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palmofafreezinghand · 3 days

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suspenders: on ao3 here.

2011.

A wolf whistle stopped Carlisle mid-step as he walked down the second-floor hallway.

“Someone’s getting lucky,” Emmett sang, his signature heavy footsteps coming up quickly behind Carlisle.

“That is the hope,” Carlisle said quietly, eyes fixed on his freshly shined shoes, mindlessly twisting his wedding band.

“I’d fuck you,” Emmett chuckled, his strong hand briefly landing on Carlisle’s shoulder as he used the leverage to push himself forward.

Carlisle’s brows furrowed as he looked over at the young man. “If you were a woman and my wife, of course?”

“Don’t be weird. I’d do it as me,” Emmett frowned as if Carlisle was broaching the confines of their relationship with his suggestion.

“Oh, thank you?”

“Anytime, Buddy,” Emmett elbowed Carlisle’s arm as the two began to resume their walk down the hall. “She’s been gone what, a month right?”

“Two months, three weeks, and six days,” Carlisle responded a second too quickly to seem normal.

His wife had been offered the opportunity of a lifetime, lead designer and contractor of a historic restoration project. The original architect had been one she had admired for nearly a century, and the chance to fully restore his work had been one she under no circumstances could refuse, even if the project required her to live on-site.

“Not that you’ve been counting,” Emmett chuckled.

“Of course not. I support my wife in all her endeavors, even the ones that require her to live in a different country for two months, three weeks, six days, and seventeen hours.” “That was almost believable,” Emmet said as they reached the staircase.

“Good, I’ve been practicing.”

“Have fun,” Emmett grinned, punching Carlisle’s arm one last time, before jumping over the railing onto the first floor — an act he was strictly prohibited from doing while Esme was home — and bounding out the front door.

Carlisle made his way down the stairs in a dignified manner, futzing with the drape of his sweater as he walked. He stopped in the first-floor foyer, examining his reflection in the entryway mirror. He ran his fingers through his hair once, twice, a third time. The lock at the front of his hair refused to stay gelled back, stubbornly falling on his forehead. His wife once remarked it made him look like ‘Clark Kent’s’ alter ego, he thought it made him look like a bum.

“Someone’s dressed up,” Rosalie said from the living room.

“Do I look alright?” Carlisle asked, turning to face her, holding his arms out at either side.

“Better than you usually do, but that’s not saying much,” she said from her spot on the couch. A disassembled speaker lay on the coffee table in front of her. A soldering iron in her hand as she pieced two parts back together.

“You know some people do find me half-decent looking.”

“I am painfully aware. You forget Esme and I are friends,” she sighed, turning her attention back to her project.

Carlisle took the move as a sign the conversation was over and turned back to the entryway mirror. His focus was fixed on his tie this time. It was light blue floral silk. Esme had bought it on one of their first trips to Paris, remarking it complimented his eyes.

“Speaking of Esme,” Rosalie said, dropping her voice so the rest of the house could not hear her unless listening intently, “did you know she enjoys a high-waisted pant?”

“Does she? I feel as if most of her pants have a reasonable - Oh, you are referring to my trousers.”

“I did not say that,” Rosalie said but he could see in the mirror she was nodding her head. “I did not say she thinks a pant like you used to wear in the thirties are becoming or quote accentuates your hips.”

“Good to know,” Carlisle said, turning to walk back up the stairs, appearing to be nonchalant. “On other news, I believe I forgot something upstairs.”

He was halfway down the hall when Rosalie quietly called after him, “Suspenders.”

“Suspenders?”

“Yes, but wear something over them.”

“Thank you,” Carlisle said, resuming his walk toward his bedroom.

“I didn’t tell you that.”

“Of course not.”

Once in his bedroom he fetched a pair of dark brown high-waisted wool trousers from the very back of his closet and tried them on. He examined himself in the floor-length mirror, turning and posing. He supposed they did accentuate his hips. Was that a good thing? He clipped on a pair of suspenders and slipped a slate blue sweater over the ensemble. With one more glance in the mirror, he admitted he did look better.

