#its just spiralled too much out of control

[shiftthemoon]

reality shifting isn’t hard. you’ve been told it’s hard because everyone’s too scared to admit it’s not. they cling to their 800-step methods, their must-have crystals, their perfect conditions because they think that if they let go of that control, they’ll fail. but here’s the thing: the more you try to control the process, the more you convince yourself it’s out of your control. and that’s the problem. that’s why so many people feel stuck. shifting isn’t some big, far-fetched thing. it’s just you. it’s always been you.

we’re conditioned to think we’re powerless. think about it—school, work, society, all of it drills this idea into us that everything has to be proven, earned, validated. so, when you hear about shifting, your brain freaks out and says, wait, wait, this is too easy, this can’t be real. and then you spiral. you overcomplicate it. you make yourself think you need the “perfect” script, the “right” subliminal, or that you have to meditate for three hours while the stars align perfectly. like, no… you don’t. all of that? it’s fluff. it’s noise.

at its core, shifting is belief. just belief. no, really, let that sink in. you don’t need to “do” belief perfectly. it’s not something you master through sheer willpower. it’s something you already have. you’ve believed in things your whole life. you believed in gravity without needing proof. you believe your favorite songs are beautiful without needing to explain why. belief is natural. it’s effortless when you stop overthinking it. that’s the energy you need to bring to shifting—trust. trust that your mind knows what it’s doing, and that if you let it, it will take you there. every single extra thing you pile on? the overthinking, the doubt, the need for guarantees? that’s what’s slowing you down. not the “lack of progress,” not some mythical “block”—it’s you convincing yourself it’s harder than it is.

and let’s talk about social media for a second. oh my god, the shifting community on social media… i get it. it’s comforting to see other people on this journey. but let’s be honest—how much of that content is actually helping you? like, really? 90% of the time, scrolling through shifting advice isn’t inspiring; it’s overwhelming. everyone’s got their own opinions, their own “best methods,” their own rules. one person says scripting is a must, another says it’s a waste of time. one person swears by affirmations, another says visualization is the only way. and before you know it, you’re sitting there questioning everything you thought you knew, wondering if you’ll ever get it “right.” spoiler alert: you already know how to shift. you don’t need a thousand voices telling you what to do. in fact, the more you listen to them, the harder it becomes to hear yourself.

take a break. seriously. log off the apps. give yourself space to breathe and think. ask yourself: why do i want to shift? what’s stopping me? what feels right to me? no tiktok trend, youtube guide, or reddit post can answer those questions for you. only you can. and i know that sounds scary. we’ve been conditioned to think we need external validation for everything, but shifting is a deeply personal thing. you don’t need a step-by-step tutorial. you need to trust your instincts. that’s it.

and let me be clear: i’m not saying methods or subliminals are bad. they’re fine if they help you feel aligned. but they’re not what makes shifting happen. you are. methods are just tools. if you use them, great. if you don’t, that’s great too. because the truth is, shifting isn’t about doing things “right.” it’s about letting go of the idea that you need to.

so let me break it down for you. the only things you really need to shift are:

1. a desire. you have to want to go to your desired reality. no brainer, right?

2. belief. this is the big one. you have to trust it’s possible. no “what ifs,” no “but hows.” just trust.

3. persistence. if it doesn’t happen right away, that’s okay. don’t give up. if you’ve ever learned to ride a bike, you know that falling doesn’t mean you can’t do it—it just means you’re learning. shifting is the same.

that’s it. no fancy rituals, no endless research, no “perfect” conditions. the process is simple because it’s natural. you’ve probably done it before without even realizing it— the only reason it feels hard now is because you’ve convinced yourself it has to be.

stop making it harder than it needs to be. shifting isn’t this unattainable, mystical thing reserved for “chosen ones.” it’s something anyone can do. you can do it. your mom can do it. that anti-shifter lurking in every crevice of shiftblr could do it. you’ve always been capable. but you have to stop getting in your own way. stop doubting yourself. stop relying on others to tell you what’s possible. this is your journey. own it.

and above all, be patient. shifting is not a race. it’s not about how fast you can get there or how perfect your dr is. it’s about trust, intention, and focus. log off, tune into yourself, and let it happen. shifting has always been yours to claim. it’s not something you need permission for. it’s not something you need to earn. it’s just you, your mind, and your belief. always has been, always will be.

[bi-demon-ium]

(via @mvshortcut) #wait wait I've got it#curtain's hair is natural#and nicholas dyes his hair grey#when they were younger they decided they would do this once they got older to confuse everyone about their age#and even though they got separated and were enemies neither of them even CONSIDERED not sticking to the plan#it was For the Bit

i need you to know nik and i have a whole elaborate au based on this exact concept that just descended into insane deeply stupid crack about the twins secretly being much younger than they are and then when they finally meet again the whole dramatic confrontation is entirely derailed by curtain immediately dropping everything to make fun of him at maximum volume. HOW OLD DO THEY THINK YOU ARE NICKY?! HOW DID YOU DO THIS TO YOURSELF and mr benedict is like head in hands going SHUT UP SHUT UP IT ISN'T FUNNY!!! I DON'T KNOW I DON'T KNOW IT WASN'T ON PURPOSE IT JUST SNOWBALLED SO MUCH THEY THINK I'M LIKE FIFTY!!! and curtains just like [literally on the verge of tears laughing at him] NICHOLAS WE ARE TWENTY SEVEN [incoherent wailing from mr benedict] meanwhile the adults came to rescue him and can just. Hear All Of This.

but also the idea that they both did this and like. they're just STILL STICKING TO IT. FOR THE BIT. IS SO GOOD WHAT THE FUCK FLGIJFGHFGH curtain gets redeemed and mr benedict pulls him aside like. so. you never... told anyone? gave it up? and curtain's like god no what do you take me for? i dedicate to the bit, nicholas.

something I ponder almost daily: curtain must be dying his hair/beard, right? like mr. benedict's beard is speckled with gray and so is his hair, whereas curtain has immaculate jet black hair and beard. we know he cares very much about his appearance, especially from that one scene in season one where he's getting his hair cut and not a single strand could be out of place. It would make sense with his control thing too, if you get what I'm saying. I literally know nothing about hair graying so this is just speculation but i think it would be so funny if he was. i also wonder (if that's true) if it's to show up benedict, like "ooh we're twins but i'm the better looking one" because that is exactly the type of pettiness curtain has in abundance. like the one comment in the final episode of season 2 where he says "I don't look a day over 46" or something, a completely unhelpful comment <3

[good-beanswrites]

hii hiii is it alright if I request something with kotoko and haruka?(platonic ofc) their character foils drive me insane with all the weak stuff authngghn icant be normal about them

Oooh thank you so much for the request! I realized that these two actually have one of the smallest windows to talk easily, given Haruka's nervousness and Kotoko's T2 changes. They have such interesting approaches to strength/weakness, and I hope I could capture it a bit here! This takes place immediately following Kotoko's bday timeline after Harrow's release:

“I’ll accept those birthday wishes…” Kotoko gave him a wave over her shoulder as she returned to making her bed.  

She shook her head in awe. It was rather impressive how quickly the boy had changed after his verdict. The others had more subtle differences, but he was someone entirely new. She could rest easy, at least, knowing that her verdict wouldn’t change her much. For as long as she could remember, she’d been like this. She knew where she stood, and neither guilty nor innocent verdict would affect that. This verdict was really only an indicator on whether the warden could be trusted or not. 

Her body tensed up when she turned back around, startled by Haruka lingering silently in the doorway. She decided against chastising him for scaring her half to death. Still, she couldn’t keep the bite from her voice as she asked, “did you need something else?”

“Ah… I just…” He twisted his hands together. “I had a question.” 

He fell silent, but Kotoko could tell he was chewing on his next words. She waited.

“H-how do you do it? All the time? You’re older and stronger and braver and I-I just don’t know how.”

“Give yourself some credit. I’m not that much older, or stronger. I only have, what -- two, three years on you? And you did very well in the arm wrestling tournament the other day.” 

She wasn’t being patronizing. For someone so sheltered, Haruka could do some damage. He stood a few inches taller than her. The others had taken the arm wrestling as a little game, but Kotoko had used the event to measure up her fellow prisoners. After his close match with Mikoto, she had made a mental note to take him seriously. 

“No…” his expression twitched, getting frustrated with the misunderstanding. “Not muscles. I mean… you don’t have someone like Muu. You don’t need someone next to you all the time. But you still talk with everyone… and it looks easy. All the time. You always know what to say, and what to do. You never look scared. You never cry.”

Kotoko’s smile softened. She wasn’t the prideful type, but his words gave her a wave of accomplishment. She certainly was scared. She did cry. But she wasn’t about to show a single crack in her resolve in front of anyone here. Haruka had given her the greatest of compliments by confirming her success.

“Ah, you mean strength of spirit. Well, that doesn’t just appear out of nowhere. It comes with my purpose, with my virtues.”

“Virtues…?”

“I see the injustice around me, and want to protect the innocent. When I see how awful the world can be, when I see the monsters that are hurting those who are weak, I can’t help myself.” She clenched her fist. “The power to do so just comes to me.” 

“Oh…” Haruka looked down at his palms. 

Her heart sank, realizing he didn’t quite understand. It was a shame that not all of humanity could be as righteous as her. That heroic drive had always come so naturally to her; she wasn’t sure she could put it into words to explain to others.

Haruka’s open hands were trembling. “Um. Is there any other way?”

“Hm?”

“All my life… I only cause pain to everyone.” His worry gradually turned to desperation.” I hurt everyone who gets close to me. Especially things that are small and weak. My whole life, I’ve been nothing but a… a curse. So… is there another way? Please. I want to be better. I want to be strong! I want to be like you! Tell me!”

He stepped forward, pleading. Kotoko stepped back. 

His blue eyes widened at her sudden shift into defense. “Ah! I. I’m sorry. I’m-I’m sorry. It’s your birthday. You should be… Have a g-good day.”

“Wait.” Kotoko stopped him before he could flee. She was aware of the massive gap between them, the vastly different backgrounds they came from. Still, she offered the same advice that had helped her in her toughest of days. 

“Don’t worry so much about others’ strength. The quickest way to burn yourself out is getting overwhelmed with the power that’s all around you. Once you start putting all your focus toward honing your own skills and strengths, you’ll realize how much you’re truly capable of. You don’t need anyone else. You’ll realize that you are enough.”

“I… am enough…?”

She placed a hand firmly on his shoulder. 

“So, no need to get all worked up now, okay?” 

“O-okay. I’ll do my best.” He stiffened, trying to appear worthy of her words.

She let out a bitter laugh. “I told the others not to do anything for my birthday, but I don’t think they paid me any mind.” Kotoko still couldn’t fathom how they were so friendly with each other given the situation. “Let’s go see if there’s some cake or something.”

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[thebleedingeffect]

.

[ironmanstan]

.

[dexaroth]

more than 50 hours of detroit become human vids on bryan decharts (connor's actor) channel.. this is the forget all life 2-3 week marathon

[celestialmancer]

⛈️ ❌ ❌ ❌ // 2:09 am, tbd ;

[shoheiakagi]

Okay, second question for the Band AU! I don't know if idols work the same way as mainstream music, where there's a lot of crossover between singers and television/movies, but how would the guys and your lovely girls deal with being scouted for the big screen? Who would want to give acting a try, who wouldn't? And what would the couples do if they found themselves cast as each other's onscreen lover (Because ofc that adds fuel to the fire for gossip).

