#xan has not been sleeping much

[xandezsims]

Welp, we're back in historical--which means, it's time to recolor some stuff. Our favorite rogue/mage couple be needing all the things.

cc credits: @wastelandwhisperer @simverses @lady-moriel @natalia-auditore @pralinesims

[belovedivies]

along the wind (bodyguard!peter x f!reader)

・゜・summary: Peter has made his way to the top by defying the odds his whole life; barely anything fazes him at this point. Yet when a glimpse of normalcy comes into his life in the form of a girl whose presence he initially apathizes, the crack in the Apostle’s stoicism starts to show.゜・* ・゜・tags: reader-insert, pre-canon, pre-rejuvenated peter, slice of life, fluff, slow burn, eventual romance, (my poor) attempt at humor, friends to lovers, typical-canon violence (mostly referenced cuz i suck at writing fight scenes)゜・* ・゜・notes: this work has multiple chapters! also cross-posted on my ao3 <3 title is from a song called "fly away" by jang yoon ju.゜・*

chapter 1: white strawberry and mint. ・゜・chapter content: bashing/washing, brief mention of drug. ・゜・word count: 1,268 ♡masterlist♡

“Tch, stop squirming so much will you?”

"That's easy for you to say, you took my last xanax!"

Peter, very much irritated, decides to ignore those words as he drags the washcloth down your spine. You really thought Glory's greatest asset would want to be stuck here babysitting a grown-ass woman in her early 20s, huh? You'd better fucking think again; with how bizarre this unconventional live-in assignment has been and is still going, Peter's mental gymnastics constantly blow hot and cold between wanting to protect you and wanting to strangle you. Anything to make your perpetual complaining go away, honestly. But as nice as the thought of making you shut up for good, the Cathedral's order to keep you safe is final, and he is but loyal to the organization that made him the powerful man he is today.

So the Apostle sucks it up, a sigh leaving his lips as one big hand closes a little tighter around your waist.

"You're recovering," Peter continues, the authority colors his tone even as his touch on your soaked back is undeniably gentle, "and the last thing I need is another headache of you OD'ing over off-label pills."

You let out a sound that falls somewhere between a gasp and a yelp. "I'm not an addict, ok?" That half-assed excuse almost has Peter rolling his eyes in pure frustration, his displeasure threatening to bubble over when you flounder on his lap like a fish out of water. "They're just my sleeping aid-"

“Aid or not ,” he cuts you off mid-sentence, “it doesn’t change the fact that you pop three xans per meal and barely function without them.” The last of his impatient reprimand is accompanied by foam-covered linen spreading the Olay body wash over the skin of your belly. Peter’s nose crinkles slightly at the sickening sugary scents of white strawberry and mint that assault his nostrils, but the man decides to keep his mouth shut.

And much to his surprise, so do you.

He’s relieved at your lack of resistance, or at least no more bitter remark. A huff leaves your lips, then nothing. Good, the Apostle is sure if this goes on, he’ll be scrubbing your wrinkly skin raw. Peter sets the washcloth aside and grabs the shower head, aiming the lukewarm stream of water at your body and clearing away the bubbles and remaining grime.

The water sloshes underneath your body as you draw up your legs; the tub isn’t small by any means, but Peter is aware of his size and how his large stature might be a little suffocating to you in terms of space. His grasp on your waist loosens, wanting to speed things up so you both can get out of here quicker. Yet the second the soap on your skin is washed away, the guy can't help but let his eyes linger on the scar on your lower thigh.

"What?" Peter hears you huff again, sounding uncomfortable despite your nonchalant expression. One of your hands moves down to conceal the healing wound, even if through the little cracks between your fingers, he can still make out the pinkish scar tissue.

"How are you feeling?" It's a genuine concern on his part.

"Um," your hesitation doesn't escape his notice, even palpably so when you start shifting awkwardly between his legs. Peter just wants to make sure, but he has no problem with dropping the topic if it irks you. That is what he thinks, but you finish the sentence, "better?"

So it doesn't hurt anymore, at least not as badly as it used to. The man lets out a low hum, then turns his head to hang the showerhead into its wall-mount bracket.

"No hair wash?" Are you serious right now? Peter rolls his eyes for real—an act he's very much acquainted with in the past six weeks living here—before facing you.

"No hair wash," there you go again with that annoying pout. Really makes him wonder how the hell you two are the same age, "I won't have you lazing around in here for more than 30 minutes."

Sensing an upcoming brainless argument, the raven-haired assassin stands up and walks out of the bath, taking you with him. He promptly ignores the way you yelp when one right hand grazes a ticklish spot on your nape to keep you still, instead reaching for two towels sitting on the sink. Peter wraps one of them around his waist and focuses on patting you dry with the other. There's a bored look on his face while you just stand there, grumbling under your breath about how you can do this on your own. Brat.

"Put this on." He draps the towel over your shoulders and hands you a fresh set of clothes for the night. Only when you take them does he start putting on his own; a moment of silence follows, save for the rustling of fabric. It’s oddly calming, and even though he has used to going through days without a wink of sleep, Peter feels his eyes getting droopy as he puts on his grey hoodie; the day’s exhaustion finally catching up.

You let out a yawn, putting your hand on his shoulder for support while you slip on a pair of cotton slippers. Now he just has to wait for you to finish up.

“Hey, Peter…”

“Hm?”

The guy looks over his shoulder when you call out his name. This time, you don’t meet his gaze, instead staring down on the floor as you scrawl with one foot.

”Sorry for my mini tantrum earlier.” You gulp, and was that shame he just heard? ”You were just trying to do your job…”

Peter cocks an eyebrow. He isn’t mad at you, per se—the smirk on his lips giving away his rare playfulness—more like the usual light-hearted annoyance (that makes him want to choke you due to how stubborn you are sometimes, but that’s out of the question). You’re still 97% better than most people the Apostle had encountered in his line of work, and that is to say out of the other 3% he didn’t fumble (or kill), you’re the girl who happens to fit the closest to society’s definition of normal.

Not that he cares about what people think, anyway.

“A-And I acted out like a child…” He’s half-expecting another sorry, but you keep your head down in silence. You must be waiting for his answer then, so the guy decides to give you an easy way out; the further teasing comment that is about to leave his mouth can be saved for another time.

”Aside from the occasional migraines you gave me,” Peter smiles, putting a hand on your head as he starts ruffling your hair. "you're not too bad yourself. Apology accepted."

You mirror his mirth, though only for a brief second. Schooling your expression into a mask of faux frustration, you huff and try to pry his hand off. “Right right, now stop would ya? You’re gonna mess up my hair!”

Again, sleep comes first. As fun as it is to taunt you, Peter needs to get you to bed. Tuck you in… is that what it is called? The Apostle mentally cringes at the term; Father Gabriel really did land him into babysitting his niece.

“Right… let’s go.” He settles for giving your head one last pat before motioning you to walk towards the door connected to your bedroom. The distance is short, but Peter knows you’ll be there when he turns around.

Tomorrow will just be another day.

[kuruna]

It is said that as his brother was about to land the finishing strike, the king's cherished Floette protected him, placing herself between the king and his brother's sword. The reason she was able to do such an act of bravery is simple to understand; she knew deep in her heart that the king's brother would be unwilling to bring her harm.

In her small eyes, he must have seen her pleading... As well as the lifetime of memories they had made together until then.

- The Histories of Kalos, written by Caryscias of Medea, translated by Linaria Rosebay.

I'd been thinking about Xan's coup and why it failed and remembered this art idea I had a few weeks ago... I was like "oh, that's why it failed. Of course."

Uncropped version of the top drawing as well as a bonus panel ... In addition to wanting to minimize the empty space (😭) I liked the idea of not being able to see Xan's face at first, hiding his expression as well as the fact that his cheek is bleeding! AZ managed to land at least one hit on him, and he broke Xan's mask in the act too..... This is why Xan has that scar later on btw.

It feels weird to draw Young King AZ without his scarf or headband but he's in his pajamas here. He was trying to sleep 💔

I feel like I had more I wanted to add but I can't recall... 💔 I've posted Caryscias before, but Linaria I haven't drawn yet. she's a historian whose in charge of a newly opened history museum in Kalos (haven't decided which town it's in yet though!) ^.^

OH YEAH now I remember what else I wanted to say. Going to pretend my OC is a canon character here. There's an interesting contrast between Floette trusting that Xanthos would be unable to harm her to the point of being willing to place herself in front of his sword (and being completely correct in her assumption!), and AZ later blaming Xan for her death 😭 ohhhh he doesn't even know... He doesn't even know that Xan loves Floette just as much, he's just terrible at being open about it......

[femmedesyeuxnoirs]

Yeah

Have u ever been so sleep deprived that ur flesh starts feeling wavy. But anyways i just had the most fucked up manic episode, bender and subsequent panic attack marathon ive ever had in my entire life. I did ket, blow, xan, like 100 cigarettes, and so much fucking alcohol, jumped off of this random girls roof into her pool while i had a busted leg, then injured my other leg when i landed, and when i got out of the water i stepped on a live wire. That is probably the dumbest thing ive ever done actually. I could not make this shit up if i tried.

Oh and i almost had 3 threesomes in like a span of 2 days. And one of those was with my dj crush’s (yeah u know the one who is twice my age who was like an acidhead raver in the 90s) Not him, but his roommate who is literaly an adonis hes so beautiful and fucks good hes my age too so its like not weird. and its so messy but i cant stop thinking about having a threesome witb tje both of them. Fuck my whole life.

Also ive been staying downtown at my friends place but the building is really confusing and i also lost my phone so i got lost in that stupid fucking huge building wandering around for like hours until someone saw me crying running down the street with a limp and called my friend.

I can hardlt describe in words the terror i felt when i finally got into my friends apartment only to find that they were gone and since this place has the ceiling to floor windows and its empty bc hes moving out, i looked at the view of the entirety of downtown phoenix and got a sudden wave of intense nausea, followed by several hours of panic symptoms until my friends got back. I truly thought i was going to die. God how the fuck have i not died at this point.

Ok so let me just say that i need money bad, and being a dancer is beginning to be too traumatizing and dehumanizing for me to continue. I dont want to rely on the kindness of strangers just to be allowed to exist but i dont have a lot of options. I know there are many kind people here that are willing to help, as long as you have the means i would appreciate if anyone wants to help me out after this nightmare

https://venmo.com/u/twoheavens

https://www.paypal.me/boilingpond?locale.x=en_US

https://cash.app/$sabinesix

[thedomesticanthropologist]

Hey there! I'm trying to think about how Tav and the party are taking care of the githyanki egg, pre and post hatching. What could they even feed a baby while camping on the road??

I have had this for so long! thank you for your patience. I had to research Gith eggs, only to find specific details about Githyanki eggs are not provided in official D&D lore.

So, Im gonna go off of a few things. It looks thick as hell, and requires some kind of special conditions to hatch? the best we can tell, they are incubated while sitting in acid. In game, the only way to get it to hatch without giving it up is to have it in Laezels inventory at the very end of the game. So Im assuming it sits in stasis and after all is said and done, she hatches it (outside the Astral Plane, as their eggs cannot hatch in the Astral)

In this ask, Id say it would require that the Gith at Rosymorn were right, and this egg only needed "a little more time", and perhaps it began the hatching process already in the acid when Laezel takes it.

