𝒴ou first met carlisle cullen when you moved to forks and had a minor accident. nothing dramatic, just a sprained ankle and some bruises after slipping on wet pavement near the hospital.
he was the doctor who treated you. calm, kind, effortlessly elegant. he smiled softly as he checked your vitals, his voice a warm balm that made your pulse jump.
you noticed something in his eyes that day. a flicker of familiarity, like he recognized something in you.
he would say later that it was the way your eyes lingered on the rain through the hospital window, looking peaceful, thoughtful. like someone who didn’t belong to this world either.
carlisle keeps his distance at first. he tells himself it’s wrong. he’s centuries old, he’s a vampire, and you deserve a human life, a normal life. but he finds excuses.
you get an anonymous donation to cover your medical bill. a nurse mentions dr. cullen asking how you’re recovering. you swear you see his car pass your street once or twice too often to be coincidence.
he’s used to controlling his thirst. but he’s not used to controlling his heart. that’s harder. infinitely harder.
every time you cross paths again, grocery store, library, a town event, he’s impossibly kind. but always just out of reach. his glances linger. his hands hesitate when they brush yours. you notice how his jaw tenses when you thank him too sweetly.
he starts volunteering with community projects more often, knowing you’re involved. you’re painting murals at the high school or helping restock books at the library, and suddenly dr. cullen is there, donating supplies or offering his car to help transport boxes.
“just wanted to help,” he says, voice low, gaze fixed just over your shoulder.
he lends you his coat when it’s cold one night at a fundraiser, even though he never gets cold. when you return it a week later, folded and smelling like you, he stares at it for minutes before hiding it in the back of his closet like a secret.
the way he looks at you when you speak, like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the earth. he listens so intently. he remembers everything. what flowers you like. how you take your tea. the name of your childhood dog.
when you catch him watching you, it’s not with hunger, it’s longing. deep and aching. like he wishes he could hold your hand without crumbling. like he wants to be the one you come home to and hates himself for even thinking it.
you slowly start realizing more about him. the way he’s always cold, freezing cold. at first, you write it off. he’s a doctor. hospitals are cold. maybe his circulation is just… strange.
another time, you help organize a photo wall at the hospital to celebrate long-time staff. there’s a photo from 15 years ago, he’s in it. and he looks exactly the same.
not “aged well”. not “maybe it’s just good lighting.” no. it’s identical. the jawline, the eyes, the way his mouth turns at the corners. frozen in time.
you stop trying to make sense of it. but you don’t forget.
the realization doesn’t come like a thunderclap. it comes like fog lifting. all the little things. all the signs. the cold. the silence. the shadows. the stillness in his body. the ache in his eyes.
one day, you’re alone with him in a quiet room. he’s talking about life like he’s lived too many of them.
and it hits you: he has.
you stare at him, heart in your throat. “you’re…”
he just watches you, unmoving. and his eyes… god, his eyes, they say yes. without ever speaking the word.
after that, nothing changes. not really.
you still see him at the hospital when you volunteer. he still greets you with that same impossibly gentle smile. Still holds the door open for you. still walks beside you in companionable silence like he always has.
but it’s not the same. not after you know.
now you notice everything with a different weight.
the stillness of his body when he’s not pretending to be human. the absence of breath when he thinks no one’s listening. the way his golden eyes seem darker when he’s close to you too long, like he’s holding his breath for your sake.
and he knows you’ve figured it out.
you never said it aloud. you didn’t need to. you both carry the truth like a fragile object neither one of you wants to drop.
it starts with the distance.
not the kind that hurts, just… cautious space. carlisle doesn’t stand as close anymore. his hands stay folded in front of him or tucked into his coat. he avoids unnecessary contact, even though you miss the warmthless comfort of his fingers brushing yours.
you catch him once, watching you from across the hallway when he thinks you’re not looking.
you smile softly.
he looks away, jaw tight, lips parted like he wants to say something but can’t.
the conversations stay light.
books. local news. work. you talk about the rain. he listens like it’s scripture. you mention a book you’re reading, and he asks questions. not because he doesn’t know the story, but because he wants to hear it from you.
you try to break the tension once.
you say, lightly, “you know i’m not going to run away screaming, right?”
and his reply is immediate, too immediate.
