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voxslays · 4 days ago

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Refills & Rainstorms

In Forks’ local diner, two unlikely souls—a woman with a sharp tongue and a man of few words—begin to break down the walls around their hearts. What starts as casual mornings and coffee dates soon turns into a tender, slow-burning romance. *Contains fluff, slow burn, coffee addicted reader, Bella being supportive, rainy Forks Pairing: Charlie Swan x Reader Tag List: @mostlymarvelgirl Twilight Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The bell above the Forks diner door gave its usual soft jingle, the kind that barely stirred the quiet air inside but marked your arrival with just enough ceremony. Outside, the morning had already soaked through the town, rain pattering endlessly against the sidewalks, the roof, the wide windowpanes that framed Main Street like watercolor landscapes. Mist clung to the edges of every pine tree, curled against the corners of parked cars, and gathered like breath on glass. You stepped inside with your arms full—your overstuffed purse slipping from your shoulder, your trusty but unreliable travel mug sloshing hot liquid perilously close to your wrist, and the latest issue of The Forks Post rolled into a tight scroll beneath your arm, not unlike a sword you might wield against the crushing quiet of early mornings.

Your shoulder nudged the door shut behind you, muffling the sound of distant tires on wet pavement. The scent that followed you in—rain, pine needles, damp flannel—lingered for a moment before being swallowed whole by the scent of frying bacon and percolating coffee.

“You’re late,” came Sue Clearwater’s voice from behind the counter, smooth as ever, warm with mischief and none of the bite. She was wiping down the Formica like it owed her money.

You sighed theatrically, setting your bag down on your usual stool—third from the end, closest to the window with the slightly warped view of the sheriff’s office across the street. “No, darling. I’m dramatic. There’s a difference.”

Sue didn’t miss a beat. She raised one knowing brow and slid a chipped white mug across the counter, its contents dark and holy. You caught it like a lifeline, the heat curling against your fingers. It was your communion, your absolution. It was the reason you hadn’t committed murder before 10 a.m.

“You know,” Sue said, turning back to the griddle with a practiced flip of her spatula, “most people make their coffee at home.”

You took a long, reverent sip. “And most people are masochists who believe that pain builds character. I believe in caffeine, comfort, and the art of good company.”

She laughed, that sharp, affectionate bark of a sound that somehow warmed the entire diner. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I’ve been told,” you said, propping your elbow on the counter and leaning in like you were about to share a secret. “Mostly by me.”

Your smile lingered behind the rim of your mug, a private little thing. The diner was still mostly empty—just the occasional regular grunting over hashbrowns or nursing a second cup. Rain traced wandering paths down the windows beside you. The fog outside was thick enough to feel like a presence, like something sentient pressing its forehead to the glass, watching.

It was a routine now. Ritual. Sacred in its smallness. Same diner. Same stool. Same back-and-forth with Sue that felt more like friendship than customer service. You’d been in Forks for just over a year—long enough to recognize most of the faces on the street, to memorize the rhythm of the rain, to find peace in the silence that had once unnerved you.

You came to Forks the way some people crawl into bed after a long, painful day. Seeking comfort. Escape. Seattle had been too much—too bright, too fast, too loud, always reaching for more. You’d run out of breath somewhere between promotions and late-night meetings. Forks was quiet. Forks was pine trees and flannel and grocery store conversations that always included weather. It was slower, kinder. It let you exhale.

And that was precisely when he walked in.

The bell gave its same polite jingle. The door creaked open, ushering in a gust of wet air and something else—something heavier. You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. You’d memorized the signs.

The sound of boots on tile, solid and sure. The deliberate way the door shut behind him, not too loud, not too soft. Silence thickened in his wake, but not the awkward kind—no, it was the kind that carried authority, presence. And then came the scent, faint but unmistakable. Leather. Pine. Coffee. A whisper of gunpowder and forest floor. It grounded you, like standing too close to a campfire.

Charlie Swan.

Police Chief. Divorcé. Father of the girl who’d looked at you with the gentlest kind of warning when you first met—Bella’s version of protectiveness was all in the eyes. You’d quickly passed the test.

You glanced sideways, as discreetly as possible. Charlie was a man who didn’t take up space in the obvious way—he wasn’t loud or large or boisterous—but somehow, he shifted the air around him anyway. His presence was weighty. Steady. Like old oak trees or weathered stone. He wore his flannel like armor, his badge tucked beneath his jacket, his hair a touch more silver at the temples since the first time you'd seen him.

He gave Sue a nod and a low, gravel-thick, “Morning.”

It rumbled low enough to curl under your ribs.

“Usual?” Sue asked, already reaching for a plate.

Charlie gave a nod.

He sat one stool away from you. Not beside you—not quite. There was a buffer. Always a buffer. Enough space to pretend there was nothing to notice, nothing to lean into. And yet, you noticed. Every time.

