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cordeliawhohung · 23 days

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In Limbo [Chapter 15]

mafia!141 masterlist | In Limbo masterlist | general masterlist | taglist | playlist mafia!Simon Riley x fem!Reader

strings attached

cw: hurt, a little bit of comfort, lots of dialogue

wc: 3.7k

Breakfast is ready.

Simon’s message stares at you through your phone screen, and you can do nothing but stare back. Blank eyes, slow blinks. You could smell its arrival before it even buzzed. Sausage links, almost burnt toast, pancakes — or, maybe that’s waffles you smell? He’s been cooking for a while. Slaving over the stove with quiet strings of curses as various utensils clatter onto the floor. It’s similar to the events of last night, when you’re pretty sure you heard him burn himself on the stovetop. The kitchen sink didn’t run for too long before he texted you dinner was ready, but despite all his effort, you couldn’t bring yourself to eat.

The screen turns black and you drop your phone onto the mattress. Pristine white paint coats the ceiling above you as you stare, eyes bleary with less than restful sleep. You attempt to recall the events of yesterday in a way that doesn’t upset your stomach too mercilessly, but it’s an impossible task. Uncovered secrets, acrimonious betrayal; Simon’s eyes. While he was assisting you in setting up his room for you to rest in, every time he looked at you all you saw was pain. As if, for once, he was the one hiding the wounds. Every time he looked at you, it was like rubbing salt in the gash.

He hasn’t slept. You’re certain of it. All night long you could hear the droning of the television from the other side of the door where he rested in the living room. Every half hour he would rise and march off through the front door. When he returned, the strong scent of tobacco would waft into the room through some unseen cracks. Seeping through the space beneath the door as if it was a love note and not ash. After a handful of times, he stopped leaving. Instead, he stayed bound to the living room where you could hear the tiniest metal tinkering and quiet muttering. Fingers too twitchy to stay still.

Guilt absumes you. Patiently and gradually. You think of Simon having to shove himself on some couch in his own home — how you had once fought against the idea only a few days ago — and your self hatred grows. It swells in your chest, expanding to the point where you’ll burst. It forces you to bury your face into the pillows beneath your head, but hiding from a man in his own bed only unravels you further.

Every scrap of cloth that makes up this bed smells like him. Like Simon. Earthy and warm — if you would have known the very scent that comforted you in Manchester would only rip you apart once you returned to London, you don’t think you would have ever allowed yourself to become so attached. But it’s too late. You are swathed in it. It permeates the clothes you wear and the hair on your head, and you can’t escape it. You’ve never been good at running from the things you fear, let alone the things you love.

Heavy footsteps drown out your sniffling as they approach the door. It’s sudden. Sneaky. Heart stopping, you hold your breath as you await something. You think Simon will burst through the door. Shake some sense into you. Spit out that you’ve had enough time to think through your feelings. Instead, there’s nothing but the gentle knock of china against the wood floor just beyond the door, followed by fading thumps.

Your phone buzzes again.

Food is at the door for when you’re ready, sweetheart.

Simon sets his phone on the coffee table and then stares at his food. He tells himself it’s nothing special, but it is. More effort was put into this meal than ones he normally makes for himself, and his heart aches as he stares at it. He wants to hear your fork scrape against the plate and your teeth grind the food. He wants to hear every time you swallow a sip of water; wants to feel your weight next to him. Instead, all he gets is the quiet sound of running water spewing through the showerhead in the master bathroom.

Once it’s evident that you — once again — will not be joining him for the meal, he eats. Each bite is hesitant. Simon isn’t exactly a cook, but he knows he’s not terrible and nothing tastes how it’s supposed to. It’s not as vibrant or as welcoming. Some pale imitation of what food is supposed to be. Each bite slithers down his throat as he contemplates his options; the things he needs to do to keep you safe. His mind is frozen on the images of you from last night. Curling away from his touch with wide eyes — that betrayal scrawled over your face.

Despite the churning in his stomach, Simon finishes every bite of breakfast. Heavy weights pull at his shoulders as he cleans up the mess he made in the kitchen. His ears stay perked for the sound of creaking wood. He yearns for it. The sound of you exiting the bedroom. The quiet rumble of your voice as you say his name. He gets nothing but silence, and that terrible void persists even as he goes to check the plate of food he left for you. Everything is just as he left it. Not a single crumb out of place. It goes into the trash. When you eat, he’ll make you something fresh; he wouldn’t make you scarf down something cold.

Things are still quiet by the time lunch rolls around. Simon’s thumbs tap away at his phone as he texts you another pathetic message over another ready meal. When he hits send, he scrolls back through his previous messages. How he informed you that breakfast was ready this morning and dinner the night before. How you ignored both of them. How it’s been nearly twenty four hours since you last ate. He’s been counting the hours. The minutes. The seconds.

When ten minutes pass and you’re still locked away in the confines of his bedroom, Simon rises to his feet. Plate in hand, he approaches the door with attentive ears. For a moment he stands and listens for any sign of life: a sniffle, a shuffle, anything. Some proof that you’re there.

There is nothing.

“Sweetheart?” He knocks on the door with a single knuckle and it still feels too loud. Too harsh. Like the sound alone will shatter you. “Baby?”

He waits with bated breath for anything from you. Eyes wandering to the sandwich in his hands, he sighs before knocking on the door once more.

“Chip… you don’t have to talk to me, but I’m not gonna let you starve yourself. You gotta eat something.”

Silence stretches so long that his hand nearly shoots to the knob, fearing the worst. That you’ve vanished. That you’re gone; or worse. Before his fingertips even graze against the metal, the door opens with a small gust of wind from the force. The faint scent of your body soap washes over him and for a moment, all the frayed nerves sizzling in his body settle. He holds out the plate for you to take, and you stare up at him and his bobbing throat for a moment before you relieve him of the object.

“Let’s eat.” Your voice is hoarse. Rough like the chords in your throat are too tight, but he doesn’t mention it. Surprised that you don’t just take the plate and run back into hiding, he nods, stepping to the side to lead you into the living room.

Neither of you speak while you sit together, though Simon tries. His weight shifts on the couch as he pushes a glass of water your way, muttering something about you being dehydrated. He’s not wrong. Your tongue feels like sandpaper against the roof of your mouth and you can feel the way your skin shrinks around your body, pulling everything taut to the point of snapping. So you sip. Enough to wet your tongue and get your throat to stop sticking to itself. Enough that Simon’s shoulders slouch, no longer plagued by tension.

Each bite is agonizing. Bland and tasteless — though you know it’s not because of Simon. Your sandwich is well prepared with meats, cheeses, and the works. It’s difficult to enjoy them when a raging nervosity ravages your stomach. Angers the bile until it’s jumping up your throat. You’re only able to eat half of it before your body begins to protest. Contracting muscles, breath hitching in your throat; you feel as if you’re going to be sick.