“i know.”
but he says it like he’s still waiting for the day you do.
there’s something softer between you now.
a kind of knowing. a shared secret neither of you dares to press on too hard.
the kindness in his eyes carries more weight now. so does the way he pulls back when he gets too close. the way he pauses before speaking. the way he stares at your throat sometimes, only for the briefest flicker of a second, before his gaze moves back to your eyes.
it’s not fear. it’s restraint.
and guilt. always guilt.
as if he’s still unsure whether you seeing the truth was a gift or a wound.
but even with all the awkwardness… he still stays.
still meets you in the hallways. still helps you carry things. still listens. still offers you his umbrella. still walks you to your car.
there’s one night during a thunderstorm when you’re stuck at the hospital after dropping off supplies. the power flickers, plunging the corridor into shadows broken only by flashes of lightning. the rain pounds steadily against the windows, a rhythmic hum against the stillness.
you’re halfway down the hallway, arms crossed for warmth, when you hear footsteps. unhurried but purposeful.
carlisle turns the corner with a flashlight in his hand, his golden eyes immediately finding yours. the relief on his face is subtle, but it’s there, etched into the soft furrow of his brow, the way he exhales like he’s been holding his breath all night.
“come with me,” he says gently, offering you his hand.
he leads you to his office, the soft glow of the flashlight throwing golden halos around his silhouette. inside, the storm seems more distant, tucked away behind the thick windows. he lights a few candles and places them around the room. it’s quiet. intimate. the kind of quiet that feels sacred.
you sit across from him on the low couch, knees brushing under the blanket he gently draped over your legs. the flickering light makes the angles of his face look like they were carved from marble and warmth all at once.
he looks down at your hand, resting on the edge of the couch, and for a moment, he forgets himself. his fingers twitch, aching to reach for you, but he doesn’t move.
you notice.
“you can touch me, carlisle,” you whisper, barely louder than the storm outside. “i don’t mind.”
his gaze lifts slowly to yours, and there’s something unspoken in it. something ancient. something unraveling.
he finally reaches for your hand and threads his fingers through yours with a reverence that makes your chest ache.
“i’ve lived three centuries,” he murmurs, his voice raw with something heavy, “and never, not once, have i felt this.” his thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and trembling.
you hold your breath.
“this ache i carry when i’m not near you… i don’t know how to quiet it anymore.”
the candlelight flickers. you think maybe he’s about to let go, but instead, he pulls your joined hands to his chest, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling.
“you don’t know what you’ve done to me,” he says, quieter this time. “and i don’t know how to stop needing you.”
his hand is still over yours, pressed to his chest, and you can feel it, even though there’s no heartbeat. the weight of it. the ache. like his whole world has funneled into that one point of contact.
the candlelight flickers again, shadows dancing softly across his face. he’s staring at you like he’s afraid he’s dreaming, like you’ll vanish if he breathes too hard. his lips part, then close again. you can see the war behind his eyes.
you lean in just slightly, and that’s all it takes. he leans in too, almost involuntarily, his face now only inches from yours. his voice comes out as barely a whisper, desperate and breaking.
“i told myself i would never feel this again,” he says, almost like a confession. “not after everything. after the wars. the blood. the loneliness. i thought i’d buried this part of me centuries ago.”
your breath catches.
“but then you came,” he continues, shaking his head like he still doesn’t understand it. “with your warmth, your voice, your laugh… and suddenly every part of me that had been quiet, dead, was starving again.”
you can feel the heat radiating off his skin, even if it isn’t from blood. it’s the kind of warmth born of longing, of want buried so deep it’s fossilized.
his eyes fall to your lips for just a second too long.
“i think about you,” he whispers, like he’s ashamed of it. “more than i should. i hear your name in my mind when i’m trying to focus. i imagine what it would feel like to hold you, to come home to you. and then i hate myself for wanting so much from you when i don’t deserve it.”
you reach up and gently cup his cheek and that’s when his resolve nearly shatters.
“carlisle,” your eyes look up at him with such tenderness he melts. “you’re allowed to want this.”
his eyes flutter shut at your touch, and his breath stutters. for a moment, you’re certain he’s going to kiss you.
he leans forward, forehead resting against yours, and his voice is a desperate tremble.
“i shouldn’t,” he breathes. “but i’ve never wanted anything more.”
you whisper his name.
his fingers tighten slightly around yours.
and just as his lips begin to brush against yours, barely, just the ghost of a kiss, he suddenly pulls away.
the movement is swift but not cold. his hands linger on yours like he doesn’t want to let go, like it hurts to let go. but he does.
he stands up, pacing a few steps away, facing the window where the rain slides down like silver threads.
“i’m sorry,” he says, voice hoarse. “i don’t trust myself around you. i’m sorry, i can’t do it. i can’t.”
you rise from the couch slowly.
he turns to face you, and you’ve never seen someone look so torn. so completely wrecked by love they won’t allow themselves to have.
he left that night with nothing more than a whispered apology and a look that gutted you, begging you not to give up on him, even as he walked away.
you didn’t.
but the silence since then has gnawed at your ribs like something hollow. and you can’t take it anymore.
so you go to the hospital. not because you need to, but because you have to see him. you find him in his office, alone, papers stacked untouched on the desk, a book open in front of him but clearly unread.
he looks up.
and for a split second, he doesn’t speak. just stares, like he’s been starving and you just walked in smelling like salvation.