A day after leaving the Monastary and getting to the Shadowlands, the egg hatches and Xan is born! Which horrifies EVERYONE in the party! No one expected this, it shouldn't have been possible considering the conditions. Everyone discusses trying to bring Xan back to the monastery, but at this point they cant really turn back and they already know that those Gith might not be friends.

Over two terrifying days, everyone experiences Parenthood. Newborn gith eat (????) but lets assume it can be provided.

Though Laezel has stated in game that she does not want to make children, she canonically rises to the occasion if Xan is with her after the game, so Im going to say she becomes immediately protective. This is her kin, her race, and no one is more qualified to understand what to do than her... except, a baby is MUCH different than your average Gith, and so she cant really do this alone.

Gale and Wyll would rise to the occasion in the caring-for-Laezel department. She can't sleep, but refuses to let anyone else hold the child for the first little while. So Gale brings her meals, and Wyll tries to take over her chores, which she rages against while claiming that she can do it all herself.

When she finally blacks out from trying to do everything alone, the companions pick up Xan and take turns rocking him and cleaning him and cuddling him- there is so much danger in the Shadowlands that none of them can outright refuse to help, because its all hands on deck for all tasks on rotation, and with Laezel finally sleeping, someone has to hold the baby.

Astarion holds "it" at an arms length and has a staring contest with him until someone takes pity and removes the child from his reluctant care.

Karlach gets so excited to help and is very entertaining, playing games and cooing and giggling with Xan- but she cant pick her up.

Shadowheart eventually finds a way to take over caring for Laezel, and when that happens,

Wyll is really the winner here. Hes got that baby strapped to him in an expert swaddle wrap. He figures out how to feed the kid while fighting off a stray shadow creature with his other hand. He kisses the baby on the head every 5 minutes.

Finally, when the Gith come in the night to warn everyone, maybe they have to take Xan with them, with the promise that Laezel may re-aquire him when all is safe (or as is the other option, he may go to live in the Astral Realm at a Gith monastery)

[sovonight]

a gift | xan/radri, bg1 | ao3

—✧✧✧—

It is early in the morning, and the light in the inn's room is dim. Radri opens her bleary eyes to find Xan already awake and sitting up in bed beside her, flipping through his spellbook by the light of a candle on the side table. Rather than turn the other way and go back to sleep, she sits up herself, joining him in quiet preparation for the day ahead. Opening her journal on her lap, Radri unfolds the maps she has collected of the surrounding area, and begins to plan out their journey. Xan's turning of pages settles into the background of her thoughts, periodic and soothing, its rhythm interrupted only once for Xan to give her a glance of acknowledgement, brief but fond.

As her gaze passes over one of the taverns on the map, the sight of its name brings a small smile to her lips, and her fingers are drawn to the homemade amulet around her neck: Imoen's gift to her. Xan had been surprised and somewhat intrigued to declare that indeed, the necklace carried a protective enchantment from the fragments that had been crafted into it, although how the magical properties survived despite not being properly repaired, he could not say.

"Xan, when is your birthday?" Radri asks, now that the thought is in her head. Xan glances up from his spellbook, thinks for a moment, then returns to his work with a slight shrug.

"As chance would have it, it is today," Xan says, as idly as though he were commenting on the weather. For a moment, she thinks this must be an uncharacteristic jest, but the longer she regards him, the more convinced she is that he is, indeed, serious.

"Today?!" Radri exclaims, at which Xan sends her a startled look of confusion. "Why didn't you tell me earlier? Oh, now I have no time to prepare!"

The maps must go—or, no, perhaps they should stay. She could take him somewhere. But would he even like that? Is there even anywhere to go? What in the world is there to show someone who has been traveling the land much longer than she has? How could she possibly find it, when even after their travels thus far, she still remains on the inside just a sheltered child of Candlekeep?

"Radri," Xan says, his calm voice interrupting her panicked thoughts, "There is no need to prepare anything. It is a day like any other; I am content to let it pass without acknowledgement."

"No, no, I have to think," Radri says, and then it comes to her. "Wait. Yes! Here, you will decide where we go today."

She pushes her maps into the little valley of the blankets between them, with a bright, relieved smile. Xan stares at her, then at the haphazard pile of maps.

"Ah. The gift of responsibility. I suppose I should first declare that I will endeavor not to get all of us killed," Xan says, and sighs, reaching not for the maps, but for the journal still on her lap, which lies open to her latest entry. "We were in the middle of some winding quest, correct? We may as well see it through."

"What? No! I'm not putting you in charge to finish quests," Radri says, flipping the journal closed and pushing it aside to emphasize her point, "What do you want to do today?"

"It is hard to say," Xan says, sending her a flat look and a raised brow, "You already took "let it pass without acknowledgement" off the table."

She would let it pass, but… he already asks so little of her, and gives her so much. There is no sense of obligation there, he has made that clear, but what she wants is not so much to repay him as it is to express all the emotion in her heart. Her love, her gratitude, normally locked behind her paltry words—here is a chance, and yet, how can she celebrate him if he insists he needs nothing?

"Isn't there anything, anything at all that you wish for? To take a day's break in peace and quiet, or to study your craft without thinking about what it will be useful for in a quest, or…" As her words trail off into his silence, Radri sighs, her shoulders falling as she looks away. "Never mind. If there is truly nothing that you desire, then today will be a day like any other."

She pulls the pile of maps back into her lap, tidying them back into her journal. Perhaps they will just finish that aforementioned quest today, and if so, she already knows where to go. The quiet page-turning of earlier does not resume however, and a moment later, Xan's silence is broken with a sigh.

"If you are determined to grant me something, then I ask for a kiss," Xan says.

"Just a kiss?" Radri asks, confused. "Are you certain? You don't want something less… mundane?"

"There is nothing mundane about it," he says.

When she meets his eye, he is sincere. She would have preferred a gift that took some effort from her—perhaps then, it would feel like enough—but if this is all he wishes, then it will be so. Radri places her journal to the side; she crosses the little valley in the blankets between them, and closes her eyes, waiting for him to claim his kiss.

"Ah," Xan says, interrupting her wait, "But I must receive the kiss from you, otherwise it will not be a fitting gift."

She freezes. Come to think of it, Xan has always initiated every kiss they've shared.

"I… I…" Radri finds herself stammering, suddenly helpless to do anything but stare into his gray eyes. There had been a twinkle there, a glimmering wink of light—but in a heartbeat, it is gone.

"Or, I need nothing," Xan says, with a slight shrug. "A day like any other."

"No," Radri says, "No, I will…"

She's no longer fully conscious of her words, her thoughts bent solely upon the task before her. She leans in towards him, ever so slightly—the first step is, of course, to close the distance—but with what she swears is the trace of a smile at the corners of his lips, he relaxes into the cushions at his back, reclining so that if she wants to meet him, she must come in closer towards him again. In the back of her mind, she registers the sight of his spellbook—it is closed, now, but not carelessly, her old ribbon marks his place—and it rests to the side of his idle, relaxed hand, which now lies open. Open, and available to hold her, to pull her to him—but aside from his steady breaths and the few blinks that interrupt his patient gaze upon her, he does not move, waiting for her.

Her hands find their places to bring her back to him, pressing palm-down into the mattress to either side of his reclined form. Her heart, beating loudly in her chest, would have her believe that she were facing off against some dangerous beast, and not the petal-soft lips of her beloved that rest just five inches away from her own. While he must be fully aware her turmoil, Xan's clear gray eyes betray nothing—and as though knowing they are her last lifeline, he closes them at last, waiting patiently for her kiss.

Radri stares at his closed eyes, his eyelashes, the gentle waves of his hair, and the stray lock that so often escapes it, which brushes a serpentine curve down to his lips.

Five inches… just make them zero.

Four…

Three…

Two…

…Overwhelmed, she buries her face in his shoulder.

"Last I checked, that is not where my mouth resides," comes his idle comment, "As is evidenced by the fact that I am speaking unimpeded."

"I know," Radri says, in what she intends to be a normal response, but which comes out as more of a muffled moan of despair.

She has the sense that he is smiling now, but she refuses to lift her head to see it. His arm shifts against her, the movement felt in the shoulder she has found shelter against, and a caress follows, moving across her hair to the nape of her neck. A kiss is pressed to the top of her head.

"Perhaps this is my gift instead," Xan says. "A quiet morning in which I may delude myself with illusions of your safety."

"You can have that any morning."

"Not any morning," Xan reflects idly, "But I have already done it before, I suppose. I have collected as many as five seconds before our doomed reality makes itself known again."

Hearing that, she has to kiss him. Radri lifts her head up from his shoulder, looking determinedly back down at his lips.

"Now I have a sense of what our enemies experience when they face you, I think," Xan says, with an amused tilt to his brow. As he regards her a while longer, though, the look in his eyes shifts, and his tone is nothing but fond as he murmurs, "Ah, and there is the sight that I have become accustomed to."

It's only when he points it out that she becomes aware of the building warmth in her cheeks. As always, she burns hotter under the compounding effects of his gaze and her own awareness, and Xan sighs, lifting his hand to run his cool fingertips across her cheek in a gentle caress.

"You do not have to force yourself," Xan says. "I consider myself fortunate that you permit me to show you affection in such ways to begin with; it does not need to be returned in kind. Shall we leave this behind, and face the day?"

"Wait," Radri says, a new spark in her thoughts, and she grasps his hand in her own. "May I…?"

Xan's gaze flicks down to their joined hands, then rises to meet hers, understanding in his eyes. He nods, and this time, when he closes his eyes, so does she.

There is a place within, where the troubles Xan lifts from her shoulders escape her being; where the melody he strums across their bond comes to rest once it has sung through her veins; where an echo of his soul rests beside hers, both calm and restless, both troubled and content. He had guided her on how to form the bond, but he had not guided her on how to navigate it. You will know, he'd said—and she does.

She gathers it all. Her love, yes, and her affection, her desire, and her gratitude—but also that which is wordless, including the vivid memory of just a few moments earlier. She wants him to know why she'd frozen, what she had felt, when he had first laid back and closed his eyes and she had gazed at him with such desperate and nervous and hungry affection that it had overwhelmed her and sent her to the shelter of his arms. She would have kissed him a thousand times, if only she could move, if her love were any less, if the look of patient serenity on his face were not so achingly beautiful, if, if, if—

"Estel'amin," she hears, soft and strained from his lips, as though the word had barely escaped being choked in his throat, and Radri's eyes open in an instant to find Xan's gaze clinging to hers in desperation, his gray eyes dark and vulnerable. She releases him, and he reaches up and takes her face into his hands, and she is not so much pulled as she is drawn, meeting his lips with hers. The kiss is tender, as is the next, and the next, until they part, far too soon. But it is only so that Xan may scatter his affection elsewhere upon her, his kisses finding her cheeks, her eyelids, the tip of her nose—

"Xan," Radri says, the syllable edged with laughter, and at last Xan releases her, though the way he gazes at her says he would have continued for some time longer. As she gazes back, however, she realizes something—and as naturally as breathing, she leans back in and presses a simple kiss to his lips.

"There! Your gift, fulfilled at last," Radri declares, lightly flushed and pleased with herself.

"Oh," Xan says, a slightly dazed look still lingering in his eyes, "Of course. That... was the gift, here."

—

full xan/radri compilation

[one-sided-bbl]

prescription medication ranking list

as a bipolar baddie, ive learned that the only thing that can save me is prescription medication.