I know that there’s a lot of kpop idols who go into acting, but not too sure about jpop idols. And im not 100% sure about this, but I remember reading that theres this stigma amongst actors about idols going into acting; that they hate when idols pursue acting cause the idols booked the role due to their popularity and not cause of any acting talent lol

i’m so sorry cause i ended up going on a different tangent with this ask and focus on dewa/miyako, so i hope you don’t mind!

Out of the girls, Miyako is the only one to pursue acting. Despite not being the most popular member, she is still well known for her beauty, which fits the quintessential Japanese beauty standards: petite frame, pale skin, long dark hair, long eyelashes, and high-bridged nose. It wasn’t that hard for her to land the lead role in a romcom, starring against a male pop idol who also recently joined the acting scene (okay idk why but akiyama came straight to my mind lol). The casting alone for this movie makes a lot of noise, as the main leads look extremely elegant and gives off major royalty vibes, which gains the attention of the general public. A lot of interviews and press tours get more people to fall in love with the chemistry between miyako and akiyama (which takes more effort from miyako’s end since akiyama can be pretty stiff). But unlike her idol career, she has more difficulty fitting in at first due to the stigma some of her costars have against her for being an idol.

Idk why, but i don’t really see any of the guys pursuing acting tbh. At most, i can see chitose landing some role in some adult comedy that doesn’t perform that well, which has him running back to the group and not want anything to do with acting ever again. The other guys probably got second hand embarrassment and don’t want to go through what chitose had to. When they first heard about miyako landing a role in a new movie, they couldn’t help but feel pity cause the poor girl might have to go through the same idol curse that chitose went through. but when they see the massive media coverage and support she’s getting, some of them can’t help but feel envious. here comes this girl group who’s catching up to their fame and popularity despite not being around for that long and definitely not working as hard as them, and now each members are getting their own individual gigs as solo acts?? while miyako may be the only one to pursue acting out of her group, she’s certainly not the only one who’s making a name for herself outside of the group. and the guys can’t help but feel jealous about that. as much as they love their group, at the end of the day, they’re different guys with different interests. it’d be nice to be known more outside of their fanbase, without having to be lumped in with 5 other guys. its funny how the girls, despite having a lot of restrictions put on to them by their company, still have the freedom to pursue things outside of the their group and make a name for themselves. whereas the guys have all the artistic freedom a musician can ask for, but seem to lack an identity of their own.

Dewa is annoyed. Its bad enough that he sees miyako’s face plastered all over japan with the rest of her dimwitted group. Now seeing her face being plastered all over the country with that guy with toothpick from s4? She likes that type of guy? The type with a stick up his ass? (talk about the pot calling the kettle black). But theres something off this time. With how strict her company is, he’s not used to seeing her having full blown conversations with other male celebrities, so imagine his surprise when he catches interviews where she keeps laughing at every little thing akiyama says, resting a manicured hand on his shoulder. or how she would bat her eyelashes at him while asking him a question, and how she would look intrigued as she hangs onto every word that comes out of his mouth. nothing about their interaction seems right to dewa, and in a way he’s relieved that is all an act to promote their new movie (at least thats what he tells himself and chitose when the latter tries to taunt him). But seeing miyako gain more success and fame as an actress, make more friends/connections within the industry, and create an identity for herself outside of her group is bothering dewa a lot more than it should be. in a way, it feels like she’s constantly rising and leaving him behind. and if acting doesn’t work out for her? no problem, she can always fall back onto her idol persona. and if performing is no longer fun? perfect, she can go back and take over her family’s business like she was supposed to. but what about him? if the group decides to split and go their own way, what will happen to dewa masaomi?

[7nuh]

MR. CRAWLING YANDERE HEADCANONS !

CW 𓂃 gn!reader, gaslighting, canon-typical violence

AN 𓂃 ik i said i'd have HCs for all of them but this ended up being too long so... 🧍‍♀️ also unedited bc i have an exam later ill be back to edit this later pls

Mr. Crawling is the protective type. He spends half of the entire game following you wherever you go and going through great lengths to protect you from the other residents of these cursed apartments. However, I can see how that protectiveness can get twisted in the long run when you remain completely helpless and unable to defend yourself. Mr. Crawling would have no choice but to step in and make decisions for you instead because he cannot afford to lose you just like that.

Out of all the homicipher men, mr. Crawling is the one who has the most respect for your choices and boundaries. He leaves when you tell him to, patiently guides you throughout this maze, and comforts you when you are upset— and he's never violent unless threatened.

Such a sweet and gentle guy would never hurt you intentionally. He loves you too much to hurt you.

That being said, though he'll never intentionally hurt you, he doesn't realize it whenever he's being possessive and suffocating you instead. After all, having wandered these halls for so long has desensitized him to violence and made him forget all his human memories. Simply put, his concept of love is warped in its own way. He doesn't understand nor remember how to healthily love another person by societal standards, but he (usually) means well.

He may not understand love but he knows one thing for sure— you're very precious to him. You're so full of life, so kind (to him), and so persistent to find your way home despite everything. Everyone else just kind of does their own thing around there... but you need him. You give him purpose and he's ready to give himself up for you in return.

But as much as he respects you, he knows you sometimes don't know any better. You almost got yourself killed multiple times despite his numerous warnings, and he's not confident you completely understand him just yet. So whenever he feels as though something got lost in translation, he won't hesitate to push you aside or cover for you in that instance. Thankfully, you can now regenerate your limbs.

You don't know any better. This sentiment becomes a mantra that repeats itself in his head over and over again. The two of you haven't made any significant progress on finding an exit, but you've almost died more than a dozen times by now. How are you supposed to survive without him?

What even is your home like? How can he be sure that you aren't going to get yourself killed over there too? Can he follow you there too to protect you? Can't you just stay here with him instead? Would that be so terrible? Of course he wants you to find whatever you're looking for...! it's just that...

The thought of losing you only intensifies his anxiety and over-protectiveness. Whether by departure or death, he cannot stand to be apart from you. Why are you so eager to leave this place anyway?

Mr. Crawling is gentle, but love can force him to be violent. He's not as cruel as the rest, but it doesn't mean he won't be when you're put in danger, especially when his possessiveness and overprotectiveness spiral out of control. He doesn't want to restrict you in any way because he loves and respects you too much to do that, but you just keep getting yourself in trouble. He overcompensates and goes overboard instead trying to protect you, even if it means killing someone.

And the thought of you moving on and forgetting him depresses him. He knows you had a life before this, but he wants a life with you in it. He'll be selfish just this once, but never again. He'll make sure you're safe here you so don't worry about that! Just don't leave him. Just stay with him, please.

It starts little by little. He starts telling you to rest more often and misleading you farther away from the elevator. Sometimes, when you tell him to leave you alone, he pretends not to understand you anymore. When he sees that dreaded green light from a distance, he tells you there is something malicious up ahead. In times like these, he's glad you're so blindly trusting of every word he says. It's difficult for him to watch your resolve break down, but it's for the best. When you're with him, you're safe and that all that's matters.

I can see some of the others like Ms. Bride and Mr. Silvair being in on it. Ms. Bride is very excited that her wedding garments will be used for their actual purpose this time whereas Mr. Silvair finds your unconventional relationship an interesting area of study. Whenever you find yourself 'lost' (escape from Mr. Crawling), they will redirect you back to him.

Eventually, you do give up. Maybe you even become more monstrous by the day and accept that you're better off here. He loved your persistence, but maybe he can show you giving up and that staying here isn't so bad. After all, you have him. He makes sure to be extra affectionate and cuddly after you give up <3

You'll learn to accept it, won't you? For him? Whatever's beyond those elevator doors can't possibly be better than being loved unconditionally and safe within his arms. You're even free to be yourself down here! You can be as violent as you want, and Mr. Crawling will happily watch you bludgeon someone to death on the sidelines with nothing but adoration.

Alternatively, if you do find your way home, he WILL follow you whether you like it or not. But if you don't want him there... well, do expect a few inconveniences. Whatever it takes to convince you to let him stay or to convince you to come back, really. Maybe like blood on the walls spelling 'me love you' and 'me miss you' or a cold pair of arms wrapping around your waist at night.

[snekdood]

so many ppl online are like “hahah yeah guillotine” but i really doubt the majority of ppl saying that could actually stomach it.

[rafecameronssl4t]

ok hear me out........

dcc!reader watching Rafe get hurt during a game. Maybe they get into a small fight before the game and it gets into Rafe's head a little too much and throws off his game mindset

Feel free to totally ignore this if you're not vibing with the idea! Anyways I love all of you're writings, keep up the amazing work queen!!!!!!

Duties to whom? || Nfl Player!Rafe Cameron x dcc!reader

A/n: thank u for the request i love it!!!

Warnings: angst,

Word counts: 1,795

MASTERLIST (nfl!rafe x dcc!reader au masterlist)

The locker room felt stifling, the tension between you and Rafe thick enough to choke on. You stood in front of the mirror, carefully fixing your lipstick with steady hands despite the storm brewing inside you. “Just get out,” you said bitterly, dabbing at the corner of your mouth before tossing the tissue onto the counter.

Rafe, still in his uniform, stared at you in disbelief. His hands were on his hips, his chest rising and falling as though he’d just come off the field. “What?” he snapped, his tone laced with frustration. You turned your head slightly, catching his reflection in the mirror. “Have you forgotten that we have jobs to do, Rafe?”

“Jobs?” he repeated, his voice rising as he took a step closer. “We haven’t even finished—” “Well, I’m finished!” you cut him off, spinning around to face him fully. Your eyes burned with the remnants of the argument that had spiralled out of control. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore, so just go.”

Rafe’s scoff echoed in the small room, his head tilting back in exasperation. “Unbelievable.” You turned back to the mirror, refusing to meet his gaze. The silence stretched out, broken only by the faint hum of the stadium crowd filtering through the walls. “You always do this,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, but the accusation hit its mark.

“Do what?” you shot back, spinning on your heel. “Stand up for myself? Refuse to sit here while you act like you’re the only one who’s stressed? God forbid, right?” Rafe ran a hand through his damp hair, his frustration palpable. “That’s not what this is about, and you know it.” “Then what is it about, Rafe?” you snapped, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Because I’m tired of having this same fight over and over again. It’s exhausting.” For a moment, he didn’t respond. His jaw tightened, and he looked at you as though searching for the right words, something to break the cycle you were both caught in. “You think this is easy for me?” he finally said, his voice quieter but no less intense.

“Balancing all of this? The games, the media, us? I’m trying, okay? But every time I slip up, you act like I’m the bad guy.” You blinked, his words catching you off guard. “Just please,” you said, voice cracking as you turned to face him. “Get out, Rafe. I can’t perform like this!”

Your words hung in the air, and for a second, his expression flickered with something softer—regret, maybe—but it was quickly replaced by a storm of his own. “And you think I can?” he roared, throwing his arms up in exasperation, “you think it’s any easier for me?” “Well, you’re going to have to, aren’t you?” you snapped, your voice sharp as a whip.