He switched the pants he had previously neatly tucked in his duffel bag for two pairs of high-waisted trousers that he had not worn since 1974 when Alice broke the news they were dreadfully out of style. Another set of suspenders was thrown in the bag, just in case.

Truthfully he did not need to primp as if he was courting her again. His wife would surely arrive at the private airpark smelling of construction crews and latex-based paint, in a pair of dusty stained coveralls. Yet, there was something exhilarating about the preparation, a giddiness similar to the first time he asked her to accompany him on a hunt. As close to a date as they could manage back in those days. Hopefully she still found him as charming.

Two at a time he made his way back down the stairs. He looked over to the entryway mirror one last time, running his hands through his hair, brushing the lock of hair back, it promptly fell when he removed his hand. With a sigh, he turned away from his reflection.

Before leaving he popped his head into the living room doorway, Rosalie had been joined by Edward, Renesmee, Alice, and Bella. Bella and Edward were tucked into an armchair reading from the same book. Alice was scrolling on her laptop. Renesmee sitting on the couch next to Rosalie, picking up a piece of the speaker turning it over in her hands, and then putting them back in the wrong place on the table.

“I’m off to the airport,” Carlisle said. “We will be back soon. Do not burn down the house, please.”

“Can I go with you?” Renesmee pleaded in a manner that was not age-appropriate, but he suspected was a result of being raised by nine adults she had wrapped around her finger.

“Yet again, no you may not,” Carlisle said.

“Why not?”

“Because I said so.”

“Ugh,” Ness groaned, slumping in her seat. “I haven’t seen Grandma in months. I have so much to tell her.”

“I assure you she will want to hear every detail when we’re back in a week.”

“A whole week?” Edward asked quietly, looking up from the book he and Bella were reading.

’You have absolutely no room to talk. How many times I have served as a babysitter?’ Carlisle thought with a raised brow.

Edward nodded in concession, pressing his lips together as he returned his attention to the book in his wife’s hands.

“This outfit of yours is awful,” Alice complained. “Why do you never wear anything I buy you?”

“Your last purchase was a lobster-patterned three-piece suit,” Carlisle said.

“It was nautical.”

“I think he looks fine,” Rosalie said, glancing up briefly.

“That’s quite a compliment, coming from her,” Edward teased.

“Thank you, Rosalie,” Carlisle said, picking his keys up from the entryway rack, and opening the front door. “Goodbye, don’t cause any chaos, please. And if you do… I am begging you, don’t call.”

#carlisle cullen #emmett cullen #emmett mccarty #rosalie hale #the cullens #my stories

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palmofafreezinghand · 4 days

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on today's unbelievable life events my dog started a house fire

#i technically don't have *proof* it was him but it was him or the ghost and dog seems more logical right now #everything is fine but learning your dog can turn on the stove by opening the front door to billows of smoke is fun!

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palmofafreezinghand · 4 days

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cottage

An excerpt from this chapter of 2003. The Cullens have just moved to Forks and Edward is exploring the woods behind the house.

I was surprised to find the remnants of an old trail not far from the river. It hadn't been used in a long time; for most of its length, the only sign was a winding track of evergreens that were significantly shorter than their neighbors. A rusted tin can was the only other evidence that a human had ever passed this way. Maybe this path led to an old deer stand or something like that.

I explored here and there, finally taking to the treetops so I could follow the "path" more easily. I was finally rewarded with the sight of a big rectangle so regular that it had to be manmade. It was partially obscured by the overgrowth and the rotted branches that had fallen on it in recent years, but it was definitely a building. I swung back down to the forest floor, surprised to see not a deer stand or a spartan hunting shack, but an adorable little stone cottage.