Anti Psychotics/ Mood Stabilizer

aripiprazole (Abilify): made me feel nothing. took this for a month and genuinely cant tell u if it made a difference. 2/10

latuda: omg when i say this will put u to SLEEP. my psychiatrist gave this to me and said " u cant be manic if ur asleep" and he MEANT it. if you havent tried it I recommend it 10/10 only reason im normal

lamictal: i have been prescribed this for over a year and maybe have take it four times. its a good backup when im extra crazy but i still prefer latuda

Benzos/Anti anxiety

Propranolol: DO NOT TAKE THIS IF U HAVE SERIOUS ANXIETY. I was on the verge of s*icide and this didnt do SHIT 4/10 i would recommend this for somebody who has anxiety AND heart issues

Busbar: this shit makes u feel like ur drunk. dont take this and drive. but even tho it makes u feel weird i didnt notice much of a difference. 5/10 better for long term issues

klonopin: sister <3 i remember i had a deep panic attack going on for five days straight and my psychiatrist said... "girl try this" and it works omg. however, itll make you stupid for a full 24 hours like i dont remember whole conversations when i take this shit. 8/10

xanax: i prefer klonopin, xan is too short to help with my panic attacks. xanax i feel only makes sense when youre over the age of 29 like why tf r u abusing this 5/10

Anti depressants/ stimulants

Zoloft: i took this for like two weeks and it didnt do shit. i truly believe this is only helpful if youre not bipolar 1/10

Wellbutrin: ok DO NOT take this alone if youre bipolar. said panic attack that lasted four days was because i was on this without my latuda. however, at higher doses i really enjoyed this one as it helped with my adhd a lot. 6/10

Adderal: my sister i stopped taking wellbutrin because adderal helped a lot more. i use it as an antidepressant. stop putting shortages on my elixir of life!!! 8/10 the crashes suck

Vvyvanse: if only my insurance would cover it... everything said about adderal excluding bad come downs. 9/10

[ithisatanytime]

TH Express - I'm On Your Side (Factory Team Remix)

 i was in a fourchan thread that was like “is belly eilllish an industry plant?” and i was interested because since her debut i always took it completely for granted that she was, one of the most obvious industry plants if not the most obvious in my opinion and surprise surprise she is, shes a jew with jew show biz parents and a grandfather or something who worked in the government and more! but in that thread an anon said he knew billie was being fucked by some black dude when she was 16 and presented a picture of a black guy sucking a white girls toe and said he knew it was her room because he had to do a 3d model of her bedroom because she has anxiety issues and wanted to have a VR version of her bedroom while she was on the road, he then produced the entire model of her bedroom lmao. heres the point of this post, should i be using this picture to try to track down and extract vengeance from this black child molester who molested billie eillish as a child? women absolutely will not understand even an iota of where im coming from here, this will seem like a thought game or some shit, i really mine it, if hes a child molester i ought to be filled with righteous indignation and should be tracking him down, yet i dont give a fuck about it at all and neither do you lying ass hos. im so done listening to women talk about the sexual mistakes of men, i just dont care. cant you see how this gives actual child molesters cover? killing child molesters used to be TOLERATED, you might not get away with it one hundred percent but you would get a slap on the wrist and be celebrated subtextually in the media for it in fact, but now child molester can mean anything from the most unimaginable kind of monster to literal just healthy normal man. it used to be that a much older man sleeping with a much younger woman was socially frowned upon and its consequences handled socially on a case by case bases, if you were dating with plans of marriage in a rural area? no one cares its cause for celebration, but if i as a 33 year old picked up someones 14 year old daughter from the mall and banged her id have been liable to get my ass beat by her dad or any male relative. statutory laws are ONLY for whte men as well, so your young highschool daughter that you cant protect yourself (because her whore mother wont let you see here anymore lol) who now is protected by the state and like all young women is enamoured by older men, shell get that older man too you cuck its just gonna be jamal instead of brad and hes a drug dealer whos gonna get her addicted to xans, shell be sucking black did for half an ounce of weed based on these cuckolded fucking sex laws. im just tired of women, im tired of being tangled in their mundane gossip im going to mars.

[rainey-staerie-daize]

So sick of living here. I fell asleep around the time Mom said dinner was ready, and woke up around midnight to use the bathroom. Didn't spend forever in there, ate some food, made sure Xan actually brushed his teeth and went to sleep, finally turned off auto play, made some maca cocoa, took the dog out, fed the dog, wiped the table, and changed the trash bag. In short: I was pretty damn productive.

And Xan wanted to refuse to listen to me about laying down and shutting his eyes, which was over an hour of arguing and trying to convince him (me trying to stay quiet, him not so much). Mom's brought up more than once in the past that I'm a bad example or something, but the bitch behaviors (like demanding that the conversation's over when someone disagrees with you, and yelling when angry) he's been displaying I've realized recently are things she does. Mom's the one teaching him this shit. But wants to blame it all on him seeing my "back-talking."

And then there's the fact that Mom wants me to "be productive" and "take initiative" and, quoting my late dad, "have ambition," but she woke up shortly after Xan finally dosed off, and loudly asked me what I was doing. Like, in the tone that suggests I'm doing something insane and wrong and she's freaking out. What was I doing? Scrubbing the table. I spilled some of my drink, and instead of leaving it as I often do when I'm feeling lazy, I actually cleaned up after myself. And since I already had the sponge in hand and I meant to do this last time, I decided to clean the area where Skye usually sits. So our entire half of the table would be clean, which she deserves honestly, because she does the most around the house out of all of us.

Cue Mom panicking (not all that quietly, and I just got Xan down) because the scrubby side of the sponge convinced her that I'm tearing up the table. No, if anything, the texture in the tabletop was tearing up the sponge, but I digress. She says to stop, so I go to rinse the sponge, and she tells me to stop rinsing the sponge. Stop running the water completely. So I put down the sponge and rinse my hand (which I'm not compromising on because that's my hand and I have to live with it), and of course she's mad that I didn't just turn the water off. I finish, tell her okay, the water's off, hoping for her to chill, and she just says (read: demands) to stop talking. Well, at least she's being honest about what she wants from me this time. Usually she just tells me to quiet down when I'm not yelling.

This night's events, combined with everything else, especially the last several days, has me losing my mind. This includes:

- praising Kare (7) for attempting to clean the bathroom (including Mom's half of the counter, which I dare not touch), when she was pissed at me for doing the same thing with the kitchen cabinets a while back

- wanting me to clean the dog, after she's previously complained that I use too much water and take too long

- telling her that I wasn't gonna clean the dog, saying "I'm not arguing about this," which is directly quoting her, and leaving the room, and Skye telling me later that Mom said she felt disrespected. Good. You make me feel disrespected all the time. I understand authority deserves a certain amount of respect, but the general human deserves a certain amount of that as well, and Mom doesn't even respect or trust me as a person. Like Hell am I gonna respect her as a parent when she acts like a child herself half the time.

- wanting me to fix the jammed kitchen drawer, that she claimed at first happened because I stuffed it so full of my shit, and changed it up later to it being my fault because I use that drawer more than anyone else. And when I brought up the fact that I only have my rechargeable milk frother in there among her shit-ton of cords and random kitchen stuff, she got mad and exclaimed that she "can't even talk around you!" Really? You wanna claim that you have to "walk on eggshells" around me? Because I calmly called you out on your bullshit? Oh, but I could never bring up the fact that most of the time I talk to her I deliberately try to remove the emotion from my voice and talk in a deadpan because she gets mad when I show too much emotion, loud or not. Who's on the eggshells here?

- not taking responsibility for her actions, like showing absolutely no reaction or even saying sorry or anything when I show that the mess she's been complaining about was in fact caused by her. Like the item jamming the kitchen drawer being a cake decorating kit's box she never threw away. Or the footprints on the laundry room floor (that I was stepping over) matching her sneakers' tread, when she was blaming my slippers.

- claiming she doesn't want an argument and then proceeds to turn my attempted conversation (or even just a stray comment) into an argument. She makes a big deal out of a lot of things, but claims that I do that.

- bringing up irrelevant-ass (and often incorrect) shit in an argument. Are you mixing up your kids? Or do you just have a shit memory? Of course, she blames any memory or attention problems on her lack of sleep, which she blames on us, her children. You know, you're the mom, and you can say "no more TV, go to bed" at a reasonable time, right? Anyway, irrelevant shit the past few days have included saying that I'm the one who uses the bottom two drawers the most (it's actually only the bottom one) and angrily asking if I do anything besides doing my hair. I've done my hair only about twice this past week, and she just happened to see the last time. My hair's actually been neglected, but she'll try to bring up anything she can in an argument to try and make me look like the bad guy.

- makes promises she doesn't keep. If you don't wanna do something in the first place, just don't offer it. I still haven't been paid for babysitting, or paid back from lending her cash in high school.

- occasionally sneaking around like some kind of teenager. The best example I can think of was in high school when Skye told me that Mom had her look for my money in our room. The only reason Mom asked me was because Skye couldn't find any. Or was it only a dollar? Hard to remember.

- emotional manipulation? She gets mad when I show too much emotion. Often because I'm loud, but sometimes when I'm not being loud. Like, shut up, I'm the angry one here. But she'll tell me not to "invalidate" my younger siblings' emotions. Bitch, I'm not the one who tossed a full box of chicken nuggets on Bry's foot (the one with the badly-ingrown toenail) and then got pissy because "I'm just messing around" and "what, I can't try to have fun with my kids?" when he got upset and left the room. Stop, you're not the victim in every scenario.

- After one rant about how I need to "have ambition," I changed the trash bag and cleaned part of the kitchen floor. And when Mom came out and I told her that where she's standing in her socks might still be wet, she seemed ticked off and left the room. And later wore her shoes across that stretch of the kitchen floor before leaving for work. When I later brought that up, she acted like the fact that she was getting ready for work was a perfectly justifiable reason to do that, like I'm the irrational one.

- generally treating me like I'm the most untrustworthy, irresponsible one when she or my siblings have done the same or worse without the same scorn. I'm the oldest and also neurodivergent. Please give me a break.

- blatant favoritism. Even if I was the worst daughter ever, that doesn't explain why both Skye and I have never had the therapy or doctor's visits that we needed. Skye got a couple doctor's visits, but not enough to resolve the issue, and I've needed therapy for literally a decade now. Mom only gets help for the youngest three, it seems. I suspect it's because if she doesn't, their dads will start shit, and Skye's and mine are dead.

- not caring that Xan has adopted these ideals and behaviors from her, or just straight-up blaming them on me, even when I actively try to nip those in the bud

[zabim4ru]

Most perfect kitty ever 🖤

[kimsohn]

i don't know if you've already done one, but can you do a moot game with your moots as roadtrip roles?? like who's driving, who has the aux cord, brought the snacks, sleeps the whole way, etc. thank you!

omg this is my first moot game haha, clearly i haven't done of these before but i'll try my best!

@seung-scrittore leo is definitely the one that has the aux cord! they're always posting about music and i think they have a great music taste and a passion for exploring music, i'd definitely trust them with the aux 💖

@tbzloonar although xan is a little bit crazy (i'm being nice here) i feel like i would definitely trust him to drive. i feel like he's talkative but not too much (because they're driving, but also because this reflects their personality irl) and i feel like they'd be confident enough to know where they're going. they probably also have the gps going 24/7; he's probably super afraid of getting lost haha (and also because i see him as the dad of any group).

