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celestie0 · 3 months ago

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gojo satoru x reader | oneshot angst [18+]

title. let me be free of you

He would live in this lifetime of hell over and over again if it meant that in some other one, there exists a world where he never hurts you.

ᰔ pairing. friends to strangers au - best friend!gojo x reader (f)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru, your love of a lifetime, tells you he’s engaged to another woman. inspired by the novel & netflix series “one day” created by david nicholls

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem!reader, angst, mentions of sex/explicit content, coming of age themes, reader & gojo are in their 30s, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of alcohol, cheating, lots of mutual pining & longing, bittersweet ending

ᰔ word count. 4.8k

a/n. hellooo! i've had this finished in my wips folder for a long time but never got around to posting it sooo just wanted to let it see the light of day haha. hope you enjoyyy <33

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“I’m engaged.”

The words leave Gojo’s lips as much less of a confession and more like a blabber, like a toddler desperate to keep conversation going in the face of a disinterested adult. Wasn’t how he expected to share the news of a lifetime to the love of his lifetime, but he hopes it breaks your heart to hear it.

He watches your eyebrows flatten from the crease that was bothering them before, and then slowly raise into soft arches above your eyes–those damn beautiful eyes that, even when they twinkle with hurt, still make his heart skip a beat in his chest.

He recalls for a moment the night the two of you met, drunk and dizzy from drinking out of a shared bottle of Prosecco, which only had half of the liquor left in it to start when he had first found it bleeding out to dry on the grassy lawn at the front of your university. It was graduation night, the last day to celebrate finishing four years of hell, and he had nothing to his name other than a rolled up diploma shoved in the pocket of his suit pants and the charm left in the youth of his smile. He wanted to spend the night with Aiko Rei, which was not a unique desire as most men on campus did, and he had a fair shot of getting into bed with her just like all those times before. But instead he was sitting at the top of a staircase inside the campus’s English literature building, making history in the crisp year of 1986 by being the first man of the robust age of twenty-three to pass up sex with the school’s lady heartthrob for–well, conversation with a sort of ditsy girl that he just met a half hour ago.

“What do you plan to do with your life?” he heard you ask him, a hard enough question to stomach when one is sober, and an impossible question to stomach when one is already trying not to puke flat Prosecco.

“Pardon?” he asked, in hopes to dissuade you from the question. In hopes that you’d get the hint. But you don’t. And he’d soon learn throughout the years of your friendship to come that you never did.

“Your life!” you exclaim, “we’re graduates now! What do you want to do with it?” You pat harshly at his thigh, closer to his groin than to his pocket, most likely because you’re tipsy too, but he realizes you’re referring to the rolled up paper protruding at the pocket.

Truthfully, Gojo had never thought much about what he wanted to do after graduation. Hell, he didn’t even think he’d make it this far. Not once since he got here, not once since he flunked out of first-year history, not once since his father passed away during his third-year final examinations, and most certainly not after he got caught having “unethical affairs” with his communications professor just two months ago. And yet the esteemed board of scholars decided he was fit for a diploma anyway, and now he’s answering to, effectively, a stranger what he plans to do with said piece of paper.

“I don’t know,” he says to you, “I’ll do whatever.”

Gojo Satoru could get by with doing whatever. He was good at everything he did. But his teachers and mentors and his own father would always warn him– son, it’s better to be an expert at one than a half-assed show-off in all. Well, they wouldn’t use the expletives, but that’s what it had sounded like in his head.

His dad would’ve liked you. He was always telling him to find a girl that challenges him, asks him the right questions, and pushes him to become a better man, the kind of woman his mother was to his father. Much opposed to the airheaded girls of Gojo’s college campus he would sneak into the house and forget to shoo off before sunrise, an occurrence that happened enough times for the respect in his father’s eyes to dwindle with each woman he’d watch his son dispel from their residence. Until eventually, Gojo started paying rent as punishment.

So, twenty-three year old Gojo, what do you plan to do with your life? Or do you have no idea of anything that extends beyond where you are right now, sitting across this strange girl you’ve just met on the death of your educational youth, at the top of a stairwell lined with passed out, drunk newly grads at nearly 4 in the morning? Right now, he’s eyeing the hem of your dress, the way it’s ridden up slightly but the mesh overskirt still tickles the skin of your thigh. He’s certainly able to picture what’s beyond that fabric, and maybe imagine the color of your panties, but what’s to come for his life? No. As previously mentioned, he never thought he’d get this far.

Gojo is thirty-four now, eleven years since that night the two of you met. And he sits next to you on a garden bench under a pitch black sky with stars speckled across, but only dimly visible.

It’s been years since he’s seen you. You two had a “falling out” at the cusp of thirty, almost a decade of friendship fizzled away, because of his selfish actions. He couldn’t let you go, but he couldn’t want you the way you wanted him either. He didn’t feel like he deserved to have you. You were too good for him, and he knew it. So he wasted a decade chasing after other women, and in return, he lost the one he knew he was supposed to spend the rest of his life with.

It’s the night of your college roommate‘s wedding, all gathered here today to celebrate their love, and he knew he’d run into you here. You were the bride’s maiden of honor, and you looked beautiful. With your hair half tied up, a pretty clip twinkling with every movement of your head, and with strands falling down over the smooth curve of your neck, bare skin of your chest tightly covered by the nude fabric of your dress. He was fully lusting after you, and he has been all night, the picture of beauty and grace, and it was wrong. Because, again, he’s–

“You’re engaged?” you finally break through his thoughts, break through the trance that he was lost in by the sea of your eyes. Forever pulling him in like you were a wicked siren for his soul, when all you’ve ever wanted from him was his love.

He shifts a little, the thick fabric of his navy blue suit stretching with the movement as he fidgets with his hands in his lap. He’s sitting close to you, his shoulder brushing against yours, the contrast of his broad masculinity so evident against the feminine curve of your bare arm, the thin strap holding up your dress threatening to fall down the hill. His thumb twitches, because he wants to pull it back up into place for you like a gentleman, but he’s not sure if that’s what his hand would actually do. Because all he really wants to do is peel the dress off of you.

“Yes,” he says, still tantalized by the glow of your skin under pale moonlight, “engaged.”

“To be married?”

“Well, what other kind of engaged is there?”

“You’re not allowed to get married.”

He snorts. “Says who?”

“Says me!” you exclaim, sitting up straighter, "I turn my back for one moment, and you've gone an got engaged? You're awful!" The strap of your dress falls down over your shoulder, his eyes immediately darting to it. He sees you pull the strap up back into place, and a flit of his eyes to your face reveals to him the slight dusting of an embarrassed pink to your cheeks.

There’s a silence that settles between the two of you. Distant commotion is heard, likely from the wedding venue as people engage in reception activities and dances and cheers, while the two of you remain in this garden escape, the wall of primly trimmed bushes sheltering you two from having to pretend to be people you’re not amongst a crowd.

“Aiko…” he hears you say beside him, and although the name of the woman that has rolled off your tongue is the name of the woman he’s supposed to love, it only makes him feel sick to his stomach to hear you say her name. “She seems lovely.”

“She is,” is all he can manage to say. And he also knows this seemingly lovely woman is probably drunk off her face back at the reception hall, giggling at all the men that approach her from the sight of her flushed face, and he should feel some sort of jealousy or possessiveness over that, but he can’t seem to muster any. Unlike the grit he had to his jaw an hour ago when he saw you dancing with a man he heard you introduce to your friends as just an “old friend” of yours from college. He felt more anger in that moment than he’d ever felt watching his soon-to-be-wife getting talked up to by the sleazy men twice her age.

“She must be very rich,” you say. “She looks it.”

“Oh. Yeah. Her family’s very well off,” Gojo says.

“So will you become rich too?” you ask him, “when you marry her.”

His eyes flit to the sky briefly. “Doubt it.”

“How come?”

“The old man doesn’t like me very much. I imagine he’ll cut ties after the wedding.”

“Her father?”

“Yes.”

“And why is that?”

“Well. I guess it’s not every father’s dream to find out his prim and proper daughter’s been knocked up by the good-for-nothing boyfriend he’s been threatening her to say good riddance to for months now.”

The silence finds the two of you again, but this time haunting and gutting. That was a blabber, if anything. So nonchalantly said, with no emotion or spirit, to the one person in this world who he’s always felt like he can be himself around.

“She’s pregnant?” you say beside him, voice breaking slightly at the end, and he can’t bear to look at you for some reason. Some sort of admission of guilt, but what for? What exactly was he repenting for?

He lets out a small laugh, like the absurdity of the situation finds him all the same. “Yeah.”

“That–” you start, stiff next to him, before he feels the tension relax but only rigidly, “that’s wonderful, Satoru. I’m–...I’m really happy for you.” You turn your torso to wrap your arms around him, and his lips brush the sweet skin on your forehead as you bury your face in the crook of his neck. He wraps one arm around you, a sort of friendly hug as he rubs the skin of your arm soothingly, and his heart aches from the emptiness when you release him.

“Wow…” you say, looking up at him with pretty eyes, eyelashes fluttering as you blink rapidly to process the information, and he wonders if you really are happy for him. He doesn’t want you to be. He wants you to be furious, to tell him off for getting another woman pregnant after leading you on for so many years, maybe he wants you to slap him, or grab him by the collar of his shirt and shake him until all he sees is a million of you through dizzy vision like some paradise. He wants you to be mad, because it’d mean that you still care. It’d mean that you still think there’s something here to salvage between the two of you.

But he’s engaged. And he’s having a baby. What was more final than that?

“So…are you marrying her because of–”

“The wedding is in four weeks,” he cuts you off, but he knows the statement answers your question regardless.

“Satoru…”

He leans off to the side a little to reach into the pocket of his suit pants, and he pulls out what is now a slightly bent envelope and he hands it to you. You take it from him gently, holding it weakly like it was something beyond you. Like something distant and foreign and strange. When all it was, is a wedding invitation.

“Listen…” he starts.