“I have work tonight,” you blurt out. Might as well let the words spew from your mouth before the vomit growling in your stomach does. “Here in a few hours, actually.”

Simon swallows the last bite of his sandwich before dusting his hands clean. “You should call out. Would be better if you weren’t workin’ for now.”

You scoff. The words that leave his mouth sound utterly insane. You attempt to recall the last time you called out of work willingly. A time that wasn’t Bruce fathering you and forcing you to go home for your own wellbeing. There are bills to pay — debts you owe — and the thought of skipping out on work makes your stomach sink.

“I can’t just stop working,” you retort. You speak to him like he’s a stranger. As if he’s overstepping further than he should. “I don’t exactly have an exorbitant amount of cash in my savings. I’ve still got rent and-”

“I’ll take care of that,” Simon interjects. “Anythin’ you need. Money, clothes, food. I’ll take care of it.”

If the previous words Simon spoke were insane, then this is barbaric. Hands gripping your plate, you look at him with narrowed eyes. “I can’t let you do that.”

“It’s safer this way,” he attempts to assure.

“So I’m just supposed to stay here? Under lock and key and pretend the outside world doesn’t exist? That’s not realistic and you know it.”

“Andrei had pictures of you.”

Everything goes quiet. So much so you swear you can hear your heart rattling in your chest. It echoes up your spine, along your neck, and reverberates in your skull like a wailing drum in the distance. You think of what he means by that: pictures of you. Then your mind wanders. Someplace dark and macabre. It wanders far enough that — for a fleeting moment — you swear you smell mint. Once more your throat goes dry and your fingers itch for the glass of water in front of you, but you aren’t brave enough to reach for it.

“What do you mean?” you choke out.

“That night in the alley? Andrei met up with someone who works at the club,” Simon explains, voice careful and even. “Some poor kid just tryin’ to make his way through uni. Someone Andrei probably cornered tryin’ to go into his shift. I talked to ‘im wantin’ to figure out what he wanted with you. Kid said Andrei was askin’ questions ‘bout why you were at the club, things of that sort. Even had pictures of you so the kid would know who he was talkin’ about.”

“Pictures?” you repeat.

Simon nods. “Didn’t see ‘em myself, but the kid said the pictures were taken through a window of what looked like a restaurant. Means they probably follow you ‘round more often than you think. Don’t feel comfortable with you bein’ there if they’re lurking. Harder to protect you that way. Best if you stayed well away from the club, too. Bastard’s have eyes everywhere.”

He sounds so… nonchalant. Like these words have been rehearsed and thought again and again until every detail is ironed and neat. Twitchy fingers rise to his chin as he scratches at the stubble growing there, eyes finally finding you. The alarum raging in your stomach rolls off of your body in visible swirls. He sees the way it churns in your eyes; the gravity of the situation crashing down upon you. Its weight crushes you, and you choke on your own spit in an attempt to wet your tongue.

“Okay. Fine, so I stay here then,” you give in. Your attempt at sounding strong and sure of yourself fails the moment your breath shakes. “But I’ve still got my apartment to worry about. All those bills, paying Marco back…”

“I’ll take care of it,” Simon reiterates. “All of it. Any damages left at your apartment, the debt Marco forced on you, all of it.”

You scoff, but your bottom lip is trembling. “I know better than to get tangled up in shit like that. There’s not a single bit of coin in the world that doesn’t come without strings attached.”

“You wouldn’t owe me anything. I don’t work like that.”

“Yeah, but Marco does. Look, I get it. I know Row asked you to look after me, and I’m sure John’s little mafia, or whatever, has more resources than I can fucking imagine but… I don’t think you understand. You keep saying that you’ll get me out of this mess or that we’ll work through it together but I know better than that. I don’t just get to go on living knowing the things that I do, Simon. There’s not a chance in hell that he’d let me go that easily.”

“I got Tommy out of his mess with Marco, I’ll get you out of yours.”

There’s a brief moment where Simon’s words refuse to properly string themselves together in your mind. Tommy. Mess. Out. Marco. Disconnected and disjointed. Raddled, you shake your head like you can’t understand a single word that left his mouth.

“He went after your brother?” you ask in disbelief.

For the first time since you met him, Simon looks away from you. Leaning back, weight settling into the couch, he stares at the television with empty eyes as if the images flashing before him are not the ones he’s truly witnessing. Your fingers interlace with one another, as if you don’t know what to do with your hands if you cannot hold or be held.

“I used to box back home in Manchester. Illegally,” he begins. “Underground sorta shit where people would place bets. Every time I won, I got a cut of the pot which I’d give to my mum. Tommy was into drugs at the time. He would beg her for money and she’d give it to him because she loves him. She didn’t wanna see ‘im out on the street, but I didn’t wanna see her wastin’ away, so I did what I could.

“Price approached me one night after a match. Said he liked my skills. Wanted to hire me, and I knew exactly what he was talkin’ about. Didn’t want any part of whatever the hell he was doin’ so I told ‘im to fuck off. Bastard gave me his card anyway. Dunno why I held onto it. Came in handy though ‘cause Tommy ended up getting into the shit with Marco’s boys. Was workin’ as a butcher at the time and he came stormin’ into the shop beggin’ for money like some goddamn vagabond. Turns out he was actively on the run from Marco’s men, and they followed him to the shop. Pulled a knife out, ready to gut him.”

Simon stares at his hands. Wide palms roughened from old work and new work. Still stained with viscera and blood like a noisome odor that he can’t wash away.

“What… happened?” you question cautiously. Pulling your legs up onto the couch, you turn to fully face him. He’s never spoken to you like this before. As if he’s in the past. Telling you some story. Sharing the parts of him that haven’t seen the light of day in eons.

“I fought. Hard as I could. Tommy might be older, but I’ve always been bigger. Too strong for my own good. It all happened so fast, things like that always do, but I ended up killing one of them. He was gonna pull a gun on us and I… I don’t regret it. I’d do whatever it took to save him. Cops came, determined everything was done in self defense, let us off the hook, but Tommy wasn’t safe. I knew he wasn’t. They’d just keep comin’ and comin’ so I called Price. Took his offer. Hardly started workin’ for him and he gave me the money Tommy owed like it was nothing. Seventy five thousand quid like it was fuckin’ pocket change.”

Eyes widening, something flickers inside of you. A sputtering sanguinity that sparks and wavers, trying so hard to tear tinder from your bones and ignite into a blaze. It buzzes and vibrates until you can hardly sit still.

“And they let him go? Once everything was paid they just…?” You try to choke the question out, but the idea of freedom is so foreign to you that it refuses to dance on your tongue.

Simon’s lips press together as he shakes his head. “Course not. They always want more. But I did it. Settled his debt, and got Makarov’s men to fuck off outta Manchester. Been over six years and they haven’t so much as looked his way.”

Nodding, you swallow. “What… What more did they make you do? To fully forgive the debt?”