@jangwonie i feel like fae would definitely be a cuddler! maybe a little bit quiet on her phone, popping in at times throughout the conversation whenever she feels its necessary to, i feel like she'd always have her head on the shoulder of the person next to her or an arm around theirs. sometimes it's just for comfort, other times its for a comfortable sleeping position 😊

@sungie drew is literally one of the funniest people i've met on this app. it doesn't matter who starts conversations, but i feel like drew is definitely the one to keep them going. their laughs would definitely be a highlight of the car ride and they'd definitely be the whole mood maker of the group.

@gfksn i feel like mel would definitely be the mom of the group, even if it isn't always prominent. which is why i would trust him to always bring food! making sure everyone is fed is a key mom thing, but also food is very important in general and i feel like mel would be a snacker.

@seolves would definitely stop the car to take pictures. doesn't necessarily have to be of the people, but rather, the scenery and stuff to see itself. i feel like she has such a calming presence and photography is what came to mind at first (i have no idea if you're into photography irl)

i've been trying for the past 20 min to think of someone who is passed out cold the entire time and the answer is me. i have motion sickness and the only way to combat that is sleeping 😭 i really do love scenery and sightseeing but i would rather not be sick 🤗

[dearcat1]

(Dot the i’s)

Part 64 of Sofia

CW: discussion of abuse and suicidal tendencies

"I know Sofia more than anybody else in this world." Xanxus says and doesn't even find it amusing when Massimo jumps. "So how did my brother realize she's dangerously close to suicidal but not me?"

"To be fair to you," Massimo sighs. "She's probably been there since before you kidnapped her. But she's happier now, isn't she? Free. And she thinks so highly of you, you might as well have hung the moon, little brother."

Xanxus clicks his tongue, dropping on the chair with a pointed look at Massimo's hastily hidden paperwork. "She thinks I'm a little shit." Xanxus sits back. "Answer the question." 

"Trust me, Xan. You don't want the details. All you need to know is that probably all of them are, to a degree." Massimo sits down behind his desk. "We're all keeping an eye on them." He opens the drawer, pushes the papers the rest of the way inside and closes it again. "And Sofia does think that. She also looks at you in a way most of us only hope to be looked at."

"Look like what?" Xanxus rolls his eyes. "She already told me her story, what are you hiding from me?"

"Stop fishing." Massimo admonishes. "You look at her the exact same way, you smitten little shit." The humour is still there when he straightens. "Did she? I'm glad. It's not hers in particular, however. I've been reading up on the bastard's notes. If nothing else, he documented things properly. He was fond of his girls, or he thought he was. Sofia was a solo project for a while. One he was proud of."

It earns him a grunt. "I know. Sofia keeps mentioning the other girls lately. She never says their names, only talks about them. Apparently, the bastard cried after each of them died. Tell me this much, did they do it themselves?" 

"Most of them." When Xanxus only grunts, Massimo adds: "The oldest… overly enthusiastic alpha."

"Ah." Xanxus stands. "And Massimo, if you ever do something so stupid as to succed were the assassins failed, I'll never forgive you."

Massimo blinks slowly. "I am not, Xan. I was just mad at myself for missing what seemed obvious in hindsight. I wasn't looking at a mirror."

Xanxus just waves his gun warningly as he leaves. He got as much information as he was going to get out of Massimo, said his piece while at it too. Now he's off, he has a mate back home and a few pups to drive him insane. 

He arrives to a nest filled only with his mate. No pups in sight. It's still a little disconcerting but it's also something more common since the fight, they had their talk and cleared the air. Xanxus hums, dropping his jacket on the couch and watching her glare up at him sleepily. "I needed to talk to Massimo."

Sofia blinks, confused for a moment before she realizes why. Then, it changes to embarrassment. "Fine." It's funny to watch because he can tell she's annoyed he took too long to come back but Sofia still feels guilty about not telling him. So she chooses to stand instead, snuggling into his arms and hiding against his chest. "It's late."

"I know." Xanxus picks her up, dropping them both on the bed. "I needed to catch him alone."

"Ok." She cuddles him closer, nuzzling him a little. "Sleep."

"Yeah." It's a little thing but this is a big part of what Xanxus had missed when the pups were always around. Sofia greeting him every night, curling into his arms and nuzzling him. It's nice, it's relaxing and she purrs, soft and pleased, sometimes a little clingy. Their instincts are different but he did ask once, he wanted to know why she likes nuzzling him so much. Sofia had glared, too self-conscious about it, so he had told her about his own instincts first. The little things she does that manage to calm him down or feel like the biggest, baddest fucker around. In the end, Sofia told him that she likes his smell because it brings her comfort but she likes nuzzling him because his attention turns to her. It doesn't matter what he's doing, he pauses to let her nuzzle him. Xanxus supposes it's true, he thinks her doing it is cute. 

[blood-starved-beast]

Since idk when League is gonna give us Irelia lore I might as well make headcanons.

Irelia doesn’t have much money as an adult. Despite coming from a relatively well-off family (her blades were originally her family crest, which if they have a crest they had prestige, which means they had money) all their wealth (which i imagine wasn’t that much to begin with, at least no where near the level of the Kirammans and their economic empire all things considered) was lost when Noxus pillaged the Xan house. Resistance fighting doesn’t exactly pay the bills, and with no centralized government backing them, Irelia rarely gets a regular income and has to either rely on foraging for food and charity for the other resources. I’d figure she’d also use any money to help people or her troops (or what would constitute them).

Because she was orphaned at a young age, Irelia has a host of weird habits that perhaps her family if they were alive would either be concerned or alarmed by. Many of them are defense mechanisms (like sleeping with weapons, going nights without sleep or waking at the slightest provocation, never sharing her food [something I feel would be a social faux pas in Ionia], etc.). Even her habit of knife collecting started like this but eventually became a hobby of hers. I imagine she keeps them stabbed on some board of wood or wall somewhere.

As a child her dream was to be the leading actor of a dance theater troupe but of course that never became realized. After the first Invasion there have been moments where people suggest to her that she should join or with offers, but she rejected them for a variety of reasons (being too depressed, Ionia needs her fighting spirit more, prefers to dance alone now). She rarely thinks about those dreams so much as she does her dead family but sometimes she thinks about it and it haunts her.

This is really weird but I imagine she still has Swain’s human arm that she chopped off somewhere. Either stuffed in some magic freezer or mummified to some extent in a hidden crypt. She can’t exactly explain why she still has it and it disgusts her immensely, but she couldn’t (and can’t) seem to force herself get rid of it. It shames her greatly and it’s a secret that practically no one (not even, especially not Liana) knows other than her. Karma might suspect cause of Spirit of Ionia magic or something, but never really bothered to ask as it wasn’t relevant. 

Would update more later I’m tired

[hargrove-mayfields]

Day one of the Horror on Cherry Lane Challenge! I’ll be participating this month as a writer! The prompt for today is Knife!

warnings for mentions of suicidal ideation and attempts, death, child abuse, and blood.

Billy met Steve in the psych ward.

Well, they met officially at Tina’s party, but that wasn’t the real Steve. That was the King Steve. Deeper than that though, even the Steve Harrington everyone else saw even after the breakup and the fall from grace still wasn’t the real thing.

That was fake smiles, overdone nonchalance to cover up the wound from his fallen status. Now he was stripped down to himself, all bloody bandages and tired eyes, the boy he was pretending to be finally broken down to reveal this.

Apparently, Ruthie Harrington found her son with his grandfather's switchblade- all the other objects in the house sharper than a spoon and with less sentimental value had already been tossed -bleeding all over her freshly polished linoleum floors. She dropped him off at the hospital a night ago and nobody’s been by to see him since.

Now, it’s by pure coincidence that Billy’s already in on the same day Steve’s admitted.

He’s been locked up the past three days compared to Steve’s one. These small town hicks are jumpier (ha) than he thought, and don’t think doing the walk and turn test on the edge of the quarry after downing a bottle and a half of fireball is as funny as he does. Whatever. Cid would’ve thought that was badass as hell.

So he was admitted, on suicide watch for a stupid joke that wasn’t really worth it, or even really a joke. Max came to visit once. She punched him in the chest as hard as she could and cursed him out for an hour. She’d never done that before. By the time she left they were both in tears, and maybe Billy realized a thing or too about his carelessness. Realized for the first time that someone cared.

But he’s still in here for another week and a half by law, so. He’s not going to mope about it. And while Steve Harrington showing up is about the last thing he’s expecting, he decides that’s at least something he can work with. Definitely brings a little life to the place.

He waits until Steve’s intense watch period is over to bug him, once they’re out of their cramped little rooms for a couple of hours to “socialize” (see, the more sound of mind keep an eye on the other patients while the nurses take their smoke breaks) Billy goes straight to Steve. Him and Harrington are far from friends, but that’s pretty much irrelevant when the only other choices for company are kids younger than them too scared to approach them and people too deep in their midlife crises to bother with teenage drama.

Throwing himself down in the blue plastic chair across from where Steve settled in, Billy kicks his feet up on the table,, “What’s up Harrington? Didn’t expect to see a familiar face in here.”

But Steve, poor Steve, takes one look at Billy with those haunted brown eyes, and his face just falls completely apart. There are tears on his way too pale cheeks before Billy even has a chance to breathe.

The smile drops off of Billy’s face, “Jesus Harrington, I know m’not looking my best surviving on hospital food and cigarettes without a hairbrush, but that’s a little unwarranted.”

“Shut up. Not everything’s about you, Hargrove.”

“Oh I disagree with that. But I get the point. I’ll let ya be.” Billy hums, scooting his chair back and getting up. He stops when Steve starts to speak, “Y-You outta be careful saying that kinda stuff in here.”

“What?”

“That the world revolves around you. They’ll come up with a diagnosis for that and keep you here forever. Drug you ‘til you forget your own name, let alone your status.” Steve tells him with humor, wiping the tears off his face.

Billy nods in understanding, sits back down with an interested smirk, “This ain’t your first time here, is it?”

“Is it yours?”

“Nah. I’ve done some shit on purpose, some on accident. Once it wasn’t even me. But s’never done anything to help so far.”

Steve puffs out a sigh, “Don’t I know it.. I’ve been in and outta this place since I was like, ten. Clearly nothing’s changed.”

“Why? What’s your dirty little secret, Harrington?”

“I cut myself, dumbass.” He deadpans, looking at Billy with a bluntness in his expression that reads more concerning, more like indifference to what he just said than matter-of-fact.

“No shit. But that ain’t the secret.” Billy probes further, can tell he’s getting under that mask Steve wears, “Why do you do it?”

“Legally, I can't tell you. And I don’t think I would anyways.”

“What about if I tell you all about me first? I got no reservations ‘cept the one that got me a bed here.”

“It’s not a hotel, Hargrove.”

“Eh, might as well be. Feels like the damn hotel California.”

“Is that why?”

“Huh? Oh no, I been pullin’ stunts like this long before we left Cali.”

“Like what?”

“Like downing two full bottles of my mother’s meds after she left. Not at the same time obviously, or I wouldn’t be here. Mostly ‘cause my dad didn’t even wanna take me to the hospital either time.” Billy doesn’t look at Steve while he elaborates. Not because he cares, he’s an open book, if a random old woman at the grocery store asked about his last attempt, he’d tell her.

But. He doesn’t like watching people’s faces. Seeing sympathy and concern there. It makes him feel all stupid and guilty. It’s usually not like that with other kids like him, but Steve’s different. He’s got a big heart. Even if there’s no room for himself.

And Billy hurt Steve before. He doesn’t want to see someone he caused pain caring so much about him. He already cracked when Max came to see him. This could be what splits him open, spills out all the things he’s covered up.