He sees your eyes dazed as you stare at the lettering on the outside of the envelope.

“We’ve been friends for a long time, y/n. And I know the last time we saw each other was–” Hostile. Angry. Disappointing. Ended with you cussing him out on the street and then saying you never want to see him again. “...not ideal, but I still care a lot about you, and, uh, so, it would mean a lot to me if you came to the wedding.” For fucks sake, even on the brink of losing you forever, he still can’t find the right words to say. “Aiko, she–” He tastes bitter in his mouth, “well, I’ve told her a lot about you, and she’d really love it if you came as well.”

You’re silent as you gently peel back the opening of the letter and then pull out the small card stock invitation. The gold printed letters shine as you inspect it, fingers tracing the patterns of words that profess the Rei family’s intent to wed their daughter to Gojo Satoru. Your Gojo Satoru. Your best friend in this whole wide world. He watches your eyes carefully, but he can’t discern what he finds in them.

“Gojo Satoru…” you drone off, “to be wed. And to be a father.” Years of late night talks of the future, of kids and Christmas and love, with reality seemingly sly on the horizon only to have crept up so abruptly. It was pinched between your fingers right now. That reality.

His shoulders sulk slightly. And when you look up at him again, there’s a sheen of tears in your eyes.

“I can’t come to this,” you whisper, “and you know that, Satoru.”

His heart breaks. A physical pain that twists in his chest so tight at just the sight of seeing you sad. Sad again over the actions of his own. They say you always hurt the one you love, and he had always wondered what sort of evil person would do such a thing, only to find out he’s only ever hurt you this entire time.

He should’ve kissed you that night the two of you met at graduation. Should’ve shut you up and all your existential questions by pinning you to a wall and pressing his lips against yours. He should’ve taken you to bed and fucked you, and then held you in his arms until you woke up in the morning. Should’ve listened to you talk his ear off about how he’s just like all the other guys, who pretend to care, but only want to have sex and then never to speak to the girl ever again. And he should’ve laid there in bed, nose nuzzled in your hair, taking all the scolding despite having no intent to ever leave you.

Instead, he wasted so much time. Sure, he had your friendship. His best friend for years, but the two of you could’ve been something more. Could’ve spent the years together, instead of writing stained letters or leaving messages on answering machines while the two of you were miles away. He could’ve been waking up with you every morning with the scent of your shampoo on his sheets, instead of clinging to pillows in foreign motel rooms. He could’ve been engaged to you, and he could be whispering sweet nothings in your ear of how much he wishes the baby will have your eyes.

But his thoughts are lost in fantasy. He is what he’s done, nothing more and nothing less. His eyes fall to your lap, the invitation still held loosely in your hand, and then a droplet of water falls onto it.

“I–” you stutter, wiping at the tears spilling down your cheeks with a hesitant swipe of your hand, “I need to go.”

You stand up off the bench and he quickly stands up with you, grabbing your wrist to keep you here with him, and you halt but only with you facing away from him. He yanks at your wrist harshly, pulling you into him so his chest is flush to your back, his arms wrapping strongly around you and his nose nuzzling into your hair, breathing you in greedily like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance.

“Satoru–” you gasp, your hands immediately grabbing at his forearms that are tightly crossed across your collarbone. “What are you doing–”

“Say it,” he whispers, gruff and impatient, “tell me to do it, and I will.”

��T-Tell you to do what?” you stutter, struggling a little in his hold but he only holds you tighter.

“Tell me to leave her, and I will,” he says, his lips brushing at your ear now, the scent of your perfume maddening to his senses, and one of his hands slowly trails down and the knuckle of his thumb presses into the softness of your breast.

You squirm, a small and soft moan leaving your lips.

“T–” you breathe in harshly, “this is wrong.”

“I don’t care,” he growls, arms sliding lower to hold you under your breasts, so tightly that your heels lift off the ground. “Just say the word, and I’ll leave everything behind for you. I promise,” he breathes in deep, the desperation making his head hazy, “that I’ll do things right this time. Just you and me–”

“You’re going to be a father,” you remind him, and he shuts his eyes closed tightly, the responsibility of the word bearing on his shoulders but his desire for you overshadows every shred of sense or dignity or integrity he has left in him, because he felt like he was losing his mind after wanting you for years just to never have you.

He turns you around in his hold so that you face him, and he crashes his lips to yours, muffling the surprised mmf! that dies in your throat in surprise as his hands hold your waist, relishing in the feeling of satin fabric pulled taut over your curves.

Forbidden, yet a taste that he’ll risk because there was no curse that was worse than the fate of having to pine after you for years.

Ah.

But.

But it was all fantasy, this moment in his head, where he takes you on the freshly cut grass of this garden.

Something that only briefly flashes through his mind as his warm hand wraps around your wrist, from where he was still seated on the stone bench, and not on his feet holding you like he dreamed for. Like he longed for.

He feels the weight of his arm so heavily, as if it weren’t his own, and he slowly lets go of your wrist.

When he looks up at you, there’s longing in your eyes. A hurt that he didn’t even know he was capable of causing, just for him to realize that you’ve always looked at him that way, and he’s never been keen enough to know it until now. He grew up too late. He took too long.

His phone starts buzzing in his pocket, and he reaches in for it, then flips it open and sees his soon-to-be-wife’s name on it. He feels nothing at the sight.

“Hello?” he speaks into the device when he holds it to his ear, and he sees you take a couple steps away, rubbing anxiously at your elbow as you pretend to busy yourself with the study of the lamp. “Yes, I’ll be there soon. I, uh, I’m just with a friend. A couple of friends, actually. We’re having drinks by the pond. Mhm. Yes. I will. Okay, see you soon. I—…I love you too. Bye.” And then he snaps the phone shut.

“Heading back?” he hears you ask.

He stands. “I’ve got to.”

“Okay.”

You two walk down the shrubbery of the garden that was arranged like a maze, him a few paces behind you, and he watches the delicate line of your posture as your hand brushes against the green walls of foliage that encase the two of you, the feeling of wanting to touch you and hold you almost suffocating.

“Hey,” he calls out to you, and he shoves his hands in his suit pockets. You turn around immediately to face him, like his voice was permission to do so.

“Yes?” you ask.

He blinks up at the starry sky, and then looks at you again. The soft cast of distant warm lighting falls over your face, making you appear like a renaissance painting, similar to those that you would point out to him at museums when you two would see each other on holiday back in your early twenties. He could never understand the charm of those paintings, no matter how many times you tried to explain it to him, but seeing you in this light right now, he finally understands the beauty that you saw.

“I’m, uh,” he rubs at the back of his neck, and then scoffs out a small laugh, “I’m a little drunk right now, but–” He stops himself. What was he trying to say? And was it of conscious mind? “I just need to tell you that…I really regret…not speaking to you. I mean, for letting the silence drag on for years. You’re my–...my best friend. We’re a pair, you know? The two of us. For years, people would ask me where you were. And why they haven’t seen us together at all recently. And it was hard to admit that we hadn’t spoken in years.”

You take the smallest of steps towards him, and look up at him with empty eyes.

“What I’m trying to say is, is that, well,” he finds himself tripping over his words, “I miss you. And I miss our friendship. And–...I miss having you around.” He glances down at his shoes, polished and reflecting off the moonlight directly above him. He rocks back and forth on his heels ever so slightly. “I know you said that I piss you off to lengths unimaginable to my tiny pea-sized brain, but I can’t help myself, y/n,” he admits, “I think you and I, we’re just meant to always be. In some how, or some way…”

You purse your lips together, gaze shifting lower to eye at the silk of his tie.

“Can we be friends again?” he asks, the words feeling juvenile on his tongue. Like whispered apologies between children on a playground after shoving one another onto wooden chips, except the wounds he’s left on you run much deeper than a superficial scrape.

You blink slowly, tilting your head up at him. “Friends?”

“Friends.”

You wipe your palm off on the satin of your dress. “I missed you too, you know.”

His eyes widened slightly.

Your hand finds its way up your arm, until you weakly cup your elbow with your palm and look off to the side, avoiding eye contact with him. “There were so many years where I thought that there was something between us. And maybe I was foolish for thinking that way, that you would ever see me that way–”

“y/n,” he tries to interrupt you.

“But…the pain of not having you the way I wanted to was much less worse than the pain of not having you at all,” you say, your gaze finally shifting towards him. “But, the thing is, I needed to feel that pain to get over you. I had to.”

His heart stills at those words.

You glance down at the ground now. “I missed being able to tell you things. To laugh, and cry, and argue. I miss humbling your stupid ego. I miss being able to call you at any time, knowing you’d pick up when I needed you.”

His heart aches so much he wants to reach into his chest and hold it.

“The thing is,” you continue, “you would’ve been the first person I would’ve run to to tell them that I lost my best friend.” There were tears shining in your eyes. “But what could I do when you were the one that I had lost? Who could I have turned to then?”

He lets out a shaky breath, and in a swift motion, his arm wraps around your waist and he pulls you to him in an embrace.

You’re stiff in his hold, mechanical and rigid, so contrary to the soft tears you leave behind on the fabric of his sleeve, but slowly and surely, you warm and thaw. Your hands slide up past his shoulders, linking behind his neck. And his head drops to the curve of your neck, swaying you with him slowly as if it were a first dance.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “for hurting you.”

You breathe out slowly. “Just let me go, Satoru. Let me be free. Let me be free of you.”

He feels the air knock out of his lungs, and the two of you slowly pull your heads away from the embrace to look at one another, although your hands still find a place on his shoulders, and he still holds you close to him by a delicate hold of your waist.

He wonders if in another life, you two were happy. He wonders if he could ever take back all the decisions he made, and start all over again. On that day the two of you met on that staircase in the west wing of the literature building, he would make a different choice. If he could, he would live in this lifetime of hell over and over again if it meant that in some other one, there exists a world where he never hurts you.