The anger in your tone startled even you, but you didn’t care. You were too far gone, too wound up from his relentless push and pull. You turned back to the counter, furiously zipping up your makeup bag with enough force that the sound echoed in the quiet room. The air between you was suffocating, charged with unspoken feelings and unresolved tension.

“I don’t even know what you want from me anymore,” Rafe muttered, his voice quieter now but no less intense. “I want you to stop!” you said, turning around to face him, your boots clicking loudly on the concrete floor as you moved. “Stop acting like everything’s about you! Like your stress is the only thing that matters. I have a job too, Rafe, and you—” Your voice faltered for a moment, but you pushed through.

“You’re making it impossible for me to do it right now.” He stared at you, his jaw tight, hands resting on his hips as if he was holding himself back from saying something he’d regret. You didn’t wait for a response. You couldn’t. Grabbing your pom poms, you stormed past him, your boots echoing with each step. “Good luck out there,” you threw over your shoulder, the words biting and sarcastic.

“Yeah, thanks for the support,” he called after you, but there was no real venom in his voice. Just frustration, layered with something that sounded an awful lot like defeat. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t afford to. Not with the performance waiting for you just outside the tunnel and the man who could unravel you with a single glance standing behind you.

~

From the moment Rafe walked out onto the field, you could tell his head wasn’t screwed on properly. Even as you called out formations and checked on the other cheerleaders, your eyes kept drifting toward Rafe. Something about his movements was off—less sharp, less calculated. The usual precision that made him one of the best in the league wasn’t there, and you knew exactly why.

The argument in the locker room had been raw, cutting deeper than either of you realised at the time. You thought you’d tucked your emotions away, but the nagging guilt wouldn’t let up. And now, watching Rafe stumble through a game he’d normally dominate, it was clear he was still carrying the weight of your words.

This wasn’t how you wanted him to play—frustrated and reckless. By the second quarter, it was painfully obvious to everyone that Rafe wasn’t himself. His passes were less precise, his footwork shaky, and his frustration was evident in every misstep. The crowd, normally electric in their cheers for him, began to murmur uneasily.

“C’mon, Cameron,” one of the announcers said over the loudspeakers. “What’s going on with him tonight?” You swallowed hard, your chest tightening as you watched him try to shake it off, slapping his helmet and pacing on the sidelines. You could see it in his body language—he was spiraling.

And then it happened. Midway through the third quarter, the Cowboys’ defensive line broke through, faster than Rafe had anticipated. He dropped back, eyes scanning the field for an open receiver, but his timing was off. His hesitation cost him. A linebacker barreled into him with full force, slamming him to the ground.

It happened to close to you, the impact was deafening, the sound of bodies colliding and helmets crashing together making your stomach lurch. The crowd gasped, the air heavy with tension as the trainers and medics rushed onto the field. You froze on the sidelines, your routine momentarily forgotten as Rafe crumpled to the ground.

You watched as he tried to sit up, his hand clutching his shoulder, pain etched into his features. The trainers helped him to his feet, and he waved off their attempts to cart him out, insisting he could walk. But the stiffness in his movements, the way he cradled his arm, told you it wasn’t minor. You didn’t even think about it.

The moment halftime hit, you were running toward the tunnel, ignoring the whispers of the staff your and the curious looks of the crowd. When you found him in the medical room, he was sitting on the edge of a table, his shoulder iced and his jersey pulled halfway off. He looked up when you entered, his expression darkening for a moment before softening as he took in your worried face.

“You’re supposed to be with your team,” he said flatly, though his tone lacked its usual bite. “And you’re supposed to be on the field,” you shot back, stepping closer. “Are you okay?” He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Took a hit. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.” “Rafe…” Your voice broke slightly, and you stepped closer, your eyes scanning him for signs of serious injury.

Rafe looked away, jaw tightening. “I wasn’t focused,” he admitted, his tone low and bitter. “That hit? It’s on me. I let our fight get to me.” Your stomach churned. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. I didn’t think—” “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” he cut in, his eyes finally meeting yours. “You didn’t think. You just threw all that at me and expected me to shake it off like it didn’t matter.”

You flinched but held his gaze. Your guilt surged, and you bit your lip, unsure of what to say. Finally, you reached out, your hand brushing against his uninjured arm. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to throw you off. I was just… angry, and I took it out on you.” For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, Rafe let out a heavy sigh, running his uninjured hand through his hair.

“Look, I know I wasn’t perfect out there tonight. But I can’t play when my head’s a mess. And you…” He trailed off, his voice softening. “You’re always in my head, and maybe that’s not always a good thing, but it’s the truth," A soft chuckle escaped his lips, breaking the tension, and despite yourself, a small smile cracked across your face. You stepped closer, hesitating before resting your hand on his good shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “For making it harder. For not realising how much you care.” Rafe glanced up at you, his eyes searching yours. “We’re both under a lot of pressure, but we can’t keep doing this." You nodded, your throat tight with emotion. “I’ll try harder. I promise.” He gave you a small, tired smile, the tension between you easing just slightly. “Me too.”

The sounds of the stadium filtered in from the hallway, a steady hum of cheers and announcements. It was a stark reminder that both of you had jobs waiting, responsibilities to uphold no matter what had just unfolded between you. “I gotta head back before Kelli and Judy ask for my head,” you sighed, the weight of your position tugging at you. But before you turned away, you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

It was brief, but it held everything you couldn’t yet put into words—an apology, a reassurance, a promise. Rafe’s lips quirked into a lazy grin as you pulled back, his usual cockiness tempered by the warmth in his eyes. “I’ll survive,” he teased, his voice rough but lighter than before. “You know me��tough as nails.” “You’ll be okay,” you murmured, your hand lingering on his uninjured shoulder for a moment longer.

It was a gentle touch, meant to steady him, to remind him that no matter what had happened earlier, you were still here. He nodded, his grin softening into something almost boyish. “I always am.” With a reluctant sigh, you turned and made your way back toward the tunnel, the click of your boots echoing in the corridor. You could feel his eyes on you, watching as you straightened your shoulders and stepped back into the bright lights of the stadium.

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[boneblushed]

Ignorance by infatuation

synopsis A detective behaves lewdly with you. Aaron Hotchner gets uncharacteristically jealous.

wc 1.7k

a/n omg my first Hotch fic ever hehe 🤭 feedback and love always appreciated, still trying to find my Crim Minds voice!

It’s 8 o’clock in the morning, the air sultry and verdant, rain soaked leaves underfoot. 

Aaron Hotchner frowns. Petrichor and dew mean evidence awash. He pauses to squint up at the sky, muddy grey with isolated streaks of yellow dawn.

You’re acutely aware of Spencer’s eyes on you as you walk past Hotch, and give yourself a mild headache by focussing too hard on the commotion ahead. The rest of the team don’t seem to notice the tension between you and SSA Hotchner. Or perhaps they do, and the pair of you are just too stubborn to admit it.

It’s been lurking under the surface for a while now, this perplexing pull between you. Lingering glances, raised eyebrows, irises spooled with tendrils of static. A hand pressed against your back every time he scoots behind you, like an excuse. He doesn’t do that with Emily. None of the other agents. A frown that tends to yield when your gaze catches his.

Or hardens when someone acts a little lewder than is appropriate.

Like the other day, for example, when he’d overheard you on the phone with some deadbeat cop in the Dallas area. (He’s probably being unfair. He probably isn’t even a deadbeat. It’s just that anyone that flirts with the idea of your favour is going to be unworthy in comparison, even Agent Hotchner.)

The phone had rung in the middle of your exchange, and you’d answered it immediately, mouthing apologies in its place. Aaron Hotchner remembers the shine of gloss on your lips, the ways your fingers clasped the phone to your ear, gentle but firm. Remnants of peach coloured polish on your nails.

“Yes, this is she,” you’d answered, mouthing another apology to him. “How can I help you?”

You’d come into his office a few minutes prior to discuss something media strategy; Hotch didn’t have a mind for it, he much preferred giving you all the reins. He recognised how strange this was for a control freak as prolific as him. You were different though, he’d attest. It was a sentiment as dangerous, as non-platonic, as the feelings making home in his ribcage.

“Right,” you’d said, pulling your spiral-bound notebook out of your pocket. You’d wedged your phone between your ear and shoulder, slipping your pen out of your breast pocket and clicking it against it. Hotch felt unseasonably hot at such attention to your chest. He raised his eyebrows inquisitively, trying to catch your gaze.

“Ah, I see, yes that does sound like our area of expertise,” you’d continued, and then a pause, an awkward, unwieldy laugh. Still beautiful. “No, yes, our is correct — I am in fact part of the team.” Another pause; this time, you’d rolled your eyes when your laugh spooled out of your pretty mouth. He didn’t recognise it. “I don’t know about that. Should we get back to the case at hand? Great.”

Hotchner’s eyebrows had lowered then, furrowing into an expression of concern, flailing interest. Not jealousy. He was pretty certain he knew all your laughs, the cadence of them, the syrupy timbre. This one was new. You sounded uncomfortable, as though something said over the phone had abraded you somehow. As his eyebrows had, his heart had sunk into his stomach. He remembers the strain of his forearm muscles against his clenched knuckles.

“Sure. Yes. As soon as I have all the details I’ll be able to distribute them. Great, yes, we’ll see you soon, I’m sure. Thank you. Goodbye.”

And that had been that. Hotch hadn’t had the stomach to ask after the details, especially not when you’d seemed so eager to put it behind you.

After ending the call, you’d shaken your head and proclaimed, “Don’t ask,” launching back into your spiel about media strategy like it hadn’t happened. Hotch wasn’t in the business of disagreeing with you; pressing things. Saying no. It wasn’t lost on him that he used the word liberally with everyone else he knew.

Back at the scene, Hotch stays a few steps behind the team. He knows that Spencer’s assessing eyes will see right through his faux contemplation; Hotchner knows, from the many frowns Spencer’s eidetic memory has learned, that the expression on his face will be recognised as distraction.

He needs to focus. He needs you near. He needs to keep his eye on the ball. He needs deadbeat detective far away from here.

As you and the BAU team near the crime scene, a rugged looking cop pulls away from his colleagues. He has eyes like treacle tart and a grin that borders on a smirk. A toothpick hangs from his mouth like something out of a Western.

“Detective Landon?” You say, extending a hand in acknowledgement. “Hello, we spoke on the phone yesterday morning.”

Detective Landon spits the toothpick out of his mouth, maintaining eye contact as he does so. But it isn’t the depth of his gaze that drops yours. You can feel someone else’s eyes searing holes through your skull.

“Well I’ll be,” he drawls, taking your hand and pressing it to his mouth. “Your voice doesn’t do you justice, darling.”

You resist the urge to make a face. It’s awful, unfortunate, but you’re far too used to this. Behind you, Derek raises his eyebrows, sharing an amused look with Emily beside him. Rossi looks exasperated. Spencer’s expression remains unchanged, though he does steal a glance at Hotchner. You smile, the way you always do, refusing to be thrown off by his candour.

“That’s a shame,” you reply breezily, turning to introduce your team. “Detective, this is SSA Morgan, SSA Prentiss, Dr Spencer Reid, and —”

“I’m the unit chief, Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner,” Hotch interrupts, a menacing gravel to his timbre. He doesn’t shake the hand Detective Landon extends to him. The detective draws it back with a gauche bark of laughter, turning his attention to the rest of the BAU.