“carlisle,” you whisper, stepping forward, voice fragile with the weight of everything unsaid.
he stands slowly, almost like he doesn’t trust his body to move. your name softly escapes his lips like a prayer.
“i’m sorry,” he says, quiet but wrecked. “about that night, about everything. i—”
you move closer, interrupting him.
“i can’t do this halfway,” you say, throat tight. “if you want me, want me. but please, stop pretending this isn’t real.”
and that’s it.
that’s the match to centuries of restraint.
because suddenly, he moves.
one second he’s across the room. the next, he’s in front of you, grabbing your face like he’s drowning and you’re the only air he’s ever known.
his lips crash into yours.
it’s not careful. it’s not gentle. it’s centuries of aching, a hundred lifetimes of loneliness detonating all at once in a single kiss.
his hands slide into your hair, desperate and rough, pulling you closer like it’s hurting him not to have you against him. his mouth is hot and open, kissing you like he’s trying to carve you into memory. like he’s furious with himself for waiting this long. for holding back when this, you, was what he’s needed all along.
a groan rips from his throat when you clutch the front of his shirt, and it only spurs him on. he walks you back against the wall, never breaking the kiss, his hands roaming like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. your waist, your spine, your trembling shoulders.
“god,” he breathes between kisses, his forehead pressed to yours, lips swollen, voice ruined. “you have no idea how long i’ve wanted this. how long i’ve—fought this.”
you run your fingers through his hair, dragging him back down, and he moans into your mouth like he’s finally, finally home.
“you drive me mad,” he whispers. “i dream about you. i ache for you. i’ve walked this earth for centuries and never, never, has anything undone me like you do.”
his hands slide down your back, anchoring you against him.
“i’m so tired of pretending,” he murmurs, kissing down your jaw, your neck, desperate to touch as much of you as you’ll let him. “so tired of being good. i need you. i need you so bad.”
your breath shudders.
you’ve never seen him like this.
not composed. not calm. but shaking with want.
“then take me,” you whisper against his lips. “you already have.”
he kisses you again. deeper, slower now, but no less intense. like he’s tasting the rest of his eternity in your mouth. like he’ll never let himself go this long without you again.
and in that moment, with your hands tangled in his hair and his body pressed fully to yours, you know:
carlisle cullen has never let go like this before.
and now that he has, there’s no putting him back together.
You phase for the first time a little later than Seth and Leah, which means you’ve heard plenty of teasing from them about being the “late bloomer.”
Carlisle first meets you when you’re trying to calm Seth during a tense moment between the Cullens and the pack and he’s struck by how steady and kind your presence is.
At first, you think Carlisle is too perfect to be real: the calm voice, golden eyes, and that impossibly gentle smile. (Leah rolls her eyes every time she catches you staring.)
He treats you with the same quiet respect he gives everyone, but you notice there’s a softness in his tone just for you.
You’re fiercely protective of Seth and Leah and Carlisle finds that devotion beautiful. He’s not intimidated by your wolf strength; in fact, he admires how fiercely you defend the people you love.
When you’re hurt in a scuffle with newborns, Carlisle is the one patching you up. He’s calm while you’re grumbling about “vampire smell,” but his hands linger just a little too long as he checks for injuries.
The two of you often meet at the edge of the forest, where the scent lines blur. He brings old stories about medicine, art, and places he’s traveled; you bring sarcastic comments and fresh-caught fish from La Push.
Sometimes, he sketches you while you nap in wolf form near his side. (He never shows anyone, it’s his quiet treasure.)
You’re the only one who gets to see him loosen up: laughing at your jokes, leaning close to whisper when the others aren’t paying attention.
Seth thinks it’s awesome and constantly tries to embarrass you by asking Carlisle if he’s going to “take his sister on a proper date.”
Leah is skeptical not because she doesn’t trust Carlisle, but because she doesn’t want you to get hurt. Still, she secretly notices how much happier you seem and decides to keep an eye on him rather than forbid it.
The rest of the pack is torn between teasing you and being protective. Jacob makes a lot of “Dr. Fang” jokes.
Carlisle is endlessly patient, letting you set the pace. He knows the imprint-like intensity wolves can feel and doesn’t want to rush you.
He loves running his fingers through your hair after patrols, saying it’s “silkier than any fur coat I’ve ever seen.”
When you curl up beside him, sometimes in wolf form, sometimes not, he reads aloud, voice low and soothing, until you drift to sleep.
I need more people to talk about the Volturi and their lore! Like do people understand we have these vampire kings that are born in THE Mycenaean era in Greece!? Do we understand how old that would make them??
Like what would their religious views be? Do they still follow certain customs from their time? And do we really understand how much of history they would have seen, AND experienced??