It was like stepping into a fairy tale. I had landed just far enough away to use the little path of flat stones that led the way home to the front door. The decaying, broken roof was an eyesore, but everything else was perfect... in a crumbling, half-reclaimed-by-nature sort of way. Wild, meandering honeysuckle had completely taken over one wall. Nearly every stone was outlined and softened with moss. The arched door wasn't in the best shape, but it was made of sturdy oak that had easily outlived the roof.

I walked a wide circle around the whole thing. A stone chimney crowned the southern corner, and there was a little door in the back that opened directly into what probably used to be a garden. Now, it was just a little outline of rotted miniature fencing, completely overrun by natural growth. Only a single climbing rose plant had survived to tell the story of the former inhabitants, clinging to the mossy stones as if to escape the encroaching wilderness.

I reached out and gently touched its petals. Stubborn rose, I thought with a smile. It was a good omen; Rosalie and Emmett were going to love it out here. It'd been a while since they'd really needed four walls of their own to knock down as they pleased, but it wasn't every day we found a house that came complete with a fairy tale cottage, either. I was almost jealous.

I carefully inspected the rest of the exterior before easing the door open. Esme would want to know every detail, though of course she would soon be out here to see it for herself. I stretched my gift back toward the main house to her mind abuzz with renovation plans. She might not be able to get to the cottage right away. I grimaced around the tiny living room. The beehive fireplace was in good enough condition, but the wallpaper was an affront to all that was good and holy. Hopefully the smell would get thrown out with it.

The kitchen was little more than a camper's stove and a sink, which was just as well. Two rickety chairs crowded up to a tiny breakfast table that had seen better days. I was far more interested in the old piano that took up the wall across from the fireplace. I didn't expect much, what with the exposure and the humidity it must have suffered over the years, but I still let out a disappointed sigh when the keys refused to be pushed, much less make any sound. I took a peek inside; the strings actually didn't look too bad. I already had the Steinway baby grand anyway, but it would be a shame to send it to a junkyard. Maybe I could find a local piano repair shop that enjoyed restoring hard luck cases.

Just like the main house, the cottage seemed bigger inside than out. I followed a little hallway—it was arched like the front door, as though I had wandered into a tiny castle—and found a generous bedroom matched against two smaller rooms. No signs of plumbing ever having been installed: that would give Esme a pleasant challenge.

The whole thing was perfect. Maybe if Rosalie and Emmett spent enough time out here, they would even agree to switch bedrooms with me. I didn't exactly need a full suite, but I wouldn't say no to my own shower and enough room for all my books to come out of their boxes. They were getting the better deal by far; this place was a jewel. And it felt right, somehow; it had been a shame to see the hunting cottage back at our old Hoquiam place fall into disrepair. Having this little find on our new property seemed to make up for it.

I headed back to the main house, wondering who had lived out at the cottage once upon a time, and why. I supposed it might be as old as the house, or even older; there could have been a whole line of occupants. The cottage had its own little story to tell. Perhaps it had been used as a mother-in-law unit once: a whimsical grandmother with plenty of cats and plenty of time to tend her roses. Then a little honeymoon retreat for a blushing couple who had set up house with a second-hand breakfast table, then a brooding pianist who needed solitude to work on his compositions.

And now it would house a pair of lovesick vampires who would hopefully leave it in one piece and pass it on to continue the story. The older we all got, the more distanced we felt from stories like these, no matter how picturesque the setting or how vivid an imprint our renovations left behind. But I supposed we were just stewards like the rest: here for a day, then nothing more than a fading memory.

#love the imagery of a stubborn rose - especially when edward is the narrator #also love any and all explanations for the cottage #edward cullen #incredible reads

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palmofafreezinghand · 4 days

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Do you ever think about how, because mirrors weren’t commonplace until the industrial revolution, Jasper and Carlisle don’t remember what they look like? That Jasper doesn’t know he had scars before? From the time his mule kicked him in the shin, and when he fell out of a tree rescuing his sister, and twice getting shanked by a bayonet. That he preferred wearing his hair shorter, but the war didn’t afford time for barbers?