“My my,” he says, his drawl returning as his eyes meet Emily’s. “What do I gotta do to get in on this team of yours?”

“A formal education would be helpful,” Spencer supplies, squinting at him through his glasses.

Detective Landon turns to him then, raising his eyebrows. “Doctor Reid, was it?”

“It is, but no need to aim that high, buddy,” Morgan says then, stepping forward and patting him on the shoulder. Landon winces. “Now. You going to talk us through what you guys got so far or what?”

“Damn, y’all are a feisty bunch, huh?” He replies, pulling another toothpick out of his breast-pocket. He sends you a wink that makes Hotch’s insides turn, adding, “Don’t mind it on you, sweetheart, but maybe the rest of the BAU ‘oughta play nice.”

Aaron Hotchner would normally agree with his sentiment. He’s been a long time advocate of working alongside the local police in investigations; he recognises that collaboration is far more productive than condescension.

Unfortunately for him, this isn’t quite a normal situation.

Things to do with you and other men rarely are. An ugly green emotion eases his heart right into his throat.

“Or maybe,” Hotchner says crisply, his steely gaze pinning Landon to the spot, “I should have a chat with your Captain and take you off this case.”

Landon balks. “Sir —”

“You’re dismissed,” Hotchner interrupts, not wanting to hear it. He’s unaware of the amused look Emily and Morgan share behind him.

“You…” Landon trails off exasperatedly, shaking his head, “…you can’t dismiss me. This is my case.”

“Actually, it’s the BAU’s case now.” He turns to you expectantly. You think you catch his gaze soften as it falls over your face in paces. Trick of the light, you suppose. “Right?”

“Sure,” you say weakly.

“Right then. Rossi?” Hotch says then, turning to David Rossi autocratically. “Why don’t you and the team go ahead and assess the scene while I head to base and sort out a reassignment.”

“Not you, Reid,” he adds, keeping Spencer in place. “You can come to the station with me, get our replacement up to speed. Sound good?”

Morgan’s trying hard to hide his knowing grin, one side of his mouth upturned with mirth. Emily isn’t bothering to pretend she doesn’t know what’s going on, her pretty features lit up with amusement. Detective Landon looks mortified. Your cheeks feel on fire.

“Alright,” Rossi says after pause, glancing between you and Hotchner. He’s been in the FBI for long enough now that he’s learnt to pick his battles.

He turns around and begins walking toward the crime scene, the three of you trailing behind him with less purposeful strides.

“Huh,” Derek says, faux-thoughtful. You’re wedged between him and Emily, much to your chagrin. “Wonder what that was about. Any ideas, SSA Prentiss?”

“Well, SSA Morgan,” Emily replies, her smile audible. “I’m afraid that our dear old unit chief has a bit of a soft spot.”

“A soft spot?” Derek echoes, letting out a dramatic gasp. “That’s dangerous in our line of work, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would say,” Emily responds sagely.

“Oh shut up, you two,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest. “That wasn’t just about me. He made a pass on Emily too.”

Emily snorts, shaking her head exasperatedly. “Hey Rossi, you got a name for this phenomenon?”

“Oh yeah,” Rossi replies without hesitation, his gaze trained ahead of him. “Ignorance by infatuation.”

Out of earshot, Spencer and Hotchner are having a similarly painful conversation.

“Strange,” Spencer decides, breaking the silence with his candour.

Aaron knows what he’s insinuating. He resists the urge to turn around and steal another glance at your pretty silhouette. “He was behaving inappropriately. There’s nothing strange about it, Spencer. I was protecting my team.”

“The whole team?”

“Yes.”

“Including me?”

“Yes.”

“But I liked him.”

Hotchner sends him an incredulous look. “And what exactly was there to like?”

“He was entertaining, I think,” Spencer replies casually, shrugging. “In a cop way, you know? Plus, I love listening to Y/N reject men. It’s fascinating.”

Hotchner swallows. “Fascinating?”

“She always does it in this way where they don’t even realise what exactly’s happening,” Spencer explains matter-of-factly. He turns to Aaron Hotchner then. “Don’t worry, though, she’d never do that to you.”

Hotchner’s traitorous heart leaps, his mouth pulling into a paradoxical frown. “Spencer,” he warns.

“Just saying,” Spencer replies, raising his arms in surrender.

“Well,” Hotch says grumpily, “don’t.”

“Alright. Noted.”

[etheraltides]

Burning the Line

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x best friend!Reader

Summary: What started as a no-strings-attachment is quickly spiraling out of control. You and Rafe Cameron had rules, but rules were meant to be broken. As jealousy ignites, emotions boils over, and fists fly, you’re left questioning if you’re ready to risk your friendship for something neither of you can ignore anymore.

Warning(s): SMUT – oral sex, p in v penetration (wrap before you tap it, y’all), dirty talk, a bit of degrading kink. Substance use, jealousy, possessiveness, violence, toxic dynamic. Minors do not interact, please! 18+ ONLY!

Word count: 7.5k

A/N: I’ve used Grammarly to correct things so if there’s anything weird, blame it on that bot. Don’t forget to check my masterlist and maybe show your girl some feedback. Love y’all!

Rafe’s new place was alive with music, laughter, and the buzz of expensive liquor. The air inside was stifling, a haze of cigarette smoke and sweat from too many bodies crammed into the space. You nursed your drink, eyes scanning the crowd for no one in particular. Well, maybe someone in particular. But you’d rather die than admit it.

Rafe had been making the rounds all night, charming the crowd in that cocky, effortless way he had. His arm had been slung around Sofia’s shoulders not too long ago, and you’d tried to convince yourself it didn’t matter.

You’d known they were hooking up. It wasn’t a secret — not that Rafe had ever been shy about the girls he entertained. But this? This felt different. Too comfortable. Too prolonged. Rafe Cameron didn’t go back to the same person more than twice, three times max. Except for you.

That thought had always given you a strange sense of pride, something you’d never admit out loud. He’d been with you more times than you could count, and while you’d both sworn it didn’t mean anything, part of you had held onto the idea that it was different with you. That you were different.

But seeing Sofia press herself closer to him, her lips lingering on his ear as she whispered something only for him, made your stomach churn. It wasn’t just casual flirting — it had an air of possession, like she thought she had him. And the worst part? He didn’t seem to mind.

When Sofia kissed him, it was the final blow.

Her lips captured his like it was the most natural thing in the world, her hands threading through his hair, pulling him closer. And Rafe didn’t just let it happen — he kissed her back. His hand tightened on her waist, pulling her flush against him, his other hand resting on the back of her neck as though he was guiding her.

You swallowed hard, the burn of jealousy clawing at your chest. You told yourself it was just Rafe being Rafe, that he’d get bored of her eventually. But the kiss felt like it was lasting too long. Too intimate. Too much.

Your breath hitched, and you looked away, the sight of them together too much to handle. You gripped your drink tighter, the cold glass digging into your palm as if it could ground you, but it didn’t help. The ache in your chest only grew, and before you could think twice, you tipped the rest of your drink back, letting the alcohol burn its way down your throat.

Slamming the empty glass onto the nearest table, you forced yourself to move, the heat of the room and the weight of their kiss suffocating you. Without a word to anyone, you pushed your way down the hallway and into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind you.

You leaned against it, your breathing shallow as you tried to compose yourself. But no amount of deep breaths could erase the image burned into your mind — Rafe’s hand on Sofia’s waist, his lips moving against hers like she was the only person in the room.

Staring into the mirror, you barely recognized the frustrated, jealous girl looking back at you. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to care who he kissed or how many times he went back to her.

But you did. And that truth was harder to swallow than the drink still burning in your throat.

You weren’t his girlfriend, not even close. Just… friends. Friends who had been tangled up in bedsheets more times than you cared to count, friends who couldn’t seem to keep their hands off each other after a few too many drinks. That was it. That was all.

It wasn’t long before it swung open and before you could shout that the bathroom was already taken, there he was.

“Been looking for you,” Rafe said, shutting the door behind him with a subtle smirk.

“Why? Thought Sofia had you busy.” The words left your lips with venom, barely able to hide it.

He smirked, stepping closer, and you hated the way your body reacted to his presence, like it was wired to his every move. “She’s not my type. You know that.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back against the counter. “Then why were you all over her?”

He took another step, close enough now that you could feel the heat radiating off him. “What, you jealous?”

You scoffed, but it came out weaker than you intended. “Shut up, Rafe.”

His smirk widened, and before you could say another word, his hands were on your hips, his lips crashing against yours.

It was all heat and desperation, months of tension spilling out as he pressed you against the counter, his hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you might disappear.

“Admit it,” he murmured against your lips. “This is about her, isn’t it?”

“Shut up,” you snapped, pulling him closer, your fingers tangling in his hair.

He chuckled darkly, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re so full of shit, you know that? You care who I’m with.”

“I don’t,” you lied, pushing him back slightly, though your hands stayed on his chest. “We’re just friends, Rafe. Friends who—”

“Friends who what?” he interrupted, his voice sharp now, his blue eyes blazing as they locked onto yours. “Friends who fuck? Friends who can’t go a week without tearing each other’s clothes off? That’s not friendship, and you fucking know it.”

Your heart was pounding, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts. “You’re drunk,” you muttered, though the words felt hollow even as you said them.

“And you’re a coward,” he shot back, his hands gripping the counter on either side of you, caging you in. The air between you felt thick, electric, like the room itself was alive with the tension crackling between you.

“Rafe—”

“You feel it too,” he said, his voice softer now, though no less intense. “You can pretend all you want, but you’re lying to yourself if you think this is nothing.”

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. The party, the music, the laughter – it all faded into the background as his words hung heavy in the air.

You wanted to argue, to push him away, to deny it all. But instead, you pulled him closer, your lips finding his again in a kiss that was equal parts frustration and surrender.

Maybe you were lying to yourself. Maybe you had been for a long time. But in that moment, with his hands on your skin and his breath mixing with yours, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

His grip on your hips was bruising, pulling you flush against him, leaving no room for air or thought.

“Admit it,” Rafe growled against your lips, his voice rough, raw. His hands slid up your sides, pushing your shirt higher, fingers digging into your skin like he was trying to ground himself – or break you.

“Admit what?” you bit back, shoving at his chest even as your legs locked around his waist, holding him in place. “That you’re a smug asshole? That you think you can push me around?”

He grabbed your wrists, pinning them against the counter behind you with one hand, his lips curling into a dangerous smirk. “You’re so full of shit,” he said, his breath fanning over your face, his free hand trailing up your thigh. “You think you don’t care? You think I don’t see it? That I don’t know you?”

“Let go of me, Rafe,” you hissed, though the words came out weaker than you wanted, trembling with the electricity coursing between you.

“Make me,” he shot back, his voice dark, taunting. His lips crashed against yours again, his hand leaving your thigh to grip the back of your neck, forcing you to meet his intensity head-on.

You twisted your wrists, trying to break free, but his grip held firm. You hated the way your body betrayed you, heat pooling in your stomach even as you told yourself you wanted to push him away.

“Why do you always have to ruin everything?” you spat when you finally managed to pull back, your chest heaving as you glared at him.