A commercial blares over the television. Advertisements always seem twice as loud than the program they play between, and you nearly flinch at the upbeat music and overly joyous narrator. Simon doesn’t. Steady as a rock, he continues to stare at his hands. Stiff fingers clench and unclench, joints aching with abuse.

“Nothin’ good,” he answers truthfully. “Doesn’t matter. I’d do it again. I’d do all of it again. No one messes with my family. No one messes with—” my girl “—you and gets away with it.”

For a moment, you believe him. That you can get out of this mess. You think of how he fought Andrei and won. How those hands broke a man’s nose and then turned to gently lead you to safety. You think about how those hands held you in Manchester close to a warm chest, how those scarred lips pressed against the crown of your head, and you think — for the first time in a long time — that you might be okay. That you can finally exist without strings attached.

“Thank you.”

Those words finally pull Simon’s attention away from his hands. He looks at you tenderly as you curl into the couch; some feral stray finally settling into the warmth he brings.

“I’ve got work tonight. I’ll talk to Price, assumin’ he’s back from his trip. See ‘bout getting gettin’ the money and we can take it from there,” he says with a curt nod.

“What?” you breathe. “No. No, no you can’t tell John about this. Or Row. Anyone. Please, promise me you’ll keep this between us.”

Brows furrowing together, Simon shifts on the couch. “They’re not gonna hold this against you, sweetheart.”

“I got Row’s dad killed,” you retort, voice fracturing. The words shatter in your throat. Bleed all over your tongue. The taste makes you sick. “She can’t… I couldn’t face her if she ever found out. If she ever put two and two together knowing about Marco’s involvement. If you tell them I’m in the shit with Makarov- fuck, she’s too smart. Simon, it’d fucking kill me. I couldn’t… I couldn’t ever face her with the truth.”

“You said it yourself. You were just a kid,” he attempts to rationalize.

“It doesn’t matter.” Your words are sharp. Honed enough to slice the molecules in the air. Surprised the very air itself hasn’t ignited, you stare at him with wide eyes as you try to suck in the breath to continue. “It doesn’t matter. All of this, it stays between us. Please. Tell me you’ll keep this secret.”

All rationality leaves Simon the moment your voice begins to warble. Eyes glistening with fat tears lurking in the corners of your eyes, his fingers twitch. His thumbs crave the moisture. To wipe at them until they’re nothing but a memory. Then he remembers yesterday — how you flinched at his touch — and he keeps his hands to himself.

“Okay. Just you and me, then,” he confirms. “It’ll take me some time to get the money then, but we’ll sort this out, yeah?”

It feels like forever since he’s last seen a smile flicker along your lips. It’s puny. Hardly noticeable, but it’s there.

“Thank you,” you choke out.

“Anythin’ for you, sweetheart.”

Simon rises after that. Towers to his feet where he bends to grab the dirty plates sitting before you on the coffee table. He makes no comment about your half finished sandwich, but he does motion toward the unfinished glass of water.

“Should drink up. Last thing you need is to be dehydrated,” he fusses.

His footsteps grow quiet as he leaves the living room and you are left alone with nothing but the company of the television still droning in front of you. Water gushes through the faucet in the sink, and you hear the gentle clinking of china as he washes up. The domesticity of it all isn’t lost on you, and for once it isn’t agonizing to experience. You can sit there on that couch and reach for the glass before you and not feel the hot breath of obligation down the back of your neck. All Simon has ever done is give and give, and never once has he taken a single thing.

When you raise the glass to your lips, you realize things feel lighter. Not enough to keep from crushing you — not enough to cleanse you — but enough for you to notice. It’s contradicting. Subtle, yet glaring. For the first time since you got in this mess, you realize you finally have another shoulder to bear this burden. Hands to dust you off when you fall to the ground; to pull the glass from your palms and bandage them. A heart to listen to when yours refuses to quell.

Finally, you are not alone, and what a terrifying thought that is.

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #mafia!ghost #mafia!141 #in limbo #f!reader

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boorines · 1 year

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as sweet as peaches | jeon wonwoo

wonwoo sits cross-legged on the floor, ikea manual laying open on his lap. the half built coffee table sits upside down in front of him, loose screws and nails scattered around the piece of furniture.

“did you find the piece that goes in this corner?”, you ask in confusion from your spot on the floor opposite wonwoo, one hand holding what you think is one of the legs of the table. “is it this one?”

your boyfriend looks up at you and breathes out an amused laugh, cheeks puffing up. “that’s the spare piece, gorgeous”.

you look at him, cocking an eyebrow, “you sure, wonu? because the last time you said something was a spare”, you point at the singular leg attached to the table, “that fell off”.

he grins sheepishly, “well… uh, maybe it could come in handy”. you shoot him a fond smile.

you both work on the piece of furniture for a while, sneaking glances at each other and giggling at lame jokes, before you stand up and wordlessly walk over to the kitchen. wonwoo follows your movement with his eyes, pushing his glasses up his nose as he does so.

you disappear behind the kitchen counter before re-emerging with a plate of sliced peaches and tangerines. setting it on the floor beside wonwoo you mumble, “odd combination, but it’s all i could find”. you peer at him and the softness you see in his eyes makes heat crawl up your neck.

“i love you”, he whispers.

“because of peaches?”, you ask shyly, taking a seat beside him.

“nope”, he breathes out, “peaches are just a bonus”. he picks up a fuzzy slice and holds it up to your lips. you accept the bite gratefully.

“the tangerines, then”, you mumble around a mouthful of fruit.

wonwoo laughs, it’s a very pretty sound, you think. low and deep, yet airy and relaxed. your giggles join his, the room filling with innocent laughter.

the two of you continue to tinker with the coffee table, occasionally nibbling on pieces of fruit. with the build almost complete, you lean back on the heels of your palms, surveying your work.

“not bad for two amateurs”, you declare with a grin. “i think we could build all of ikea if we wanted to”.

wonwoo chuckles, “we’ll have many days of building furniture in our future”. you look at him in question. “dressers, bookshelves, cribs”, he elaborates.

your eyes widen and you feel your cheeks burn fiery red. cribs… baby cribs? did you hear him wrong? did he say it on purpose?

he turns to you, eyes dancing and cheeks slightly pink. oh. definitely on purpose.

you look at him, lips parted ever-so-slightly.

“one day, i mean… if you want to”. he whispers.

you don’t have a response. you’re breathless and giddy and so in love.

leaning forward, you press your lips against wonwoo’s. soft and careful. he hums in contentment against your mouth, kissing you back with fervour.

his hand trails up your arm to your cheek, cupping your face like you’re as delicate as fine china. his other hand snakes around your waist, resting against the small of your back. he kisses you slowly, and when he feels you smile against his lips he melts. to him, this is bliss.

you pull away, breathless and heart racing. and suddenly, you’re 16 again. too shy to meet wonwoo’s eyes, a soft blush colouring your cheeks when he squeezes your hand with a hum.