That Carlisle doesn’t remember that a guy knocked him out at a bar and his nose healed out of joint? That he assumes his teeth were crooked but they weren’t, and that people used to say he had his mother’s smile?

That in the faintest edges of their minds, they recall others commenting how soulful their eyes were, and that’s the only reason at all they know their color?

But it’s just words, “brown”, “blue”…

…and that in the end, they don’t remember?

#oh :(#this is lovely #carlisle cullen #jasper hale #the horror the horror of twilight

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palmofafreezinghand · 4 days

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By an act of fate Charles Evenson finds himself in Ashland, Wisconsin searching for his missing wife. cw: references to domestic abuse and infant death.

on ao3 here.

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 6:07 PM.

Washburn, Wisconsin.

“Edward, no.”

The car engine roared to life before the front door had a chance to slam shut.

“Edward, please.”

Within seconds the coupe was speeding down the dirt road, leaving a cloud in its wake.

“Edward, don’t.”

The woman was still pleading long after the woods had swallowed the view of the automobile. Her cries were heard by no one but a confused, but sympathetic, doctor.

__________________________________

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 9:01 AM.

Union Depot. Ashland, Wisconsin.

A steam whistle pierced the air as Charles Evenson’s train lurched out of the station, without him.

He skidded to a halt at the edge of the depot. He desperately bent over to catch his breath, his knees cracking as they moved. Between the bullet in his hip and his age, the sprint across the station had his irregular pulse pounding against his skull. He grimaced as a toddler waved at him from the train window, pointing at him and then getting his mother’s attention. Charles lazily waved at the young woman gaping at him through the moving window, sneer never leaving his face. She caught his gaze, quickly looking away, pulling her son from the window in what seemed to be a mix of guilt for catching the train and… fear.

“Excuse me, sir,” a shrill woman’s voice said behind him. He took a deep breath, attempting to wipe the irritation off his face, and turned to face the voice. An older, stout woman was standing in front of him, holding his wallet and cane in her hands. “I believe, you dropped these.”

“Yes. Thank you,” he said, taking his belongings. In his haste, he had failed to notice.

“Did you miss your train?” She asked.

It was such a pity for a woman to have neither brains nor beauty, hopefully she was a half-decent cook. Although perhaps she was not as dim-witted as she appeared and used idiocy as a ruse to cover a much larger sin for a woman to possess: inquisitiveness.

“Yes. I did not realize the service I took from Saint Paul was to a different station,” he huffed, tucking the wallet back into his coat pocket.

Charles had naively believed his secretary could book his trip efficiently. Misplaced faith meant he was forced to run a mile and a half in a Wisconsin winter in ten minutes, miss his train, and endure a dull conversation with a prune.

“You are not the first to make that mistake,” she smiled. Her teeth were yellowed and crooked.

He refrained from rolling his eyes, the woman was older than his mother, and he could be polite, even if it took every ounce of his willpower.

“You are from Saint Paul?”

“No, I live in Columbus. I was in Minnesota for work.” The work was smuggling hundreds of dollars worth of moonshine, a detail best kept secret.

“The only other train East today is towards Chicago. It doesn’t leave until nine this evening.”

“Of course, it doesn’t,” Charles sighed. He flipped open his wallet and searched for a bill. His fingers first found a five but he quickly stuffed it back, fishing out a single dollar bill instead.

He extended the dollar to the woman, she waved it off with her wrinkly bony fingers. What would it take to get her to leave?

“No, no. Enjoy your time in Ashland. Perhaps now you can say hello to Mrs. Bauer,” she said, slowly walking away from the platform and back to the main doors.

“Who?” He called after her, leaning down to pick up his baggage.

“The woman in the photograph,” she said, turning to face him. He frowned and she quickly amended her statement. “Your wallet was open to a woman’s picture. Anne Bauer is it not?”

His eyebrows furrowed. Was there a picture in his wallet?