“Me?” he barked out a bitter laugh, his forehead pressing against yours. “You’re the one who keeps lying. To me. To yourself. You think I’m ruining this? Newsflash, sweetheart, you’re the one fucking things up.”

Your jaw tightened, the words hitting too close to home. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

His grip on your wrists loosened, but only so he could grab your face, tilting it up so you couldn’t avoid his gaze. “Don’t I?” he challenged, his eyes blazing. “Then why are you still here? Why are you letting me touch you like this?”

You opened your mouth to retort, but he kissed you again before you could get a word out, his lips moving against yours with a ferocity that stole your breath. His hands were everywhere — your waist, your thighs, your neck — gripping, holding, demanding.

You hated him for being right, for knowing exactly how to dismantle every wall you’d built. You hated yourself more for letting him.

“Say it,” he growled against your lips, his hands tightening on your hips as he pushed you harder against the counter. “Say you don’t care, and I’ll walk out that door right now.”

You clenched your fists, your nails digging into his shoulders as you glared at him, your anger and frustration bubbling over. “And then will you do what? Go back to miss pogue? Didn’t know you were into charity, Cameron.”

His smirk was sharp, cruel, as his hands slid to your thighs, pulling you even closer. “I’m trying new things,” he admitted, his voice dropping an octave. “But that was rude even for you, Y/N.”

Your breath caught, his words hitting like a slap, and you hated how much you wanted to kiss him again, to shut him up, to drown in the chaos of him.

So you did.

Your lips crashed into his with a force that left your teeth clashing, your hands gripping his hair, pulling hard enough to make him groan against your mouth. His hands were rough, sliding under your shirt, his touch possessive, searing.

The tension was suffocating, the air thick with everything unspoken between you. Every kiss, every touch, every desperate gasp was a battle —a clash of frustration, anger, and the kind of want that left you both teetering on the edge of destruction.

When you pulled back, both of you were breathing hard, your faces inches apart. His hands were still on your thighs, his thumbs brushing against your skin, grounding you in a way that made you want to scream.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you said, your voice shaking, though whether it was from anger or the sheer force of what just happened, you weren’t sure.

Rafe’s laugh was low, bitter, as he leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “Keep telling yourself that,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “But we both know the truth, don’t we?”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Not when the weight of his words hung so heavy between you. Instead, you grabbed his collar, pulling him back to you, your lips crashing against his once more in a kiss that was equal parts anger and surrender.

Because maybe he was right. Maybe you did know the truth. But for now, this was all you could give.

The air in the bathroom was stifling, filled with the heady mix of alcohol, sweat, and lust. Your back slammed against the counter as Rafe’s mouth claimed yours, all heat and rawness. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, pulling you into him like he couldn’t get close enough.

“Admit it,” he muttered against your lips, his voice rough and demanding.

“Admit what?” you snapped back, tugging at his shirt, your anger and desire bleeding into every movement. “That you’re an insufferable prick?”

He growled low in his throat, his teeth grazing your bottom lip as he kissed you harder, swallowing the gasp that escaped you. His hands slid under your shirt, fingers digging into your bare skin, leaving a burning trail in their wake.

“You think this doesn’t mean anything?” he asked, his voice a mix of frustration and disbelief as he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his blue eyes blazing.

“It doesn’t,” you lied, even as your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. “It’s just sex, Rafe. That’s all it’s ever been.”

He laughed, dark and humorless, his grip tightening. “You’re such a horrible liar,” he said, his lips crashing against yours again, his kiss rough, punishing. “You feel it, just like I do.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Not when his hands were sliding down your thighs, lifting you onto the counter. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer as he kissed his way down your neck, biting just hard enough to leave marks.

The sound of the party outside was distant now, a dull thrum that faded into nothing as he pushed up your skirt, his hands rough, desperate.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low, almost daring.

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

Instead, your nails dug into his shoulders, urging him closer, silently begging for more. Rafe took the invitation, lifting your shirt with a fervor that spoke of his own desperation. Your breasts spilled out of your bra, the lacy confines no match for his greedy hands. He cupped them, squeezing gently before his thumbs found your erect nipples. He rolled them between his fingers, eliciting a whimper that you couldn’t hold back. The sensation shot straight to your core, making you wetter, needier.

Then his mouth was there, sucking one of your tits into his mouth, his tongue flicking against the sensitive flesh as he worked on the other with his hand. You arched your back, pressing your chest closer to him, silently demanding more. He gave it to you without hesitation, his teeth grazing your sensitive peak before soothing the sting with a soft lick. You moaned, the sound muffled by his mouth, your eyes squeezing shut as you felt yourself falling into the abyss of pleasure he so expertly created.

While he feasted on your breasts, Rafe’s hand slithered up your thigh, the fabric of your panties already damp with your arousal. He hooked his finger under the elastic, pulling it aside to expose your swollen folds. His touch was feather-light at first, teasing, making you squirm and grip his shoulders. Then, his fingers were inside you, pushing deep and curling just so, making your eyes fly open wide with a gasp. His thumb found your clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that had you trembling on the edge of the counter.

“You’re so wet for me,” Rafe murmured, his voice thick with lust. “Does it feel good, baby?”

With a feral growl, Rafe ripped your panties away, the fabric giving way to the strength of his desire. The sudden exposure made you gasp, your legs trembling as he positioned himself between your thighs. He didn’t wait for your response, instead plunging his face between your legs to taste your sweetness. Your hands clutched the counter, knuckles white from the intensity as his tongue delved deep, lapping up your arousal as if it were the sweetest nectar.

“Oh, God, Rafe!” you moaned, your voice echoing off the tiles, raw and unbridled. It was a sound that didn’t belong in the hallowed halls of friendship, but here you were, straddling that blurry line, your body begging for more of what he offered. His tongue swirled around your clit, flicking and stroking in a rhythm that sent shockwaves through your core. Your moans grew louder, filling the small space, a symphony of pleasure that you couldn’t hold back.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he murmured against your sex, his breath hot and heavy. “Tell me this isn’t what you crave every time you think of me, every time you touch yourself in the dark of your room.”

“Fuck you,” you gritted out, the words muffled by the moan that followed, a testament to the way his tongue was working its magic on your clit. It was a declaration of war, a challenge, but the way your body responded was anything but adversarial. Your hips bucked upwards, meeting his mouth with a desperate rhythm that spoke volumes.

Rafe arched a brow, adding a finger to the mix, sliding it into your soaking wet pussy alongside his tongue. The dual sensation was overwhelming, his finger curling inside you, stroking that perfect spot while his mouth feasted on your clit. You bit down on your lip to keep from screaming, the pressure building, your orgasm cresting like a wave about to break.

But then, just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, he pulled away, leaving you panting and desperate. “What the fuck?” you gasped, your eyes snapping open to find him smirking up at you, his pants quickly unbuckled and on the floor.

“Turn around,” he instructed, his voice a deep rumble of authority that sent a shiver down your spine. You didn’t argue, you couldn’t. The need was too intense, the desire too overpowering. You spun around, gripping the edge of the counter as he bent you over it. The cool marble sent a jolt through your overheated body, heightening the sensation as he positioned himself behind you.

He didn’t waste any time, his cock sliding into you in one swift, hard thrust that made you cry out. The angle was just right, hitting deep, sending pleasure and a hint of pain spiraling through you. Rafe’s hands dug into your hips, his grip bruising as he began to fuck you with an aggression that bordered on feral. “You like it rough, don’t you?” he growled, his breath hot on your neck. “You’re such a dirty little slut for me, aren’t you?”

You couldn’t deny it, not when his words sent a thrill through you, making your pussy clench around his thick cock. You pushed back into him, meeting each thrust with an eager moan. His words were a balm to the anger that simmered between you, a reminder that this was what you both wanted, what you both needed.

“Shit, just like that,” you breathed, your voice ragged with need. The words were barely out of your mouth before Rafe’s hand came down with a sharp slap on your ass, the sting of pain mixing with the pleasure that already had you teetering on the edge.

He chuckled darkly, his voice thick with desire as he leaned over you, his breath hot on your neck. “You like getting it rough, don’t you?” he murmured, his free hand reaching around to squeeze your breast, twisting the nipple just enough to make you gasp.

“I’m going to make you cum so hard you won’t be able to walk out of here without everyone knowing what a slut you are for me,” he said, his voice a low, seductive taunt that had you clenching around him even tighter. The orgasm was building, coiling deep in your belly, a pressure that grew with every thrust, every slap of his body against yours.

“Oh, fuck, Rafe,” you panted, your forehead resting against the cool marble as he pounded into you relentlessly. The sound of skin on skin filled the bathroom, punctuated by your ragged gasps and his grunts of pleasure. You felt so exposed, so vulnerable in this position, and yet, it only added to the thrill.

“I’m close,” you managed to choke out, your voice shaking with the effort of holding back your orgasm. His grip on your hips tightened, his strokes becoming even more punishing, pushing you closer to the brink.

The tension coiled in your belly, a tight, unyielding knot that grew with every thrust. Then, with a final slap to your ass and a hard, deep drive of his cock, the dam broke. You screamed, the sound echoing off the bathroom tiles as your orgasm crashed over you, a wave of pleasure so intense it was almost painful. Your body convulsed around him, muscles clenching and releasing in a symphony of ecstasy that left you trembling.

But Rafe wasn’t done. He pulled out just as he felt himself reaching the edge, his cock glistening with your juices. You whimpered, the sudden emptiness making your legs wobble. Before you could protest, he spun you around and gently but firmly pushed you to your knees, his eyes never leaving yours. The look in them was one of hunger and possession, a silent demand that sent a fresh wave of arousal through your veins.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered, his voice strained, and you complied without thought, your eyes locked onto his. He positioned the head of his cock at your lips, the tip brushing against your bottom lip. You could feel the heat of him, see the veins pulsing with need. He was close, so close, and the power to bring him to climax was intoxicating.

As soon as your lips parted, Rafe grabbed a fistful of your hair, pulling you closer. The sting of pain made your eyes water, but you welcomed it, the sensation only adding to the intensity of the moment. You took him deep into your mouth, the muscles in your throat contracting around his thickness, the taste of him salty and addictive.

Rafe’s eyes rolled back in his head as you worked your mouth over him, your tongue swirling around the tip with every pull back, tracing the underside of his cock with each descent. His hand in your hair tightened, guiding your movements, setting the pace. You could feel his thighs tremble beneath your grasp, his breath hitching with every stroke of your tongue.

“Fuck, yes, like that,” he groaned, his voice a raw, guttural sound that only spurred you on. His hand tightened into a fist, tugging on your hair, and you moaned around his length, the pain mixing with the pleasure of pleasuring him. His other hand came to rest on the back of your head, pressing you closer, urging you to take more of him. You obliged, your nose brushing against his pelvis, your throat stretched around his cock.

The head of his dick hit the back of your throat and you gagged, your eyes watering, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you swallowed around him, the sensation sending a shiver of arousal down your spine. Rafe’s body grew taut, his hips jerking as he fought for control.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he moaned, the words coming out as a strangled groan. You could feel his orgasm approaching, his cock swelling in your mouth. And when he finally came, it was with a roar, his cum spurting down your throat in hot, thick jets. You swallowed around him, eagerly taking every drop, your own desire spiraling out of control. His hand in your hair tightened, holding you in place as he fucked your mouth through his climax, his hips thrusting erratically.

