don’t seem to understand the risk that comes with being with Moreau. The fact the people who are trying to hurt him will use you to do it.

“Let me take five minutes to share a coffee and a sandwich with my new friend Joe.” You negotiate and he reluctantly agrees.

It’s not five minutes, it’s thirty because Joe, he’s non-threatening and watching you interact with him it’s fascinating. You don’t act like other people, you don’t talk over him, try to give him advice, you just listen and to a guy like Joe whose spent years being in the background, ignored, it’s overwhelming, which is why you take his hand when he gets a little upset, clasping it tightly in your own. He understands in that moment that you’re lonely, that you probably have been for a long time.

When you do come away Eliot’s silent because he isn’t sure how to articulate this new knowledge. It’s only when you get to the car that he notices your pearl necklace is gone, that you must have placed it into Joe’s cup.

“You gonna keep giving away all your jewellery like that?” He asks you, his gaze flickering up to meet yours as he watches you in the rearview mirror.

“They’re just things.” You say distractedly, looking out of the window. “Things that could help other people who actually need it.”

That’s when Eliot realises how trapped you are in this world, it’s a gilded cage you were born into, not one that you want. When he looks back he knows that that’s the moment that things changed between the two of you, he saw you for you, not the role that Moreau had crafted for you.

Six months down the line, you’re wearing a different set of pearls, a more expensive set and Eliot’s tearing them from your throat, breaking the strands because you’re in the midst of a panic attack and the damn things are practically padlocked around your neck with a gold clasp that can only be undone with a key. The pearls scatter across the floor, rolling in all directions and that lock, he throws it out the window in disgust.

It’s another Moreau special. A collar to remind you who you belong to because he saw you talking to another man at a charity event, one that had paid you a little too much attention. He doesn’t know that Eliot spends most nights in your bed, that he makes love to you in the shower before he puts on his suit and pretends he’s been in his own room all along.

“I don’t want to marry him.” You sob as Eliot uses his thumb to chase away the tears that leak down your cheeks. He despises the kind of man that can do this to you, that steals away your autonomy, that tries to stamp out all the goodness in your soul.

“You don’t have to.” He whispers, his forehead coming to rest against yours as he looks into your eyes. “I’ll find a way to get you out of this. I promise you I will.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[assless-chapstick]

idk what it is but I always feel like "modern" au stuff for rdr should take place in like, the 90s or early 2000s like

maybe it's cuz that's when I was a kid and it's a time I'm nostalgic for, when things felt simpler and plainer and uncomplicated and it's the closest I ever felt to a country life? or maybe it's just the characters and the story is one about eras and change and something about it just speaks to the turn of a century

I really wanna read like a fic that takes place in like 1999 like... the dot com boom is booming and dutch is trying to figure out how to use this new fangled Internet to pull schemes... he hits the boys up on their pagers when he needs them... hides his money in Tahitian banks for the tax breaks

unfortunately I was just a kid in 1999 I remember very little so I'd have to... actually do research 🤢

I mostly just remember the spice girls and spaghetti strap dresses and the sound the computer made when it was starting up... and how if my mom picked up the phone while I was online it was OVER

john wearing those fuckin giant cargo pants and listening to fuckin creed or something on his gd walkman

[ribbonprincess]

mood boards

Sarah Cameron 🐇

Pope Heyward 💌

John B Routledge 🐾

Rafe Cameron 🍸

Dad!Rafe 🍼

Girl Dad!drew 🌸

JJ Maybank 🍃

biker!jj 🏍️

black cat!reader 🐈‍⬛

Italian!reader 🍕

Mexican!reader 🌮

pakistani!reader 🇵🇰

hyperfem black!reader 🎀

middle eastern!reader 🤍

goth hippie!reader 🦇

indian!reader 🍛

Moroccan!reader 🇲🇦

Brazilian!reader 🥭

chubby!reader 💐

German!reader 🥨

south African!reader 🐘

Ecuadorian!reader 🇪🇨

Filipino!reader 🩷

north African!reader 🌻

Indonesian!reader ☀️

Bolivian!reader 🌂

island!reader 🍒

Greek!reader 🪸

Turkish!reader 🇹🇷

glasses wearer!reader 👓

Bulgarian!Reader 🍒

Portuguese!reader 🦋

catholic!reader ✝️

Maori!reader 🌊

Serbian!reader 💌

runner!reader(track) 🏃🏻‍♀️

Hungarian!reader 🪻

Irish!reader 🍻

British!reader 🇬🇧

soccer!player reader ⚽

Chinese/Hawaiian reader ⛸️

figure skater!reader 🌅

sanrio obsessed!reader 🐑

tahitian/Hmong!reader 🌺

curly!reader 🐞

black dreadhead!reader 🌙

[bosses-stay-flawless]