So he keeps going, “And like runnin’ out in front of traffic with my friends. They thought we were just playin’ chicken ‘til I stopped dead in front of a station wagon. Metal rims’d done me in for sure if one ‘a the older boys hadn’t pulled me outta the way. Damn near ripped my shirt in half how fast he grabbed me.”

“I’m guessing your parents are the reason why then?”

“Yessir.” Billy deflects, not good at getting deeper into it, “You wanna tell me yours then?”

“I started cutting because Tommy Hagan told me about it. He thought it was freaky, but when he ran his mouth about how they found the neighbor kid in his room, drained of all his blood from his wrists, I wanted to try it. I’ve tried liquor and drugs and all kinds ‘a shit I shouldn’t, but nothin’ stuck like cutting.” Steve pauses for a long time, his eyes going blank, staring right past Billy, “When my mom found out she.. she.. Forget it.”

“Hey, you seen my skeletons. Can’t I see yours?”

“No. I don’t wanna fucking talk about it anymore.” Steve answers, despite his assuredness, his tone wobbling with some unidentifiable emotion.

Talk about mood swings. Billy doesn’t get how nobody would’ve noticed something was up before Steve started carving into himself. Really, he knows someone would have seen it and just ignored it.

It only gets worse though, the reservedness turning to sadness and frustration. None of the words are coming out, but he can tell Steve’s thinking of the stories, reliving all that got him to the here and now. Billy can also tell there’s nothing he can do no to stop him from doomsdaying.

So when Steve is inevitably in the thralls of a panic attack, he tries to hug him tight, to try to get it to stop maybe, that always worked for him at least, but Steve swats him away. Judging from the way he winces, it’s not easy for him to do either, with those thick ass bandages constricting his wrists, but the tears and the pain on his face are buried behind his resolution.

He’s hiding something from Billy.

In hindsight, talking to a new patient about past attempts probably wasn’t his brightest idea anyways, so he switches the subject while Steve works on coming down from his panic attack. He brings up Max and her little nerds, trying to bridge the healthier connections between him and Steve that they’d both been ignoring since the fight. He mentions basketball too, another something they have in common other than trying to kill themselves.

It doesn’t really work, though Steve does stop shaking as bad, just curling up in his little chair and sniffling, pretending not to listen while Billy rambles on and on. But he doesn’t talk. It’s probably better for him not to anyway. Billy himself has been known to say some dumb shit when he’s in distress.

Ultimately, even once the conversation runs out, he stays with Steve until dark. He can tell from the way his gaze sticks to the floor that Steve recovered from his fit a while ago, but he’s embarrassed by having a breakdown in front of him, as if he isn’t in here for the same reason. It helps that he gets it though, and they sit in a comfortable, albeit very prolonged, silence.

Long after Steve gets xanned up and knocked out though, while Billy is still free to wander until the midnight curfew as a low risk patient, he decides to stick with him in his room. Billy’ll never admit it, but he gets nightmares, and he doesn’t want to face that just yet, so with a new friend as an excuse, he’s up half the night watching Steve sleep.

He remembers what happened earlier, how focused Steve was on keeping him away from him, despite his panic, and decides, with a glance at how deeply Steve is sleeping, his greasy hair all strewn about on stiff pillows, that he’s going to figure out what it was.

He snoops around in his bedside drawers, in the bathroom, in the locker in the corner. It’s there he notices the knitted jacket Steve was wearing before, hanging heavy to one side, like there’s something in its pocket. He touches it and feels the outline of something small, so he pulls it out.

He regrets checking though, because it’s a knife. Judging from the old looking engravings on its handle, and the coppery stains within the grooves, it’s specifically the very same one that got Steve hospitalized.

He shoves it in his own back pocket and keeps looking, with a quick glance at Steve, finding a note tucked where the knife had been. Written in perfect scrawl on bond paper that’s been folded a dozen times and stained with tears,

“Do it right next time, why don’t you? Your mother is too soft on you. I’m not paying for this again.

- J.Harrington.”

Billy doesn’t know what to do but throw the note in the trash. Not really in shock, but definitely more than a little fucked up from reading that, he sits on the end of Steve’s bed. His own dad, who'd more than once been the one putting him in the hospital, had never even said anything like that to him.

He didn’t get to talk to Steve much today, but they’ve got as long as Billy’s stuck in here together to fix that. Longer if he just pulls something in front of a nurse. And he wants to, really really wants to.

Because he knows he just met the real Steve, can recognize another broken boy when he sees one, and he knows too, that he never wants to meet a pretty boy like this again.

And if that’s his declaration to get clean, then so fucking be it.

But. He never promised not to hurt anyone. Ultimately he’d still need that outlet.

He keeps the knife. To make sure his pretty boy doesn’t get hurt again.

[sarahjkl82-blog]

Artistic Instinct Chapter 10

Header thanks to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty

Summary: Marcus Pike and OC Anushka Pierce have been selected to work on a 5 eyes (Australia, Canada, NZ, the UK and US) intelligence team to track down art forgeries as a part of taking down an international white terrorism cell. Marcus is trying to escape his broken heart, Anushka is just trying to escape what the world expects of her.

Word count: 6500

Warnings: Language as always, grief, loss and some second base action.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x reader (OC)

This comes with a MASSIVE THANK YOU to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty , who reads, re-reads, points out the constant flipping between tenses and gave me the confidence to try to write something. This is the first thing I have written since angsty poetry as a teenager. Apologies if it is shit!

May the flowers remind us why the rain was so necessary - Xan Oku

Chapter 10

Your eyes fly open - heart pounding, mouth dry- as the nighttime movie that played behind your eyelids finishes abruptly. Hugging your arms around yourself, you try to steady the impact of that injection of adrenaline into your veins, drawing deep breaths into your lungs as you gaze into the oil slick of darkness surrounding you. The sounds of day are yet to kick into being as your phone screen illuminates 03:02 - the trains not yet pulling out of their sidings, sirens still silenced for the most part. The night air is just punctuated by the rhythmic pitter patter of rain upon the roof and the sweetest little snores still rising steadily from your…

Your boss.

For fucks sake.

Once could be called a mistake, even if it was a twelve year long one. But back doing this shit again? Sheer fucking stupidity. Your head drops into your hands as a stab of pain cuts through your gut. What the fuck do you do now? Marcus so honestly put his heart on a platter for you last night- could you be the cold hearted, callous bitch that throws it back in his face? All of your body fizzes with fear - your muscles twitching with the cortisol so rather than irritate him with your fidgeting, you slide out of his bed.

Bare soles on the night-cooled wooden floors help to ground your flighty soul as you walk around the unfamiliar apartment. Whilst the exterior dampness can only come as far as pretty patterns on the window pane, the chill causes tiny pinprick goosebumps to stand proud against your skin. You finally settle cross-legged on the floor by the French doors leading out to the balcony, watching the raindrops race each other down the glass - mentally cheering on your favourites as they glide towards the inky pools gathering beneath them.

With your mind so lost in your new-found sport, you aren’t entirely aware of the arrival of a warm, breathing blanket that curls itself around your body languidly before you are tightly encircled by long limbs and gentle nuzzling into the side of your neck, “What’s up, honey?”

A small, precious kiss is pressed into your temple before the sleep-thick murmur continues in your ear, “Thought you’d left. So happy to find you here.”

Leaning back into his broad chest, you allow the expanse of his form that is wrapped around you to consume your body whole, “Bad dream. Couldn’t get back to sleep and didn’t want to wake you.”

“‘M sorry,” Marcus slides you slightly to his left so he can search your face for the answers that you are so incredibly reluctant to give, “Your heart is racing - do you want to talk or just have things that will make you feel better?”

Initially, you don’t feel able to catch his gaze, having thought about breaking his heart only minutes prior to his soothing arrival but when you do, everything hits you like a ton of bricks. The deep pillow creases of his cheek, sweetly mussed up hair and the earthy hues of his questioning eyes make your fist fly to cover your eyes as your tears echo the deluge of rain.

He doesn’t speak. Just holds you close. Cradling you in his arms as your body shakes into his. Marcus allows you to sit with your pain awhile - not pressuring you to speak or offering any empty platitudes to solve it- allowing the hurricane of grief to rip through you, all the while tethering you to the ground.

As the tears exhaust themselves, Marcus leaves and your eyes dance in panic at the loss of his soothing touch. The relief of hearing his kettle start to boil and then the gentle roar of taps filling a tub, stretch a ghostly pair of arms back around you, soothing the ache beneath your ribs. A hand reaches down to you offering a way out - gently hoisting you back onto your feet.

“C’mere sweetheart,” Marcus pulls you back into his chest, pressing a line of kisses along your hairline, “I’ve made you a cup of camomile tea and run you a bath.”

He makes to leave you but your haunted eyes and tight grip upon his wrist beg him to stay, “Honey, I don’t want to overstep the mark here. I’m sorry that I asked you to stay. Overwhelming you like this, isn’t fair of me.”

Trying to eloquently respond to him comes out with just a snotty sad gasp so you vehemently shake your head tugging his hand towards the bathroom. Once inside the metro tiled space - pausing between heaving breaths - you manage to squeak out in your juddery voice, “Please stay with me.”

“Please don’t feel guilty - this is just shit I need to work through,” you mumble as you fiddle with the hem of Marcus’ t-shirt, feeling his skin twitch as you accidentally make contact, “I’m sorry that it’s having a knock on effect for you.”

“You have nothing to apologise for,” he leans in to sweetly kiss your forehead, “I’ll turn around while you get in but I promise not to leave.”

“I don’t care if you see me naked - it’s just a body,” you mutter slightly confused by this sentiment when he’d been stroking your breasts earlier. As you start peeling off the t-shirt you’d borrowed from him, Marcus swings to face the bathroom door quickly.

“No,” the sharpness of Marcus’ response steals the air from your lungs momentarily - you stand in front of him like a rabbit caught in headlights, “I’m sorry, sweetheart - didn’t mean to be so forceful. No - it’s not just a body. It is your body and I wanna enjoy it properly when you’re not so upset. It would be taking advantage.”

Slowly lowering yourself into the delicious expanse of Marcus’ bath, you allow the warmth to soak into your aching bones. The water cocoons and hugs every inch of you as you permit it to unknit every knot of tension within your body.

“You can turn around now.”

A kind smile plays upon the deep creases set by Marcus’ eyes, “Tilt your head back.”

Reaching behind you, he turns on the shower attachment - the water bursting forth in a perfect summer rain across the skin of the bath water. Like a parent with a child, he checks the temperature until it reaches a soothing heat and runs it over your hair, soaking every last strand, washing away the mix of salt from anxious sweat and tears. Dropping the shower head in the bath, he then grabs a generous squirt of shampoo in his hands, lathering it into your scalp, massaging until you feel like a gelatinous blob under his skilful touch.

After rinsing every last bubble and sud from your hair, Marcus then squeezes out some conditioner - the bottle releasing the most indecent sound that has you both giggling like small children. Having coated his digits well, he starts to run his fingers through your hair - combing every strand with his hands, ensuring there isn’t a single knot to be found. A gentle finger beneath your chin tells you to tip your head back again as the shower rinses the excess away.

Settling back on the plush bath mat, Marcus passes you your tea silently and you just sit. Sit there in companionable silence - without an ounce of awkwardness- just both sipping tea as your body gradually accepts its need to sleep again.