“It’s time for me to go,” you whisper, eyes darting across the features of his face, studying them but with a familiarity that only you know, because you held his entire life in your palm. Your gaze meets his again, faces just inches apart, and the sweet curl of your eyelashes makes him weak in the knees. “It’s time.”

He nods slowly, his own eyes studying your face as well, except it looks foreign to him now.

It’s all been said and done. There was nothing he could do to right the wrongs, or undo all the pain. He was to be a father now, and his duties were now towards his wife and unborn child. And no longer to the woman he holds in his arms, one he’s sure he will never stop loving for as long as he lives.

It’s a sweet moment, the two of you gazing at one another. You look so pretty from this angle, looking up at him with the smallest tilt to your head and round searching eyes. His head subconsciously dips down towards yours in the second that he glances at your lips, but he stops himself. And when you make no move to create distance, he finds himself closing it again, until his lips brush against yours ever so softly. And then he captures them in a kiss, firm and unmistaken, finding solace in the way your lips move against his too, unsure yet passionately at the same time. Your fingers ever so slightly dig into his shoulders while his thumbs soothe at the skin of your waist, the two of you savoring the last moments of a kiss that’ll be the sweetest one you’ll ever know.

You pull away first, a small puff of air leaving your lips as you glance downwards. He rests his forehead against yours, never once looking away from your face. And you both breathe slowly, the soul of the chaste kiss entirely vanishing into the air along with all the hope that the two of you had left to make anything of the way you feel about one another. It was a kiss that almost disqualified any level of sin or guilt or wrong, because it was like one you two owed each other, after years of familiarity and longing. It was the goodbye that the two of you deserved.

His hands slowly let go of your waist, and he takes a step back away from you, softly clearing his throat. The distance feels like a galaxy away, and he briefly runs his thumb along his bottom lip, because the ghostly feeling of your lips on his still remains.

“Shall we head back?” you ask him, prim and proper in posture and eyes widened in a formal gaze.

His lips are parted, and he finds that he’s panting slightly. And then he slowly nods his head. “Yes.”

[the end]

a/n. i am sooooo freaking obsessed w "one day" by david nicholls and really wanted to write something inspired by it!! the book literally ripped my heart out and stomped on it like there were so many scenes where i just longingly stared out the window because of how shattering it was but dear god i really enjoyed it, and the show was also so dfkjhsfkhs i had sm feels watching it. so yea this was fun to write!! i hope you enjoyedd n thanks so much for reading :)

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juttama · 1 year ago

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zelleducation · 2 years ago

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cowboybeepboop · 3 months ago

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Patience

"Ah-ah," he chides. "Use your words, like I said. Tell me exactly where you want my hands."

Pairing: Carlisle Cullen x fem! Reader

Genre: Smut

Word count: 6.4k

Summary: You’re a newish member to the town of Forks, with an extreme obsession with Doctor Cullen. One day he finally gives in after you’ve visited the clinic for the 5th time that month.

Warnings: light choking, semi public sex, fingering, oral (male receiving), unprotected sex, p in v, teasing, praising, orgasm denial.

a/n: I know this is a shift from my usual posts but I've been desperate for some more Carlisle content. As always, I hope you enjoy <3 and send any requests my way!

As you stepped into the small, dimly lit clinic, the antiseptic smell filled your nostrils, mingling with the faint scent of pine from the freshly wiped floor. The receptionist looked up from her computer, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Hello again," she said, her voice dripping with a hint of amusement.

You returned the smile, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, and proceeded to the triage desk. Gripping my chest dramatically, you winced. "I've got these terrible chest pains," you gasp, hoping she wouldn't recognize your voice from the numerous calls I'd made over the past few weeks. "I think it's happening again."

She nodded sympathetically, though her eyes betrayed a spark of curiosity. "I'll let Dr. Cullen know right away," she assures you, before disappearing into the back rooms of the clinic. Your heart raced with anticipation as you take a seat, glancing around the empty waiting area.

Little did they know that your only ailment was an extreme obsession with the enigmatic doctor who had recently become the talk of the town.

The receptionist emerged from the back, her smile widening as she beckoned you to follow her. She led you down the hallway to a small, cozy examination room, the walls adorned with diplomas and medical charts. "Dr. Cullen will be with you in just a moment," she said, the amusement in her voice now unmistakable.

You nodded, trying to compose yourself as she closed the door behind you. The room was warm, and the gentle hum of the heater filled the space. You sat on the crinkling paper of the examination table, heart pounding in your chest.

Would he finally see through your facade of feigned illnesses? Or would he offer the attention and concern that you so desperately sought? The anticipation was almost too much to bear as you heard the soft footsteps approaching, and the door handle turned with a quiet click.

He stepped into the exam room with his usual grace and composure, a hint of surprise flickering across his features as his gaze fell on you. His cool, pale fingers clutched a patient chart, which he quickly placed on the counter. His voice, as smooth and soothing as ever, broke the silence.

Cullen leaned against the counter, folding his arms across his chest and studying you with a mix of curiosity and veiled amusement. "Back again," he commented, his voice betraying a hint of recognition. "Chest pains, you say?"

“Mhm,” you bite your lip as you gaze up at him, “It comes and goes..”

Carlisle hummed softly, tilting his head to one side as he observed you. The flicker of recognition in his eyes now more pronounced. He grabbed the stethoscope that hung around his neck, looping it over his ears.

He closed the small distance between you, his presence seeming to fill the room. He placed the cold metal end of the stethoscope against your chest, his touch as gentle as a butterfly's wings. "Take a deep breath for me," he requested, his voice velvety and commanding.

You gasp at the chill of the metal, a soft surprised sound escaping your lips as you try to steady your heart rate. You follow his instructions, taking in a deep breath.

Dr. Cullen listens intently as the sound of your heartbeat fills his ears through the stethoscope. His brows furrowed slightly, a look of concentration on his face. The cool and professional demeanor remains, his focus on your heart.

"Again," he instructs, moving the stethoscope slightly to a different spot on your chest. His gaze never wavers from yours, his eyes betraying a hint of suspicion laced with a touch of curiosity.

You nod, taking in a deep breath, your hands resting on your knees as you gaze up at his strong jaw. Your heart rate picks up as you admire his face from where you're sitting.

Carlisle can't help but notice the hitch in your heartbeat, his sharp hearing catching the slight acceleration. A small flicker of a smirk plays on the corner of his lips, as he continues to listen intently.

He lifts the stethoscope from your chest, his eyes locking with yours once more. "Your heart rate is elevated," he comments, his voice a low hum. "Any idea why that might be?" The hint of a knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Uh,” you gulp, looking off to the side of the room. “No, I’m not quite sure..” your fingers fumble with the hem of your short skirt as you suck your bottom lip between your teeth.

Cullen's eyes flickered down to your fingers fidgeting with the hemline of your skirt before meeting your gaze once more. He raised an eyebrow, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

He took a step back, returning the stethoscope to his desk and perching himself on the edge of it, folding his arms across his broad chest. "You know," he began, his voice a low growl, "I've noticed a pattern. Every time you come to visit, you seem to have a different ailment."

“I guess I’m just,” you try to come up with an excuse. “I just have a lot of things going on, huh?” you grin up at him stiffly.

The doctor tilts his head to one side, a smirk playing on his lips as he studies you intently. He pushes himself off the desk and begins pacing slowly in front of you.

"That's the thing," he says, his voice quiet and measured. "I've been a doctor for a very long time, and I've seen many patients through the years."

He stops in front of you, his gaze locking with yours. "And yet, I've never seen someone quite so...frequent as you."

“Oh..” you lick your lip, “I guess I’m just a bit worried, you know.. Chest pains aren’t a good sign..” your gaze falls to the tiled floor.

Dr. Cullen hums softly, a hint of amused skepticism in his voice. "That's true.. Chest pains aren't something to be taken lightly," he agrees, his gaze locked on your face. "But I have a feeling there's more than just chest pains that are troubling you."

“What.. what do you mean?” your eyes widen as you look up at him, body straightening under his intense stare.

Cullen cocks his head to the side, his eyes never leaving yours. He takes a step closer, his presence becoming more commanding.

"I mean," he began, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "that I suspect there's something more going on here. Something that has little to do with your physical ailments and more to do with..." he pauses, his eyes sweeping over your body briefly, "...something else entirely."

You take a deep breath, gulping as he moves closer. “Oh?”

Carlisle’s gaze hardens as he moves even closer, nearly towering over you now. "What if I were to suggest that your frequent visits here have less to do with medical concerns and more to do with something else, something more intimate?" he asks, his voice soft but commanding.

He leans closer still, his cool breath ghosting across your skin. "What if I were to suggest that there's a deeper, underlying reason for your...obsession with this clinic?"

You lean back, legs squeezing together as warmth fills your stomach. “Like what? Doctor Cullen?” you furrow your eyebrows, feigning innocence.

Dr. Cullen's eyes narrow ever so slightly at your feigned innocence. He can sense the heat coursing through your body and the way your legs press together. A smile tugs at the corner of his lip.

He leans in, his voice lowering to a near growl. "Don't play coy with me," he murmurs, closing what little distance remains between you. "You know exactly what I'm referring to."

“I don't-” you shake your head in response, eyes wide as you scoot further back on the table. “I don't think I know what you mean…” your body tenses with desire as he looks down at you.

Cullen's eyes darken at the way you scoot back further on the table, the subtle signs of your tension not escaping his sharp senses. He rests his hands on the edge of the table, effectively caging you in.

"Oh? You don't?" he asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Then tell me why you've been coming here every week for months. And don't give me that 'I'm just clumsy' or 'I have bad headaches' act again."

You open your mouth to give another excuse but nothing comes out, words seemingly caught in your throat. Eyes falling to his lips as your heart hammers against your chest erratically.

His lips curved into a knowing smirk as he noticed the way your gaze fixed on them. It was all the confirmation he needed.

He leaned in even closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Why don't you just admit it?" he asked, his breath fanning against your skin. "Admit why you keep coming back here. To see me. To see what it's like to have my hands on you."

“Doctor..” you start, voice soft and full of desperation.