Sometimes I pause, and remember just how rare I am and what I bring to the table, even though imma twin, I celebrate the fact that no two souls are alike, I AM grateful for who I am and everything I have experienced in life.

It’s true, I do love pearls, but I’m more of a Tahitian Pearl kinda girl. #blackpearls #autumnthings #yepWEBEtwinning

[victusinveritas]

Self-Portrait as a Tahitian (1934) Amrita Sher-Gil

Sleep, Amrita Sher-Gil

Self Portrait, 1930. Amrita Sher-Gil

Hungarian Gypsy Girl, Amrita Sher-Gil

Group of Three Girls, 1935. Amrita Sher-Gil

Bride's Toilet, 1937. Amrita Sher-Gil

Village Scene, 1938. Amrita Sher-Gil

Notre Dame, 1932. Amrita Sher-Gil

The Vina Player, 1938. Amrita Sher-Gil

Young Girls, 1932. Amrita Sher-Gil

Amrita Sher-Gil

[fade-cloak]

If I ever got a job curating art I’d arrange an exhibition of Gauguin’s work interspersed with portraiture of Tahitian girls the same age as the ones he raped

[officialpenisenvy]

we all got that one childhood photo that looks like a tahitian girl from a gauguin painting

[maria021015]

SPOILERS AHEAD FOR CHAPTER 33!

“Are you sure you wanna go through with this, Scotty?” Stiles whispered in a questioning tone as the wolf pushed open the front door to a dingy little tattoo parlour downtown. The neon sign in the window was the main source of light in the dark alleyway.

“I don’t think his answer has changed from the other three times you asked him on the drive over here,” Zaida pointed out with a roll of her eyes as she followed closely behind Scott. She was starting to get good at handling her feelings around Stiles now, even though it did nothing to calm the way her heart raced or how her cheeks flushed whenever he brushed past her. There was nothing much else she could do about that though, save for waiting for her affections to pass. As the werewolf spoke to the man at the front counter, her eyes roved over the stencils on display on the walls, catching on some beautiful fine-line floral designs.

“Why are you even here?” Stiles shot back at her. She’d sort of showed up at Stiles’ house and invited herself as an excuse to avoid going with Allison and Lydia tonight. It was the Argents’ first day back in Beacon Hills and Zaida was not looking forward to the awkwardness between her and Allison resuming right where they left off.

“My other option was to go with the girls to a ‘hang-out’ Lydia organised that she claims was definitely not a triple date. Though she’s kind of right. It’s not a date so much as a hook-up.” Zaida shrugged and Stiles let out a choked sound. “Needless to say, I’m not interested.”

“Boy, it's a good thing you drew me a picture…” The burly tattoo artist looked down at the scrawled visualisation Scott handed him as he sat in the chair with Stiles and Zaida standing around him. It was a scribbled sketch of two lines of varying thickness - not exactly the most informative design.

“Hey, Scott! You sure you don't want something like this?” Stiles snickered and held up a sample folder, which opened to a page with a black ink creature that looked eerily akin to the Kanima. Scott stared at his friend with a raised brow. “...Too soon? Yeah…”

As the tattoo artist prepared his ink and sterilised his tools, Stiles grimaced once more. “I don't know, man. Are you sure about this? I mean, these things are pretty permanent, you know?”

“I'm not changing my mind.” Scott insisted, evidently excited about it.

“Okay, but why two bands?” The boy asked his friend, not quite understanding the purpose of something so seemingly unimportant.

“I just like it.” Scott shrugged, and honestly, that reasoning checked out for him. He wasn’t the kind of guy to think too deeply about anything and it was something Zaida had grown fond of.