You didn’t turn your head, but you felt him. Like the gravity of a planet. Like thunder in the bones of the earth. Like rain hitting a tin roof.

“Cold out there,” you said, testing the waters, voice light.

“Mmm,” was all he said, eyes fixed on the specials board like it might change if he stared long enough.

You risked a glance then—quick, fleeting. His profile was stoic as ever, jaw dusted with graying stubble, brows drawn as if the daily eggs-and-toast dilemma required tactical analysis.

“You think we’ll ever see the sun again,” you mused aloud, “or is that just a myth they tell the children to keep hope alive?”

There was a pause, and then—just barely—his lips twitched.

“Might get a peek next June,” he said, voice wry, eyes still forward.

You smiled into your mug.

✦

The next few weeks unfolded not in leaps or dramatic declarations, but in subtle shifts. Like the way winter gives way to spring—not with a grand announcement, but in the soft melt of snowbanks, in the first crocus daring to bloom. So too did your relationship with Charlie Swan begin to change, almost imperceptibly, until it was undeniable.

It started with the coffee.

You began to notice that on more mornings than not, he was already there when you arrived—seated at the counter, back straight, one hand curled around a white porcelain mug, the other holding The Forks Post open like a shield. He didn’t always speak right away. Sometimes, he didn’t speak at all. But there was always a second mug placed beside your usual stool—third from the end, nearest the foggy window—filled just the way you liked it. A little cream, no sugar, hot enough to burn your tongue if you weren’t careful.

“Oh look,” Sue would say with an innocent shrug, sliding the mug toward you, “I accidentally poured an extra. You wouldn’t mind helping me out, would you?”

Her eyes danced, but you played along.

“Of course,” you’d say with a smirk, “I live to serve.”

Charlie never commented. Not directly. But his gaze would flick over the edge of his paper, just for a moment. Just long enough to meet your eyes.

Some mornings, he’d make a quiet observation. Barely a sentence. Once, he mentioned that your car was parked a little crooked, like he’d passed by and noticed. Another time, he asked if Sue was out of blueberry muffins—because you usually went for those, not banana nut, and it was unusual to see you with anything else.

You hadn't told him your preference. But he had remembered.

And that realization settled into your chest like something warm and heavy and inexplicably personal.

There were other moments, too. Tiny, domestic intrusions that felt intimate despite their simplicity. Like the time he held the diner door open for you without thinking, and you realized—he always did. Or the morning you forgot your umbrella and he wordlessly held his jacket over your head as you crossed the street, his palm skimming the top of your shoulder as he did.

But nothing quite compared to the morning after the storm.

It had rained hard the night before—Forks hard, which meant wind like fists pounding the siding and a darkness thick enough to make the trees look like shadows with teeth. You’d spent the night curled under too many blankets, listening to the roof creak and moan, wondering if the tall cedar in your front yard would finally give up its ghost and fall.

It didn’t. But its neighbor did.

You woke just before seven, the light outside dim and gray, everything still soaked and dripping from the deluge. When you pulled your robe tight around your waist and shuffled to the front window to check the damage, you saw him.

Charlie Swan. In your driveway. Alone.

He hadn’t knocked. Hadn’t called. He was just there—a quiet silhouette moving through the low fog, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, boots caked in wet earth, hands working methodically to clear thick, damp branches from where they’d fallen across your gravel path. His cruiser was parked at the end of the street, hazard lights blinking in the soft mist.

You blinked once, then twice, thinking maybe you were dreaming.

But no. There he was. Chief of Police. With a chainsaw. At seven in the goddamn morning.

You stepped outside in slippers and a worn cotton robe, your breath visible in the cold air. Your hair was doing its own thing—still tangled from sleep, shoved halfheartedly into a messy bun. Mascara from yesterday lingered beneath your eyes like bruised memories, and your mug was clutched in both hands like a shield.

He looked up as you approached, the faintest crease of worry etched across his brow. That familiar stoicism, all wrapped up in forest green flannel and a face that never revealed too much. But his voice, when it came, was soft.

“You alright?” he asked, not quite meeting your eyes.

You swallowed, feeling your heart thump a little harder beneath your robe. “I’m fine,” you said, then smirked. “But Charlie Swan, if you came here to rescue me like some kind of flannel-wearing lumberjack fantasy, you really should’ve called first. I’d have at least put on lip gloss.”

For a second, he blinked. Like he hadn’t expected that.

And then—he laughed.

Not just a breath through his nose or a huff behind his mustache. No, this was a laugh—low and warm and gravel-edged, the kind of sound you felt more than heard. The kind of laugh that took its time. That cracked something open in the morning chill and let light pour through.

You stared at him, stunned and delighted. It was the first time you’d heard him really laugh. And it did something to you. Lit a small fire under your ribs. Made the cold air feel irrelevant.