Cullen's eyes flicker with a hint of satisfaction as he hears the desperation in your voice. He raises a hand, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his touch feather-light yet full of possession.

"Say it," he commands, his voice low and authoritative. "Say it, and then you can get exactly what you've been coming here for all these weeks."

“I..” your eyes flutter shut as you take a deep breath. “I’ve been coming here because I want to feel your hands on me.” you gasp out, cheeks flushing with your whispered confession.

Carlisle’s eyes gleam with satisfaction as he hears the confession tumble from your lips. He leans in closer, his hand moving from your cheek to your chin, tilting it upwards so your gaze meets his.

"Good girl," he purrs, the words making heat flare in your stomach. "It wasn't so hard, was it? Admitting what you really want."

He leans even closer, his body pressed against the table, "And what do you want me to do with those hands, princess?"

“I want you to touch me..” you bite down on your lip, legs parting as he slips between them. He lets out a low growl, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. He presses even closer, his hips now pinning you against the table.

"Touch you where?" he whispers, his free hand moving to rest on your thigh, just beneath the hem of your skirt. He toys with the fabric, his fingers tracing small patterns on your bare skin. "You'll need to be more specific, princess."

You move your hand to his, guiding him to where you want him. Carlisle’s hand stops you, a smirk playing on his lips as he sees the slight frown on your face.

"Ah-ah," he chides. "Use your words, like I said. Tell me exactly where you want my hands." He runs his thumb across your lip, watching you expectantly, waiting for your response.

You shiver at his cold skin against you, “Doctor,” you whine out. A low chuckle escapes Cullen’s lips as he sees you shiver under his touch. He brushes his thumb across your lip again, the coldness a stark contrast to your own heat.

“Tell me, princess,” he whispers huskily, his voice like silk. “Where do you want my hands? You’ve been fantasizing about them for all these weeks, haven’t you? Now’s your chance to tell me exactly where you want me to touch you. Be specific.”

“I want you to,” you squeeze your eyes shut in embarrassment. “Touch me, here, between my legs..” you murmur, motioning to your spread thighs. Dr. Cullen's eyes gleam with a mixture of satisfaction and arousal as he hears your whispered request. He moves his hand, which had been on your chin, to your hip, his fingers digging into your skin slightly.

“Is that so?” he murmurs, his voice laced with a hint of amusement. “And how long have you been imagining my hands on you there?” he asks, his hand slowly inching up your thigh, the coldness of his touch in stark contrast to the heat radiating from your body.

You gasp, forehead pressing against his shoulder as you shudder. Cullen lets out a low chuckle, enjoying the way you instinctively bury your face into his shoulder. His hand continues to move up your thigh, the coldness of his touch sending another shiver down your spine.

He brings his free hand up to run through your hair, his fingers tangling in the locks. "You're so sensitive, princess. Is that because you've been thinking about this for a long time, hmm?" he whispers, his breath hot against your ear.

“Yes..” you choke out, feeling his hands part your legs further. A low growl rumbles through his chest once you confirm that you've been thinking about this for a while. He moves even closer, his hips pressing against yours, pinning you to the table.

"How often do you think about me like this?" he murmurs, his hand finally reaching the bare flesh of your inner thigh. He lets his fingers dance over your skin, the coolness of his touch sending sensations through your body. "Every day? Every night?" you moan softly, pulling his hand to your soaked panties.

“Please… stop teasing me..” you whine, desperate for his touch.

Cullen grinned, his teeth flashing white in the dim light as he finally slipped his fingers into your panties. The coldness of his skin sent a jolt of pleasure through you, making your core tighten around his touch. His longer pointer finger found your clit with unerring precision, teasing it in a slow, maddening circle.

"You're so desperate for me," he whispered, his breath hot against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. His voice was a seductive purr that seemed to echo through your very soul.

"Do you dream about this, my little patient?" he murmured, pressing down slightly, making you gasp. "Do you lie in bed at night, touching yourself and imagining it's me bringing you pleasure?" His touch grew more insistent, his voice a dark caress that only served to fuel your desire.

You whine, the embarrassment and arousal mixing in a potent cocktail that makes your voice tremble. Cullen's smirk widens, the sound of your need making his own desire spike. "There's no need to be shy now," he whispers, his voice a dark promise. "You've been so eager for this, haven't you?"

With a sudden, firm movement, he slides a finger into you, the coldness of his digit making you gasp. He moves it in and out with deliberate slowness, watching the way your body reacts to his touch.

His thumb remains on your clit, swirling in a relentless pattern that sends waves of pleasure crashing through you. You can feel yourself growing wetter with each stroke, your body betraying just how much you crave his attention.

"Tell me," he murmurs, his voice a dark rumble that sends vibrations through your core. "How long have you dreamed of this moment?" His finger moves deeper, stretching you slightly, his eyes locked on yours, watching every flicker of emotion cross your face. "How long have you wanted me to do this to you?"

Your breath hitches as you struggle to answer, the sensation of his finger inside you making it difficult to form coherent thoughts. "Ever since my first visit," you stutter, your cheeks burning.

Cullen's smile turns predatory as he feels you clench around his finger. "Well," he says, his voice low and seductive, "today, all your dreams come true."

He adds a second finger, the coldness now a familiar and welcome sensation. He starts to pump them in and out of you, his thumb never leaving your clit, keeping the pressure constant.

You moan, unable to stop yourself from arching into his touch, your body begging for more. "More," you murmur, the word barely audible. "Please."

Dr. Cullen chuckles, the sound dark and triumphant. "As you wish, my eager patient," he says, his eyes dark with lust. He quickens the pace, the coldness of his touch making you shiver with pleasure. His thumb presses harder on your clit, and you can feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge.

As your need grew more urgent, Cullen added another finger, stretching you further as you clenched around him. The sudden fullness made you gasp, and you bit down hard on the fabric of his white coat to muffle the moan that threatened to escape your lips. The material was stiff and cold, but it only served to heighten the warmth and pressure building within you.

Each stroke of his fingers sent a new wave of pleasure crashing over you, the chilly touch of his skin against your heated flesh making you tremble with anticipation. Your eyes squeezed shut, and your nails dug into the material of his coat, leaving tiny marks of desperation as your orgasm began to coil tightly in your core.

The sound of his fingers moving within you filled the room, a slick, intimate symphony that seemed to resonate with the thud of your racing heart. The tension grew, your breaths coming in short, ragged gasps as you approached the precipice.

The coldness of his touch was a stark contrast to the burning heat of your arousal, and you found yourself craving more of him, his mouth, his teeth, his tongue.

You could feel yourself getting closer, your body tightening like a bowstring drawn taut, ready to snap at any moment. Carlisle watched you, his eyes dark with lust, his own breathing growing heavier as he pushed you further and further towards the edge.

Your body shudders as the orgasm crashes over you, a keening cry escaping your throat despite your efforts to muffle it. Cullen's eyes bore into yours, his own desire clear as he watches you fall apart under his skilled touch.

His fingers continue to pump into you, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure until you're left panting and boneless against the exam table. He withdraws his hand, the loss of his cold digits making you whimper.

He smirks, bringing his hand to his mouth and sucking on his fingers, tasting you, his eyes never leaving yours. The sound of his satisfaction echoes in the room, making your cheeks burn even hotter.

The smugness in his gaze tells you that he's fully aware of the effect he's had, and the thrill of being so thoroughly exposed and dominated by him sends another shiver down your spine. You bite your lip, your eyes never leaving his, as you silently beg for more.

Dr. Cullen chuckles again at the sight of you, completely spent and utterly under his control. He takes a step back, admiring your flushed, disheveled appearance. “You're quite the picture, princess,” he murmurs, his voice low and sultry.

He moves to the sink and washes his hands, his eyes never leaving yours. Once finished, he turns back to you, his gaze dark with unfulfilled desire. “You know, I should reprimand you for all those fake ailments you've been coming in for,” he says, his voice deceptively casual

You cover your flushed cheeks with your hands, breathing heavy as you try to collect yourself. Cullen smirks as he watches you struggle to compose yourself. He moves back towards you, his footsteps slow and measured. He stops right in front of you, his broad frame towering over your seated figure.

"Embarrassed, are you?" he asks, his voice a low, amused purr. He reaches out, taking one of your wrists in his hand, slowly dragging it away from your face.

“You’re such a tease,” you whine, looking up at him, eyes still full of desire for him. Carlisle’s smirk widens as he hears the complaint in your voice. He releases your wrist, bringing his hand up to cup your chin, tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

"Who, me? A tease?" he asks, his voice dripping with a mix of feigned innocence and mockery. "I'm just doing my job as a doctor, princess. It's my duty to care for my patients," he says, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

You push your tongue out, licking the tip of his thumb with newfound confidence. “But what about you Doctor?” your hands go to his belt buckle, fingers brushing over his concealed erection.

Cullen's eyes darken as he feels your tongue against his thumb. A sharp intake of breath escapes him as your fingers brush against his erection, the feeling stirring an immediate response.

"What about me, princess?" he asks, his voice gruff and huskier than before. He watches you closely, his eyes locked on your face as you toy with his buckle.

“Who will take care of you?” you unbuckle his belt, gazing up at him through half-lidded eyes, full of lust. Carlisle’s hands clench into fists as you unbuckle his belt, his restraint faltering slightly as you gaze up at him with that look in your eyes.

He lets out a low, possessive growl, his body tensing as he struggles to maintain a semblance of composure. "You want to take care of me, princess?" he asks, his voice lower and more gravelly now. "Is that what you're offering?"

You nod eagerly, fingers fumbling with the zipper and button of his slacks. Slipping the pants away, you press your hand against his length through his boxers. Doctor Cullen’s eyes flash with desire as your hand presses against his length through the thin fabric of his boxers. He lets out a stifled groan, his hips involuntarily bucking against your touch.

"Eager, aren't you?" he mutters, his voice a deep rumble. He places a hand on your shoulder, half to steady himself, half to push you away. "You're playing a dangerous game, princess."