✪✪✪✪✪

“Give me two minutes and I’ll be ready,” Marcus gazes softly after your disappearing form as you spin into your bedroom to get dressed for work. It takes every bit of gentlemanly restraint that he possesses not to follow you, run his hands over your silken skin and get a hit of your delicious taste. Instead he re-settles his mind by looking around your flat having finally been allowed a peek inside your inner sanctum.

He doesn’t quite know what he expects to see but it certainly isn’t this. It feels an odd mix in there- piles of cushions and blankets but no photos. No pictures decorating the place yet multiple empty frames propped against walls, waiting for their stories to be told. Your home isn’t really a home at all - it is just a roof over your head with nests for you to curl into exhaustedly.

“Have you been here long?” he asks quizzically, spying the battered moving boxes that have obviously been rummaged through for a missing necessary nick-nack or two but never having been fully unpacked. Marcus runs his hand over the coarse, corrugated cardboard and light spattering of dust coating them, wondering what secrets you wish to keep hidden in there and if you will ever open fully to him, to allow him to lighten your load.

“Almost two years,” he hears you muffledly answer through the jumper you pull over your head as you momentarily reappear in the doorway of your bedroom - a vision of radiantly soft curves- just knickers and a mess of limbs arguing with the item of clothing, before your breasts get hidden under the striped knitwear.

As much as Marcus tries to stop himself, his body takes the required steps forward so that his fingers can be satiated with the warmth of your skin. He doesn’t kiss you yet - the heat of his breath just dusts the shell of your ear as he inhales the scent of his shampoo in your hair.

“Look at you,” he murmurs - shaking his head in disbelief as he grabs your wrists and pulls you into him, “Beautiful.”

Using the back of his hand to release the hair caught in the collar of your jumper, Marcus takes a moment to drink in all your features. The flecks of gold in your eyes, the sharpness of your cheekbones, the streaks of wisdom in your hair - how were you, the beauty that you are, interested in him?

And then you’re kissing him. Your mouth open, soft lips inviting him into your inner sanctum. He feels your fingertips stroking into the nape of his neck, your nails scratching into the hair that twists and curls there. Shivers of pleasure run down Marcus’ spine, making him pull you closer as your touch sparks life across his body. Your gentle push causes Marcus to startle - to stumble backwards, falling back onto the sofa, sending cushions scuttling across the floor.

Feeling his jaw tic as you clamber into a kneeling position above him, Marcus tries to steady his breath by focussing on the small details of you. The darker spots of pigmentation where the sun has permanently kissed your skin. The divots of your collarbones just peeking above your sweater. The small reminder of a childhood misadventure just above your right eyebrow.

Nope. This is not working. God, I want her.

“Lower those goddamn hips,” he growls, “Sit down.”

“I can’t,” he hears you whimper, eyes shut tight, “I’ll make a mess of your trousers.”

Marcus groans as he considers the sweetness that is encased by those bright pink, lace edged panties - still not quite believing that it is him who has had this effect on you. When you grab his hands that have been stroking little circles by your knees and pull them to your ass, the heat in him rises as he squeezes and needles the delicious flesh beneath.

“This is gonna be hard having you work so close,” as soon as he hears the words leave his mouth, he regrets it. The little twitch between your eyebrows. The tremble of your bottom lip. The slight shift back of your weight upon his lap. Marcus catches them all.

“I’m sorry. Nush, I shouldn’t have…”

As your weight rocks back away from him, leaving his body quickly cooling with your absence, the air is punctuated with your muttering of one word over and over. Each utterance a bullet coated in guilt hitting him sharply.

“Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.”

Scrunching his eyes tight shut, he rocks forward, head in hands. Should he come after you? Should he leave? Fuck, Pike.

Hearing the creak of your bedroom door, Marcus lifts his head in your direction - his eyes throwing a million apologies to you, “Nush, I’m so sorry - I didn’t mean to upset you. That’s the last thing that I’d ever want to do.”

He watches as you walk across the floor - smaller shuffling steps rather than your usual confident stomp, your eyes red-rimmed and glassy and your breathing a little jagged - and feels like he’s just crushed a butterfly in his hands when all he was trying to do was appreciate its beauty. Water starts to pool in the corners of his eyes as he blinks hard to warn them off - after all, he didn’t need to give you any other reason to walk away from him. A small grateful smile creeps across his face when you settle between his knees, resting your arms across his lap - your tear-streaked face looking up at him.

“I’m frightened,” he hears you whisper, “Repeating past mistakes is sheer fucking stupidity.”

Marcus freezes, the blood in his veins turning to ice as he awaits your verdict.

“I can’t do that again. You cannot become another Jasper to me. The relationship that never was with all the hiding.”

“I don’t want us to hide,” he hears his voice betraying him as fear courses through his synapses, his hands aching to touch you. Hold you.

Please don’t let me lose her.

Please don’t let this be it.

“Can I touch you?” Marcus quietly, carefully checks before daring to reach out. He watches as a cloud of confusion washes across your face at his request.

“Of course you can. What? Hang on, did you think,” you pause, brow furrowed, “Did you think I want to stop whatever this turns out to be?”

With his shoulders slightly hunched, one hand reaching behind to rub the base of his neck, Marcus nods, “Yeah, a bit. I…”

“I don’t wanna fuck this up, Nush,” he reaches forward to stroke your wrist.

“Me neither, but we will,” your words take a moment to register with him, “We have both experienced so much - good and bad - that we will put our proverbial foot in it with each other.

“But, I hope that in time, with our collective pasts and the streaks of grey in our hair, we may also slowly learn how to communicate and say when things are a bit shit for us and why. Why my instinct is to run screaming from things and why you think everyone you love is going to leave.”

Marcus curls forward so he can rest his forehead against yours before placing a small kiss there, “Now you’re really gonna have to be two minutes if we’re gonna get to work on time. I’m just gonna shut my eyes until you’re dressed so I’m not tempted to make us late.”

“You think that’ll work?”

Chuckling at the wink you throw at him over your shoulder, Marcus starts to allow that tiny ray of hope he’s been burying for years to shine again.

✪✪✪✪✪

As Marcus opens the door for you, an overwhelming wave assaults your senses. Noises from tapping keyboards, phones ringing and computers blaring, the overwhelming scents of fatty, sugary yet discarded breakfasts and coffee hits hard but it’s the tiny, surreptitious stroke at the base of your spine gives you the kick you need to go in and start your day. A steaming coffee is thrust towards Marcus behind you and some case files are handed to you by a smiling Andy, “Morning Sir, morning Nush. What time did you manage to get cleared up?”

“Between the two of us, it didn’t take too long,” you grin at the PA before looking over your shoulder to find Marcus smiling at you, “Think I was asleep by eleven.”

“Snoring away,” Marcus barely audibly whispers, making your eyes widen.

“Ready for the meeting at nine o’clock, Sir? I have everything set up in the conference room, ready to go…” Andy sweeps Marcus away from you as you head over to your desk, spying the hot cup of Java awaiting your arrival.

New piles of paperwork seem to litter your desk, replacing the ones you’d tried so hard to clear on Friday afternoon. Office life. That it is a life is a bit of a lie, as every soul within your office space looks like it is in some stage of decomposition. Kiri appears to be in need of another weekend to get over the two days of rest just gone, Dian is yawning into her coffee and as for Harper, well, there’s a part of you that doesn’t quite believe she’s fully human with the way she’s already ploughing through her work.

When 9am finally rolls around, it feels more like two in the afternoon. Marcus sticks his head out of the door to call everyone into the meeting and is met by several groans from the team as they reluctantly shake themselves from their chairs and drag their Monday fatigued bones towards the conference room. At the oval, walnut table, you sit sandwiched between Dian and Kiri, directly opposite Andy in a hopefully not too obvious ploy to not be too close to Marcus.

“Good morning everyone, I’d ask you if you’d all had a good weekend but I think we spent enough time together to know that we all did,” a chuckle rises from your office mates as Marcus welcomes everyone, “I wanted to have a catch up this morning as the Soutine that Agent Pierce and I checked in Lyon, has come back as a definite fake. The verdict was reached late Friday afternoon and the French authorities are currently trying to trace its origins.

“We also received word this morning that a Modigliani has turned up in Sotheby’s - they have their own art fraud team but hopefully we will get a look in soon. Agent Pierce, I know I haven’t asked you to prep but could you explain to the team what the issues are around his work?”

“Sotheby’s?” you question, staring straight at Marcus and entirely ignoring his request, “I can get in there now as my best mate works in the fraud team.”

“Hephzibah?” Andy catches your eye, “Didn’t realise she’d transferred over from Scotland Yard.”

“More money,” you shrug as Andy presses his lips together and nods in agreement.

“No, Agent Pierce, I’d like us to hang back for now,” Marcus responds, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair, “If you could give us some of your insight about Modigliani’s pieces, please?”

Slightly taken aback by Marcus’ firmness, you take a moment before responding, “Modigliani’s back catalogue is a fucking mess as he used to give out sketches like a fortune teller.

“Jean Cocteau said that he was drawn by Modigliani roughly fifty times but he only ever owned one picture. Prices have skyrocketed over the past decade with one going for $170.4 million dollars so he’s very much a member of the $100 million club along with Warhol, Picasso et al but not quite at their ethereal prices.

“One of the main things about Modigliani is that the love of the man is not easily separated from his art. Over the years, he has been painted as somewhat Byronesque in his exploits by salacious biographies and films - very much sex and drugs and rock n roll. A bohemian who lived in Montparnasse and Montmartre at the Fin de Siecle - he was known by all the artists who lived there at the time - Picasso even said he was the only man in Paris who knew how to dress.

“To be honest, whilst he was hot - soulful dark eyes, ebony, wavy hair and a beautiful bone structure with an extraordinary amount of intelligence and eloquence-”

“Ah, so you have a type?” Harper mutters into her notes.

Your cheeks flush and eyes dart around the room, hoping that Marcus didn’t hear that as you desperately try to summon a consummate professional performance for the others, “-It is hugely difficult to separate the man from the myth but the main issue due to his profligacy with his art, unlike the other greats who get over $100 million for their work, Modigliani’s work is often questioned. You could easily find a Modigliani in an attic with a letter attached from the man himself and people would still raise an eyebrow at it.

“So, um, the main thing according to all the auction houses is that unless it is in the catalogue curated by Ceroni, it ain’t a Modigliani. This is problematic in itself as that was published in 1958 and even some of the pieces on his list are questionable. People have ended up in prison over their dubious dealings with Modigliani’s back catalogue as you can see in the case of Parisot.

“So if a piece comes to auction that isn’t on the list, they’re damned if it is a Modigliani, and damned if it isn’t?” Dian questions you.

“Pretty much. And he worked at a time when a lot of advances and changes happened in artist’s products. In the first half of the twentieth century, both the production of paint and paper changed massively as everything was slowly more industrialised and made more stable. By industrialising these things, it made the equipment cheaper quicker as more could use it rather than being made Etsy-style in tiny batches that were way beyond the means of most artists.

“Normally, with older pieces we can look at how the artists use paints and the type of paints they use but with more modern artists everything becomes a bit murkier as it is harder to date. And I will stop there before I piss off Harper by rabbiting on too much more.”

Even Harper has the decency to smirk at your comment before returning to her notes. Marcus’s gaze has softened again as you finish speaking, “ Thanks, Agent Pierce. Perhaps we could hear from you now Agent Gleason and Youngerson?”