He shook his head, still smiling, still not looking directly at you. “You’re something else,” he muttered.

You lifted your mug. “So I’ve been told.”

The branches were cleared within the hour, and he left without asking for anything. No explanation. No thanks. He simply nodded once and drove off down your street with the sun finally threatening to burn through the cloud cover.

But the echo of his laugh stayed with you for days.

You heard it when the kettle whistled. You heard it in the rustle of newspapers, in the scrape of ceramic mugs across the counter. It nestled somewhere in the back of your mind, warm and electric and unexpectedly important.

And after that, the shifts became a little less subtle.

You began sitting just one stool away instead of two.

You started bringing an extra muffin, “by mistake.”

And he started looking at you a little longer than necessary.

Just enough to make your heart stutter. Just enough to make you wonder how much longer it would be before the space between you disappeared entirely.

✦

It happened on a rainy Tuesday, in the fluorescent-lit quiet of the Forks grocery store, somewhere between the frosted flakes and the off-brand granola. You stood there, basket dangling from your elbow, caught in what you were pretending was a serious debate about cereal. Your other hand hovered midair, fingers grazing the edge of a familiar blue box—your usual, comforting, reliable.

But your mind was elsewhere.

In truth, you hadn’t heard a word the cereal was saying. Your thoughts were still tangled back at the diner, echoing with the gravelly cadence of Charlie Swan’s voice, the way he’d said “Morning” like it held something secret just for you, or how the corner of his mouth twitched when you quoted Gilmore Girls, his eyes crinkling like he was trying not to laugh.

So when the cart rolled up beside yours, the sound of its squeaky wheel slicing through your distracted reverie, you jolted slightly.

“Deep thoughts about cornflakes?” came a voice that was all dry amusement and quiet confidence.

You turned—and there she was.

Bella Swan.

Hair braided in a loose knot over one shoulder, a tote bag slung across her body, cheeks touched with the soft pink of cold weather and warm familiarity. She looked like the kind of woman who had always been old-souled, like she wore the forest on her shoulders. There was a quiet perceptiveness to her—always had been—but now her smile held something else, too. Something knowing.

“More like a philosophical crisis over whether cereal should be fun or fiber,” you replied lightly.

Bella tilted her head, eyes warm but sharp, one brow rising with that same quiet mischief that Charlie sometimes carried in the twitch of his mustache.

“You know,” she said, her voice almost casual, like she was commenting on the price of milk. “He smiles more now.”

Your hand paused mid-reach, fingers brushing cardboard. “Sorry—what?”

“My dad,” she clarified, shifting her weight to one hip, cart now still beside yours like it had no intention of moving until this conversation was over. “He’s... lighter lately. Less of a permanent scowl. It’s weird. But in a good way.”

You blinked, caught between surprise and something warmer that bloomed low in your chest.

“And I think,” Bella continued, reaching for a bag of trail mix like this was all perfectly mundane, “it might have something to do with a certain coffee-obsessed woman who quotes Gilmore Girls at the diner and always sits third from the end.”

You laughed, heart hammering a little too fast, trying to hide the way her words struck something tender. “You caught that, huh?”

“Oh, I caught it.” She smirked faintly, then softened. “He’s a good man. Honest. Loyal to a fault. He doesn’t... let people in easily. Not since the divorce. Not since Mom. He keeps most things locked up in that fortress of flannel and dad jokes. But lately?”

You waited, afraid to breathe.

“He talks about you.”

The world tilted for a beat. The cereal aisle grew quieter, the hum of the refrigerator cases behind you suddenly distant.

“He... talks about me?” you echoed, like maybe you hadn’t heard her correctly.

Bella gave a small shrug, but her eyes didn’t leave yours. “Just things. Little things. Like how you leave post-it notes for Sue when she’s having a rough shift. Or how you’re always humming along to that terrible '80s playlist when you think no one’s listening. How you know when someone’s had a bad day just by the way they stir their coffee.”

You flushed, cheeks going warm under the flickering overhead lights. You hadn’t realized he’d noticed those things. You hadn’t realized anyone had.

“He pays attention,” Bella said gently, as if reading your mind. “And he’s not great at saying how he feels. But when he talks about you... it’s different. Like there’s a softness there I haven’t seen in a long time.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the handle of your basket. A lump was forming in your throat, one made of disbelief and hope and something fragile that you’d been afraid to name.

Bella’s voice softened again, more vulnerable this time. “He deserves to laugh. To feel alive again. He’s spent so many years being... just my dad. The chief. The steady one. But you—” she smiled, a little crookedly, “—you make him light. You make him human again.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words got caught somewhere between your ribs and your heart.

“And you,” Bella continued, “deserve someone who shows up in your driveway at seven a.m. to clear fallen branches with rolled-up sleeves and zero complaint.”

