Carlisle Cullen walks like a cemetery with all the ghosts still left in it. He’s twenty-eight this year. The year before he was thirty-two and the decade before that he was twenty-five and a half. He dies, more than six times this lifetime— but less than ten, but never quite lives.
His heart is this solid pear shape in his chest, heavy like one the commemorative paper weights he gets gifted at least twice every five years. He starches his trousers and presses his boxers and never quite looks himself in the eyes when he dresses in front of the mirror.
He does not wear a crucifix.
He carries a miniature binding of the Old Testament in his left hand coat pocket. There is a pocket watch in the right. It has never ticked out loud.
His shoes smell like old asphalt colorant, and his laces never once come undone.
Carlisle Cullen is a saint above men. He is a good man and a good physician and a good father and a good husband. He is so good he must remind himself of it everyday.
I am good. I am a good man. I am good. I am a good man. I am
Bella Swan wants to claw the gel out of his hair and throw him in the lake her father caught nothing at and maybe even untuck his tie if he let her.
Two days after her nearly becoming Forks High road kill, Carlisle Cullen is shoving two fingers into the scorching hot heat of Bella Swan’s wet barely definitely not legal cunt like it’s the first, second, and third step of divinity. She’s wiggling and mewling and letting out those tiny breaths of air into his mouth as he finger fucks her faster than he should with her garage band t shirt hiked around her collarbone, just above the swell and peak and taught-ness of her breasts and her bleached white panties hanging off her foot in the back of his also definitely not legal Mercedes’. She moans something about his cock and his teeth and his hand and doctor doctor doctor I’ve never done this before and he almost blinds himself when she pulls his belt buckle free and shoves her tiny bird boned wrist down the front of his pants.
Neither of them know how any of this happened, don’t recall exactly the steps or the missed calls. When his cock takes the place of his fingers and finally slips inside, redirecting a current from her head to her unlaced converse, Carlisle Cullen will be one ghost lighter, and Bella Swan, heavier.