And not only that, they fought and overthrew the Romanian rule! I yearn for more people to share their thoughts and opinions on them so let this post be your invitation the actually share themm:)
Worshiping You | Carlisle Cullen x chubby!afab!reader
Anon request <333 and as a very chubby girl myself, it was an honour to fulfil 🫡 PLEASE SEND ME REQS PEOPLE IM BEGGING
WARNINGS: smut smut smutttt, r!human x vampire, body worship, pinching, teasing, talks of female anatomy, he loves you so much <3 not proofread lol
work song - hozier
Enjoyyy
Carlisle's skill and knowledge of female anatomy from all his years of studying would always make your intimate moments memorable, even if they didn't happen that often.
Carlisle's sex drive isn't high. For a vampire of his vintage and faith, sex is about passion and closeness, not just about pleasure. So every time you two do end up tangling in each other's bare limbs, he puts his all into cherishing you and worshiping your very being.
And tonight... Tonight was one of those nights. A night to remember.
As you lay on the bed in your shared room, his cold finger tips hit your bare skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps as they travel down over the waves of your stomach. You squirm for more than just a faint, absent touch. He can sense your desire and how impatient you're getting. He's been at this for a few minutes now, having slowly stripped you to your undergarments, just gazing at you in pure awe and affection from between your legs, which were laying flat on the bed.
Even in his 300+ years he’s never seen something so sweet, so delicate and delectable - you, splayed out atop the bed, in nothing but your underwear and bra. He uses his knowledge of your anatomy on you, knowing how to pull you to the edge just by the work of his skilful finger, which you knew, but still you craved for more, even with the knowledge that you wouldn’t last any longer than the last time.
“Shh…” He murmured under his breath, enjoying every part of the scene playing out in front of him.
His hands continued down, stopping at the hem of your underwear. Just as you thought the teasing and taunting was over, his hand ventured back up, slowly tracing every curve you have to offer him. You whimper, sulking at the absence of him inside you. He leans down to your ear, kissing it softly from beside you, using his forearm as a support.
“Now, now my dear…” He reassured. “As much as I love watching you come undone, I also love watching your need for me blossom into the most beautiful of flowers…” His cold whispers send more shivers down your body.
“I always need you…” You whisper back to him, basking in the sound of his voice.
“I know, my love.” He reaches his hand up to your jaw, cupping it lovingly. “But I love it when it shows.” You can feel him smile against your earlobe.
His hand travels from your jaw to your chest, never breaking contact from your skin. He plays with the straps of your bra before sliding them down your arms. You lean up for him as he reached behind you to undo clasp.
Once free, he discards the bra, dropping it beside the bed before gazing at your bare torso in all its glory.
"you get more beautiful by the day.." he says huskily, his hands following his eyes and cupping your plump breasts.
The stark contrast between your temperature and his would feel odd to anyone else. But to you, it was so comforting.
His cold skin makes your nipples harden as his thumbs graze over them softly. You look at his eyes, he's completely focused on your body and what he's doing to you. He's only ever like this when he's working or in his office.
It makes you feel special, important and loved. Your skin prickles, feeling his eyes bare into his hands fondling your breasts tenderly. Your cheeks develop a soft red tint. He notices this without even looking at your face.
"Am I making you hot and bothered?" He smiles to himself, clearly proud. "Am I doing too much?" He teases.
"You're not doing enough." You huff, your head falling back to your pillow.
"Awh, love... You know you'll get what you want soon enough. And you know I cant help myself. You deserve to be cherished, worshiped. And I intend to do it as such, but every time I see your body, it's like I'm seeing it for the first time again.." he trails off, reminiscing about your first time together. How scared he was to hurt you, and how you made him feel young again.
He leans down and brings his lips to your nipple, kissing it tenderly before taking it into his mouth.
You sigh, grateful for at least some contact. His tongue swirls around it attentively, one of your hands coming to his hair and brushing through it. His hand comes up to your other breast, reaching your pronounced nipple and pinching it softly.
You sigh, easing into him quickly, as per usual.
He swaps to the other side, licking and sucking one while pinching the other.
One of his knees presses against you, feeling the molten heat between your legs. He hums to himself, finally detaching from your boob and leaning back again.
He trails his hands down your sides before hooking his index fingers under your underwear.
Carlisle glances up at your face for a second before continuing, moving your legs to the side of him so he can pull the soft fabric down your legs. He discards them off the bed, returning to the earlier position, between your legs, only this time, his gaze was hungrier.
He softly pushes your legs further apart before spreading your delicate folds. He looks up at you through his eyelashes.
"you're glistening, my love. Like a diamond." He speaks in a hushed tone, suppressing his thirst to devour your very being.
"gorgeous..." He murmurs off.