That made you laugh, even as your eyes stung. “You saw that?”

“Oh, I heard about it,” she said, leaning on the cart like she was settling in for the long haul. “He tried to make it sound like no big deal. Like it was just on the way to his route. But he doesn’t detour for anyone. Not unless it matters.”

You looked down at your shoes, then back up at her. “I didn’t know it mattered that much.”

Bella smiled with something like quiet triumph. “It does. To him.”

For a long moment, you both stood there in the grocery aisle, surrounded by boxes of cereal and the soft hiss of refrigeration units. Somewhere in the distance, an old pop song crackled through the speakers, barely recognizable. Life continued as always, but something in you had shifted.

It wasn’t just coffee and glances and sarcastic banter anymore.

It was real.

It was Charlie.

And as Bella gently wheeled her cart away, tossing one final glance over her shoulder—one that said, Don’t let this pass you by—you stood alone in the cereal aisle with your heart wide open, realizing maybe, just maybe, you weren’t afraid of what came next.

✦

It was the kind of afternoon that smelled like rain, even though the sky hadn't broken yet.

The clouds hung heavy and low above Forks, the light outside soft and silver, filtering through the fog-streaked diner windows like watercolor. Inside, the world was warm and slow. Coffee brewed on the burner in steady puffs. A pair of old regulars played cards in the back booth. Sue hummed off-key to an ‘80s ballad as she scrubbed a baking tray behind the counter.

And Charlie Swan sat beside you, nursing a second mug of coffee like it held answers to questions he hadn’t figured out how to ask yet.

You’d both lingered longer than usual that afternoon. The usual script of your morning ritual had stretched into late midday—no longer just quick glances and banter between bites of toast, but full conversations that wandered. Talk about music. About Bella. About the strange peace that came with aging, and the books you swore you’d read but never had.

And still, he hadn’t left.

Charlie was never in a rush, but he also wasn’t a loiterer. Not unless something kept him there. Or someone.

You sat on your stool, third from the end, fingertips curled around your now-cold mug. You were wearing your rainy-day sweater—oversized and well-loved, soft enough to feel like armor—and your hair was still damp around the edges from the mist. You felt content, humming with a quiet, unspoken anticipation you didn’t quite dare name.

That was when it happened.

He cleared his throat. Not in the casual, clear-the-pipes way—no, this one had weight behind it. Nerves.

You turned slightly, brows lifting just a fraction as you looked at him. He wasn’t looking at you—not yet. His eyes were fixed on the table, like maybe the right words were carved into the woodgrain if he stared hard enough.

Then—he nudged his mug toward you. Just a few inches. Not dramatically, not with any flourish. But with the slow, deliberate grace of a man who measured his movements. Like he was offering a part of himself, disguised in ceramic.

You blinked down at the gesture, then back up at him.

“So,” he muttered, voice low and slightly rough, “I was thinking…”

A pause.

He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks coloring faintly. God, you hadn’t realized how charming his nervousness could be. It was like watching a bear try to dance—powerful, deliberate, deeply unsure.

��If you’re not doing anything Friday,” he continued, one eye finally sliding your way, “maybe we could... you know. Get dinner.”

Your heart thudded once, hard.

He glanced away again. “Outside the diner,” he added, almost like an afterthought. Like maybe you hadn’t understood what he meant.

You leaned back slightly, letting his words settle, letting yourself feel them fully. The way his voice dipped, the way he didn’t dress it up with false confidence or overly planned phrases. Just him. Sincere. Straightforward.

Charlie Swan, asking you out.

The thought lit something in you. Like kindling catching fire—gentle, steady, unmistakably warm.

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing playfully as you rested your chin in your hand. “Hmm,” you said thoughtfully. “Tempting.”

He looked back at you quickly, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion.

“But only,” you continued, “if you promise not to arrest me halfway through for excessive sarcasm. I do have a record, you know. One too many dad jokes at inappropriate moments.”

He smirked, the expression tugging slowly across his face like the sun rising over a mountain range. “Can’t make any promises,” he said, but his voice had softened. There was something behind it—something hopeful.

You leaned in, not far, just enough that your shoulder brushed his ever so slightly.

“Then it’s a risk I’m willing to take,” you said, eyes dancing. “It’s a date.”

He froze for half a second, like he wanted to make sure you really meant it, then nodded once—sharp and satisfied, like a man who’d just won a silent victory against himself.

“Friday, then,” he said, clearing his throat again—but this time it sounded less like nerves and more like anticipation.

You smiled as he slid off his stool and walked to the door, hand lifting in a quiet wave. The bell above him jingled as he stepped into the mist, disappearing like something from a dream you were finally allowed to wake into.

Your fingers tightened around your coffee mug, the grin pulling at your mouth impossible to hide. Sue said nothing from behind the counter, but when you finally turned back, she was already smirking like she’d known all along.