He dug in his pocket for the wallet, and flipped it open, greeted by a woman he had not seen in nearly eight months: his wife.

Paul — Charles’ third eldest brother — had offered to take their portraits as a wedding present. Charles had still thought of her as lovable when he slipped the print in his wallet, the day before he left for the Front. It had been against protocol — which dictated all identifying artifacts were removed from your body — yet carrying a reminder of a woman he liked the idea of seemed necessary at the time.

They had their… differences, and in the eight or so months he had lived without her he had missed her a handful of times. The morning he awoke to find her gone — four sunrises after she truly left — he had been livid, which was quickly taken over by fear. The blood in their marital bed, the dried dirt under his nails, the occupied grave he had dug in her parent’s orchard. Details pointing to a sinister answer, she did not leave him in a fit of hysteria, he had escorted her out of this life.

Reluctant to admit, even if only to himself, that he was a murderer he had visited her cousin in Milwaukee, who had once harbored her for two weeks. Mary swore on her own children’s lives she had not seen his wife and threatened to report the disappearance and all she knew about Charles’ conduct to the authorities if he did not leave.

He returned home and concocted a lie about how he came home one night to find the lock broken and his wife missing. The neighbors who had heard screams of terror and fits of rage did not believe this lie, but they never said a word otherwise which is all that mattered.

It had not crossed his mind she could still be alive, his conscious free. He held the wallet out to the old woman whom he was praying was confused. “This was the photograph?”

“Yes. That’s her, the widow who teaches in Washburn.”

That bitch.

“You are a friend of hers?” She raised her left eyebrow at the word friend.

An emphasis, there was no mistaking the meaning of. It was odd for a man to keep an image of a woman, who was not his wife, on his person. Especially when the woman was in a wedding gown.

What relation would make it not odd?

“My sister. I had not planned on visiting her since the trip was intended to be short but seeing as I will be in town until late I may be able to visit.”

“Her brother,” the old woman smiled. “She’s such a sweet gal. Despite her circumstances. Has she had the babe yet? Last I heard she was almost due.”

His stomach lurched. She had still been home nine months prior. Of course, she could have betrayed him causing her to flee. But deep in the pit of his stomach, he knew this was not the case.

“We have not been able to write frequently as of late,” Charles lied, voice almost shaky. “She is busy, as you could imagine. Last I heard she had not, no.”

“Well, do give Mrs. Bauer my regards,” the woman said before finally turning away for good.

“Oh, I will.”

----------------------------------

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 9:25 AM

Washburn, Wisconsin.

A crisp ten-dollar bill had been enough to convince the cab driver to take Charles twelve miles to the small shoreline logging town and wait for an hour.

In the almost half hour since he had realized his wife might be alive, and more significantly he might have a child, he wafted from well-disguised rage to sorrow. If it turned out that the crone in the station had a riddled memory and mistook his wife for an innocent widow would he be disappointed? If his wife was alive and well could he convince her to return home? How would he explain her initial disappearance or the potential child? Perhaps they could move?

He was getting ahead of himself, he first needed a plan to meet ‘Mrs. Anne Bauer.’ If Anne was his wife, he could not simply waltz into the schoolhouse and demand she accompany him. She was charming enough to convince the town he was a madman, a threat, a danger. He needed to meet without an audience, at her home. Yet, if Mrs. Bauer was a widow whose only sin was bearing a mild resemblance to his wife he could not approach her at home without being escorted out of town by a Sheriff.

As he approached the town’s tiny one-room post office he paused to observe the first townspeople he had seen. A middle-aged couple were making their way down the stairs, arms linked, the man carrying a stack of envelopes in his free hand. The woman’s face turned to surprise when she spotted a young blond man packing boxes into the back of an automobile.

“Dr. Cullen!” The woman exclaimed, dropping her husband’s arm.

The man, apparently a doctor, turned to face the woman and Charles was able to catch the man’s face. Odd, was the only way to describe the man.