When he finally pulled out, you sat back on your heels, wiping at the corner of your mouth with a trembling hand. You didn’t dare look up at him, not yet. The silence in the room was deafening, the only sound the harshness of your own breathing and the distant throb of music from the party outside.

Rafe stepped back, his chest heaving, and you took the opportunity to stand, smoothing down your skirt and fixing your shirt as best you could. The fabric was wrinkled, the buttons askew, but it was the best you could manage with shaking hands. You avoided his gaze as you bent down to pick up your panties, the shredded lace a sad testament to the ferocity of your encounter.

The silence in the bathroom was palpable, the tension thick as you both took stock of the situation. The anger was back, simmering just beneath the surface, a potent reminder of the unspoken words and unacknowledged feelings that had brought you to this point. Without looking at him, you straightened up, tucking the ruined underwear into your purse.

Rafe let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “Seriously?” he said, his voice still thick with arousal. “You’re just gonna go back out there without panties?”

You shot him a glare, your cheeks flaming with both anger and embarrassment. “What the fuck do you expect me to do? You tore them off, remember?”

Rafe’s couldn’t help the smirk on his lips, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I’ll get you new ones,” he offered, his tone mockingly sweet.

You rolled your eyes and turned to the sink, running cold water over your wrists in an attempt to cool down. “Just leave me alone, Rafe,” you said, your voice tight. “Go worry about your little party fling, Sofia, or whatever her name is. I’m sure she’s waiting for you.”

Rafe’s smirk fell away, replaced by a look of annoyance. “Don’t do that,” he said, his voice low and warning.

“Don’t do what?” you shot back, turning to face him, your hands planted firmly on your hips.

But before you could say another word, Rafe’s face contorted in a snarl of anger. “You know what!” he shouted, slamming his fist against the wall. Plaster rained down, the sudden violence making you flinch.

He stepped closer, his body a tower of rage, his eyes piercing yours with a ferocity that stole your breath. “You want to act like this doesn’t mean anything?” he yelled, his voice echoing in the small space. “You want to pretend like you don’t feel anything different?”

You stared at him for a long moment, your chest heaving with the effort of holding in the words that threatened to spill out. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Not when the truth was a knife that would cut too deep, a wound that might never heal the friendship you cherished.

With a shaky breath, you stepped around him, reaching for the bathroom door. His hand shot out, catching your wrist in a vise-like grip. “You’re not going anywhere,” he growled.

But you didn’t cower. Instead, you yanked free, turning to face him with a look of cold determination. “Let go of me, Rafe,” you said, your voice shaking with barely restrained anger.

He took a step back, his eyes searching yours, looking for something, anything to hold onto. But you were tired, tired of pretending that the earth didn’t quake beneath you every time he touched you. So you pushed past him, the door slamming shut behind you as you stormed out of the bathroom, leaving him standing there.

You needed air. You needed to get away from him before you hazy mind let something slip.

You couldn’t loose Rafe. Couldn’t even entertain the thought of losing your best friend because neither of you could keep it in your pants.

The bathroom door slammed shut behind you, and you stumbled into the hallway, your breathing unsteady. You didn’t look at Rafe as he passed you, his expression hard, unreadable. The weight of what had just happened hung heavy between you, unspoken but impossible to ignore.

You made your way back into the party, grabbing the first drink you could find and downing it in one go. The burn of the alcohol did little to dull the mess of emotions swirling inside you.

“Where’ve you been?” Topper’s voice cut through the chaos, and you turned to see him holding a tray of shots.

“Nowhere,” you said quickly, forcing a grin. “Let’s do this.”

The atmosphere in the house was suffocating, the music pounding in your ears like a second heartbeat. You hadn’t noticed Rafe at first, but the air shifted when he entered the room. Your skin prickled, and every nerve felt attuned to him, even if you couldn’t see him yet. When your gaze finally found him across the room, your chest tightened.

He was standing near the bar, Sofia pressed against him. Her laugh, shrill and fake, echoed above the noise, and your stomach churned. You told yourself he didn’t mean anything by it — he wouldn’t. But then her fingers curled into his shirt, and your breath caught as you watched him tilt his head down with the cockiest smile, his lips brushing hers.

Your stomach twisted, and heat rushed to your face, equal parts humiliation and rage. You felt your heart drop before your emotions boiled into something sharper, hotter. If that’s how he wants to play it, fine. You downed the tequila in your glass in one burning gulp, then reached for another shot.

Your fingers tightened around the glass as the scene replayed in your head, fueling your every irrational thought. He doesn’t care. He’s never cared.

You slammed the shot glass onto the counter and turned, searching for anything—anyone—to pull you out of this spiral. Your eyes landed on the stranger who had been watching you, his smirk practically begging for trouble. Normally, you’d ignore someone like him, but tonight, his attention felt like exactly the kind of distraction you needed.

You stalked over, your steps deliberate, your chin held high. His grin widened when you stopped in front of him, your face set in a mask of forced confidence.

“You look like you could use some company,” he said, his voice smooth and self-assured.

“Maybe I could,” you replied, leaning in with syrupy sweetness. Without giving it another thought, you pressed your lips to his. The kiss was messy, clumsy, your mind clouded with tequila and spite. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and you let him. For those few seconds, you weren’t thinking about Rafe — about the way his lips had brushed Sofia’s, the way he hadn’t even tried to stop her.

But the illusion shattered when you felt a strong, unyielding hand grab the stranger’s shoulder and yank him away from you.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Rafe’s voice was low, lethal, his eyes blazing with an anger that sent chills down your spine. His jaw was set so tightly it looked like it might snap, his entire body coiled like a spring ready to explode.

The stranger stumbled but quickly regained his footing, shoving Rafe’s hand off with a sneer. “Seriously, man?” he spat. “Back off. She’s not yours.”

Rafe’s nostrils flared, his chest rising and falling with short, controlled breaths. His eyes darted to you for the briefest second, and the flicker of pain there was almost enough to stop your heart. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by something far darker — jealousy, rage, frustration.

“Say that again,” Rafe growled, stepping forward, his voice deadly quiet.

“I said, she’s not yours.” The stranger smirked, glancing at you. “Though I wouldn’t mind if she was. She was clearly needing some.”

That was it. Rafe snapped.

The first punch landed square on the man’s jaw, a sickening crack echoing through the room. The stranger reeled back, clutching his face, but he wasn’t out. He lunged at Rafe, his fist connecting with Rafe’s cheekbone hard enough to split the skin. Blood dripped down his face, but it didn’t stop him.

Rafe’s expression was feral, his teeth gritted, his eyes burning with something raw and uncontrollable. He moved with precision, landing blows to the man’s ribs, his stomach, his face. The stranger staggered but fought back, catching Rafe in the stomach, then swinging wildly again. The crowd around them screamed, phones raised, some yelling for them to stop and others cheering them on.

“Rafe, stop!” you shouted, panic clawing at your throat, but your voice was lost in the chaos.

The scene spiraled out of control faster than you could have imagined. Rafe’s punches were relentless, his fists slamming into the stranger with a precision that made your stomach churn. The stranger fought back, landing blows of his own, but Rafe didn’t falter. His eyes were wild, blazing with fury, and you knew he wouldn’t stop until someone stopped him.

“Rafe, stop it!” you screamed, your voice drowned out by the shouts and chaos of the crowd forming around them. You tried to push through, but the bodies pressing in made it impossible to get close enough.

Desperation clawed at your chest as you scanned the room, your heart pounding. Then you spotted him — Topper, standing near the edge of the crowd with a beer in his hand, his eyes wide as he watched the fight unfold.

“Topper!” you yelled, your voice cracking with panic. “Topper, do something! Get him off!”

He blinked, startled, before realizing you were talking to him. “What the hell—” he started, but you cut him off.

“Now, Topper! Fucking help me!” you shouted, shoving someone aside as you struggled to get closer to the fight.

Topper cursed under his breath and shoved his drink into someone’s hands before rushing forward. “Rafe! Man, stop! You’re gonna kill him!” he barked, grabbing Rafe by the shoulders and trying to yank him back.

But Rafe barely reacted, his body tensing as he shook Topper off like he was nothing. “Stay out of it, Top!” he growled, his voice low and venomous, his fists still clenched and ready to swing again.

“Rafe, enough!” Topper shouted, throwing his weight into pulling Rafe back. “You’re gonna get yourself arrested, you idiot!”

With Topper’s help, you finally managed to push your way between them, your hands pressing hard against Rafe’s chest. His bloodied knuckles hovered in the air, trembling with the force of restraint as his gaze locked onto yours. His breaths were ragged, his chest heaving against your palms.

“Enough,” you repeated, your voice breaking, your hands shaking as you held him back. Topper stood just behind you, ready to step in again if Rafe tried to lunge.

The stranger coughed, staggering to his feet, blood dripping from his split lip. “You’re fucking insane,” he spat, glaring at Rafe before stumbling toward the door.

The crowd began to disperse after that, the tension slowly bleeding out of the room thanks to Topper helping send everyone away. But Rafe didn’t move, his burning gaze fixed on you, his chest still heaving beneath your hands.

Neither of you said anything after that. His fists were still clenched at his sides, the tension in his body radiating like heat. You didn’t trust yourself to say anything else, not when everything you wanted to scream was too raw, too real, too dangerous.

Rafe sat on the edge of the couch, his knuckles bloodied, his cheekbone swelling. You slammed the first aid kit onto the table, your hands trembling with a mix of anger and adrenaline.

“You’re such a fucking idiot!” you snapped, grabbing a clean towel and wetting it.

He didn’t respond, just watched you with that same infuriating, unreadable expression. His jaw clenched.

“What were you thinking?” you demanded, pressing the towel to his knuckles harder than necessary.

He winced but didn’t pull away. “He shouldn’t have touched you.”

You turned to him slowly, your head tilting in disbelief as you stared at him. Your lips parted, but no words came out at first, your thoughts racing too fast to catch. A bitter laugh finally bubbled up from your chest, and you shook your head, your eyebrows raising as if to ask are you serious right now?

“What the hell is your problem?” your voice sharp and incredulous. Your hands trembled at your sides, but you clenched them into fists, trying to steady yourself. It felt like your entire body was caught between rage and disbelief, your heart pounding as you searched his face for any hint that he realized how insane he sounded.

Rafe’s jaw was tight, his chest still heaving from the fight. His eyes dark and burning with something wild. “What’s my problem?” he snapped, his voice rough, practically vibrating with anger. “What the fuck were you doing, letting some asshole put his hands on you?!”

Your eyes widened, your brows shooting up as if his words had physically struck you. Letting some asshole? Your breath hitched in your throat, your body stiffening. For a moment, you didn’t even know how to respond, the audacity of his accusation knocking the air out of your lungs.

“Are you—” you started, your voice faltering as you let out another disbelieving laugh as you tried to wrap your head around the sheer hypocrisy. He cannot be serious.

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, so you get to shove your tongue down Sofia’s throat, but I can’t kiss someone else?”

His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. “That’s different. You did that to get under my skin.”

“Bullshit,” you shot back, tossing the towel onto the table and grabbing an antiseptic wipe. “You were trying to piss me off too, and congratulations — it worked. But that doesn’t mean you get to play the jealous boyfriend when I turn the tables.”