“But don't you think your first tattoo should have some sort of meaning?” Stiles tried to make sense of it. “You know, or something?”

“Getting a tattoo means something.” The werewolf pointed out eagerly.

“I don't think that's-” Stiles began sceptically, but the tattoo artist nodded in support of Scott and scooted his wheely chair closer, preparing to start.

“He's right. Tattooing goes back thousands of years. The Tahitian word ‘tatua’ means "to leave a mark," like a rite of passage.” The man explained.

“Yeah, see? He gets it!” Scott nodded enthusiastically.

He's covered in tattoos, Scott-” Stiles scoffed, eyeing the man’s inked skin stretching down both of his arms in completed sleeves. “Literally.”

“God, I wish Xander was as cool as Melissa,” Zaida shook her head, watching on longingly as the artist hovered the needle over Scott’s left bicep. Scott’s Mom had signed the permission slip for Scott to get his tattoo, and she’d even allowed him to buy a motorcycle with the money he’d saved up from working at Deaton’s.

“Okay, you ready?” The man double-checked. “You ain't got any problems with needles, do you?”

“Nope!” Scott answered excitedly, raring to go, and the tattoo gun hummed to life.

“I tend to get a little squeamish, though, so…” Stiles said weakly, scratching his face as he peered at the needle puncturing Scott’s skin again and again at rapid speed. Within seconds, Stiles was on the floor with a loud thud, and Zaida’s head snapped towards where the boy had only just been standing.

“Oh God, what do we do?” She asked in concern, rushing to his side to check him for any injuries, but he seemed fine.

“Just leave him there. Carlos will get him.” The tattoo artist answered her casually, not so much as batting an eyelid.

Surely enough, a younger guy who looked to be in his early twenties came over from one of the back rooms, nodding to her before pulling Stiles’ limp form up and half-carrying, half-dragging him over to a small couch by the front window, just a few feet away from where Scott was being tattooed. “It happens more often than you’d think. He’ll be awake in no time.” He smirked at her, looking her up and down with grey eyes. His tousled black hair brushed the top of his eyes. “See?” He added when Stiles shifted and groaned, starting to come back into the land of consciousness.

“You look a bit young to be a tattoo artist,” She struck up a conversation with the guy, noting the lack of ink on his body. He had a few small, tasteful tattoos along his forearms and a tooth hanging from one ear, but that was all.

“I’m still an apprentice.” The boy - Carlos - gave her a lazy half-shrug. “I noticed you looking at my sample book when you came in. My work is at a discounted price, but for a pretty girl like you…I could hook you up with something on the house, if you want?”

“You do fine-line?” She raised a brow, her curiosity piqued. He must have thought she was of age, and she wasn’t about to correct him if she could get a free tattoo out of it. She’d always wanted one. “I’ve heard it’s a difficult style.”

“Yeah, it is. But I’m great with my hands,” He winked at her and Stiles scowled at him as he clutched the top of the couch to haul himself into a seated position.

“Hey, buddy? She’s sixteen.” Stiles warned threateningly and Carlos’ grin dropped from his face. “Oh, and did I mention, my dad’s the Sheriff?”

The boy immediately left without so much as another glance in her direction, and Zaida glared at Stiles, crossing her arms over her chest. “You just cost me a free tattoo.”

“Yeah, and I just saved him from a court case.” He snorted and pulled himself to his wobbly feet.

“You’re as pale as a sheet, Stilinski. Sit back down.” She rolled her eyes and pushed his shoulder, forcing him back onto the couch as she sank into the seat beside him. “I can’t believe you actually fainted.”

“And I can’t believe you were actually letting that guy flirt with you to get a free tattoo. Seriously, his lines were awful. ‘I’m great with my hands’? What was that? That’s disgusting.” Stiles gagged. “You know as the oldest of this particular trio it’s my responsibility to make sure you two make good decisions, and neither of you is making it easy for me!” He called out purposefully so that Scott would hear him, turning to look back at the boy who was still under the needle and immediately regretting it when he felt queasy again.

“We’re all the same age, you bozo.” She shook her head, not counting the months that were undoubtedly between their birthdays.