And maybe she had.

Friday suddenly felt very far away.

✦

Dinner was everything your quiet, beating heart had dared to hope for—and more.

You chose the restaurant carefully, tucking it away like a secret just outside of Forks proper, down a winding back road where the pines leaned in close and the fog danced over the gravel like a whisper. It was small, intimate—a repurposed craftsman-style home turned into a cozy bistro with creaky wooden floors and flickering candles cradled in old mason jars. Each table bore mismatched silverware and faded linen napkins in soft jewel tones, like someone’s grandmother had carefully curated the place with love and memory.

The wine came in tumblers instead of proper glasses. The menu was handwritten on a chalkboard. It was perfect.

You wore a dress.

Not one of your usual sweater-dress-and-leggings combos, but an honest-to-god dress. A dark green one that hugged the curve of your waist and fluttered just past your knees, the neckline modest but open enough to make you feel like maybe—just maybe—you could be seen differently. You hadn’t worn it in months. It had hung in your closet like a relic of a past life—one filled with rushed city dates and crowded rooftop bars and the exhausting pressure to perform.

But tonight felt different.

Tonight, you wanted to be seen.

And when Charlie arrived, ten minutes early, standing tall on the front step with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of a jacket that wasn’t flannel for once, your heart did something stupid and beautiful in your chest. He was in a button-down shirt—a muted blue that made the gray in his hair look like deliberate silver—and a clean pair of dark jeans. His boots were still scuffed, and he looked slightly uncomfortable in the clothes, like they didn’t belong to his usual rhythm, but he wore them for you.

And he looked handsome. Nervous and handsome, in equal measure.

He cleared his throat when you opened the door. “Wow,” he said, eyes scanning you with a reverence that made your skin prickle with warmth. “You look…”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Like someone who owns something other than flannel?”

He chuckled, and it was that low, gravelly sound you’d come to love. “Yeah. Like that.”

The drive to the bistro was short, but sweet. Neither of you talked too much. Just music on low, the heater humming, the shared silence soft and full of unspoken anticipation. His hand rested on the steering wheel like it always did—firm, sure—and every now and then, his eyes would flick toward you at a red light, and your stomach would twist just enough to make you blush.

The dinner itself unfolded like slow poetry.

You talked. God, you talked.

About books, about movies you both swore you’d seen but couldn’t remember the endings to. About small-town gossip—Forks’ unofficial sport—and how everyone somehow knew about your “accidental” coffee mug at the diner before you did. You teased him about the rumors, and he took it with a warm smile and a sip of his wine.

You asked about Bella, and his entire face changed. Pride stretched across his features, subtle but unmistakable. He told you how stubborn she was as a kid. How fiercely she loved, even when it scared her. How he worried, constantly, but knew she was becoming someone strong and capable in ways that left him in awe.

You shared stories about yourself, too.

What you left behind in the city. What you were running from—though you never named it outright. The burnout, the noise, the aching loneliness that had bloomed even in the middle of crowded rooms. And how Forks, in all its mist and slowness, had saved you.

Charlie didn’t interrupt. He didn’t pry. He just listened. In that way only Charlie Swan could—like nothing else existed but you. Like your words were stones dropped into a still lake, and he was watching every ripple with infinite care.

By the time you were full—too full, thanks to the way he gently bullied you into getting dessert—the sky outside had darkened completely. Rain fell soft and steady, a silver curtain beneath the glow of the porch light as he pulled into your driveway.

You walked together up the steps, the porch creaking softly under your feet, everything quiet except the soft patter of mist and the hum of night creatures in the woods beyond.

The porch light buzzed faintly above you, casting a warm yellow halo over both of your heads. You turned to face him, your dress brushing lightly against your knees, arms wrapped loosely around yourself. The air between you was rich with the scent of rain-soaked pine, candle wax, and the last notes of red wine.

Charlie shifted his weight slightly, then reached up to scratch the back of his neck in that charming, endearingly awkward way you’d come to recognize.

“I had a good time,” he said, voice soft, almost hoarse.

You smiled. “Even though I made you taste my pasta so I wouldn’t have to commit to carbs alone?”

That pulled a chuckle from him, the kind that rumbled low in his chest.

“Even then,” he said, looking at you with something real in his eyes. Something warm. Certain. Soft around the edges.

You hesitated, heart pounding. The air between you buzzed like static—like a question hanging on the edge of being asked.

And then—without overthinking, without letting fear dictate the moment—you reached out.

Your fingers brushed gently against the edge of his collar, smoothing it, lingering there for just a breath longer than necessary. His shirt was still slightly damp from the walk in the rain. His chest was warm beneath the fabric.

And then you rose up on the balls of your feet, closed the distance, and kissed him.

Soft.

Warm.