Harper raises her eyebrows in Marcus’ direction before starting, “So, Agent Youngerson and I have been looking at various right wing groups currently active across the world and what their links are to the art world. The main ones who have thrown up scents for us to chase are The Old School Society, Hydra and The Order.”

Dian looks up from her pad of extensive notes, “Yeah, we've been tracing money routes with those three and when looking at the main donors to these groups, they’ve all had dealings with art galleries and auction houses recently. So we’re now looking into each donor carefully and may need to do some in the field meetings with them as prospective buyers - so my darling work wife, Nush, we may need notes unless you fancy being our cover girl?” she comically winks at you. Making a little heart with your index finger and thumb, you send an equally cheesy wink and click of the tongue back at her.

Marcus huffs a chuckle out at the two of you before turning his attention to Kiritopa, “How have you been getting on with your catalogue of fakes relating to this case?”

“Yeah, alright - slow going collecting all the data as it seems some auction houses are reluctant to reveal how many fakes pass through their doors,” Kiri frowns before glugging some more coffee.

“It’s understandable, they don’t want their reputations dashed. Doesn’t make our work any easier though. Agent Morrison - if you can show me what you’ve compiled so far that’d be great,” Marcus gives the agent a small, sincere smile before turning to address the room again, “Right, I have a meeting this afternoon that’ll keep me out of the office for the rest of the day so I’ll leave you all to get on. Have a great day everyone.”

✪✪✪✪✪

You:

Hey sexy lady, I hear you’ve got a tasty little number at S’s - can I take a look?

Hephzi:

Off the books? Course you can. Change into civvies and I’ll get you in this afternoon.

You:

You’re a fucking ⭐️. I’ll make it worth your while

Hephzi:

Do you mean cake and coffee? Because if you do, I’m fucking yours.

You:

Urm obviously! See you around two?

A small knock on your desk makes you put down your phone and you look up into Marcus’ face, “Hey, you got a minute?”

“Yes, Sir,” as you push your chair away from your desk, you throw your mobile in your desk drawer and follow him into his office.

His desk is immaculately tidy and warm to the touch with its honey and caramel tones washing back and forth in undulating waves as if across a beach. There’s not a hint of Marcus in his office yet - no personal treasures - it stands in stark contrast to the warmth of the man you’re getting to know.

“I just wanted to check you were ok. I heard what Harper said,” he reaches out to straighten the ribbing at the bottom of your jumper, his thumb stroking your tummy lightly.

“She’s not wrong,” you grin lopsidedly at him as you step in closer, placing your hands on either side of his face, “Dark soulful eyes, beautifully high cheekbones, delightfully luscious lips that are perfect for kissing - hard not to fancy Modigliani, really.”

“You’re mean,” Marcus squeezes your hip as he shakes his head, “When would you like to speak to the others? I think being up front with them will help us in the long run.”

You sit on the edge of his desk, leaning back slightly, your face illuminated by your smile, “Maybe we can have our first date and then think about the long run?”

When you see the flinch from Marcus, a pang of guilt echoes through your gut as you recall your earlier conversation, “I think you’re right- once we’re truly confident we know where this is headed, we should speak up. I am not going to lose my job or risk my reputation for you… but I also already know that I don’t want to lose you either.”

“Me neither,” his hand reaches out for you, fingers entangling, thumbs stroking - eyes crinkling as they meet yours, “What are you doing for lunch?”

“Well, I was a bit distracted when I got dressed this morning - there was this really hot guy in my flat…”

“Uh huh, tell me about him,” Marcus slowly drawls, looking down at you amusedly.

“Oh you don’t want to know, Sir. Wouldn’t let me get dressed. Just kept groping me.”

“How... inappropriate of him.”

“Yeah - so I was almost late to work because of him wanting his wicked way with me and accidentally ended up putting on two different shoes.” Marcus steps away from you and having looked down, notices the one extremely dark navy and one black ballet pump with a gently shaking chest as he tries to swallow his chuckle.

“Going home to change? Your mind really must have been elsewhere,” you nod at him -slightly embarrassed by your initial genuine mistake that has now become a cover story. His gaze intensifies as he cups your face, his eyes focussing on your lips, “I’m sorry honey, I don’t think I’ll have time to drop you there and back before my meeting - will you be ok?”

“Of course, Marcus - I’ve worked here for years,” you tease him, feeling awkward as fuck when the half truth you are spinning for your boss feels awkward and bitter in your mouth.

But his kiss doesn’t. Marcus quickly closes the gap between the two of you, leaning towards you - his head tilted, lips soft and welcoming with their desire for you utterly apparent. Deepening the kiss, his mouth gently opening, tongue searching as his hands drop from your face to your waist, you find yourself forgetting to worry that anyone could walk in. Forgetting the regret of lying to him. What had you even been talking about? Should you be doing this? Fuck it. You pull him the final distance so that no air could pass between you - just you and Marcus refusing to pause for breath until your lungs run out of air.

Pulling back to gaze at him with lust blown pupils, wanting him so much more, you eventually find the energy to push away from him. Swiping at your lips with your thumb in case anyone spots the remnants of this moment as you walk towards the door on brand new baby deer legs.

“Hey Nush,” you swing back to look at Marcus, still standing, equally dumbstruck as you, before he winks with a cheeky grin, “Nice shoes.”

✪✪✪✪✪

Gripping the cardboard carrier that holds two steaming cups of black coffee in your left hand, you ring the bell to the magnificent Bloomsbury building that has sold multiple pieces of multi-million pound art. The Georgian façade is impressive in its structure and beautifully kept without a sign of peeling paint, decrying its almost 250 year history - a far cry from the shatterproof glass and steel at HQ. Hephzi opens the door to you with a wide grin upon her face, “Bang on time, missus - I swear the only way to get you places quickly, is with the promise of fine art to get you salivating!”

You can’t really respond eloquently to her as you are absorbed into the cool of the elegant building. Whilst kept modern and minimalistic, the space has retained some of its more charming period features - the cornicing and ceiling roses are still firmly in place despite the stark white of the walls. Oh, the pieces that have passed through this space! The very thought makes you tingle all over through excitement.

Currently bedecking the walls are a collection of women artists about to go up for auction the next day. To you, there was no true money in those frames - just a conversation between you, the spectator and the artist about their emotions in picture form. A discussion that spanned centuries as you follow Hephzi’s soft footsteps through the gallery, enjoying every single one from a still life of flowers surrounded by butterflies and other insects by Rachel Ruysch to one of the copies of Blinding by Tracy Emin - the upside down nude female form shaped in neon pink tubes. The artists speak through ages, through the art upon the wall, in the language of your soul.

Marcus would love it here. Oh to bring him and enjoy it together, walking through the space, hand in hand. My head on his shoulder...

“...Hello? Earth to Nushka? Ah, welcome back,” Hephzibah is shaking her head at you, “You’re here on work experience if anyone asks, yes?”

“Yup,” still only half listening to your friend, you begrudgingly continue on to her workspace in the fraud and forgeries department, reluctantly walking away from the art you long to submerge yourself in.

“Right, hand over the coffee and cake- I take payment in advance, Madam,” Hephzi demands, hand outstretched, “So tell me about the new job. What’s your new boss like?”

“Marcus is nice,” you quietly offer into the rim of your coffee.

“First names already?” Hephzibah’s eyes are round with surprise, “And you mention him before the job… Who even are you? What have you done with the real Nush? Oh! Oh Nush, do you like him?”

You stand there blinking hard, feeling an absolute idiot for being so awkward in front of the person you call your best friend. A small, barely perceivable nod through the steam of your coffee has the arms of your best friend wrapped around you, “Nush, tell me more - has anything happened? Do you think he feels the same way?”

“I think so. Made a curry last night for the team at his flat, and ended up staying the night - nothing happ.. Well, we didn’t have sex but I think he likes me,” you nervously chatter at her before drawing a deep breath, “He’s pretty fucking amazing. Seems to be genuinely a nice guy - just straight talking, gentle, kind and holy shit is he good looking! His kisses and touches just turn me into fucking jelly.”

“Better than Jas?”

Your heart thuds in your chest so hard that there is a point where you fully expect it to wrench open your rib cage and run across the floor. You stare wide-eyed, your mouth open

“What?”

Hephzi steps forward, her gaze gentle as she places her hand on your arm, “You weren’t quite as good at hiding it as you thought you were. It was pretty obvious you were together and loved each other very dearly - I just knew that if I ever brought it up that you would run a mile.

“I tried telling you that I knew before. It was after he died and I wanted you to know that I knew it wasn’t just the death of a co-worker. Not that there’s ever any just in those situations for us either but I knew. When I asked about meeting someone the other day, it was more of me just trying to figure out if you were ready to date again.”

With that, the floodgates open and the grief flows you like a river, eroding your defences away. Hephzi holds you as you utterly soak through her expensive blouse, “I wanted to tell you so many times but I was terrified of what you’d think of me.”

“What I’d think of you - are you fucking kidding me, you absolute idiot?” she tucks your tear drenched hair behind your ears, “I’ve held your hair back in pub toilets as you’ve thrown up from too much alcohol and gotten you out of so many other scrapes but that, a relationship with a man from work is what you think I’d judge you for? Nah, that's not how any of this works, mate. Firstly, you can’t help who you fall in love with and secondly, where else are you ever going to meet someone when all you do is work?”

“N...N...Need a tissue. You made me get all snotty,” you tearfully stammer, all blotchy-face and tear streaked.

Hephzi can’t help but laugh at you blaming her for your tears. As she grabs a tissue, she also grabs the cake and the serviettes from the bag, “Come on, I know what’ll cheer you up - cake and a masterpiece.”

Following her into the studio beside her office, there it is. A supposedly lost version of Modigliani’s Nu Couché sur le Côté Gauche - her sheer sensuality rolling off her in waves. The way that she gazes out of the piece beguilingly, inviting you to join her on the bed, the sheets ruffled and rolling beneath her delicious curves.

Hephzi laughs at your reaction to the piece, “She’s hot isn’t she?”

“Yep - I’d definitely do her. I’d like to say that it is her almond eyes enticing me but really, it’s that entirely biteable bum,” you say before biting into the pastel de nata.

“Agreed - although for me, it’s her back and her thighs. They are edible - as you rightly say,” she says into her coffee.

“How’s the provenance?”

Hepzhi pulls a face as she turns back to you, “Traceable, but this one isn’t in Ceroni.”

“Shit.”

“My thoughts entirely. Look, love, I can’t let you touch it but feel free to take photos, measurements etc. As soon as my own tests come back, I promise you’ll know before the guys upstairs do,” Hephzibah asserts before sitting back on the desk in the room, “Just remember, you’re here on work experience.”

You throw a thank you over your shoulder at the rapidly retreating figure of Hepzi as you set to work. Using a Canon with a macro lens, you instantly photograph the major features and then take several overlapping pictures so that you can look close up on your computer at work. Whilst not quite a microscope, it would have to do given the circumstances. You trusted Hephzi’s sample taking but it was good to see it in person, even if Marcus had asked you to hold fire.

Whilst you were taking measurements of various points and aspects of the picture, you realised there were multiple footsteps coming up the corridor. Hephzi, obviously heard them gaining on the studio too and rejoined you, to back the story of work experience rather than letting her old friend backstage for some covert readings. She threw her notebook at you with a pencil to have the pretence of you taking notes as she worked.

“Well, Hephzibah, that is the first time I’ve ever seen you entrust your beloved notebook with anyone other than yourself. You have never even shown me the secrets you record there, and I am the person paying your salary,” a truly plummy voice cut through the room, “Whoever this work experience girl is, we will have to see about hiring her if you trust her this much.”