He lowers himself, his face creeping closer and closer to the ache you bare. He looks at your face again, watching your reaction as he swipes his tongue through your folds. From your entrance to your clit.
Your limbs loosen up a bit with relief, letting out a breath you didn't even know you were holding.
He works his magic, sucking and swirling his tongue in the perfect rhythm, making you lace your fingers into his soft blonde hair.
He wraps an arm around your thick thing, holding up close to his head as he gets lost in your taste and noises. You feel two cold fingers press against your entrance for a moment before slowly easing inside of you. Your fingers grip his hair a little tighter.
Slowly, he starts to pump them in and out, curling them and caringly stroking the wall inside you that makes you let out a moan, all while his tongue still continues its beautiful assault on your senses.
You can feel yourself getting close already, the heat and pressure building up within you. He senses this, and normally he'd make you wait a bit so, in his words, he could take his time and fully enjoy you. But he decides to take mercy on you this time, already having teased you for too long.
He pulls back, but only for a second.
"Go on... Let yourself release."
He shoves his face back into you, his tongue resuming it's task on your clit, his fingers pushing deeper, in and out more sensually.
You can't resist your words, your legs and abdomen stiffen as you clench around his fingers. You try not to crush him with your large thighs, even though you know you couldn't even kill him if you tried. Your orgasm washes over you, your sweet sounds like music to Carlisle's ears. He works you through it, making sure you get the most out of the pleasure.
When he's finished, he gives a slow kiss to the overhang of your lower stomach before crawling up over you.
"you did so well. Perfect.. as always" his voice helps bring you back to reality.
"are you ready for more, my sweet?"
Oh, yes. Yes you are.
masterlist
Hope you liked :3 I love writing reqs so please send more !!
A burnt out artist in a failing economy , your pediatric nurse best friend gets you a job at her hospital as a Child Specialist. After a chance encounter in the hospital chapel one traumatic Christmas Eve, you begin to see the mysterious man you encountered that evening everywhere.
CONTAINS NSFW / MATURE THEMES. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. CW: Death, Catholic Guilt, Religious Trauma, Slow Burn, Sexual Tension, Eventual Smut, Hospital Setting, AU insanely different from the canon ( lol )
a/n: This is my first ever work for the Twilight Series, and my second ever fic i’ve ever written! I watched all the movies and have done extensive research on the lore, but my apologies for any inaccuracies! This is also an almost complete diversion of the canon, there are characters from the series in vastly different roles all throughout. Barbies in the dream house type beat, lol. But trust the process and the vision I beg!
The ‘Reader’ in this series is gender-neutral, mid-sized, formally Catholic, has tattoos and piercings (not described but mentioned) with their own (limited) backstory interspersed throughout the story. They may be referred to later on by (gender neutral) nicknames and pet names.
L’homme n’est ni ange ni bête, et le malheur veut que qui veut faire l’ange fait la bête."
'Man is neither an angel nor a beast, and the tragedy is that whoever wants to act like an angel, acts like a beast.'
- Blaise Pascal
Invariably, when you entered your therapist's office and sank into the hideous but comfortable green leather couch, your eyes would drift up to the right corner of the wall, where you would fix your gaze on the wooden crucifix hanging there. You detached from the movement of your mouth as you spoke. The words would fall like glass marbles, bouncing onto the coffee table and scattering across the room. As they rolled under chairs, the desk, and the couch, your therapist would carefully pluck them up, one at a time, hold each to the light, and painfully examine them.
"I remembered something. I must have been about five, maybe even younger. I was holding Pops' hand. I looked up at him and said, 'I'm going to be a heart doctor some day.' And he looked down and said, 'Those are called cardiologists.'"
No immediate response, so you went on, "Funny. I don't remember so many things. Important things. Birthdays. Holidays. I don't remember my friends' faces, or my first kiss. But I remember when I learned the word 'cardiologist'."
Every week, for an hour and a half, your mouth running, you kept your focus on the twisted, lone wooden figure that hung by his hands and feet.
"What makes you think of that?" Finally came Dr. Laurent's easy, quiet voice. "When we were just talking about Alice?"
You tore your eyes away for a rare moment to regard the man sitting across from you; posture straight as an arrow, opposed to your slouch; his long locks tied back from the eyes set deep in an ebony-skinned face, a sober line of mouth; a clinical, innocuous expression that hardly varied. Legal pad poised on a knee, pencil in fingers that formed a steeple.
You blinked again, as you sank further into the plush cushion. Alice. Her name washed you ashore, back to reality, the world of flesh and blood and tears. Your eyes, suddenly tired, dragged back up past Dr. Laurent's shoulder, back to the crucifix. Your chewed raw lips parted with no noise. The memory of looking at a cross and thinking of Alice, at another time, another place.
SEVEN MONTHS AGO
You checked your watch. 2:24 a.m. Officially as of midnight; Christmas Eve.