“baby?”, he peers at you, trying to catch your attention.

when you finally look up at him, he’s dazzled by the stars in your eyes. the very same ones he thinks you hung up in the sky.

“you’re too much”, you mumble, just above a whisper. the chuckle it coaxes out of him drives the feeling deeper.

he drops a quick kiss to your cheek, his eyes dripping honey.

you point to the unfinished coffee table in front of you with furrowed brows, “we’ve been neglecting our magnum opus”.

his bright laughter booms throughout the room. “i don’t think an ikea coffee table is our magnum opus, baby”. he thinks he knows what will be, but he doesn’t say it. he’s hinted at it enough today. instead, he picks up a handful of screws and the last remaining leg of the table.

you take up a purely supportive role. handing him missing screws or nails you see him hunting for. you lean against the couch behind you, silently watching your boyfriend finish the rest of the build. you admire the way his hands move deftly to hammer in nails, the way he pushes the sleeves of his sweater further up his arms, the way he adjusts his glasses on his nose when they start to slip.

you’re happy, you think. just silently being in his company.

“finished”, he declares, pushing himself off the floor and offering you a hand to pull you to your feet. you stand beside him and look down at your work.

“not bad, jeon wonwoo”, you praise.

“not bad yourself”, he responds with a squeeze of your hand. he smiles fondly when he feels you squeeze back.

he looks at you, eyes warm, and drops a chaste kiss to you lips.

warmth floods your body. he’s just so sweet, you think.

“you taste like peaches”, he mumbles.

he’s as sweet as peaches.

—

ahh wonwoo…

writing this was really fun!! sweet wonu thinking about how urs and his masterpiece will be ur baby…omg

i hope u enjoy this one! as always, my requests and asks are open <3

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yourcoffeeguru · 2 years

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REGENCY ENGLISH Fine Bone China ROSES Cup Set || swtradepost || ebay

#regency bone china #cups #coffee #tea #roses #cup set

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winsome-tea · 1 month

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Unidentified Marked Chocolate Pot

#cups and saucers #tea cup #tea cups #tea sets #tea set #tea #teapot #fine china #porcelain #aesthetic #food #tea party #cup and saucer #coffee

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luveline · 1 year

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whenever youre free!! can you please write a spencer x reader where we meet spencer during an early season where he’s still cute and awkward maybe we date too but something happens and we don’t see him for a long time only to meet him again when he’s older and hotter (post prison) and there’s still crazy tension after all those years. in love with your writing btw!!! ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

tysm for requesting! hope this is ok :D ♡ 1.2k

cw vaguely suggestive theme

Looking at Spencer, you could almost think you were fresh out of college again, unsure of yourself and in need of a friend.

He'd been much more than a friend. It's why you're here.

The cake might have been a bad idea. You hold it between two hands, the subtle smell of chocolate rising from the box's ill-fitting lid. Your breath catches, words coming out wonky, "Hey. Spencer?"

He looks up from his book, startled at being found, you think. "Y/N?"

He looks the same.

Obviously, he's older. He has facial hair and his curls are styled rather than having been left to their own devices, but you feel as hopelessly enamoured with him as you had years ago, because he still smiles like a puppy dog.

You're twice as surprised as he is when he stands from his coffee table to hug you. The cake box wobbles in your hands as he squeezes you, swaying you from side to side, his laugh warm in your ear.

"What are you doing back here?" he asks, diving backward to see your face. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

"I still had JJ's number, you know, from when I wanted that address, and she texted me to say you'd been released, and I," —your voice curls tighter, are you talking too much?— "know you might not want to hear from me, but I was worried about you. You were my best friend."

His smile flickers. You press the cake into his hands.

"That's for you," you say.

Spencer's wavering smile turns to the box. He sets it down on the table beside his coffee cup and tented book, removing the lid carefully. You remember suddenly how nice his hands are, and the tracing of his fingertips down your bare shoulders. Goosebumps erupt along the ghost of his touch.

"Well done on not being a criminal," he reads, snorting. "Funny. Little too soon."

You feel like your stomach's fallen out, but he drops the act with another laugh.

"Oh, you're still a jerk," you say. "I'm glad something hasn't changed."

"You think I've changed?" he asks.

"You didn't get any taller, if that's what you're asking."

Spencer's smile turns fond. It's the sweet, sticky smile he'd always give you before he'd tell you he loved you, or that you were the best best friend ever. Or that last night, when you followed him hand in hand down the long hallway to his bedroom.

"I wasn't that much of a jerk, was I?" he asks.

"No, you weren't." You hold your hands behind your back. "Could I join you? Just for a bit?"

"You brought me a cake. I can't say no, can I? Of course you can sit down. I'll get you a coffee, okay?"

He touches his hand to your arm as he passes. You sit down in the seat across from him, sick with what-if and should-have. What if I could've stayed? Maybe I should have done more. But when Spencer ignored the letters you sent him while he was incarcerated, you figured you'd done more than he wanted. The cake was a last ditch effort, spurred on by JJ's text that read, I think he'd be really happy to see you.

Spencer puts a china cup down in front of you. You take a sip, muscle memory, and grin at him shyly as he slides into the seat across from you. "You remembered."

"I remember everything."

"Right. Your photographic memory."

"Eidetic, and sure, but I wouldn't forget about you." He reads your shyness for what it is, worry you've overstepped. He's too perceptive to trick. "I think I tried, but… I have so many bad memories, I wanted the good ones to keep."

You can't imagine the things he experienced in prison. JJ couldn't tell you much. You knew from how you had to address his letters alone that he was sent to a general correctional facility in Mexico, rather than the protective custody he'd needed. He doesn't look terrible considering, but you've barely seen him since you had to leave. He's aged well. The only worry is his dark under eyes.

"We had a good time," you say gently. "I knew you'd need that. That's why I sent you all those letters, you know? I wasn't trying to come back into your life, I know I don't deserve it after I left, but I couldn't stop thinking about you by yourself."

You stare at his book.

"How many letters did you send?" he asks.

"I don't really remember."

"I didn't get one." He grimaces. "I didn't get any from my mom, either. Think it was a coincidence?"

Spencer's time in was kind of sick. He stabbed himself, made friends with criminals, played a lot of chess, and learned how to make tacos in a doritos bag. It was also arguably the loneliest and most degrading time of his life.

One coffee becomes two, two becomes a third to go. You feel a hundred emotions but there's one that stands out the most as you drift around Pentagon City with him —wanting. You want him to be your best friend again, to rub your back and hold you when you're tired, to take you grocery shopping in his beat up P130. You want him to kiss you like he had, like he was searching for something, but he's changed so much that you don't know if your Spencer is still in there, under everything, or if he'd even want to.

"You live in the same apartment?" you ask.