“Good morning, Mr. And Mrs. Birch,” Dr. Cullen said, stalling his packing to give them his full attention.

“I have been searching for you but you’ve been practically missing this past month. My niece is staying with us for the season, you must come for dinner,” the woman insisted.

“Oh, I appreciate the invitation, Mrs. Birch. But I must decline, I have been told I am an awful dinner party guest, I am utterly incapable of upholding conversation not concerning diseases and organs.”

“Then I will serve goose liver,” she countered.

The doctor laughed but was unmoved. “Thank you but that will be unneccessary, Mrs. Birch.”

“I will convince you one of these days,” she said pointedly, turning back towards her husband and linking her arm through his again. “Do not let her persuade you, Doctor,” Mr. Birch said over his shoulder.

“Arthur, hush,” Mrs. Burch said, lightly smacking her husband.

The doctor smiled to himself as the couple walked down the street.

“If you told them the truth you were attached she would relent,” Charles said, walking towards the doctor.

“Oh, I am n- How did you? What gave you that impression?”

“You have the air of a man shackled by a doe-eyed girl.”

“I would not use the term shackled,” Dr. Cullen said quietly.

“Ah, you are hoping to be attached.” “Perhaps,” the doctor smiled at his feet.

Charles knew soon enough the young man would realize the trap that was a blushing innocent but for now, he was intoxicated by the thrill of a nice girl.

“Do you live around here?” Charles asked. He figured if anyone were to know the people of a town it would be the doctor.

“Yes, further North. I work in the city,” Dr. Cullen said, resuming sorting his packages. “You are visiting, I presume.”

“Yes, Anne Bauer, do you know her?”

The doctor froze for a split second, something that should have gone unnoticed. “I believe the name sounds familiar,” he said slowly, focusing unnaturally on his task. He had loaded all the boxes and was now unnecessarily sorting them.

“She’s a widow, currently expecting, a teacher.”

The doctor nodded, ‘mhm-ing’ to himself. A noncommittal, unsatisfactory answer.

Charles dug his wallet out of his pocket, pulling the photo out of the wallet. He handed the paper over to the doctor. “Her?”

The doctor held the photo delicately, staring at it for half a minute. “She is young here, but yes, I knew her,” he said, finally tearing his eyes from the image. “You knew her well?”

“Yes, yes, we’re quite close. If you could tell me wher—”

“I apologize for being the one to break this news, Anne passed last month.”

Charles could feel his jaw drop. His legs felt like river reeds, swaying in the stream. “She… She’s dead?”

“You have my deepest sympathies,” Dr. Cullen said with solemnity.

“The child?”

“Her son passed shortly before her, lung fever.”

Charles Evenson had a son that he lost every chance to know because of his own selfish, cruel actions.

“Th-thank you,” Charles told the doctor, starting to walk, more accurately stumble, back down the street. He did not hear the doctor call after him offering him the photo and asking if Charles was alright. His mind was lost in images of a son that never would be.

-------------------------------

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 5:57 PM.

Washburn, Wisconsin.

Carlisle could hear his two companions inside as he made his way slowly down the dirt driveway. The familiar banter was quickly becoming one of his favorite sounds. While the transition into their world had not been entirely smooth, Esme had become a priceless addition to his life.

“Oh, I loathe this one,” Esme sighed as Edward began to play Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 23.

“It’s Beethoven,” Edward responded curtly, continuing on with the composition with masterful precision.

“It is utterly depressing.”

“Depressing,” Edward scoffed.

Carlisle smiled to himself as he parked the automobile. Esme was still reluctant to express any of her opinions freely but when she did allow the two men to know her thoughts on music it often sparked heated debates.

“I imagine this is what plays in a murderer’s mind before he kills.”

“You have too vivid an imagination for your own good,” Edward teased.

Carlisle tried to open the door quietly, so as to not disturb the scene of domesticity but his efforts were interrupted by a pleasant, “Good evening, Dr. Cullen.”