The sterile light of the hospital's lobby spilled aggressively through the wall of double glass doors that led into the chapel. With the opening and closing of the double doors, the noise sealed itself out. The pervasive hush enveloped you; it took hold of your stumbling body and weighed upon your shoulders as you lurched forward, practically collapsing into the pew. You welcomed it as you staggered down the nave, steadying yourself on the rounded wooden arch of each pew you passed until you collapsed in the front row.
Moonlight faintly glinted against the narrow, deep-set enclaves of mosaic stained glass high above your head. Suspended from the highest point of the ceiling hung a crucifix made of dark wood, carved intricately enough to reveal the veins in his neck straining against his slow death. Suffering and hope in the drops of blood trailing down his forehead. Although you struggled to catch your breath, your eyes and face hot, you looked up at him through your lashes with a feeling you couldn't quite name, boiling in your chest.
You folded over, your forehead touching your knees, holding yourself in your arms. You were too burned up inside to cry. You tried to regulate your breathing, images flashing behind your eyelids.
Toothy smile, big eyes, looking at you, bright and alive, only yesterday —
"It becomes more manageable over time."
Surprise at the voice of someone else bolted you upright, choking you. You swiveled your head until you saw the form in the shadows on the pew across the aisle.
"H-huh?" you stammered, deeply startled. You had not seen him — a man, you think, from the voice — or heard him come in, or been aware of another person at all existing in the chapel with you until he spoke.
Like everything else in the gloom, his strong profile was shadowed, highlighted only on the fringes by faint moonlight. Pale blonde hair, but not as pale as his skin. Dark slacks and shoes. He was sitting straight against the pew's back. His chin tucked, nose downward, studying broad alabaster hands clasped on his knees.
The man lifted his head and met your gaze with pale auburn eyes. They were immediately distinct; you'd never seen such a color before. Maybe it was a trick of the light. Or you'd finally lost your mind.
They held a quiet curiosity, penetrating your defenses. "You're no nurse," he said softly, tilting his head with a gentle lilt.
You sniffled and huffed out a contemptuous laugh. You shook your head. "Definitely not. Child Specialist. I'm on call, and…" Your jaw snapped shut. Any words you might have spoken eased back down your throat like sand.
"I see." The stranger picked up where you trailed off. "The code blue. In the PICU."
A mechanical nod was all you could muster. Feebly, you clutched at the fabric of your pants, kneading your thighs to put off the tears that were hot at the corner of your lashes.
The shared silence with the stranger went on for several heartbeats.
He broke it first. "I told you it gets more manageable. Perhaps that's not entirely true. But I guess coming here is a good reminder that all suffering becomes more manageable in light of his." He lifted his head, and you followed his gaze, glancing back up at the crucifix. "If you believe in that sort of thing."
"I used to," you admitted without thinking. You slumped down, rubbing your eyes hard. "I tried. Couldn't deal. Now I just come to get away from all the fucking noise."
An old part of yourself admonished you for cursing in such a place. Another part felt childish, petty satisfaction. "Sorry…If you believe in that sort of thing," you added in a mumble.
As for the man, you heard a huff of amused laughter, barely audible. It seemed like you blinked, and he stood before you, facing away from the altar. He was fast, quiet as a shadow. You took in fully that he was a doctor, though not one you'd ever seen before. White coat, stethoscope gleaming in what spare light penetrated the chapel. "Not necessary. I come for the quiet too."
You couldn't help it; you stared, taking in his cut, neat features. He looked like he belonged in a soap opera hospital, not a real-life one. With sad people who ugly-cried real tears, faced real death. He looked … above that.
"Oh…well. Did I mess that up for you?" You managed.
He smiled, close-mouthed but warm as the sun on your skin, making your cheeks just the same. "Quite the opposite," He replied. The doctor opened his mouth to say something else. "You—" He stopped short, turned his head as if someone interrupted him. He was listening…for something.
You stayed quiet, looked around. You didn't hear anything. The chapel was still silent. Save for your breathing.
His eyebrow drew down, as did the corners of his lips. "I… was just leaving. Seems like they need me." He looked out to the lobby. "Lucky, you get to enjoy it awhile longer. But," To your surprise, you saw him raise his hand to place on your shoulder. Gentle, light as a bird's wing, just enough pressure to be felt. "Don't forget they still need you, too."
The honey-eyed doctor left no room for a reaction, retreating and pushing his hands in his coat pockets as he strolled back down the aisle, into the light, his broad back to you. He did not look back, not all the way, but you saw him pause, turn his head enough so you knew he was addressing you. "Oh, and Merry Christmas. If you believe in that sort of thing." Then he was off, disappearing altogether like a ghost.
Only later, when you already replayed it a hundred times over in your head, did you realize you didn't catch his name.