"Can you imagine how much it would cost me to move that many books? Paying the rent turns out cheaper," he says, the two of you walking in the grey street. "What about you? You didn't come all the way here to see me."

"I actually did." You rub up the length of your upper arm, sheepish. "I did, Spencer."

For a while, all you can hear is the plastic rustling of the bag held in his hand.

"Thank you for writing to me. I didn't get to read them, but it makes a difference."

You lift your head to meet his eyes. He holds your gaze, a charge behind his dark brown eyes. You used to think his irises and his pupils were one and the same, but you can see now that there are flecks of light in his irises. His hedging of thick lashes kiss in the corners as he slowly, slowly smiles.

You glare at him. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"You know what. You're doing that thing. Pretending you're not trying to make me nervous."

"I'm not doing that. Flustered, but not nervous." Is he smirking?

"Flustered," you repeat, your smile stupidly big now, cheeks aching. "Yeah, right, Reid."

His pinky brushes yours. You don't have any proof that he's doing it purposefully, but he is.

"Do you want to get something to eat? You can tell me what you were writing in your letters. I'd really, really like to know." His voice is threaded with a familiar timidity for the first time since you reunited.

There you are, you think happily. "Sure. You buy me a sticky bun from our old place and I'll tell you all my written secrets."

"Deal."

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #sorry I missed the mark a bit with the crazy tension this is not super tense <\3

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yeoldecorprusarium · 6 months

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Crashcraft's vintage sets in Cluedo colors

✿ This is for the sims 2 ✿

Here are recolors I made of various Cashcraft sets for use in Éclaire. I recolored only the objects I thought I'd like to use in my game, so not all of the sets are present in full.

Please also note that I wrote cluedo colors, and not woods. No way in hell I was going to handpaint all that to change the wood grain, sorry.

What's included?

✿ 6 objects from the Magnolia Hill Dining set (buffet, china cabinet, curio, hutch, mirror and sideboard);

✿ 6 objects from the Regency set (tea set, dining chair, cabinet, sideboard, china cabinet and armchair);

✿ 30 objects from the Vanity Fair sets (armchair, canopy, cash register (req. OFB), chaise, coffee table, curtain, desk chair, end table, footstool, handbag, hat, 3 lamps, mirror, parlor chair, perfume tray, round table, sewing basket, sewing clutter, cutting board, desk, screen, sewing shelf, worktable, sofa, tall cabinet and vanity);

✿ 7 objects from the Victorian set (chafing dish, chair, painting, sideboards, hutch and table);

✿ 5 objects from the Vintage Charm set (alarm clock, bed, books and 2 lamps).

DOWNLOAD (SFS)

Meshes, swatches and previews included, files compressed and clearly named.

✿ I renamed the meshes to remove any special characters, so check your download folder for duplicates manually if you already have Cashcraft's sets in your game.

Credits: Cashcraft, @cluedosims.

#ts2 #sims 2 #s2cc #sims 2 cc #ts2cc #ts2 cc #cluedo

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biplusco · 3 months

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🧭 🏮 🍵 🪑

Orientique Part 1: Zen Lounge

Long time no see! We're back and introducing a fresh breeze of East Asian pieces with our new Chinese porcelain collection!

We start this collection with an outdoor living set, featuring three iconic porcelain pieces that grace almost all Chinese households: a tea table, stool, and a tea set. Even more special are the intricate patterns and symbolic motifs hand-drawn by one of our members! Inspired by China's rich cultural heritage, the Zen Lounge brings a layer of traditional Chinese elegance, refinement, and timeless beauty to your Sims' household!

All item is Base Game Compatible (BGC)

Porcelain Table | 1 Swatch

Wisdom Stool | 1 swatch

Imperial Tea set | 5 swatch

📍Get the set now on PATREON (Public Release 24/7)

✨ Our Social: Tumblr | Twitter | Instagram | CurseForge

@maxismatchccworlds @maxismatchccworld @sssvitlans @coffee-cc-finds @coffee-houses-finds @lanaccfind @sssvitlanz

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cimmanonrowl · 1 month

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In the right time, maybe.

Chapter One | Chapter Navigation

Pairing: dbf!aaron hotchner x bfd!reader

Contents: age gap, older guy x young woman relationship, forbidden love, flashback, sassy!reader, even sassier!aaron.

7 years ago.

“The calls started coming in…” It was the first thing you heard your mother say since you joined her and your father for breakfast.

You forced yourself to continue eating. But the eggs taste like nothing, the toast dry in your mouth like gravel. For the last 15 minutes you spent sitting across them, the tension pressed down heavily on your chest. Now that she spoke, you couldn’t help but glance at your father, searching his face for any hint of emotion. But his expression was unreadable as always— calm and composed as he listened to your mother’s sweet voice.

There was a faint smile on her face as she set her knife and fork down on her plate. “Cynthia called first thing this morning, and not out of concern, I’m sure. She wanted to know if the rumors she’d heard were true…” she trailed off, the sweetness dripping from her mouth contrasted with the coldness of her eyes. “That my daughter had been arrested. At a frat party.”

The clinking of silverware against china was the only sound left in the dining room. Through the tall windows, the morning sun filtered, flooding the room with a faint, golden glow. Everything was set perfectly as you always remembered— freshly brewed coffee in delicate cups, pastries neatly stacked on a silver platter, and fruit arranged in pristine order on elegant porcelain plates.

And you sat there, eyes downcast, pushing your scrambled eggs around on your plate, unable to bring yourself to take another bite.

“She was very polite about it, of course,” Mother dear continued, her voice as smooth as Italian silk, “But I could hear it in her tone— the faux concern, the curiosity for the gossip. My friends will be buzzing about this for weeks. Oh, did you hear what happened to her daughter? Arrested for assaulting a Teacher’s Aide, that poor woman.” She mimicked them with a faint, elegant smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

You urged yourself to stay quiet. What could you even say to make this better?

“How delightful it will be for them to have such fresh material to gossip about. By the time I arrive today, I’m sure the whole country club already knows what happened. Can you imagine the whispers?” She raised one of her delicate eyebrows, her lips pursed.

Your father sipped his coffee slowly, the lines of his face set in that stoic, unreadable expression he’s mastered over the years. Your cheeks burned with shame. You cleared your throat as the words refused to come out, your eyes fixed on the table as the embarrassment and regret clawed at you.

“I didn’t…” you finally found your voice, though it was weak, trembling. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, Mom. It was just—”

“A prank?” your mother cut you off, humming sarcastically. “That’s what you told us earlier at the police station, remember? A prank. Do you think that makes it better? Do you think the chancellor or our family friends care that it was just a prank?”

You swallowed hard, unable to meet her gaze.

“No.”

“Of course not, you stupid girl. Because it doesn’t matter why you did it. All that matters is the outcome. The damage is done.”