You free his erection from his boxers, your hand wrapping around his length. You lean in, pressing a soft, tentative kiss to the tip of his erection, feeling it twitch against your lips. Carlisle's grip on your shoulder tightens as you begin to suck, his hips jerking slightly as you take him into your warm, eager mouth.

His cock is hard and pulsing, the head slick with pre-cum that you greedily lick away. His hand slides into your hair, guiding you as you bob your head up and down his shaft, your cheeks hollowing with each suck. The room is filled with the sounds of your muffled moans and his stifled groans as you work to satisfy his desire.

The taste of him is intoxicating, making you want more. You let your tongue dance around the sensitive ridge, feeling him throb against your tongue. His other hand comes up to the back of your head, his grip growing firmer, his hips beginning to thrust in time with your movements. You moan around his length, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure through him.

His eyes are closed, his head thrown back, and his chest heaves with each ragged breath. You can feel his need for release growing, his body tightening with every stroke of your tongue. You suck harder, taking him deeper, eager to bring him to climax.

The power you have over him is exhilarating, and you revel in it, pushing him closer and closer to the edge. His hand in your hair tightens, his grip almost painful, but you don't care. All you want is to feel him come apart under your ministrations, to hear him cry out in pleasure.

Cullen groans, his body shuddering as your eager mouth works on him, his hand finding its way to the strands of your hair. He takes a fistful, bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply, your scent mingling with the musk of arousal filling the room. He savors the feeling of your warm, wet mouth wrapped around his cock.

His grip on your hair tightens, guiding you with a gentle but firm rhythm that matches the pulse of your own desire. Each time you take him deep, he lets out a soft hiss, his hips rocking slightly to meet your movements. His other hand rests on the counter, knuckles white with restrained need.

The sound of your moans, muffled by his length, echoes in the room, a symphony of pleasure that drives him wild. His control is slipping, his breathing becoming ragged as you work your magic, your tongue swirling around the tip before taking him back in, deeper and deeper with every stroke.

The anticipation of his release builds, his entire body coiled like a spring ready to snap. The coldness of his touch has given way to the heat of passion, his restrained demeanor now a distant memory. The clinical setting is forgotten, replaced by the primal dance of desire that plays out between you.

You can feel him growing closer, his thighs tense and his breathing erratic. You know what he needs, what you've been longing to give him, and you push harder, faster, determined to bring him to the brink and watch him fall.

Cullen's eyes fly open, his gaze piercing yours as he feels the first pulse of his climax. He lets out a low, guttural moan, his hips bucking into your mouth as he releases. You swallow eagerly, your eyes never leaving his as he cums, the salty tang of his release coating your tongue.

His hand in your hair tightens, almost painfully, as he holds you in place, his entire body trembling with the force of his orgasm. You watch, mesmerized, as his features contort with pleasure, his jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut. He lets out a series of deep, shuddering breaths, his chest heaving as he slowly regains his composure.

His hand releases your hair, moving to cradle the back of your head, his touch now gentle as the aftershocks of pleasure ripple through him. He opens his eyes, the intensity in them not diminished, and looks down at you with a mix of satisfaction and hunger.

"Good girl," he whispers, his voice hoarse. You sit back, licking your lips clean, feeling a sense of pride at having brought him to this point.

He leans down, cupping your chin and tilting your head up to meet his gaze. A possessive, satisfied smile plays on his lips. “You're quite the naughty little patient, aren't you?” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. “Taking advantage of my good nature like that.”

He releases your chin, his hand moving to your hair, running his fingers through the strands. He tugs lightly, just hard enough to get your attention. “But I must admit, I rather enjoyed it,” he adds, his gaze dark with restrained desire.

“Then maybe I should keep my habit of coming here so frequently,” you bite your lip, gazing up at him seductively.

"You do seem to have a habit of finding yourself in my clinic quite often, princess." Cullen’s gaze darkens at your seductive bite of your lip. "And I do have a duty to ensure my patients are well taken care of..." he says, his voice a low, promising rumble.

He steps closer, his body now pressed against yours, his height towering over you. He leans down, his lips near your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "Maybe I should start charging extra for private appointments,” he murmurs.

You shiver at his words, hands reaching out to grasp his sides, your fingers digging into his cold skin. Dr. Cullen lets out a low, amused hum at your shiver, the feel of your fingers digging into his skin sending a jolt through him. "Someone's eager," he mutters, his hand sliding to the small of your back, pulling you even closer against him.

His other hand comes up, his thumb tracing the contour of your chin. He tilts your head up, his gaze a mixture of desire and possessive claiming. "You certainly know how to get my attention, princess," he murmurs, his voice a deep growl.

You slide your hands up his shirt, fingers dancing over his tense muscles. “Doctor..” you murmur. Cullen lets out a low hiss as your hands skim over his bare skin. Your touch seems to electrify him, his body tensing even more beneath your touch.

"Yes, princess?" he responds, his voice rougher than before. He leans down, his lips hovering over your ear. "What is it that you want?" he asks, his warm breath sending another shiver through you.

“I want..” you bury your face into his stomach, breathing in his musk mixed with his cologne. “Your hand wasn't enough… I need more of you..” your voice is needy and desperate as you gaze up at him, chin pressed against his firm abs.

Carlisle’s breath hitches at your admission, the mix of desperation and need in your voice firing up his own primal instincts. His hand at the small of your back grips tighter, his body tensing as he struggles to keep control.

"You want more, huh?" he mutters, his voice thick with desire. He releases his grip on your chin, his hand moving to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair. "You're a greedy little thing, aren't you?" he growls.

“Please doctor?” the pads of your fingers dig into his back. Cullen lets out a low, possessive growl as you dig your fingers into his back. The pleading tone of your voice, the desperation in your touch, only serves to fuel his own need.

"You beg so prettily, princess," he mutters, his voice a deep rumble. "How can I resist when you ask so nicely?" He leans down, his lips hovering over yours, his breath warm on your skin. "But you must be specific, sweetheart. You need to tell me exactly what it is you want.“

“I want you to fuck me, please..” you gasp, lips parting for him. Carlisle’s eyes darken at your blunt request, a sharp intake of breath escaping him. He closes the small gap between you, his lips capturing yours in a fierce, possessive kiss. His tongue pushes into your mouth, delving and tasting, his hand at the back of your head holding you in place.

He pulls back from the kiss, his lips hovering millimeters from yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "You're insatiable, you know that?" he mutters, his free hand sliding down your body to grasp your hip. "How am I supposed to deny such a pretty request?"

With a low growl of approval, Cullen's hands guide you to the edge of the exam table, your legs shaking with anticipation. He bends you over, the cold steel pressing into your abdomen as he pulls your panties down, exposing your trembling thighs.

You feel his erection, hot and demanding, as he lines himself up with your slick entrance, the tip of his cock pressing into your wetness. His hand firmly grips your hip, his fingers digging into your skin as he adjusts his position, the sound of his zipper echoing in the small room.

You gasp as he enters you, inch by inch, filling you completely, the sensation of his cold skin against your heated flesh sending waves of pleasure through your body. His other hand wraps around your throat, not tight enough to cut off your air, but enough to remind you of his dominance, his control over your body and your desires.

He pulls almost all the way out before slamming back into you, the force making you cry out. His grip tightens, his hips setting a punishing rhythm that has you seeing stars. Each thrust sends a jolt of cold fire through you, the stark contrast of his frigid skin against your burning need only serving to heighten your pleasure.

The room is filled with the sounds of your muffled whimpers and his deep, satisfied grunts as he claims you, his sharp canines grazing your shoulder as he marks you, his patient.

As your moans grew louder, Cullen's hand left your hip and covered your mouth, his thumb pressing against your lower lip as his other fingers dug into your cheek. He was relentless, his hips moving with a precision that spoke of his experience and his unyielding need to bring you to the brink of ecstasy.

Each thrust hit the spot deep inside you that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through your body, and you could feel yourself growing wetter, your walls clenching around him with every stroke. The muffled sounds of your cries were only for his ears, a secret symphony of passion that played out in the quiet of the exam room.

His own breaths grew harsher, his movements more erratic, as he felt your body tense beneath him, his name a silent scream against his palm. The heat of your arousal mixed with the coldness of his hand on your mouth was a delicious torment, your eyes rolling back in your head as he claimed you, his possession complete.

The world outside the room ceased to exist, and all that remained was the frantic dance of your bodies, the cold steel of his touch, and the warm, velvety embrace of his cock filling you over and over again. You felt your climax building, a crescendo of pleasure that threatened to shatter you, your body begging for release.

"Not yet, princess," Cullen whispers, his voice hoarse and urgent against your ear, his movements unrelenting. His cold hand slides from your mouth to your neck, his grip firm as he feels your body begin to tighten around him, the warmth of your passion meeting the chill of his touch.

His strokes become deeper, more deliberate, as he watches your face contort with the beginnings of your climax. You try to hold back, your eyes squeezed shut, your teeth biting down on your bottom lip to muffle your cries. Each thrust sends a fresh wave of cold fire through you, making your toes curl and your nails dig into the edge of the exam table.

"I’ll let you know when to cum for me," he commands, his voice a low growl that sends a shiver down your spine. His hand on your hip guides your hips back to meet his, his thrusts becoming more powerful, more demanding. You can feel the swell of his cock inside you, the pressure building, the coldness of his skin against your hot, wet flesh.

Your eyes fly open, and you stare at the wall, panting, as he continues to fuck you with a masterful precision that has you teetering on the edge of oblivion. Your body is his to command, your pleasure his to give and withhold.

And as much as you want to cum, to shatter beneath his touch, you know that you won't until he says so. The anticipation is agonizing, a sweet torture that only makes the eventual release all the more potent.

You whimper, your body begging for relief, but Cullen's grip tightens, his movements unyielding. "Soon," he murmurs, his breath hot against your neck. "But not yet. I want to feel you clench around me, tight and desperate, begging for it." His voice is a dark promise, a siren's call that you can't resist.