“Good evening, Ms. Platt,” he said, moving quickly to join the pair in the sitting room.

“Please, call me Esme.”

“I will not drop honorifics while you insist on calling me Doctor,” he said for what had to be the twentieth time, earning him a roll of her eyes. He took a seat on the opposite end of the couch, listening to Edward play the “depressing” tune. Esme returned her attention to the book in her lap.

Carlisle allowed his eyes to slip close briefly while he listened. “I suppose it is rather intense,” he acquiesced, opening his eyes as Edward began to play even more passionately.

“Not you too,” Edward huffed, attention never leaving the keys.

“Thank you,” Esme smiled slightly, she still had yet to freely smile in the time he had known her. “How was your day?”

“Quite fine,” Carlisle said. For hours he had debated how to broach the subject of the man in town. Esme’s constitution was delicate, to put it mildly. To remind her she was mourned could be potentially disastrous. Yet, as soon as he saw her his resolve to keep the man a secret crumpled. “I met someone in town I would like to ask you about.”

“Oh?”

“He was quite charming, very personable. He was not from Ashland. You once mentioned you have a brother, correct?”

“Harry,” she nodded, “he died in the war.”

That complicated the matter. Carlisle had presumed by the man’s reaction he was a close dear connection, one personally affected by the loss. Her brother seemed the logical conclusion based on how Esme discussed her childhood. How awful for her to have lost both her beloved brother and husband to the war.

Edward’s fingers halted mid-note. “Carlisle,” he said between clenched teeth. “Think of that face again.”

Carlisle did as instructed, unsure what significance the old friend of Esme’s held in the boy’s mind. Although, Edward had been overly paranoid about leaving any trace of Esme in Washburn’s history, going as far as to erase hospital records that so much as mentioned her son. Whomever this past connection was had left Washburn without fuss as soon as he realized who he sought was no more. Edward was, as usual, overreacting.

“When did you see him?”

“A quarter past nine?” Carlisle guessed. “Edward, the man poses no threat.”

“You have no idea the threat,” Edward said, standing from his bench and storming out of the room in one swift furious move.

Esme’s gaze followed Edward from the piano to the doorframe, and a look of recognition hit her face. “Did he have a cane?” She asked quietly.

“Yes,” Carlisle said, turning his attention back to her. Esme’s eyes were wide with an emotion he dared say was fear. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Esme was off the couch and bolting after Edward. Carlisle followed out of pure confusion.

“Edward, please,” she pleaded, running down the hallway.

“Esme, stay,” Edward spat in a tone harsher than Carlisle had ever heard him use, throwing the front door open.

“Edward, do not do anything to him.”

“Go inside, Esme.”

“No,” she grabbed his arm. He flinched but froze in his step, refusing to use force to remove her. “You are not to find him. I am pleading with you.” Her voice was close to a tearless sob.

“Esme, the things he did to you,” Edward hissed. A statement that made Carlisle’s stomach turn. The things he did to you. The wedding portrait he had stored away in his medical bag. The man’s shock at the passing of her son. How Esme flinched every time someone raised their voice. No?

Edward nodded brusquely in Carlisle’s direction. “He must be dealt with.”

“Edward.”

“I will not kill him,” Edward said quietly, in a tone not entirely convincing. He placed one hand over Esme’s on his arm. “I promise.”

“Who is this man?” Carlisle asked, stepping towards the two. Although he presumed he knew a fraction of the answer already.

Esme glanced back at him eyes wide, mouth agape. Edward used her moment of distraction to pry himself away, marching towards the automobile.

“Esme will explain. I will be back.”

“Edward, no.”

The car engine roared to life.

“Edward, please.”

Within seconds the coupe was speeding down the dirt road, leaving a cloud in its wake.

“Edward, don’t.”

The woman was still pleading long after the woods had swallowed the view of the automobile. Her cries eventually turned into explanations which turned into tearless sobs.