The events of last night loomed in the air— your arrest at the frat party, the flashing lights, the crowd of onlookers recording everything. You can still feel the cold metal of the handcuffs and how it harshly bit on your skin, the sting of the police officers’ loud voices, and worst of all, the cameras. Those fucking cameras. Although you haven’t got the courage to check your phone yet, you know those videos are out there now, circulating the internet with your name being dragged around by everyone in the Law Department who knew who you were.

“The scandal you’ve caused…” Your stomach turned, the humiliation hitting you all over again as your mother ranted relentlessly. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to wake up to ten missed calls from women at the country club, all of them pretending to be concerned, but really just salivating at the chance to gossip about how my daughter was arrested at some filthy frat party? What in the world were you doing in that dirty place, anyway? I was certain I raised you with a better taste than that.”

Your mother placed her napkin on the table with almost graceful precision, but you could tell she was holding herself back from losing her composure, holding herself back from the storm of anger that was simmering just beneath the surface.

“I just thought- I thought it was a chance to… meet people and socialize. It’s my first semester and you always tell me the importance of building connec–”

“With people of value. I didn’t mean in a rathole, did I?”

You pursed your lips. “Most of them are family acquaintances, Mom.”

“It didn’t occur to you that must be the reason why they’re only acquaintances?” Your mother’s tone remained deceptively soft, almost pleasant, as she continued. “That you don’t meet those people in charity nights or country clubs because they hang out in dirty, frat houses?”

“But Dad is part of a frat in Law School, Mom. It’s one of the ways to build connections inside the academe. Some professors are even part of those frats. It has perks—”

“And did your father also tell you to crack open someone’s skull in the middle of the party?”

“N-no…”

“That’s what I thought,” she smiled sweetly.

Your throat tightened, the shame creeping up inside you, wrapping itself around your chest until it was hard to breathe. No matter how you don’t agree with her words, even when you want so badly to defend yourself, at the end of the day, you know you’re still wrong.

“I’m sorry, Mom. It was just a lapse of judgement.”

“Is that what you call it?” she sounded amused as she echoed the words you used. “Because to me, it seems like you didn’t even use your brain. How would it be a lapse of judgment?”

You didn’t answer— you couldn’t. You’re fully aware that no amount of explanation would even justify what happened.

It was intended as a stupid joke, a harmless prank—something to rile up the frat boys and mess with the Teacher’s Aide who always gave you a hard time. He was a prick. Always acting pretentious and condescending in class, always shaming you during recitation. So you and a couple of your friends thought it’d be funny to mess with him. You had gotten the idea to stage a scene at the party— just a small “accident” involving him that would get everyone to whisper about him for weeks.

You didn’t think it through.

No one did.

The prank backfired spectacularly. It was supposed to be harmless— just a spill of paint and a couple of embarrassing photos to post on the University board— but ended up with the man slipping and hitting his head hard on the corner of a table. The frat house had erupted into chaos after that, drunk people shouting, running around, and the guy lying there unconscious with a concerning amount of blood pooling on the floor.

That’s when someone must’ve called the cops.

Your father cleared his throat. “We’ve done our best to protect you from consequences in the past, sweetheart,” he began, his voice low but steady, the kind of tone that demanded your full attention. “But this— this isn’t something we can simply sweep under the rug.”

“You’ve embarrassed us, is what he’s saying,” your mother scoffed lightly, rolling her eyes at your father. “The truth is, you’ve embarrassed not only yourself but our family. Tell me, how are we supposed to face everyone? The people in your father’s work? My friends in the country club?”

You fell silent with her question. You’ve heard it all before— how important the family’s image is, how every action you take isn’t just your own, but a reflection of them. It was a lesson you’ve been taught since you were a child, but now, sitting here in the aftermath of your arrest, it felt heavier than ever.

“And the pictures,” your mother continued, her voice cutting through your thoughts again. “The videos. Did you think about that? How those images are going to be plastered all over social media for everyone to see? Your cheap dress? Your behavior? Do you even care how many of our friends’ children see them? I can only imagine the things they’ll say behind your back.”

Your father set his coffee down. His face was calm, but the disappointment in his eyes was unmistakable, and it made you want to shrink into yourself.

“I want you to realize how serious this is, sweetheart,” he said after a deep sigh, his voice never rising, but somehow becoming even more terrifying in its restraint. “It’s not just the scandal you’ve brought on this family, though that in itself is bad enough. It’s the fact that the university’s TA, the man you assaulted—and don’t tell me it wasn’t serious because we’ve heard the details— he’s considering filing a lawsuit against you.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach. The word ‘lawsuit’ sent a chill down your spine. You knew things were bad, but you hadn’t fully processed that it could come to this. The prank had gone wrong—horribly so—but you hadn’t truly considered that it could escalate into something this big. The thought of legal action, of your parents being dragged into court over something you did…

Your mother inhaled slowly. Although she doesn’t raise her voice, each word cuts deeper than if she had screamed. “We’ll be dragged through the mud. And what then? What happens to our reputation? To your future?”

You ignored the fact that, based on her words, your reputation is much more important than your future. Or whatever you feel at the moment.

You could barely breathe as the conversation went on. You gripped the edge of your chair, trying to steady yourself, but it felt like the ground beneath you was crumbling away.

“I didn’t mean it. I’m really- I’m so sorry…” you whispered, your voice barely audible, shaking.

“That doesn’t matter,” your father said. “Intent doesn’t minimize consequences. And now, we’re facing a very real possibility that you could be expelled, sued, and publicly humiliated all at once.”

The walls felt as if they were closing in around you.

Your mother’s eyes narrowed as she continued. “And then there’s the matter of money. Do you have any idea how much it will cost us to make this go away? To keep your record clean, to keep you in Law School after almost killing someone?” She leaned forward slightly, her voice low and cutting. “Do you even realize how selfish and stupid you’ve been?”

You swallowed hard. Expulsion. A permanent mark on your academic record. Your future— everything you’ve worked for— now hangs in the balance because of one reckless night.

Tears stung at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away, refusing to cry in front of them. You feel small and ashamed, under the weight of everything that’s about to come crashing down on you. But then, you have no one else to blame but yourself.

Your father heaved another deep sigh. “We’ll need to contact our lawyer,” he said calmly, his mind already moving to control the damage. “We’ll have to negotiate with the university board and the TA. I already set a meeting with the chancellor. He’s an old friend, let’s just hope he will help us.”

You nodded numbly, the shame and guilt overwhelming you. The image of your mother at the country club, having to endure the whispers and judgemental looks, the thought of your father having to navigate meetings with lawyers and school administrators to clean up the mess you’ve made was so shameful to think about.

Your mother rose from her seat with a graceful composure. “Your father and I will fix this,” she said one last time, her voice clipped and emotionless. “But this will be the last time, I warn you. You’ve embarrassed us enough.”

Without another glance in your direction, she left the room, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor. Your father followed, quieter but no less distant, leaving you alone at the table.