You push back against him, your body moving in time with his rhythm, the cold steel of his hand on your neck a stark contrast to the warmth building in your core. The tension is unbearable, a coil winding tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment.

You're so close, so very close, but he won't let you go over the edge. Not yet. Not until he's ready. And in that moment, you realize just how much you crave his control, his dominance over your very being. It's a heady feeling, one that makes you want to both fight against him and surrender completely to his will.

You gasp out his name, a plea and a curse all rolled into one, your voice echoing in the small, intimate space. His response is a feral growl, his hips slamming into you with renewed vigor, his hand on your neck pressing a little harder, his thumb stroking the pulse point beneath your jaw.

You're so close, so incredibly close, and you know that when he finally lets you go, when he allows you to come, it's going to be like nothing you've ever felt before. The coldness of his touch, the heat of his desire, the raw power of his control all coalesce into a storm of sensation that threatens to consume you. And you can't wait.

“You can let go now.” he growls into your ear. With a final, powerful thrust, Cullen's hand clamps down hard over your mouth, muffling your scream of pleasure as your body finally gives in to the climax that had been building for what felt like an eternity.

The pressure of his hand, the coldness of his skin against your flushed cheek, only heightens the sensation, making your orgasm feel like it's shattering you into a million pieces. Your eyes squeeze shut as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you, your legs trembling and your core clenching around him, desperately trying to hold on to the feeling.

His own release follows swiftly, his hips jerking as he buries himself to the hilt, filling you completely with his seed. His grip on your neck tightens, his breath hot against your ear, as he rides out his climax with a deep, guttural groan. The room seems to spin around you, the only solid point the cold steel of his hand, grounding you in the midst of the tumultuous storm of sensation.

As your body starts to come down from the high, you feel him pull out slowly, his grip on you loosening, his breathing still ragged. He takes a step back, his eyes never leaving yours, his expression a mix of satisfaction and something else, something primal and possessive.

You collapse onto the exam table, boneless and spent, the coldness of the room now a stark contrast to the heat that still pulses through your veins. He reaches down to pull your panties back up, his movements surprisingly gentle given the ferocity of his earlier actions.

The cold fabric against your sensitive skin sends a shiver through you, a final reminder of the intensity of what just transpired. You can't help but feel a thrill of excitement at the thought of when you'll get to feel his cold touch again, eager to play out this twisted game of cat and mouse once more.

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totalswag · 1 year ago

Text

graduation - RAFE CAMERON

authors note we love soft!rafe thats all i gotta say

summary rafe's is supposed to attend his girlfriends graduation but told her he couldn't make it last minute due to work stuff. rafe finishes his work stuff early and decides to surprise his girlfriend after the ceremony with flowers.

warnings crying, cussing, wholesome content

It’s graduation

You are officially finished with school for the rest of your life. On to the next phase of your life. Everything you've done to get here has paid off. All those examinations you studied so hard for, to the point of crying and wanting to quit, paid off in the end.

The second you stopped onto campus as a freshman, you couldn't wait to get your degree and graduate from college. It’s been your dream to go to Chapel Hill University since high school.

Your entire family gathered to see you walk across the stage and receive your diploma. You were glad to see them all here on this special occasion. In a way, seeing your loved ones cheer you on as you walk across the stage in your gown and cap, receiving your diploma and degree is a great pat on the back.

There is one person in particular you wish was attending.

Your boyfriend, Rafe.

“Is Rafe coming?” Y/F/N asks, nudging your shoulder.

Y/F/N met freshman year, you lived in the same dorm. A week after knowing each other, you instantly clicked. You two live in a two bedroom apartment near campus. She’s that type of friend you know you can count on no matter what.

“He said work got super busy and that his dad needed him to stay to help out” you sigh, “he wishes he could be here though '' choking on your words but you take a deep breath to calm yourself down.

When Rafe told you on the phone he wasn’t gonna make it due to work your whole world came crashing down in one second. You know how much Rafe takes work seriously– it's a family business he needs to take care of.

Y/F/N pouts, wrapping her left arm around your shoulder, pulling you into a hug to give you some sort of comfort.

“I bet he wishes he was here too, Y/N.” Y/F/N knows how much you want him to be here and watch you walk the stage.

Before you could answer, the president announced everyone to stand up to receive their awards and degrees.

This is finally it.

After the ceremony, you walked around the large crowd of families to find yours. You took a bunch of pictures with your friends before you went over to your family. Your mom texted you where everyone was at.

When you found your family, you walked over with the biggest smile on your face holding your diploma in the air, moving it up and down.

Everyone came over to you and congratulated you. In so many ways, the love you received from your family warmed your heart. You were also given flowers and balloons. There were numerous pictures taken.

Multiple conversations between the family started happening.

Your older brother and his wife arrived, followed by their two-month-old daughter, your niece. Your brother handed her to you. She wore a onesie with writing that said, My auntie graduated with flowers all throughout. For the photo, you held her by her armpits, pulling her face to yours and kissing her nose.

"Ugh, I love being your auntie!" You exclaimed as you cradled her.

She looked up at you with a grin, making you smile even more.

Your mom had her phone in her hand, ready to take a picture of you with the flowers and your diploma. Your mom is a photographer, she takes amazing pictures and usually takes pictures of you for your instagram sometimes.

Everyone gathered around to take pictures of you as well.

So much was going on that you didn't notice Rafe standing behind you with a bouquet of flowers and a card he bought for you.

You could feel a male present standing behind you. You smelt a familiar cologne, Rafe’s cologne.

"Congratulations, baby," he quietly said, catching you off guard.

Your eyes had blown out of their sockets. Your heart was racing at a hundred miles per hour. You spun around, putting your arms around Rafe and pulled him closer, unable to let go.

Rafe was the only one who mattered right now.

Tears began to build up in the corners of your eyes.

“How are you even here right now? I thought you couldn’t make it today” you cried, kissing his face, laughing.

“Well, I was able to get the important stuff done and decided to surprise you” Rafe explained, holding your waist.

"Did you see me-" you are interrupted by him, "yes, baby, I was there to see you walk the stage."

"I believe these are for you, my pretty lady," he says as he hands you a gorgeous bouquet of your favorite flowers.

"Thank you Rafe, these are beautiful."

"I'm so proud of you and everything you've done to get to where you are now." "This is definitely a proud boyfriend moment," you sigh, then laugh at his final remarks.

my taglist

@runningfrom2am @winterrrnight @brooklynscherry-z @kaydsr3venge @johannelis2302nely

if you would like to be added my taglist please let me know :)

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron fanfic #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe cameron imagines #rafe cameron x reader #rafe obx #rafe cameron x you #rafe x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x kook!reader

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hraeiou · 18 days ago

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To everybody like me, which is to say Bay Staters flabbergasted at the election, there ARE at least three good thing that happened last night!!

Elizabeth Warren (U.S. Senate, Democratic, Incumbent) won her senate re-election against John Deaton (local guy who makes you want to claw your eyes out). She kicked his ass too (60.3 to 39.7, with 89% voter turnout as of 6:48 on 11/6/2024)

71.5% voted YES on question 1, allowing audits of state legislature (the government can be legally examined by an independent body!)

58.1% voted YES on question 2, repealing the MCAS requirements for graduation. Basically, it was a state standardized test that was really terrible at doing anything other than getting teachers fired, and you don't have to pass it anymore for a high school diploma

BONUS! At time of posting, 54.1% (with an 88% turnout) have voted YES on question 3, which would allow rideshare drivers (Uber, Lyft, etc.) to form unions!

#massachusetts #2024 election #elizabeth warren

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hero-israel · 4 months ago

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homelessness and the housing crisis is growing, healthcare is shit, education system is shit, ppl can barely find jobs, white supremacy movements is growing, etc etc etc but ppl are willing to let trump win bc biden and kamala aren’t anti israel. as if trump isn’t even more outwardly pro israel than they are?? and why are we letting issues in israel and palestine, that yes are important, decide what president we elect in the united states of america???

foreign policy has never played such a big role in an election since what, vietnam?? afghanistan? but americans were getting affected by those two on a large scale. there are only a few US spec ops forces in israel rn, and that’s mainly to help identify hostages especially american ones. and ppl are blaming all of these issues above on US aid money to israel when that’s not the cause of it and would most likely just increase under trump. ffs i hate these leftists so much.

In Putin's Russia, robots program people!

This is the most obvious case I've ever seen of trollbot accounts swaying public opinion and motivating previously normal-ish people towards political extremism and even violence. It's like all the propaganda we see whipping up angry mobs in "The Boys," but on the other side; their college diplomas did not save them from becoming Sandy Hook Truthers.

I remember when Occupy Wall Street fizzled out ineffectively - and that was about day-to-day economic conditions for American voters! People couldn't motivate themselves over that, but some influencer talking about a "Gaza famine" could help Trump carry MIchigan? A repulsive, sick joke.

The epistemic closure of leftists needs a lot more examination. I will not forget the person who posted this: "Do you dare to claim that the Left promote anywhere in the world real anti-semitism, namely theories that the Jews are by their nature evil or inferior or that they are the root of all the problems in the world ? Or do you claim perhaps that the Left promote policies of discrimination or exclusion towards Jews, let alone of persecution of the Jews ?...

...Anti-semitism is not a problem for the Left as a movement for the reason that I have explained above, namely the total incompatibility between the worldview of the Left and anti-semitism. The same obtains for anti-Black racism. Perhaps there are some leftist individuals with residual anti-Black tendencies, but obviously anti-Black racism is not today a problem for the Left as a whole, as the Left is in its very essence for the equality and equal dignity of all people”

Homelander can't be a badguy, he's the goodguy

#donald trump #joe biden #kamala harris #gaza #palestine #troll farms #psyops #american politics #election 2024 #leftist antisemitism

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hard--headed--woman · 5 months ago

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Rose Valland !