PRESENT DAY
As you entered your apartment, you sighed. The scorching July sun was relentless all the way home, but luckily a few weeks of clouds and rain were in the forecast—your favorite. You kicked off your shoes randomly, dropped your bag in the hallway, and then headed to the living room to flop onto the couch.
Your roommate Leah did not even flinch as you collapsed beside her, carefully penciling a crossword puzzle, black coffee in a mug on the arm of the couch she leaned against. A severe, concentrating broad face, dark hair cut sharply right at her jaw. "How was therapy?" came her curt greeting.
You muffled a drawn-out, warbled noise into the pillow your face was mashed against.
"Yeah. Sure," Leah responded, reaching to take a sip of her coffee. "You're not so mentally distraught you're going to bail again tonight, right?" In usual Leah fashion, her voice was accusatory.
You turned your head to the side to release your mouth. "Depends," you murmured. "Is it going to be another nurses and doctors party, full of nurses and doctors?"
"Well, obviously."
"Then consider me psychologically obliterated."
Leah flicked her pencil at you. You let it hit your arm and fall to the floor. Then you reached and handed it back to her outstretched hand. "Come on," She urged, exasperated. "It's, like, kind of important. Some retirement party for one of the attendings."
You grunted, unconvinced.
Leah clicked her tongue. "And anyway, I'm sick of seeing you mope around the house all summer. At least stay and say hi to everyone and fake laugh for free drinks for like, 45 minutes." Her voice softened, just a tad. "Please," she added hesitantly.
Something about her voice flicked a light in your head. You blinked up at her, sitting up on your elbows. "Oh, I see now," You replied. "She's going to be there, isn't she?" A smile curled conspiratorially on your face. "The new nurse from down south. Miss Tall-With-Green-Eyes. What was her name again—?"
Leah threw her pencil at you harder, and you laughed as it bounced off the couch cushion and onto the floor, rolling back to her. She snatched it up and held it up to her reddening face. You saw her fix to say something before you held up your hand in defeat. "Okay, okay. Fine. I need to shower and change, alright?" With a grunt, you hoisted yourself from the couch and shuffled to your room.
Leah set down the crossword and stretched. "Oh, and wear something cute. I heard Mr. Christmas Eve might actually make an appearance, too."
You stopped with a lurch, heat spreading across your neck.
"Tie yourself in a little ribbon, why don't you?"
Then you swung open your door and slammed it to cut off Leah's ribbons of evil laughter.
You met Leah at first-year orientation in college. Both of you stayed utterly silent during the popcorn two-facts-and-a-lie introductions, hovering at the edge of the group. From then on, you latched onto each other like moss clinging to a rock in the violent rushing waters of young adulthood. You'd cried together over numerous exes, stolen alcohol from frat parties, and sung at the top of your lungs all the way back to your dorm. You smoked your first joint in the dormitory's bathroom with the shower on so the fire alarm wouldn't trip.
You stayed up with her each night, listening to the drawn-out saga of her breakup with Sam. You lay shoulder to shoulder as you drafted risky texts, daunting emails. You graduated with your Fine Art degree, and Leah a year later from Nursing School
When the economy blew up and, of course, all artists took the brunt of it on the chin, she let you move into her two-bedroom. When you'd gotten sick of being a barista to pay the bills, she got you a job at her hospital, in her unit, as a child specialist. It wasn't ideal, but you liked kids, and you loved financial stability.
She was Alice's nurse, and the reason you hadn't quit, or perhaps jumped off a bridge, for the last half year. She practically twisted your arm to go into therapy. Despite her severe temper and your nebulous, inattentive artist ways, you were soft landing spots for each other.
So that meant enduring wretched, informal work functions as a wingman for her latest infatuation.
"What kind of retirement party for a doctor happens on a rooftop bar?" You grumbled.
"A drunk one," Leah said over her shoulder. She held your wrist so you wouldn't lose each other in the dense, sweaty throngs of people milling through the bar and the dance floor on the first floor. After shouting into a bouncer's ear for directions, you stayed close until you were spit out onto a back patio with a staircase leading up. Illuminated by hanging lights, with high tables with stools and circles of lawn chairs around caged fire pits, you saw clots of familiar faces in various conversations. Leah tugged you to the bar, her eyes sweeping the crowd.
"Two green tea shots, please!" she called to the bartender, holding out her card.
You planted yourself on a stool beside her. You let yourself look around a bit, not seeing anyone of note — before glancing back at Leah. "Any sign of Miss Green Eyes?" you asked.
“Not yet. You see Mr. Christmas Eve?"
You winced. "No."
You knew his name. You and Leah dared not say it. Weeks later — after the funeral — when you'd told her everything about that night and the strange encounter, she went floor by floor until she found his name. He was night-shift attending two floors down from the Pediatrics Ward you and Leah worked.