“We’ll talk more about this later,” was all he said.

The silence that followed was deafening. You could feel your house helpers’ gaze focused on you, watching you from the corner in which they all stand. You felt sick, not only because of the hangover but because it felt like the entire world had shifted beneath you, and you were left to deal with the wreckage.

“Miss? Are you awake?”

The knock on your door pulled you from sleep. You stirred in bed, your eyes heavy. There was a dull ache pounding in your head from all the crying you’d done. And with heavy feeling, you rolled over, blinking against the fading evening light that seeped through the curtains, trying to make sense of the knock.

It came again, a little louder this time. You pushed yourself up on your elbows just as the door creaked open, revealing the familiar figure of your family’s longtime maid. She was standing by the front door, her expression polite, her eyes reflecting a hint of sympathy she was trying to hide.

“Miss,” she repeated softly, “your parents have requested you come down for dinner.”

You rubbed your eyes and sat up fully. “Dinner?” your voice was scratchy as you mumbled.

“Yes, miss,” she replied, stepping slightly into the room. “Your parents have a guest tonight. It’s… important that you join them.”

Something in her tone caught your attention. A guest. You wonder who could it be. Though it was most likely just your family lawyer joining you for dinner. Your father did say you would talk about the situation later.

So you gave her a polite nod and swung your legs over the side of the bed. “Alright,” you said quietly, already feeling the knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. The last thing you want to do is face them again— especially over dinner— but you know there’s no avoiding it.

The maid disappeared quietly down the hall as you stood, your legs still shaky beneath you. You glance at yourself in the full-body mirror, grimacing at your reflection. Your hair was a mess, your eyes red-rimmed and swollen from crying. You tried to fix yourself up as best as you could, smoothing down your hair and splashing some cold water on your face to wake yourself up. But no matter how much you try to pull yourself together, the heaviness still loomed over your shoulders.

You made your way down the staircase, the smell of dinner wafting through the house. The soft murmur of voices reached your ears as you near the dining room— your parents, speaking in hushed tones. You couldn’t make out the words, but you picked up the urgency of their conversation that made you pause just outside the doorway.

You closed your eyes for a moment, preparing yourself, before stepping into the room.

The first thing you noticed was that your parents aren’t alone. Seated at the table with them, in the same spot he always sat at during family dinners so long ago… was Aaron. His presence was like a jolt of electricity, sending your heart skipping in your chest for a split second before it settled into an uneasy rhythm.

It has been so long since you last saw him— years, really. He’d been a constant figure in your life growing up, your father’s best friend since college. He’d been older than you by quite a bit, of course, but back then, you’d always been slightly captivated by him— his quiet intelligence, his boisterous laughter, the way he seemed to understand the world in ways you couldn’t yet grasp. It was endearing. He always had this presence about him, something solid and unshakeable, like he was the person you wanted around when things fell apart.

But now, sitting there at the dining table, he looked different— older, yes, but in a way that’s more refined. His hair was shorter than you remember, clean cut, dark brown with threads of silver creeping in at his temples, and his jawline was sharper, with the beginnings of stubble framing his mouth. He was wearing a tailored suit, the fabric hugging his broad shoulders, the crisp white collar open at his throat, his tie undone as if he’d just come from a long day at work.

Then there’s the intensity to his eyes. His expression was serious, his lips pressed into a thoughtful line as he listened to your parents talk.

As you step further into the room, Aaron’s gaze lifted, and for a moment, his eyes locked with yours. Your breath got caught right in your throat.

“Aaron,” your father said formally, cutting into the silence as he noticed you standing there. “You remember my daughter.”

Aaron’s lips twitched into a slight smile, but it was fleeting. “Of course,” he said, his voice deep and even. “It’s been a while.”

You swallowed hard, feeling suddenly self-conscious under his gaze. You force yourself to walk further into the room, trying to ignore the tightness in your chest. “Hi, Aaron,” just a short greeting, your voice shaky– that’s all you had managed.

Your mother glanced at you. “Come sit down,” she said, gesturing to the empty seat across from Aaron. “We were just discussing the situation.”

Your stomach churned in shame. The situation. You know exactly what they’re talking about. And how embarrassing it was.

You took your seat, your hands trembling slightly as you settled into the chair. You focused yourself on a maid filling your glass with water, thanking her promptly and watching her walk away.

“Your father and I,” your mother started, effectively catching your attention, “were just going over the legal implications of what happened at the university.”

You glanced at your father, unsure of what to say. You know how grave the situation was, but seeing Aaron here, sitting with your parents as they calmly discuss your future as if it were some business negotiation, makes you want to crawl out of your skin and disappear forever.

“And Aaron’s here because?” You frowned, your voice sounded sarcastic without intending to. “We already have a family lawyer. Do we really need to drag him into this?”

Your father’s gaze sharpened just a bit. “Aaron has been a trusted friend of the family for years. Given the severity of your circumstances, we thought his experience would be invaluable.”

“Experience?” You let out a small, incredulous laugh, folding your arms across your chest. “He’s an FBI agent, Dad, not my defense attorney. This isn’t a federal case. It’s just a stupid prank gone wrong. I don’t see why we need to make this a whole ‘bring in the cavalry’ thing.” You glanced back at Aaron. “And I’m sure he’s got more important things to do than babysit me.”

Aaron leaned back slightly in his chair, his voice calm but firm when he spoke. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think this was serious.” His hazel eyes locked onto yours, and there was a weight to his words that made your earlier sarcasm feel childish and misplaced. “There’s a chance the university will pursue disciplinary action against you. But there’s also the matter of the TA. His injuries are documented, and he has every right to file charges.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words died on your tongue. The potential lawsuit. The school hearing. Your entire future balancing on the edge of a knife. Deep down, you know he’s right, but the idea of Aaron being here, so entrenched in this mess, felt too personal— too invasive. Why on Earth would you want him here?

You’re used to your parents managing everything, controlling every detail of your life, but Aaron? It was different.

Your father cleared his throat. “He’s just offering legal advice and some advice on how we can keep this from spiraling any further.”

“I appreciate the help,” You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, your voice laced with a slight edge of stubbornness, “but I don’t need to be micromanaged by a fed. I’m perfectly capable of dealing with this.”

Your mother raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “And what exactly do you plan to do? Handle it on your own? When all you did all day is lock yourself in your room and cry? Is that your idea of handling problems?”

You bit back the urge to say, ‘Yes, so what?’

The tension in the room thickened as your mother’s words silenced you. You felt the familiar heat of frustration creeping up your neck. It’s the same old story— no matter what, they always think you need to be rescued, that you’re not capable of handling your own life. That all you could do was cry, although that was exactly what you did.

Aaron, however, remained calm, his gaze never wavering from yours. “No one’s saying you’re not capable,” he said, his voice low and measured. “But this is a situation that’s already out of your control. There are legal repercussions, reputational damage, and the possibility of expulsion. Ignoring it or downplaying it won’t make it go away.”