She was a French Resistance fighter who rescued and recovered more than 60,000 works of art and cultural property stolen by the Nazis from public institutions and Jewish families during the German occupation!!! For that, she was nicknamed "Capitaine Beaux-Arts"

Rose was born in 1898 and died in 1980. Although she never spoke publicly about her private life and sexual orientation, she never married, and the only relationship she ever had was with a woman.

She was able to study thanks to her mother, who applied for grants for her daughter. In 1914, she entered the École normale d'institutrices in Grenoble, graduating in 1918. Gifted for drawing and encouraged by her teachers, she left to study at the École nationale des beaux-arts in Lyon.

She gained a good reputation there, because she was talented and serious, and won a lot of prizes! In 1922, she entered the École nationale supérieure des beaux-arts in Paris. She then passed the competitive examination for teaching drawing, coming 6th out of more than 300 candidates.

During the 1920s, she studied art history at the École Pratique des Hautes Études, the École du Louvre and the Institut d'Art et d'Archéologie. In 1931, she obtained her diploma from the École du Louvre on the evolution of the Italian art movement up to Giotto. At the Institute of Art and Archaeology at the University of Paris, she obtained three postgraduate certificates in modern art history, medieval archaeology and Greek archaeology. She was so intelligent and cultured, with so many diplomas, it's impressive! She published some studies and articles too, and she even learned to speak some languages like German without even studying it.

From October 1940, at the request of Jacques Jaujard, Director of the Musées Nationaux, she remained at the Musée du Jeu de Paume, officially as a curatorial attaché, unofficially instructed by Jacques Jaujard to report to him on the actions of the Germans, who had just requisitioned the museum to store works of art extorted from private collectors.

During the Occupation, the Germans began systematically looting works from museums and private collections across France, mainly those belonging to Jews who had been deported or had fled. They used the Jeu de Paume museum as a central depot before sorting and directing the works to various destinations in Germany, Austria and Eastern Europe. During the Nazi looting, Rose Valland discreetly recorded, as accurately as possible, the movements of the works passing through the Musée du Jeu de Paume, the names of the looted victims, the number of works, their destinations, the names of the agents in charge of the transfers, the names of the transporters, the marks and writing on the crates, the numbers and dates of the convoys, not forgetting the name of the artist, the work and its dimensions.

For over four years, she kept track of all the works' movements, origins and destinations. She scrupulously drew up dozens of index cards, deciphered German carbon paper discarded in the museum's garbage cans, and discreetly listened in on the conversations of Nazi officials. She provided the Resistance with essential, detailed information on the trains transporting the works, so that these convoys could be spared by the Resistance. In autumn 1944, she gave the Allies the names of German and Austrian depots (Altaussee, Buxheim, Neuschwanstein, Füssen, Nikolsburg, etc.) to avoid bombing, secure them and facilitate the recovery of stored works.

After the liberation of Paris by Allied troops, and until May 1, 1945, she worked with SHAEF (Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force), providing the Americans with vital information on storage sites for works transferred to Germany and Austria.

From May 1945, she was seconded from the Ministry of National Education to the Ministry of War, then from 1946 to 1952, seconded as a 3rd class administrator to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, occupying the Secretariat of State and then the General Commissariat for German and Austrian Affairs. Nicknamed "Captain Beaux-arts", she was appointed Captain in the 1st French Army, while also serving as Head of the Service de remise en place des œuvres d'art (SROA) within the Public Education Division of the French Group of the Board of Control.

She was sent to the various Allied occupation zones, British, American and Soviet, from where she repatriated a large number of works. She cooperated with American agents to conduct investigations and interrogate the Nazi officers and merchants responsible for the looting.

She played a decisive role in the February 1946 Nuremberg hearings on the plundering of art by Nazi leaders.

Between 1945 and 1954, she took part in the repatriation of over 60,000 items of French cultural property taken from public institutions and persecuted Jewish families.

Her courageous and heroic actions during the war and post-war years earned her numerous French and foreign decorations. In fact, Rose Valland was one of the most highly decorated women in French history.

She was :

-> made an Officer of the Legion of Honor

-> made a Commander of the Order of Arts and Letters

-> awarded the French Resistance Medal

-> awarded the Medal of Freedom, the highest civilian decoration in the USA

-> made an Officer of the Order of Merit of the Federal Republic of Germany

-> awarded the Latvian medal of the Order of the Three Stars in recognition of her involvement in the Latvian Art Exhibition (painting, sculpture and folk art), held at the Jeu de Paume from January 27 to February 28, 1939.

Unfortunately, as is often the case with women in history, the role she played in the Resistance, protecting French works of art and the property of deported Jewish people, was quickly forgotten, and her name is hardly ever mentioned today when this part of history is evoked. Insane, when you know everything she's done and how many decorations she got...

At an undetermined time, perhaps in the post-war years, Rose Valland met the British woman Joyce Heer, secretary-interpreter at the U.S. Embassy, who became her lover until her death. The two women shared an apartment on rue de Navarre in Paris. Rose Valland reserved a place for her beside her in the family vault.

Rose Valland died in 1980 at the age of 81 in a nursing home in Ris-Orangis, outside Paris. She is buried with her lover in the family vault in her native village of Saint-Étienne-de-Saint-Geoirs, where the secondary school and a square bear her name.

She truly was a hero, and I wish we talked about her more !

#rose valland #history #ww2 #ww2 history #nazi occupation #second world war #women's history #female history #herstory #lesbian #lesbian pride #pride #pride month #lesbian history #female homosexual #female homosexuality

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luvvyouforever · 10 months ago

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rhys and john keats - modern au!rhysand x college student!reader ❥

↳ reader can barely handle the weight of college but rhysand is there to pick her up and help the pain.

↳ so self indulgent it hurts. set in a modern age where reader is a college student but rhysand is still high lord? idk honestly. mentions of stress, self doubt, comfort, crying. my day-to-day life essentially.

↳ requests are open! check characters in pinned post and link for requests is in my bio :)

the living room of your shared apartment with rhysand is a sight to behold. papers, printed copies of poems, books, pens, highlighters, and three energy drinks enclose you in a circular shape. it's horrifying and the sight is not eased by your messy hair, dark circles, and tear-stained cheeks. the semester was getting to you, clearly.

three papers were due for one class in the next two weeks. six quizzes were on the agenda and you had easily ten multiple page texts to read before class at 9am the following monday.

it had never been this stressful before but your time in college was coming to an end and that only ramped up the amount of work you had to complete. your final few semesters were certain to end you and you'd never get to walk across that stage to receive a blank page of paper which would eventually be replaced with your actual diploma. that's how it felt, at least.

minutes full of agony passed until you heard the familiar flapping of strong wings on the balcony. you didn't move from your sitting position as rhysand sauntered into the room, smile so wide it reached his violet eyes.

"my dear y/n," he whispered. his voice was so sweet that another tear forced its way out of your eye and down your cheek again. he must have sensed it, the stress pouring down your bond, or maybe he could somehow smell the salt of the tear as it dripped onto the page in your lap. he knelt down to meet your face and he pouted. "what's going on, darling?"

for the first time that night, you tore your gaze away from your work and met his eyes. "there's too much," you mumbled with a watery voice. "i can't do this."

he made a click with his tongue while examining the piles of work on the floor. his fingers lifted the assignment prompts and poems and syllabus requirements. more tears fell and you silently cursed each and every one of them.

"why can't you do it? what's challenging you?" he asked gently. it was not meant to condescend but he was trying to figure out how to help you in the best way possible.

"i feel like the analyses i'm coming up with are dumb, i don't understand the lines, the rhyme scheme is stupid, and i don't know what my thesis is for a moronic paper on keats should be. it's stupid and dumb and i'm stupid and dumb."

rhysand moved his hands to your cheeks before you could even react and pulled your face to meet his strong eye contact. his purple eyes bore into yours and he poured liters of reassurance down the bond. that mental claw in his head brushed against your mind in a calming manner. "do not say words like that, my love. you are so intelligent. and you're fully capable of managing everything on your plate."

you sniffed, feeling pathetic in his strong gaze. "i don't feel that way, though. i don't know how to deal with this stress, rhys. it's impossible. it's like this huge tower looming before me and i'm being asked to climb every single step in the best possible way or else i'll be pushed off of the top."

rhysand breathed out a sigh and his hand found your own. "i'm gonna help you climb that tower, okay?" he grabbed a brightly annotated copy of a keats poem and read over it.

"have you even read keats? or dickinson? do you know what a thesis statement is?" you asked. there was a bite to your words but it didn't faze rhysand in the slightest.

"of course i do, love. what do you think i do in my spare time when i'm not being an expert ruler? there's a small section i had put in the library, down on one of the lower floors, and it's full of human books. there's anthologies of authors, textbooks on writing, math theory, whatever you want, it's there. and i've perused it all. this poem-" he held up the printed keats "-is one of my favorites.

"so, the way i interpret this poem is that in order to withstand and stay strong in the face of suffering, we should indulge in poetry, beauty, and art. don't you think so?" he began to recite some lines which resembled this theme and suddenly, it all made sense.

he did that two more times with the other texts you had to write about. everything connected when he taught it and read it. you now had three outlines completed with well-developed thesis statements, annotated stories and poems for discussion, and three out of six quizzes were completed.

"thank you," you said, pouring as much love through your bond as you could. "really, thank you. this means so much to me."