Hephzibah plasters a smile onto her features, “Sir, she is the best I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet. Such a keen eye.”

Refusing to turn around, you carry on making notes in Hephzi’s journal, attempting to concentrate on the words written in front of you, instead of the intrusion.

“So what d’ya think? On first impressions, is it real?”

Shit.

That voice.

Stepping up in response, Hephzibah firmly states, “Sir, I am terribly sorry but I am not currently at liberty to be able to fully disclose that info…”

“Oh no, it is quite alright, Hephzibah - this gentleman is Marcus Pike. He is currently fronting an investigation into white terrorism and art forgeries with 5 Eyes. One of your old lot, you know,” Hephzibah’s boss winks as if he was letting her in on the national secrecy act.

“Marcus Pike?” Hephzi shoots you a surreptitious look before the smile is back, “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sir. Shame we haven’t crossed paths before now.”

Marcus offers his hand in greeting to Hephzibah, “I hope we can put that right in the future. I was wondering if we could hear from your work experience person. I am always open to fresh eyes.”

Dread courses through your veins as you turn towards Marcus, not wanting to look him in the face, “It would be remiss of me to make a declaration without reading through and tracking back the provenance as well as undertaking the necessary infrared and paint samples.”

“Sensible,” Marcus nods, his face not betraying a single emotion.

Your face creases at his lack of response, something that Hephzi’s boss picks up on, “Are you alright, dear? You don’t look terribly well.”

“Sudden headache, sir. I should probably get going for today anyway,” you virtually throw Hephzi’s notebook at her before grabbing your bag, “Thank you for today, I will be in touch, Hephzibah.”

Running out of the building as fast as your feet and lungs can carry you, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket.

Sir Agent Marcus Pike:

Hey,

We need to talk. My office at 5?

You:

...

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[runwithwolvcs]

You Know I'm No Good - four

First Day

Warnings: mentions of drugs and alcohol, mentions of sex

[photo of Tallulah and Lina]

don't call me kid, don't call me baby, look at this godforsaken mess that you made me

Tallulah was the first one awake in the morning, the sunrise just peeking through her blinds as she laid in bed on her side, staring at the wall. She struggled to get back to sleep and tossed and turned, feeling an uncomfortable pit in her stomach that she decided had something to do with it being her first day at La Push Tribal School.

Starting a new school in the second semester of her senior year did not bother her as much as it should have, what concerned her more was that she was walking into a school that never gets new students, let alone mid semester. All eyes were going to be on her, and she was sure that some of them had already conjured up their own preconceived notions of her. Oh the joys of small town gossip, she thought to herself as she climbed out of bed, grabbing her clothes for the day. She told herself that making friends was not a must here, because as soon as she graduates she will be back in Seattle with her old, real friends, living the life that she wants to live. She could let herself be picky, or else she’ll end up with a Josie, who seems trustworthy on the outside, but isn’t in the end. Tallulah rolled her eyes at the thought itself, if that's how she wants to be then so be it.

Tallulah quickly changed into her black tank and oversized flannel shirt, before pulling on her jeans, she tried to tame her hair without ruining her natural waves into a frizzy mess. She wasn't one for much makeup, especially not for school considering the frequent rain on pacific northwest.

Rushing downstairs to the kitchen, the uncomfortable pit curbing her appetite, Tallulah settled on just coffee, as she poured it into her mug she had grabbed from the cupboard, she heard footsteps entering the kitchen. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Lenna out of the corner of her eye, all dolled up as if she were going to Paris Fashion Week.

“I heard about what Josie did.” Lenna stated as she searched through the fridge, “you’ll get used to it.” This made Tallulah scoff audibly, “get used to being thrown under the bus for doing absolutely nothing wrong beside talking to some guy I’ve never even met before yesterday?” she asked sarcastically, turning to face her younger sister, mug in hand. “No, well, yes. It just means she did something she doesn’t want to get in trouble for, so she throws gasoline on someone else's fire to make it seem bigger than the one she started.” She keeps her eye on the tall, raven-haired girl as she closes the door, “She means well Tally.” I bet, she thought to herself. Maybe this is what sisters do, and she's the one that's being unreasonable. To be fair, she's never had to deal with someone snitching right in front of her face to her mother. At least she had the guts to do it at the dinner table.

She watched as Lenna looked over her outfit, making a face that Tallulah couldn’t quite comprehend, “is there something wrong with my outfit?” she asked, eyebrows raised in challenge. Lenna shook her head, “Nope, not at all. Between that, the tattoos and the nicotine addiction, I’d say you’ll fit right in with a few groups at school. I can point them out if you’d like, I heard dad tossed your vape maybe you can snag one today.” Tallulah shook her head before taking a sip of her cooling coffee, “I can make my own friends, and I’m not addicted” she fought the urge to roll her eyes again as their dad walked into the kitchen, clearly dressed for work. “Tally, Lenny, ready for school? Dakota picked up your sister already this morning, something about a project that's not finished yet” the short laugh that came from Lenna did not go unnoticed by Tallulah, but she said nothing, nodding her head at her fathers question. “I have to go to a tribal meeting tonight with Kira, so it’s going to be pizza for dinner, Lenny can pick it up on her way home from work, right Len?” he asked as he filled his to-go mug with coffee, even though he really wasn't asking, “Tal,” he said, looking directly at his eldest daughter, “I know this has been a big change in just a few days, but you’re doing great kid, but let's keep those rules in mind when making friends today,” clearly referring to something she has no clue about. “So, you mean I can’t skip school and sneak Paul through my window while you’re gone?” she joked half heartedly. She had no intention of ever speaking to him today, but seeing the looks on Lenna and their dad's face was probably the best start to her day she was going to get. She finished off her coffee and placed her mug in the sink, grabbing her book bag from the counter and heading to the front door, yelling ‘kidding!’ over her shoulder as she left, while her dad yelled ‘have fun!’ right back at her.

Tallulah drove in silence to the school, following the directions Josie had shown her during their day out, for once wanting to be early. She wanted to scope out all her classrooms beforehand to minimize the amount of interaction she would have to have with anyone in order to just keep her head down and float by as unnoticed as she could.

As she pulled into the small parking lot there were very few students and teachers mulling around. The school itself was small, only two stories, with a few portables that were quite run down. Nothing like her old school of 5000 students, every hallway crowded and parking lot full every day.

Tallulah parked her car and pulled out her phone from her pocket, checking the few messages she had, despite it only being 8 in the morning. One message was from her mom, wishing her well on her first day, telling her she had shipped the rest of her personal belongings that she may want or need and that she loved her. Tallulah rolled her eyes, she loved her so much she didn’t want to deal with her anymore. She checked some more of her messages and replied to those that warranted them only stopping as the incoming call notification lit up her screen.

A photo of Lina, her best friend, and her graced the screen, she quickly hit accept before placing the phone to her ear, breathing out a quickie ‘hello’. The two haven’t been able to have a conversation in days to discuss the tragedy that had unfolded the night her mom caught her sneaking into her bedroom, the dramatic gasp on the other line made her smile, “You picked up!” Lina all but shouted excitedly, before saying to someone else ‘told you she would’, clearly she wasn’t alone. “Of course I did, Li. Just because I've been shipped off to the middle of nowhere doesn’t mean I dropped out of school.” she said looking at the tiny building, that more students were now filing into. “Besides, I always answer your calls.” she stated, which made Lina laugh into the phone, “Right, right. Well I was just calling to see how you were, Kits here too.” she said and she could hear Kit bid a hello in the background, “and we wanted to invite you to this party that's happening at some club in Port Angeles next Friday. We figured it would give you some time to ask your dad if you can come or plan an escape. He can’t keep you from us forever.” she rambled, clearly excited.

She knew what club she was talking about, they had been planning on going once they had all turned 18. As exciting as it sounded, she knew her dad would never go for it, and sneaking out to Port Angeles and back would be next to impossible. “I don’t know about that, Li, but I'll try. I’m sure I could convince him to let you guys come out here if he doesn’t budge?” she asked absentmindedly, hoping she’d take the bait. Tallulah listened as Lina talked to someone away from the speaker before hearing the phone be passed to someone new, she furrowed her brows at the silence before the new speaker breathed out, “Luie.”

Xander.

The only person on planet earth who was allowed to call her ‘Luie’. The nickname started with him and ended with him. She hated the nickname when he had first started using it, he would say it in such a condescending way. Like he was reprimanding a child, but it grew on her as her relationship with him developed. They had never dated, but everyone assumed they were with how touchy-feely they were with each other. But, they both hated commitment, saying that it was the root of all sadness, and they had enough of that in their life already. As if that stopped them from hurting each other anyways. Xander was all of her firsts, first friend, first kiss, first time drinking alcohol with him, first cigarette, first time sneaking out, and first hookup. It's why she always went back to him after a fight, no matter how bad it was, all her good memories are tied to him.

“Hey, Xan” she said softly, “Are you coming to Port Angeles for the party?” he asked in a nonchalant tone, knowing she could never say no to him. “I want to..” she started, “But no promises. My dads a lot stricter compared to my mom.” Tallulah heard him grunt in acknowledgment. He wasn’t going to beg, or plead her to come like Kit or Lina would, he knew he didn’t have to. “Well, let us know, ya?” he stated, voices in the background signaled that they were most likely getting ready to take the train to school, like she would be in normal circumstances. “Oh, and Luie, have a don’t do anything I wouldn’t do on your first day.” she could practically hear the grin that she knew he had before the line went dead, he wasn’t much for formal goodbyes.

Sighing, she shoved her phone in her pocket before exiting her car, grabbing her bag off of the passenger seat and slinging it over her shoulder. She made sure to lock the car before placing her keys in her bag and grabbing her timetable as she walked towards the entrance of the school. She was too busy trying to figure out what classroom she needed to head to first that she wasn’t paying any attention to any of her surroundings. Hence why she walked head on into someone, dropping the white sheet of paper in the process. Hot hands steadying her by the arms. It felt as if she had walked straight into a brick wall, she would’ve laughed it off if it wasn’t the root of all her problems so far in La Push.

“Are you stalking me?” she asked the older man, everywhere she went, there he was. Paul shook his head with a chuckle, causing the teen to glare up at him. “Well aren’t you a little too old to be hanging around a high school?” she questioned, arms crossing over her body as the heat from his hands had made her realize just how cold it was outside once they were off of her. “Relax, I was just dropping someone off.” he stated, his voice was deeper than it was the day before, like he had just woken up. She averted her eyes from him as she could feel the blush heat to her face at how silly she must have sounded. Of course that's why he's here. She hadn’t realized he had picked up her schedule for her until he read out a name from it, “First period: Miss. Young.You’ll like her, everyone does.” he said while handing her back the slip. She nodded her head, “right, well i should go find her class then.” she mumbled as she took a step back from him, he responded by giving her the directions to the class, which made her want to question how he knew that but Tallulah wasn’t sure if she wanted to know the answer, so instead, she thanked him and walked away heading towards the front doors, each step closer she filled more and more with dread, wanting to turn around and get in her car and drive away as far as she could.

She turned back to where she had left Paul standing to see him still there, only now he was talking on the phone. His whole demeanor had changed, he looked rigid and frustrated. Before she turned to completely walk through the doors, he caught her eye and gave her a small smile, the feeling of dread dissipating in that moment as she entered her new school.