His tone was steady, not condescending, but the message was clear: Whether you like it or not, this is bigger than you. So listen to me, little girl.

You bit the inside of your cheek, resisting the urge to snap back at him. But instead, you exhaled slowly, trying to tamp down the frustration bubbling up inside you. “Fine,” you voice was tight as you spoke. “But I still don’t understand why Aaron needs to be involved. We can handle this with our own lawyer.”

Your mother interjected with an eye roll. “Aaron is a friend, and I don’t think you’re in much position to say who can help us and who can’t.” She paused and stared at you with that poised, assessing gaze she always has. “I suggest you listen to him.”

“And if I don’t?”

You almost flinched when you heard the sharp sound of your father’s sigh. “I’m too tired to deal with this attitude. Don’t push my button. I will send you to your Grandma if you don’t shut your damn mouth.”

The room fell into a heavy silence. You glanced at Aaron again, feeling a flicker of something you can’t quite place. He was watching you carefully. And for a brief moment, you felt like you were back to being that younger version of yourself, looking up to him, admiring him, thinking he had all the answers, thinking he could fix everything.

But now, everything feels different. When you’re the problem he’s been called in to fix.

“Alright,” you finally said, the fight going out of you as the reality of the situation set in. “Whatever.”

Aaron nodded slightly, his expression softening just a touch, and didn’t say anything else.

Later that evening, you have been called to your father’s office. The dim light casted long shadows over the dark wood paneling and the rows of bookshelves lining the walls. You’ve always thought of this room as intimidating, with all the thick books and deep leather armchairs, and the old oak desk, but tonight you feel even more antsy.

You were perched on the edge of the sofa, your legs stretched out in front of you, painting your toenails with a level of focus that belies how much your mind was actually racing. You needed something to do with your hands, something to distract yourself from the fact that you were alone in the room with Aaron.

The smell of polish hangs faintly in the air. You felt the hem of your nightdress ride up your thighs as you leaned forward slightly to get a better angle on your toes.

And from your seat, you can hear the faint sound of the videos Aaron was busy watching.

He sat across from you in one of the large armchairs, his back straight, his attention narrowed down on the laptop balanced on his knees. He was watching video clips and scrolling through photos from the night of the frat party. You’ve caught glimpses of the screen ealier, the images of yourself in that tight, short dress flashing by, a reminder of just how badly things have spiraled out of control.

You could feel his presence like a heat in the room, a steady pressure that makes it hard to breathe. Every now and then, his gaze shifted from the screen to you, but it was subtle, almost unnoticeable if you weren’t so hyper-aware of him. You don’t have to look up to know when his eyes are on you; you can feel it in the way your skin tingled, the way your heart skipped a beat.

He cleared his throat eventually, the sound breaking the heavy silence. “These videos,” he started, his voice low and gruff, “are all over social media. It’s worse than I thought.”

You paused mid-stroke, the small brush hovering over your toe, your pulse quickening at the seriousness in his tone. You glanced up at him, trying to gauge his expression. He addressed you in a formal manner. But still, there was a flicker of something in his eyes that you couldn’t name— something that made your stomach flutter in a way you’d rather ignore.

“Yeah, well,” you mumbled, turning your attention back to your nails, “I guess that’s what happens when everyone has a phone in their hand these days.”

Aaron didn’t respond immediately. You heard the faint clicking as he scrolled through more images, the silence stretching on between you. The weight of his scrutiny, even if it was just on a screen, made you squirm slightly in your seat.

You shifted your position, the movement causing your nightdress to ride up even more, the silky fabric sliding higher up your thighs.

You caught a brief flicker of movement from the corner of your eye— his gaze dropping to your legs, lingering for just a second longer than necessary before he quickly looked back at the screen. It was so quick, so subtle, that you almost convinced yourself you imagined it. But your heart did that traitorous little skip again, and you had to force yourself to focus on what you were doing, so you don’t dwell on it.

“This isn’t going to go away on its own,” Aaron said again after a beat of silence, as if he was choosing his words with great care. “The videos, the pictures—they’re everywhere. The university is likely to use them as evidence if they pursue disciplinary action.”

You placed the nail polish brush back in the bottle, twisting it shut with a sharp click. “So what?” you asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but the tremor in your voice betrayed you. “We already knew it was bad.”

“It’s worse,” he pressed, his eyes lifting to meet yours, the intensity of his gaze making your breath catch. “And I’m not just talking about the university. This could get very public, very fast. You need to understand what that means.”

You bristled at his words, feeling a flare of defensiveness rise up. “I get it, okay? I know I screwed up. I’m not stupid. But we don’t need to keep going over it.” You shifted again, fanning your hand over the wet nail polish, the nightdress inching up higher as you moved, exposing more of your skin.

This time, you didn’t miss the way Aaron’s eyes darted to the fabric as it rode up, his gaze lingering before he caught himself and quickly looked away, his jaw tightening slightly. There was something in his expression now, something that was not just concern or frustration.

You felt a strange mix of emotions— embarrassment, maybe, or something closer to satisfaction— at catching him off guard, at seeing that brief lapse in his composure. He’d always been so steady, so in control, and there was a part of you that was curious, maybe even a little thrilled, to see that control waver even only for a second.

“Are you going to keep staring at those videos all night? Or are we actually going to talk about something useful?”

Aaron’s eyes snapped back to yours, his expression hardening even more. “This is useful,” he replied evenly, though his voice is a bit more clipped now. “The more we understand about what’s out there, the better we can prepare for what’s coming.”

You leaned back slightly, stretching your legs out and letting the nightdress fall naturally over your thighs. “I think we both know what’s coming,” your tone edged with resignation. “I’m going to be dragged through the mud, and my parents are going to do everything they can to make it disappear. That’s how this always goes.”

Aaron’s gaze darkened, and he set the laptop aside, leaning forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. “Is that what you think this is?” he said quietly, but firmly. “You’re not a kid anymore, and this isn’t just about your parents cleaning up a mess. This is about your future. If this ends up in a court, your future will be at stake.”

There was something strange with the way he said it. You’re not a kid anymore. And you dropped your eyes, suddenly feeling very exposed— not just because of the nightdress, but because of everything you’ve been trying so hard to brush off.

“Why do you care so much, anyway? This is none of your business.”

For a moment, he was silent, and you wondered whether that was too much and you crossed a line. But then, he suddenly said, “Forget it. You’re pretty much the same kid I knew. I thought you’d be able to handle this with maturity, but obviously I’m wrong.”

Obviously.

You felt a surge of anger with that. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You’re still the same spoiled and whiny child from before.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief and offense. You’re not sure you followed everything he said after that. Because in the back of your mind, all you wondered about is what goes on in his brain when he looks at you with those dark, piercing eyes.

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