Quiet.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Just real—a moment held between two people who had spent so many days pretending not to look, not to wonder, not to hope.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t freeze. Just… melted.

He kissed you back with the kind of patience only Charlie Swan could possess. Steady hands. No urgency, just presence. Like he’d been waiting for this moment with his whole heart and never wanted to break it.

When you finally pulled back, your lips tingling, your breath mingling with his, you let your hand linger at his collarbone and whispered, “Don’t wait another year to ask me out again, Chief Swan.”

And he smiled.

Not the polite smile he gave to townspeople. Not the tired smile he wore at the station. But one that was soft and real and just for you—the kind of smile that lit up the lines around his eyes, that hinted at something deep and enduring underneath all that quiet reserve.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured.

You lingered there for another moment, beneath the porch light, rain misting around you like blessings, hearts steady in the hush of night.

It was just one kiss.

One night.

But it felt like a beginning.

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voxslays · 8 days ago

Text

CARLISLE CULLEN HEADCANON

a slow-burn relationship with carlisle .

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.

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voxslays · 11 days ago

Note

Can you please do something with Carlisle having a pregnant mate?

Carlisle with a Pregnant! Mate

So I try my best not to look at asks before I sit down to do them (element of surprise) and I feel like I predicted this one with the one I did yesterday

Also I feel like this is self explanatory but in this story the reader is a female human. This pregnancy is going down Bella style

Thank you for requesting and I hope you enjoy!

He’s scared first and foremost

He knew this would be a possibility following what happened with Edward and Bella, but he’d been so careful

You really wanted a kid, and he did too, but he didn’t want to put you through the pain and agony of carrying a vampire child

You were on birth control, he used condoms, but it still happened

You were insistent on keeping it, and he couldn’t tell you no

After all, you know what Bella went through

And you also know that Carlisle knows how to help you survive through this

You have full faith in your Vampire Doctor Husband

He does not

He’s fretting over you the whole time

Constantly fluffing your pillow, fetching you more blood, getting you whatever food you want, anything

He’s so worried

All he can see in his mind is you dying, him not being able to save you, everything horrible

And even though you look a lot better than Bella did, he can’t stand seeing you in pain

He gets you the strong stuff

Best painkillers the market offers

And he does that tiktok thing where you hold your partner’s pregnant belly

He just wants you to be comfortable

He is literally at your beck and call

He never leaves your side, either

He calls off from the clinic

He can’t even think about being away from you

When it comes to the actual delivery, he is there no questions asked

He’s fully prepared with the morphine this time

You don’t feel a thing

And everything goes smoothly

He can finally relax again for the first time since he found out you were pregnant

He is fully one of those partners that, yes, is very happy about the baby, but is more worried about you

He lets Rose hold the kid as much as she wants, he’s preoccupied with you

He is a FANTASTIC dad

I mean, he’s been practicing for about 200 years, he better be good at it

This kid is so loved it’s crazy

And this time the Volturi leave you guys alone so it’s a win win

Overall, he is so doting and caring

You can’t even think about lifting a finger before he is there with whatever you need

You are in great hands

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voxslays · 11 days ago

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when i switch tabs for 10 seconds to change the playlist and my tumblr tab refreshes

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voxslays · 11 days ago

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levioso ft. amit!

somewhat trying to study new poses and moves. i think i'll do more "floating" sketches, as it's a very good practice, actually...

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voxslays · 11 days ago

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His man (hiding under his bed and listening in):

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voxslays · 11 days ago

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Teen Mira calling Rumi “nepobaby” and Rumi clapping back by calling her “trust fund kid” or something like that

They call Zoey their sweet summer angel

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voxslays · 11 days ago

Note

Could you do a Carlisle fic where he’s got a daughter and she’s a huge daddy’s girl and we just see how they interact and how much he spoils her, and how much to y/n’s avail she’s got him tied around her little finger

Daddy's Girl || c.c

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: carlisle cullen x human wife reader

(𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.2k

𝐚/𝐧: again i’m so sorry i’ve taken years to reply to these requests, but i’m back on my carlisle cullen shit 😍 i adore writing carlisle as a dad, so if you guys like reading that check out this fic. i didn't have time to proofread so i apologize!

(ik renesmee didn’t grow like a normal kid but i’m just going to write carlisle’s daughter like a normal kid lol)

There are certain milestones that all parents spend years dreading, so very much so that they forget to live in the moment. They spend too many years counting down the time to these moments that signify the growth of their little ones. It is more than true that life flies by before you can even realize it; however, for the Cullens, the rules of time did not apply. Or so it seemed.

For (y/n) and Carlisle, the same dread and race against time that many parents experienced was seemingly inescapable; even despite the fact that Carlisle was immune to mortality. Their precious Elizabeth, who was seemingly just born, was actually five and now preparing for her year of kindergarten. For all parents alike, kindergarten was the first big milestone of many that meant their kids were one step closer to growing up.