“I wasn’t jealous,” he said, though the lie was so transparent it almost made you laugh.

“Sure, you weren’t,” you said sarcastically, dabbing at the cut on his cheek.

His hand shot up, grabbing your wrist and stilling your movements. “Why does it bother you so much, then?”

You froze, your breath catching as his eyes bore into yours.

“It doesn’t,” you said weakly, but even you didn’t believe it.

His grip tightened, his voice dropping to a near-growl. “Liar.”

“Let go of me, Rafe,” you said, your voice trembling.

“Not until you stop running,” he shot back, his frustration boiling over. “You think this is just about sex? You think I’d care who you kissed if I didn’t give a shit about you?”

Your chest tightened, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

“This—us—it’s a mess,” you said finally, your voice breaking. “And I don’t know how to fix it.”

Rafe sighed, his grip loosening as he leaned back, his eyes never leaving yours. “Maybe we don’t need to fix it,” he said quietly. “Maybe we just need to stop pretending it doesn’t matter.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Because deep down, you knew he was right.

A week had passed, but the tension hadn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it had grown heavier, thicker, stretching between you and Rafe like an unspoken dare. You’d avoided him since the party, throwing yourself into anything that would keep your mind off the bruises on his knuckles and the heat in his eyes when he’d pinned you with that question: Why does it bother you so much?

But Rafe was impossible to ignore. He always had been.

You were perched on a lounge chair by the pool at another Kook party – this one at Kelce’s place – pretending to listen to Topper as he rambled on about some stupid surf trip. The music thudded in the background, people laughing and shouting, but your focus was elsewhere.

Because Rafe was here.

He was leaning against the bar, a beer in hand, his expression unreadable as his gaze flicked to you for what had to be the tenth time that night. He looked the same as always — perfectly put together, the bruises from the fight almost faded. But there was something different in the way he was watching you.

It wasn’t just casual interest or playful teasing. It was heat. Frustration. Possession.

You looked away quickly, your stomach twisting.

“You okay?” Topper asked, raising a brow.

“Fine,” you lied, forcing a smile.

“Good, because we’re doing shots.” He grabbed your hand, pulling you toward the bar before you could protest. Topper and his damn shots.

And just like that, you were standing next to Rafe, the air between you charged and suffocating. You had to bite your tongue to don’t ask where his new pogue pet was. You had inflamed his ego just enough last time.

“Want one, Cameron?” Topper asked, oblivious to the way you and Rafe were studiously avoiding looking at each other.

Rafe smirked, his eyes flicking to you briefly before he grabbed a shot. “Why not?”

You reached for yours, your hand brushing his briefly. It was enough to send a jolt through you, and you hated the way your body reacted, even after everything.

“Cheers!” Topper shouted, and you all knocked back the shots.

The burn of tequila was a welcome distraction, but it wasn’t enough to dull the way Rafe’s eyes stayed on you, even as you turned away.

Later that night, you found yourself alone in the kitchen, searching for water to ease the heat in your chest. The party was still going strong, the chaos outside muffled by the thick glass doors.

“Can’t stay away, can you?”

The sound of his voice made you freeze, your hand tightening around the water bottle you’d just grabbed. You didn’t have to turn around to know he was standing in the doorway, his presence filling the room like it always did.

“What do you want, Rafe?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended as you turned to face him.

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? What do you want?”

Your jaw tightened, your frustration bubbling over. “I want you to stop playing these stupid games,” you snapped. “You act like you care, but then you go around kissing Sofia or picking fights with random guys like some jealous psycho.”

His smirk faded, his expression hardening. “And you act like you don’t care at all,” he shot back, stepping closer. “Like none of this matters. Like I don’t matter.”

“You’re my best friend. Of course you matter,” you said, the words felt wrong even as they left your mouth. He wasn’t just your best friend at this point — you were sure friends didn’t do half of the things you’ve done.

“Bullshit,” he said, his voice low and dangerous as he crowded into your space.

You glared up at him, your chest heaving. “What do you want me to say, Rafe? That I’m scared? That I don’t know what the hell I’m doing? That I don’t want to lose the only person who—”

You cut yourself off, swallowing the rest of the sentence, but it was too late. The words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable.

His jaw clenched, his hands flexing at his sides like he was holding himself back. “You’re not gonna lose me,” he said finally, his voice softer but no less intense. “But you’re gonna drive me fucking insane if you keep pushing me away.”

“I’m not pushing you away,” you argued, though the words felt weak even to you.

“You are,” he said, his voice rising. “Every time I get close, you run. And I’m done chasing you, alright? You want this to mean nothing? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you don’t feel it, because I know you do.”

You stared at him, your pulse racing, your walls crumbling under the weight of his words.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admitted finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes softened, his hand reaching out to cup your face. “Then let me show you,” he said, his thumb brushing against your cheek.

You didn’t respond, but you didn’t pull away either. And when he kissed you, it wasn’t rough or angry like before. It was slow, deliberate, filled with all the things neither of you had been able to say.

And for the first time, you let yourself kiss him back without fear or worry. Just you and him, in the quiet chaos of everything you couldn’t run from anymore.

[betweenstorms]

Part Two of Where We Part (previous chapter) (next chapter) (masterlist) Childhood Friend!Simon x fem!Reader

Time has a funny way of slipping through your fingers, doesn’t it?

The years passed as they do, quietly, relentlessly and somehow, unintentionally you followed Simon Riley’s advice, no matter how much it stung during that particular summer night.

You grew older, wiser, or at least you hoped you did. 

At the end of that warm, suburban summer, you left Manchester behind, moved to London for university, found yourself caught up in the complexity of adulthood, chasing dreams, making mistakes, falling in love, losing it. You lived your life, embraced its peaks and valleys, and let it sweep you along. Some days were golden, like those late summer days in your twenties when laughter was easy, love felt endless, and the world seemed filled with promise. You travelled with your new friends from university, gelato dripping down your wrist as you laughed under the bright Sicilian sun, the loud conversation with your girls echoing across the cobblestone streets. You invited your parents to London several times, playing tourist with them, showing them your new apartment, savouring moments of connection between the gaps of your new life and their old one. And then there was the day your boyfriend knelt before you, a ring glinting in the rose gold streetlights of Paris, asking you to be his fiancée.

Oh, it was the kind of moment you had always dreamed of, the fairy tale that every little girl secretly hopes will come true.

But life isn’t all dreams, is it?

You wept like a child, your heart shattered when you found out about the affair. Your fiancé, with your college roommate of all people. It felt like betrayal layered upon betrayal, and the sadness you carried then weighed more than all the joy of your past put together, manifested in the hollow echoes of your aching sobs in the shared flat you once called home. You moved out shortly after that incident.

Unfortunately, there were other disappointments, too. Failed job interviews, missed opportunities, the loneliness that seeped into your bones in those years after university, when friends began to drift away and the beauty of childhood transforms into a fading memory. But you picked yourself up. You always did. Because that’s what you did. That’s what you knew best. You kept moving, because the alternative, sinking, was unthinkable.

But through it all, you lived.

And you wouldn’t change a thing even if you had the chance.

You threw yourself into your work, into the messy and beautiful chaos of life. There were still some moments where you felt like you had the world at your feet, laughing with your high school mates over beers in dingy pubs, watching the sun set over London’s skyline, those spontaneous trips to the coast where you tasted freedom in every salty breeze. And you moved forward, not necessarily because you wanted to, but because time forced you to. But that was fine by you.

And in the quiet corners of your mind, Simon Riley became a distant thought—like the chorus of a song you used to know like the back of your hand. You thought of him less and less as the years went by, as your life became more complicated, more full.

You took his words to heart, didn’t you?

You left him behind.

But still, he lingered.

There were those times, in the early years, when your parents would call, giving you updates on Manchester, on the neighbours, on the old street you grew up on. You’d ask about the Rileys, casually, as if it didn’t really matter. You weren’t prying, not really, just curious. What had become of Simon? Of Tommy? Your parents mentioned Simon had joined the military at some point, which didn’t surprise you. He always carried a soldier’s weight, even as a boy.

They told you about Tommy too, how his life had spiralled out of control with drugs and the wreckage of his past trauma. Your mother sighed when she mentioned Mrs. Riley and how she had hit rock bottom. But Simon, when he returned from deployment, finally helped them rid themselves of Mr. Riley for good, breaking the cycle of abuse that had poisoned their lives for years.

Your parents even got a bit more involved in the Riley’s lives after that—dropping in with food, attending Tommy’s wedding with a kind soul named Beth, helping with little Joseph, their gorgeous newborn, who your mum absolutely adored. She’d tell you about him during your weekend catch-ups.

However, as time went on, the Rileys faded from your thoughts, a chapter you had quietly closed.

Your own life was blooming in London, despite the mistakes you made along the way. You loved fiercely, lost greatly, and found your way back to yourself time and again. The more you lived, the less you thought about the boy who once lived next door.

Until that cold November afternoon.

The air was ice cold, but not just from the weather. It was the kind of chill that settled deep in your bones, the kind that gnawed at you long after the sun had set during winter.

The day had been unremarkable at first—work was its usual rhythm of meetings and emails, the sound of your co-workers chattering as a familiar background noise. But then your phone rang, your mother’s weak voice trembling on the other end like the fragile crackle of dry leaves in the wind during autumn.

You had heard your mother cry before.

The grief at a relative’s passing, the heartache of a goodbye too long drawn out—but this was different. Her sobs were frantic, her rushed words spilling over each other in terrified, broken fragments, so hurried you could hardly catch the meaning.

“The Rileys… oh God, love, the Rileys are gone…”

It took you a moment to grasp what she was saying.

Gone? How? You sat frozen, the world around you blurring as your mum’s words came in and out like waves crashing against the shore.

“Dear Lord, some maniac... a psychopath… some madman…” she choked. “He killed them. Killed them all. Tommy, Beth, even little Joseph, an innocent baby, Oh God…”

You could hear your mother’s quiet anguish, but it was as though you were outside yourself, hearing everything from a great distance.

The Rileys. Dead. It didn’t make sense. Mrs. Riley, Tommy, Beth, the child—how could they be gone? The thought was too large and too grotesque to fully comprehend. It was like a nightmare, one you couldn’t wake up from.

“And… Simon?”

A name you hadn’t uttered in years.

A name that had always lingered on the edges of your memory, like a shadow cast by fading light.

Your mother’s breath caught. “I don’t know. Oh, love. He wasn’t there… I think he’s still in the military, but… we don’t know, we were asleep, didn’t hear a thing.”

She was crying again, her sobs muffled by the phone. Her sobs broke through, and she confessed, through gasps of guilt, that she and your father had been sound asleep when it happened, oblivious to the horror just next door. The sanctuary of your childhood, the quiet safety of the neighbourhood, shattered in a mere second.

Your mind raced, your heart thundering in your chest.

Oh, all those years, all those moments where you hadn’t thought about Simon Riley, and now, now the past was clawing its way back, forcing you to confront something you had thought you’d left behind.