Not that she needed to do all that. Even with your slightly less-occupying job, the hospital was too overstimulating to notice much until it was right in your face, even movie-star handsome attendings.
Meeting him that night was like when you learned a new word and saw it constantly for the next three days. You saw him leaving, his back turned to you as you just arrived. Once in a while, you'd be rushing down the hall and catch a glimpse of pale skin, blonde hair turning the corner. Once, you'd even both boarded the same elevator, although there was a crowd of doctors twittering around him, and, in his kind attentiveness, kept his eye contact solely on each of them as he spoke, paying you no mind as you drilled holes into his cheek in the corner.
All hours you'd go to the chapel, but you never saw him there again after your encounter on Christmas Eve. Especially not anywhere outside of the hospital. The only rumors you'd ever heard about him that breached up to your floor were that he was a workaholic and extremely polite when he declined most invitations he was given.
So, certainly, he wouldn't be here.
Your green tea shots arrived, and you and Leah eagerly took them. She raised her shot slightly to clink with yours before you both gulped them down. The combination of bitterness and sweetness sent a shiver through you, causing you to grimace. "Fuck, that guy pours heavy," you rasped. Despite the burn, the shot quickly warmed you, and Leah signaled the waiter for another.
Leah said, "I'll leave a nice tip if he keeps doing that," smiling briefly before her face suddenly froze, her eyes widening. "Oh, God, she's here. No— don't look, damn it!" she exclaimed, kicking your foot as you stiffened, caught off guard by her panic.
You blinked. "Well, don't just stand here, Lee — go talk to her!"
Leah swallowed, already flushing. She took a step, then drew back to look you over. "Okay. Are you gonna be alright?"
You shrugged. She looked at you exasperatedly, so you nodded. "Sorry, yes. I'll be fine. Go for it."
“Just text me, okay? No Irish goodbyes. You promise?"
“Take your time, and— Leah— don't forget to smile!"
She bared her teeth at you in a humorous, exaggerated grimace before squeezing your arm. Glancing back, you saw her swallowed up by the crowd.
Two green tea shots arrived late. You took yours and then slammed back Leah's as well. She'd understand.
Feeling sufficiently tipsy to socialize but not too intoxicated to interact with your coworkers, you got up from the stool and enjoyed the hot summer breeze on the rooftop. A group of nurses from your unit approached you, and lively, excited chatter ensued. You remained polite but gradually stepped back, content to listen.
You looked for Leah, for her green-eyed little crush, but couldn't find her
Maybe you should've stayed home—a flash before your eyes, a tug on your shoulder, a memory.
You seem like a homebody. Real lonely—Oh, I get it—you're like a cat lady type, aren't you? Staying inside in itchy sweaters.
Alice's voice, clear as a bell. Tilting her head, her pixie upturned nose crinkling, all bones and legs curled up in her hospital bed.
You sound like my Pops, you'd replied. He used to call me 'Lonesome'
''Lonesome,' she'd echoed. Kinda corny. You hated it, didn't you? Great, that's what I'll start calling you.
You chuckled softly, pulling yourself back to reality—back to the one without Alice.
Suddenly feeling dizzy, you gently edged away from the small crowd. You didn't make a scene, avoiding pushing through the bodies, clouds of sweat, perfume, and cologne, with people shouting over house music. Instead, you remained courteous, collapsing inwardly and holding yourself together to avoid causing inconvenience or attracting attention. You softly mumbled "excuse me" and slowly moved through. Then, you descended the steps, retrieving your phone from your pocket to message Leah that you would walk home.
You reached the second floor and stepped onto the sidewalk, feeling the rush of alcohol fog your senses and impair your judgment. Alice's image blurred your focus. As you crossed the curb, a speeding car suddenly appeared, but you weren't struck.
Something — an iron band — yanked you back onto the sidewalk. Only then did you realize an arm had pulled you, anchoring you to a hard chest.
"That was close," a male voice said, ruffling your hair. "You should be more careful." Turning around, you saw the familiar, shining gold eyes of —
hiii twin!!! may i request a graphic/stimboard/LITERALLY ANYTHING YOU WANT OK with my new hehhehehe hyperfix Carlisle Cullen from Twilight pretty please.
i really don't care what you do, i just love your work and need something with my pookie okee
since it's not in your whitelist feel free to skip my request oke twin bye
@barkbarkbakery <3
★ Carlisle Cullen Graphic // Request
･ ⟢ ⋮ Free to use, credit not required but appreciated. Reposts/Edits/Recolours/adding to Masterlists or hoards allowed.
HI ROMEO!! Yes yes of course here you go… I’m so sorry I feel like this is sort of ugly so sorry about that arghhhhhh. And I agree Carlisle is a very good looking man, lol. Thanks for the request!