“Nope, think again little-Xander,” He smirked. “I’m seventeen.”

“Little-Xander?” She repeated the nickname with an upturned nose. “Also, since when? I could have sworn you were sixteen.”

“Yeah, you’re exactly like him. You’re both stubborn smart-asses with a mean right hook and a temper. And I was sixteen. Until I turned seventeen.” Stiles shot back with infuriating smugness and she narrowed her eyes at him, forcing him to yield. “Okay fine, my birthday was April eighth.”

“Shut up, there's no way!” Her jaw dropped open in surprise, but she could tell he wasn’t lying. “But that was ages ago! Why didn’t you tell me? Did you guys do something for your birthday without me?”

“No, we…uh, we didn't do anything for my birthday.” His playful mood died down and she could tell she’d struck a nerve. April eighth, why did that date ring a bell?

“Oh,” She realised. That was why. It was the night of the Lacrosse grand final, when he’d been kidnapped and beaten by Gerard Argent, and she’d been worried out of her mind.

“Yeah,” Stiles nodded somberly, knowing she’d figured it out. Thankfully, the morose atmosphere was cleared when Stiles picked up a sample folder and pointed out a fine-line tattoo design of a long-stemmed rose. “That would look nice on you.”

“I thought you didn’t like tattoos?” She asked him with a raised brow.

“Doesn’t matter what I like, it’s your body and you like them.” He shrugged genuinely and her heart warmed at his sentiments. “Plus, you could make anything look pretty.”

Zaida suddenly regretted her choice of hairstyle for today as she found herself unable to hide her blush behind her hair as she usually did. Instead, she fanned herself, pretending it was due to the temperature of the shop. “Phew, is it hot in here?”

“Nope, just you.” Stiles winked and she knew it was a joke, but her heart stopped.

“Oh, man…” Scott groaned from the passenger seat of the Jeep, pulling up his shirt sleeve to inspect the bandaged tattoo.

“You okay?” Stiles asked him, eyes flickering off the road for only a second before he refocused.

“Kinda burns…” Scott winced, gripping his bicep tightly.

“Yes, you just had your skin stabbed about one hundred thousand times with a needle…” Stiles’ words were dripping with sarcasm.

“Yeah, but I don't think it's supposed to feel like this.” Scott reasoned and groaned in pain. “No, it's definitely not supposed to feel like this! Oh, I gotta take this thing off!”

“No, no, no, no, Scott!” Stiles pleaded with a horrified expression as his best friend tore the bandage off to reveal his fresh wound. Zaida, on the other hand, peered over the seat for a better look. “Oh, Scott, please stop!”

“Oh, no! What? No, no, come on!” Scott sighed in disappointment as the ink faded away back to his normal tanned skin tone. “It healed.”

“Aw, thank God. I hated it.” Stiles wrinkled his nose and blurted out in relief. Scott frowned at him. “...Sorry.”

“What happened to ‘it’s your body’?” Zaida snorted and the boy ignored her jab.

“I can’t believe summer break is already over.” He changed the subject instead.

“Tell me about it, I was grounded for the whole thing.” Zaida huffed. “I am absolutely dreading school tomorrow.”

“Hey, at least Allison will be back.” Stiles nudged Scott with his elbow, trying to cheer up the boy who was now moping about wasting his money on a tattoo that lasted like ten minutes.

“That’s if she’s even gonna show up,” Scott mumbled back, not having heard Zaida and Stiles’ conversation at the shop earlier.

“You haven’t spoken to her at all?” Zaida questioned. She’d have thought they’d at least have messaged each other a few times, but Scott had clearly not talked with the girl, otherwise, he’d know she was returning to Beacon Hills High.

“Nah, we agreed to give each other the summer - no texts, no calls,” Scott explained. “And after everything that happened, I'm not sure she's coming back at all…”

“I think she is,” Stiles said as they pulled up at a red light beside a much smaller car. The road was completely empty at this time of night. The boy turned his attention to that black car next to them. “I'd say it's pretty definite, you know...Like, one-hundred-percent…”

Zaida instantly recognised it, and though Scott might not have noticed whose car it was, he certainly recognised the two girls inside of it. “What are the chances?” She shook her head with a snort.