Your coworkers looked up, sensing something was wrong. One of them asked if you were okay, if you needed anything, but you barely heard them. You wanted to scream, to cry, to do anything, but all you could do was tremble. Your hands squeezed as you gripped your phone, trying to keep your voice steady as you told your mother you’d drive up to Manchester right away, that you’d be there soon. When the call ended, and you were out the door before you had time to gather your thoughts. The moments after that were a blur, your body on autopilot as you stumbled to your car. The urgency to get there, to understand what had happened, burned through you, like liquid fire in your veins.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

Pain hit you suddenly, sharp and overwhelming, something you’ve never felt before. It started as a dull ache in your lower stomach, but it intensified rapidly until you were doubled over, gasping for breath. You couldn’t drive, you couldn’t think. By the time you finally made it to your flat, the pain had become unbearable. Something was wrong, you knew. Terribly wrong.

You had to call for an ambulance, your hands shaking as you dialled the number.

However, you weren’t thinking about yourself as they wheeled you into the hospital, weren’t listening to the doctor’s voice as he explained the situation—appendicitis, nothing lethal, a routine surgery, and you’d be fine but you had to stay still.

Throughout your surgery, all you could think about was Simon. The boy who had grown into a man who you barely knew anymore, the man who had lived through hell and had come back to face it once again. Was he back in Manchester? Was he grieving? Or had he been claimed by the same nightmare that had taken the rest of his family?

After the surgery, you lay in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, tears streaming down your face. It wasn’t the pain of your own body that made you cry—it was the helplessness, the not knowing, the fear that somewhere out there, Simon, your childhood friend, was lost, alone, and there was nothing you could do to help him.

You spent the first few hours after the surgery drifting between sleep and wakefulness, your mind clouded with both painkillers and the overwhelming ache of uncertainty. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw flashes of the past—memories of Manchester, the Rileys, Simon. The years blurred, and for a moment, you could almost feel the gentle summer sun on your skin again, hear the distant murmur of a time that seemed too far gone.

But the present was relentless.

Your parents arrived in London as quickly as they could, your mother staying by your side, fussing over you as she had when you were a child. Her hands were warm, but her eyes betrayed her fear. Fear for you, fear for what had happened back in Manchester. She stayed while your father left for the funeral—the collective service for the Rileys, held only a week after their brutal end.

You couldn’t go, of course. Fucking appendicitis.

The thought of missing that final goodbye gnawed at you. You couldn’t let it go. Therefore, you wrote. A letter. A really long letter. In the small hours of the night, with the hospital lights dimmed and the distant hum of machinery as your only company, you penned a letter.

The words didn’t come easily.

What could you possibly say to Simon Riley, after all these years? What could you write that would bring him any semblance of comfort, any understanding in the face of such senseless tragedy? How could you explain to him how sorry you were? Sorry for what had happened to his family, sorry that you weren’t there when he needed someone most, sorry for all the years you’d spent avoiding the memories of your childhood, of him. But you had to try.

You wrote with a trembling hand, pouring everything you couldn’t say aloud into that letter, every apology that had been lodged in your throat for years. You tied it to your father’s soul, knowing he would deliver it to Simon, wherever he might be. And your father, with his quiet strength, promised he would.

When the day of the funeral came, you lay in your bed, imagining the cold November air, the way the ground must have looked under the grey Manchester sky. You pictured the small crowd, neighbours, and friends from the community, all standing in sombre silence as the Rileys were laid to rest. But what haunted you most was the image of Simon—if he was even there at all. You wondered if he stood apart from the others, his broad shoulders hunched, his face unreadable as ever. Or maybe he hadn’t come at all, disappearing into the shadows once again, as he always had.

The week crawled by, each day dragging longer than the last. Your mother stayed by your side, but the quiet weight of what had happened in Manchester pressed down on both of you. Your father returned, but there was no news of Simon. Your dad told you that they didn’t talk much. No sight of him after the funeral. No trace of him in the days after. He had vanished, leaving behind an empty house and a tragedy too vast to comprehend. And when you finally recovered enough to leave the hospital, you made the trip back to Manchester with your mother.

The familiar streets felt like a ghost of themselves—places once filled with memories now overshadowed by the grim reality of what had happened. The Riley house stood empty, its windows dark, the air around it thick with loss. You stood at the gate for a long time, staring at the house that had once been so full of life, of pain, of everything in between. But now, it was nothing. Just a shell. Just another haunted corner of your past.

There were no answers. No signs of Simon.

And in the end, after a week of trying to help your parents, after a week of grieving and remembering, you left. You packed your things and drove back to London, promising yourself you’d never return. The city you had once called home felt cursed now, and the memories it held were too heavy to bear.

You couldn’t escape the past, though. Not really. 

The promise you made to yourself all those years ago, to never return to that godforsaken city, was one you kept for a long time. It wasn’t out of spite or bitterness, but rather out of a quiet resignation. You had moved on, created a life in London that was full of both the mundane and the extraordinary. And after your parents moved to Wimbledon, following your father’s cancer diagnosis, the ties to Manchester became even more frayed.

It wasn’t until your thirty-fourth birthday that you found yourself heading back to the place you swore you’d never return to.

Not for family, not for closure, but for something as trivial and absurd as a fucking high school reunion. It had started with a sudden phone call from one of your old mates, the same group you used to run around with in your youth.

You hadn’t heard from them in years. Well, apart from the occasional likes on Instagram posts or an awkwardly short birthday text.

“Fifteen bloody years,” your friend had said, her voice bright and insistent. “You’ve been stuck in London with your fancy life, and we’ve barely seen you. Time to get your arse back here and have a pint with the group, eh? It’s been too long, girl.”

You laughed it off at first, citing your tight work schedule and your responsibilities. But the more she talked, the more you realised how long it had been since you’d even thought about that part of your life. A simpler time, before the complexities of adulthood and all its responsibilities weighed on you.

So you agreed. You didn’t really know why, maybe out of a sense of pure nostalgia or maybe out of some lingering guilt.

The drive up to Manchester was long, and your nerves sat uneasily in your chest. What would it be like to see those familiar faces again, to walk the streets that had once been the backdrop of your childhood? Would it feel like home? Or would it feel like you didn’t belong anymore, a ghost walking through memories?

However, by the time you saw the familiar landmarks, something in you began to settle. The nervousness faded, replaced by a strange calmness, as if the city itself recognised you and offered some kind of unspoken truce. You arrived at the pub where your reunion was being held—the same one you used to frequent during your teenage years. It was a dive, the kind of place that hadn’t aged well, but that’s exactly what made it feel like time had stood still.

Inside, the air was warm, thick with the smell of beer and the hum of conversation. And then there they were, your dear friends, sitting in a corner, laughing just like they always did. The moment you walked in, it was as if no time had passed at all. They greeted you with familiar smiles, pulling you into tight hugs and offering you a pint almost immediately.

The conversation flowed easily, old jokes resurfacing, stories being retold with exaggerated details and you found yourself chuckling. No, truly laughing, in a way you hadn’t done in what felt like ages. The weight of the years melted away, and for those brief hours, you felt like you were a teenager again, full of life and possibility, untouched by the heaviness that had since followed you. Oh, you hadn’t even realised how much you missed it, missed them. The simplicity of it all. The foolishness of youth.

As the night wore on, you found yourself drinking more than you should have. The beers went down easy, their familiar taste blending with the warm laughter and nostalgia. You hadn’t had a drink in a while, not properly, and it didn’t take long for the alcohol to loosen your limbs and soften the edges of reality. You felt light-headed, slightly detached from your surroundings but in that comfortable way that comes with the perfect level of drunkenness. Your words were slurring a bit, your laughter louder, but you didn’t mind.

Not tonight.

Eventually, the haze became a bit too much, and you excused yourself from the table. You needed fresh air, a moment for yourself to step away from the heat of the pub and the noise of the reunion. You fumbled with your jacket as you headed for the back of the building, where the designated smoking area was. It was behind the pub, near the dimly lit, empty parking lot, and as you made your way there, you nearly tripped over a discarded bottle on the ground.

“Bloody hell,” you muttered under your breath, the curse falling easily from your lips. Even small inconveniences seemed dramatic when you were tipsy. Some habits never died.

When you reached the smoking area, you were grateful to see it wasn’t crowded. Just one man, standing off to the side, leaning against the wall of the building, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he took a long drag. The tip of the cig glowed bright orange in the darkness. His silhouette seemed larger than life, almost unreal in the way he stood. He was massive, the kind of bloke you’d notice even in a crowded room, let alone in the quiet of the night.

Tall as a statue but built like a brick wall—shoulders broad and thick with muscle, his frame nearly filling the space between the wall and the edge of the lot.

At first, you stopped, startled by his size.

He was the sort of man you’d expect to see guarding the door, maybe a bouncer or a security guard. That made sense, considering how much physical strength he had. You nodded at him out of politeness, the way you do when you make eye contact with a stranger and want to acknowledge their presence without committing to a conversation. His gaze lingered on you, sharp and calculating.

Why was he looking at you like that?

You quickly turned away, feeling oddly self-conscious, and pulled out your cig, attempting to light it. But of course, as your luck would have it, your lighter chose that moment to give up on you. No matter how many times you flicked the damn thing, it refused to spark.

“Seriously?” you muttered, cursing your luck again. The bravado of the alcohol in your system pushed you to turn towards your only companion, flashing him an awkward smile. “Hi. Hello. Any chance you’ve got a lighter, mate?”

The man didn’t speak at first.

He just watched you, observed you, his expression unreadable, his eyes dark and reflective under the dim light of the parking lot. There was something oddly familiar about the way he held himself, something in the way he stared at you that sent a ripple of recognition through you, but you couldn’t quite place it.

Without a word, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a black, well-worn lighter, and flicked it open. The flame sparked to life, small but steady, and he leaned forward, offering it to you. You stepped closer, holding your cigarette to the flame.

As you did, you couldn’t help but take a better look at him.

His face was mostly obscured by the dim lighting, but his features were hard and chiselled. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken more than once, with a small scar running through his upper lip. His lips were thin, pressed into a line that gave nothing away, and the faint lines around his eyes hinted at a man who had lived through more than most. However, it was his gaze, those beautiful hazel eyes, that stopped you cold. They were sharp, almost piercing, and there was something else behind them—an intensity that made your stomach tighten.

For a moment, you thought it might just be the alcohol playing tricks on you, but the longer you looked, the more certain you became. There was no mistaking it.

Those eyes, guarded and haunted, belonged to Simon Riley.

“Thanks,” you muttered, taking a quick drag from your cig, stepping back, trying to act casual even though your heart was racing.

There was something about his presence, something that felt both familiar and distant at the same time. It had been years, after all. You’d moved on, or so you thought. But standing here now, the weight of the past pressed down on you, the memories flooding back like a tide you couldn’t hold back. This random bloke before you… yes, the resemblance was mad uncanny. You stole glances at the giant man, unsure, your mind buzzing with uncertainty and the effects of the alcohol. Was it really him? Could it be?

You hesitated, your hand trembling slightly as you took another drag from your cigarette. You wanted to ask, but the words stuck in your throat, too afraid to sound foolish. Too afraid that if you asked, you’d break whatever fragile moment this was. But before you could find the courage to speak, the man sighed.

That sigh.

It was unmistakable—quiet, irritated, as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders and he was tired of carrying it. It was the same sigh you’d heard all those years ago, on that warm summer night beneath the street lamps.

“Fuckin' hell,” he muttered under his breath, the deep, rough rumble of his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “S’me. Stop gawkin'.”