It was the first of August which meant that the kids of Forks had exactly a month before school started up once more. (Y/n) was pulling down the plush comforter as she prepared for bed when she noticed Carlisle’s absence. Regardless that he didn’t truly sleep, Carlisle was always there by his wife’s side as she drifted off. She threw the decorative pillows into a corner before wandering down the hall to the man’s office. All of the lights were off in the hallway, except for one. Elizabeth was fast asleep, probably dreaming about the first day, while her much older siblings were out roaming around. It was only plausible that the solely lit room in the house was Carlisle in his office.

Knocking on the cracked door, (y/n) slowly pushed it open, “Carlisle, honey, what are you still doing up?”

It was clear that something was clearly bothering Carlisle, for his hands dejectedly held his head and he was still dressed in his work clothes. (Y/n) wondered if he had lost a patient at work today or if something terrible had happened in the family.

At the sight of his wife, Carlisle immediately sat up and shot her a weak smile to seem convincing. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ve just been caught up in thinking that I didn’t notice the time.”

He held out his hand to invite her over to which she quickly crossed the room and connected her hand with his.

“Something’s up. Do you want to talk about it?” (Y/n) mindlessly played with his fingers while she studied his solemn expression.

“You can read me like a book can’t you?” Carlisle playfully cocked his head before delicately kissing (y/n)’s wrist. “I would like to talk, but let’s go to bed first, okay? You seem tired, sweetheart. I’m sorry that I’ve already kept you up late.”

(Y/n) stood up from leaning on his desk as he rose from his office chair. Ever so slightly, she pecked his cheek thoughtfully before heading back to the bedroom. “Don’t ever apologize about that, Carlisle. I’m always here for you. For better and for worse, remember?”

It was at that moment that Carlisle realized that life would have been miserable without her.

Since the bed was already made, (y/n) climbed in, but left the bedside lamps on for Carlisle who was quickly changing into some loungewear. He came back in mere minutes and got in on his side of the bed before pulling (y/n) close to his chest.

Her head rested on his shoulder while his chin rested gently atop her head, “So what’s on your mind?”

Carlisle softly sighed before beginning, “This may seem melodramatic, but I’m just very worried about Elizabeth.”

“Oh honey,” (Y/n) peered up at the man to look into his golden eyes that were full of concern.

“I mean, for three-hundred years, I never thought that I’d get to experience this kind of life. I never thought I’d get to experience this kind of love, let alone have a child of my own. She’s just growing up so fast, (y/n). For once in my life, I fear that time is finally getting the best of me.”

Carlisle gingerly pulled (y/n) closer by the waist, wanting nothing more than for her to be as close as humanly possible. She too knew exactly how he felt about Elizabeth growing up so fast, about time moving at light speed, about everything. Words weren’t enough to sympathize with the man, so she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. He immediately reciprocated the gesture and lovingly squeezed his arms around her waist before burying his face in her neck.

(Y/n) slightly leaned back, just enough so that she could kiss her husband reassuringly. “We will get through this, Carlisle. I promise you.” He just nodded and planted a kiss in return on her forehead.

Trying to lighten the mood, (y/n) continued, “Besides, Lizzie wants to go back to school shopping tomorrow. We gotta put on our game faces. You know she’s going to beg for glow in the dark backpack. I already saw her eyeballing it in one of Alice’s magazines.”

Carlisle just chuckled lightly before reaching over to turn off the bedside lamp. “Goodnight, darling.”

Elizabeth was absolutely oblivious to her parents' heartache that they tried their best to hide. She also couldn’t understand the dread of older students, for she was over the moon about starting school.

The next morning, you could only sleep in till about eight before Elizabeth jumped on the bed.

“Mommy, wake up! We gotta go shopping today.” Her golden locks were matted and her pajamas were crumpled, but her excitement made up for her sleepy appearance. She leaned against Carlisle’s pillow giving (y/n) her best puppy eyes.

Just a few seconds later Carlisle came running in, laughing when he found that Elizabeth had already made her target.

“Birdie, I told you not to wake your mom yet.” Carlisle walked over with his hands on his hips before bending down to kiss (y/n) on the forehead. “Morning, you.”

She peered up at the man and slipped out of the covers to stand next to him. Elizabeth, taking this as a ‘yes,’ then jumped into her mother’s unexpecting arms.

“Thank you, Mommy!” She kissed (y/n)’s cheek in appreciation. Her sweetness made it nearly impossible for the two parents to resist.

“Of course, baby. Just let me get ready first, okay?” (Y/n) set down her daughter and turned to Carlisle who automatically knew that he’d be getting Elizabeth ready for the day.

“Okie dokie! Daddy made me breakfast, so we can make you some too!”