“Oh, my God! Oh-” The werewolf panicked, his dark eyes going wide as he sank in his seat. “Can we just drive, please? Stiles?”

“Scott, it's a red light!” Stiles exclaimed in exasperation.

“It’s not like that’s stopped you before,” Zaida reached over the seat to lightly slap the boy’s shoulder. “Come on, have a bit of mercy for your best friend.”

“I think we should talk to her. I just think we should say something.” Stiles leaned over Scott to roll down his window as the werewolf began to lose his shit.

“No! No, no, Stiles! Come on! Oh, my God, dude, no!” The wolf floundered, but Stiles ignored him and plastered a broad smile onto his face.

“Hey!” He called out but the black Beetle beside them simply sped off in response, straight through the red light. Stiles pulled back from Scott’s window with a casual shrug. “...You know, they probably didn't see us.”

“I think they saw you, Stiles.” Zaida scoffed and shook her head. “Hence the dramatic exit.”

“What are you doing?” Scott freaked out as the light turned green and Stiles resumed along the same road, pulling up behind the girls’ car.

“I'm driving...?” His brows furrowed, not quite getting what Scott didn’t understand about that.

“We're right behind them.” The wolf whined, gesturing at the black Beetle in front of them.

“Okay, well, do you see any turns?” The boy pointed out with a huff.

“I don't want it to look like we're following them…” Scott explained his thought process.

“It’s not like we have a whole lot of options right now, Scotty boy. It’s either we keep going like any normal person would, or we just break in the middle of the road like crazy people and wait for them to get far enough ahead before continuing.” Zaida rose to Stiles’ defence.

“Is that what you want me to do? I can stop.” The boy offered and Scott looked at them both with his mouth opening and shutting like a goldfish, not being able to decide which option was better right now. “What do you want me to do?”

“I don't know - anything?” Scott exclaimed in frustration and Stiles slammed on the brakes, throwing Zaida forwards so her rib cage went barrelling into the seat she was currently leaning over, effectively knocking the air flat out of her lungs.

“So you chose the crazy people option?” She wheezed out through laboured breathing, clutching her chest as it ached.

“Wait, they just stopped too.” Scott peered through the darkness, and he was right. The black Beetle had come to a pretty sudden stop too.

A sudden wave of sickening anxiety washed over Zaida, and she held up her hand for both of the boys to see how violently her body was shaking. “Something’s wrong.”

Stiles immediately flipped the gear shift into park and threw his door open, pulling his seat forward for her to clamber out of the back. He offered her his hand to help her jump down, and she accepted it, too busy worrying about Allison and Lydia to allow herself to blush at his touch as she now usually would. A loud smashing of glass echoed through the silence, snapping all three of their heads towards the Beetle. None of them wasted time, sprinting over as both girls got out of the car.

“Are you okay?” Scott got there first, and Stiles was next, going straight to Lydia.

“It came out of nowhere!” The redhead cried out and Zaida averted her eyes as Stiles checked her over for any injuries. She turned her head instead towards the windshield where the largest buck she’d ever seen had apparently crashed straight through the centre of the windshield - its neck lacerated by broken glass and its pelt soaked in blood.

“It ran right into us!” The redhead reported in a shaky voice.

“Are you okay?” Scott asked Allison tenderly, and the taller girl nodded her head.

“Well, I'm not okay! I am totally freaking out!” Lydia interrupted hysterically. “How the hell does it just run into us? I saw its eyes right before it hit us, and it was like it...It was like it was crazy.”

“Animals don’t just commit suicide,” Zaida murmured, walking around the bonnet with the shattered windshield crunching beneath her shoes. She reached out for the buck, her fingertips just barely grazing its fur before Stiles lunged forward and pulled her away.

“Careful, there’s glass everywhere.” He said with concern etched into his furrowed brows.

“It was scared,” Scott corrected Lydia’s assessment of the creature.

“...Actually, terrified.” Zaida agreed, holding up her still-shaking hand to the moonlight. She and Stiles exchanged worried glances. Her mother had warned them something was coming to Beacon Hills. Maybe it would arrive sooner than they’d thought.