"of course, my dear. shall i put on a sweater vest and glasses and replace your professor from here on out?"

you giggled and finally stood from the floor. the two of you walked into the kitchen to begin making a nutritious, filling dinner with your favorite velaris-sourced wine. "i would absolutely take you up on that offer if it didn't mean everyone in the class would be vying for your attention."

rhysand's arms wrapped around your midsection while you prepared food for dinner. his head leaned forward so that his mouth was by your ear. "i only have eyes for the smartest person in class."

can you tell i'm an english major? this is all very self-insert, i read the keats poem i talked about like two weeks ago :p

#acotar #a court of thorns and roses #acotar series #rhysand x reader #rhys acotar #rhysand acotar #rhysand #rhysand fluff #acotar x reader #acotar fanfic

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deenbandhuchhoturamuniversity · 1 year ago

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DEENBANDHU CHHOTU RAM UNIVERSITY (DCRUSM.ORG.IN)

DCRUST offers degree, diploma, and certificate programs at the undergraduate (UG), postgraduate (PG), and doctorate (Ph.D.) levels. DCRUST is well-known for its flagship program BTech, which requires candidates to take the JEE Main examination. The university also accepts other national-level entrance exams such as GATE, CMAT, and NATA for admission to programs such as M.Tech, MBA, and B.Arch. Website https://www.dcrusm.org.in/

#DCRUST offers degree #diploma #and certificate programs at the undergraduate (UG)#postgraduate (PG)#and doctorate (Ph.D.) levels. DCRUST is well-known for its flagship program BTech #which requires candidates to take the JEE Main examination. The university also accepts other national-level entrance exams such as GATE #CMAT #and NATA for admission to programs such as M.Tech #MBA #and B.Arch.#Website #https://www.dcrusm.org.in/

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hanniebread · 8 months ago

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what comes must go. yoon jeonghan

warnings. mentions of tuberculosis as well as terminal cancer, bittersweet sort of ending, kind of angsty and sad.

wc. 1.9k

an. i wrote this in thirty minutes while listening to radiohead so it's pretty meh, but i wanted to post it regardless lol. also i'm really nervous to put this out there because i've never actually published anything before so i genuinely have no clue if this is even worth posting or not... please try to enjoy regardless umm thats all

everything happens for a reason. over time jeonghan had grown to be painfully aware of that fact, being fed the phrase on a silver platter by his mother throughout his entire life. everything has it’s own purpose, and once it’s done serving it, it goes on to be something more important–something more solemn and dignified.

when a tree dies, it weeps sap before finally resting; though it’s slumber isn’t eternal, as it goes on to become a life source for those around it. some trees take on different purposes, falling to the ground to create a new path for living creatures that may wander towards it. a tree laying over a river to become a bridge is the same as a tree that spreads it’s roots into the ground to become a mother.

in fifth grade, jeonghan’s hamster died. his mother broke the news to him–though she didn’t tell him directly, making up some excuse about his pet going on an adventure to explore that of which he hadn’t had the opportunity to see while he was living in a cage.

he figured out what really happen two years later, now being old enough to truly grasp the concept of death, though he didn’t shed any tears. jeonghan figured that since everything has a purpose, there must’ve been a reason behind his beloved pets death. there had to be an ulterior outcome, something that let to a happier ending instead of the despondency and disconsolateness you’d feel when envisioning death. it took him a while, but he’d forced himself to accept the fact that he’d never know the real reason, because what comes must go.

in eight grade, just before he’d be sent off to a prestigious high school, jeonghan fell ill with tuberculosis. everything he’d worked for, the education he’d craved throughout his entire life, had been stripped from his hands and thrown out the window with one examination. when the doctors informed him of this, he almost didn’t believe it. everything had gone so well for him, and he’d worked to keep it that way--yet when he reached his highest, he was dropped to his lowest within just a few seconds.

he found himself unable to grasp the notion, though he knew it was more than that by now, it was his new reality. throughout the healing process, he found himself asking: was god punishing him for being happy? was this meant to happen? did this have a reason behind it?

by the time jeonghan had become well enough to go home, he’d already missed his entire ninth grade year, shifting into the next without experiencing any of it. he’d recovered well, though he was still too weak to go off to the school he’d imagined himself in since he’d picked up a flier as a child, the school he’d earned the right to attend. he spent his days homeschooling from his bedroom, his eyes becoming droopy and devoid of any light they’d held previously. though he found it challenging to stay optimistic, he remained hopeful–because what comes must go. he knew his pain would leave him, and he knew there had to be a reason behind his suffering. everything happens for a reason.

in twelfth grade, jeonghan had made a full recovery, and attended his senior year at school in person. he found himself thinking back to the three years he’d spent by himself, and his chest swelled with gratitude; despite all of the damage it’d done in the moment, he realized that everything he��d gone through had built him into something stronger than he was before. when he was handed his diploma, he realized his mother was right.

when jeonghan turned nineteen, he began attending harvard. he found himself surrounded by groups of amazing people, his mood almost never dropping–which was a huge contrast to how he’d behaved just years prior. he’d smiled wider than he knew was possible, and though he didn’t want to, in the moment he couldn’t help but remember: everything that comes must go.

when jeonghan turned twenty, he met you. your presence felt like a breath of fresh air, something that made him forget about the past and the future, allowing him to just live in the moment. as he got to know you, he’d found himself appreciating things around him more than he realized was possible, cherishing every moment for what it was instead of thinking about what it’d be when it became nothing but a memory.

when jeonghan turned twenty-one, he fell for you. loving you came easy, becoming something he’d do subconsciously, almost as if devoting himself to you was as simple as breathing. he found himself behaving as if he was a teenage boy again, giggling at the mere thought of you. he brought you flowers, ones he didn’t even know existed until he’d gone on a tangent trying to find flowers that perfectly suited you, to which he decided were red carnations.

confessing to you was nothing short of undemanding. he found himself telling you how he felt as if he was stating the obvious, as if it was something so undeniable and simple that you’d have no reason to question it. he spoke the words "i love you." in such a way that it was on par with "i'm alive right now." – something so matter-of-fact that it came straight from his heart and fell right out of his lips. when you’d accepted his feelings, and even returned them, he felt as if he’d just won the lottery. that day he decided he’d live life without worries, letting himself be happy no matter what. living would be easy for him, as long as he had you.

when jeonghan turned twenty-two, you told him you had terminal cancer.

suddenly, the phrase he’d lived by made no sense to him. everything happens for a reason? that had to be a complete lie. he thought back to what he’d always told himself, ‘everything that comes must go’, and in the moment the phrase felt like a punch to a gut rather than a subconscious reminder. he didn't want you to go, he didn’t want it to happen–and instantaneously, he felt like a child again; like a child battling their own emotions, ones which they can’t control or understand. that day, jeonghan cried himself unconscious.

it was nothing new that loving you came easy, but loving you on borrowed time felt more tortuous than enjoyable. he tried his best to ignore the fact that your light wouldn’t stay aflame for much longer, but the thought lingered in the back of his head with every glance he took.

when you were hospitalized, jeonghan visited you every day. he spent every second he could by your side, talking to you, clinging on to the idea that maybe–just maybe you could hear him. he knew this day was approaching rapidly, he knew that you didn’t have much time left, yet every night when he left the hospital, he went home and prayed. he prayed harder than he ever had before, harder than when he attended church every weekend as a child, harder than he had when his mother told him that his father had gotten into a car crash, he prayed until his hands were sore and red from squeezing each other.

the day before you died, jeonghan brought you red carnations. he’d always visited with flowers, which meant that your hospital room was nearly flooded with them; but he’d never had time to stop and get the ones he truly believed you deserved. anything other than this felt shallow and generic, but he couldn’t explain why. perhaps it was because carnations were the flowers he’d associated with you all this time, it’d become his way of expressing his love to you when you weren’t able to tell him you felt the same anymore.

on the day that you died, jeonghan felt as if a piece of him had died along with you. nothing could put into words how it felt as he held your hands, which had slowly become cold; his eyes stinging as tears pooled in his eyes and fell on to your empty, unmoving chest.

jeonghan missed you so much it was unbearable. sometimes he’d be so overwhelmed with sadness and grief it felt as if he was going to die, his chest burning as he struggled to breathe. there was no way in hell that this happened for a reason. his mother was wrong, everyone was wrong, everything he lived by was wrong, and he felt so lost that it made him question if he should even seek out help anymore.

the first time jeonghan visited your grave, it was on his twenty-third birthday. he tried to enjoy the day with his friends, which had also been your friends at some point, but he found himself wanting nothing more than to spend the day with you, even if it meant he’d really be by himself. he felt more guilt than he’d imagined as he realized how long he’d waited to visit you, though he knew it wasn’t for the wrong reasons. as jeonghan sat next to your grave, he let himself cry again, the only thing comforting him being the thought that you were there with him. he knew that he had to accept your death eventually, and that nothing in this universe could bring you back, because everything that comes must go.

that day, jeonghan brought you pink carnations.

healing wasn’t an easy process, and it didn’t get easier as he progressed in life without you. when jeonghan turned twenty-four, he rented out his first house with a friend you both shared. he adopted a cat, cut his hair, and tried his best to become a new version of him. though it was hard, and he viewed it as nearly impossible, he didn’t give up. despite how cliche and foolish it may sound, he knew you wouldn’t have wanted him to.

jeonghan knew he’d never think the same after you passed, and that proved to be true. he didn’t blame his mother, he’d never truly blame her, but he found himself so overwhelmed by his feelings that he didn’t know exactly who to point fingers at. in all honesty, if he opened his eyes, he knew that he’d find it to be nobodies fault. “some things just happen,” seungkwan had told him the day he’d cried to his best friend on the couch they’d bought together only recently, his chest heavy with guilt. “whether or not they happen for a reason doesn’t matter, what matters is that you make the best of the situation and enjoy what you have while you have it.”

spring rolled around quickly. when jeonghan had moved into his new house, he’d noticed small buds of flowers by his window, resting unborn and full of potential as they stared at him, almost expectantly. he didn’t mind, because maybe they’d grow to be something beautiful, something full of life for as long as it’d be alive. maybe they were there for a reason, one he was yet to find out. the thought made a bud of hope blossom in his chest, one much like the dormant flowers sitting almost next to him.

a week later, they blossomed into white carnations; and jeonghan allowed himself to cry once more. he knew they’d close up eventually, retreating back into their shells as the seasons changed, but he found himself thinking: ‘maybe that’s okay. they’re here right now, and that’s all that matters.’

he didn’t let it trouble him, because what comes must go–and if he’s lucky enough, maybe it’ll come back around.

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