Staying true to her word, Elizabeth with the help of Carlisle made a simple pancake breakfast for (y/n) who appreciated the gesture. She had gotten ready in record time which only furthered her daughter’s enthusiasm to get in the car and go.

(Y/n) grabbed her purse off the counter after eating and went outside to find Carlisle struggling to strap Elizabeth in her car seat. Her legs flailed around excitedly which made it almost impossible for the man to secure her in the seat. Deciding to not interfere, (y/n) stood in front of the garage door and watched the interaction.

“Birdie, I know you're excited, but we can’t go anywhere until you sit still.” Carlisle sat on the edge of the leather seat and looked pointedly at Elizabeth who finally understood the severity of his statement. When it came between the two parents, it was obvious that Carlisle was Elizabeth’s favorite. So for him to be serious with her, Elizabeth knew that she should get her act together.

Once (y/n) saw that the two had finally come to an understanding, she walked to the passenger door of the car and got in. Never in a million years would she have thought to see a car seat in the back of Carlisle Cullen’s black Mercedes which was decked out in expensive leather and the finest technology.

Carlisle quickly got in the driver’s seat and backed out of the driveway before Elizabeth could fuss anymore.

Elizabeth surprisingly was silent during the drive, instead opting to look out the window and hum along to the radio. The drive was only a few minutes long, but from the minute the car was in the parking lot, (y/n) and Carlisle could tell that this was going to be a long trip. It seemed as if everyone in Forks was doing their shopping since the parking lot was nearly overcrowded.

“Mommy, can I have the list?” Elizabeth was currently holding Carlisle’s hand, as to not get lost in the crowd. (Y/n) fished the school supplies list out of her purse while pulling the shopping cart to the side to avoid angry shoppers.

Carlisle had been working on teaching Elizabeth how to read, and she was proficient for her age; however, she still had some trouble.

“What’s the first thing on the list?” Carlisle looked down to his daughter who inquisitively studied the list.

“Daddy, what’s this word?” Elizabeth pointed to the first item on the list and handed it to Carlisle.

“Oh, it says ‘safety scissors,’ Birdie.” He sweetly smiled at her and handed back the list as she tried repeating the words.

Elizabeth eagerly pulled her dad’s hand to the school supply section as (y/n) kept up behind them with the shopping cart. She immediately found the safety scissors in the purple shade. Since the cart was taller than her, Elizabeth handed the scissors to Carlisle who effortlessly threw them in the basket for her. For the most part, the shopping was easy as Elizabeth went down the list and picked out each supply in the color purple. (Y/n) leaned against the shopping cart rail, nursing a cup of coffee while Carlisle tried to match Elizabeth’s zeal. Everything went smoothly until it came to the great backpack debacle.

A great variety of backpacks lined the aisle and Elizabeth eyed them all with interest. She had let go of Carlisle’s hand to inspect the backpacks that she could reach.

(Y/n) leaned close to Carlisle to whisper, “How much you wanna bet she picks up that damn glow in the dark backpack?”

Carlisle whispered back, “I don’t know, sweetheart. I feel like she’s gonna keep with the purple theme.”

Just as the two were about to shake on it, Elizabeth picked up the glow in the dark backpack. She had seen it in one of Alice’s catalogs just as (y/n) had said, but neither parent realized how taken she was by the bag.

“Mommy, Daddy, can I please get this one?” Elizabeth came up to her parents and clutched the bag with two hands. She looked up at the both of them and pleaded with her eyes.

(Y/n) looked at Carlisle who looked like he was about to cave, but the backpack was ridiculously expensive. Even though the Cullens had money, (y/n) didn’t think it wise to buy such an expensive backpack for a five year old girl who surely would take that bag through the ringer.

“How about the purple one, baby?” (Y/n) tried to deflect by picking up a lilac backpack that had flowers patterned on it. She offered the ultimatum to Elizabeth who insisted on the glow in the dark one.

“But that one doesn’t light up.”

(Y/n) then looked at Carlisle for some backup.

“Well, Birdie, how about we save that one for next year?”

Elizabeth was about to continue questioning her parents before she reluctantly accepted her fate and picked a sparkly violet backpack. Her disappointment was swiftly replaced by happiness when she found scented markers that her parents let her get.

After two hours, school supply shopping had been officially completed. Elizabeth’s enthusiasm had worn off as she now dozed against her father’s shoulder. It was apparent that she was tired as she became cranky near the end of the visit, so Carlisle carried her against his hip while (y/n) finished up some grocery shopping.

(Y/n) threw a box of Advil in the cart when she noticed the glow in the dark backpack that hadn’t been there before. She raised an eyebrow at Carlisle who smiled sheepishly and shrugged.

“I wonder how that got there?” He jested before throwing in a box of cartoon band aids that their daughter adored.

(Y/n) just shook her head and smiled. It was inevitable that Elizabeth would most definitely remain a daddy’s girl.

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