When Edward finally did return it was with clean hands, finding Charles had unfortunately made his train and was out of Ashland, alive and well.

#charles evenson #esme cullen #esme platt #carlisle cullen #edward cullen #my stories #twilight fanfiction #thank you thank you thank you to the anon who requested this!!

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palmofafreezinghand · 4 days

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If you’re doing requests, maybe a little something about Charles finding where Esme lives early into her transformation? Him going crazy and looking anywhere for an “Esme” or a slip up with the records when she “died” to allow him to find out. Just him finding where they live somehow and Esme breaking down when she hears or sees him and Carlisle comforting/protecting her. Thank you <3

Thank you for the prompt I love this one, here is what I came up with :"the search for mrs. evenson "

Thank you so much for this request, Anon! This one was so much fun to write. Apologies in advance there is not a lot of Carlisle comforting/protecting her but I have a one-off one-shot in the works to make it up to you that is him comforting her it just didn't fit with the tone of the piece after the Charles scenes formed. This ask also spurred another draft where Charles and Esme bump into each other in 1926 so keep an eye out for that one.

Thank you again for the request!!

#ask #my stories

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palmofafreezinghand · 10 days

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honesty

On ao3 here. CW: Brief reference to domestic abuse.

1923

Esme flopped onto the freshly made bed with a sigh, arms outstretched.

Her husband watched the scene for a moment. Then delicately picked up one arm, lying down beside her, and letting her arm fall over his body. His shoes were kicked off with his toe — falling unceremoniously on the floor with a thwack — before pulling his legs onto the mattress.

When she had insisted the first piece of furniture they built in their new-to-them home was their entirely unnecessary bed he thought she was endearingly silly. Yet, there was something to be said about the familiar comfort after a week of traveling across the continent.

His eyes slipped closed, listening to her unnecessary breathing, calm, slow, and steady. She was hoping to finally be reintroduced to human society and was doing everything possible to make it a successful transition. He felt the mattress shift as she moved closer, her shoulder bumping into his as she threaded her fingers through his.

He presumed he was as close to the sleep as he ever would be. Comfortable and somnolent. Warm from the sun shining through windows that did not yet have coverings. Birds chirping in the backyard. His wife by his side, the honeysuckle of her shampoo mixing with the fresh scent of the soap she used to wash their linens.

“May I be honest with you?” She asked quietly.

“I hope you are always honest with me, Esme,” he muttered.

He heard her blow air out of her nose, and knew, even without peeling his eyes open, she was smiling fondly.

“I feel safer now.” He felt her lift their joined hands off the bed, holding them upright, tilting them slowly. No doubt watching the thousands of beams reflecting off their unnatural skin.

“In this house?”

The house was located further from civilization than the former hunting lodge, minutes away from a small logging town, they had occupied in Wisconsin. The structure itself was larger, the newlyweds and the perpetual teenager finding they needed far more space than the previous two bedrooms. Structurally he questioned its soundness, it needed quite a few renovations. But Esme’s smile when she caught a glimpse of the slightly dilapidated project in his countless brochures ensured he was purchasing the property.

“In this country,” she said, letting their hands fall to the mattress with a quiet thunk.

“Oh?” He opened his eyes, blinking slowly, lazily turning his head to look at her. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

She did not continue, although he knew she could. Vulnerability no longer came naturally to Esme. She had reached a point in life where almost every word she spoke was mulled over laboriously before it met the air. The only person who ever got a look at her bare thoughts was a telepath Carlisle pitied and envied.

“Penny for your thought?”

“I believe… I have known in the logical portion of my mind Char- he no longer posed a threat to my well-being. I know that. Yet, when I saw the map today, and realized how far from home I was, it felt as if I could finally breathe.”

“Are you sure that’s not the mountain air?” He smiled.

“It might be,” she laughed lightly, rolling her head to look at him.

“I wish I had known you felt unsafe. We could have moved sooner. I presumed you might find it difficult to leave any earlier.”

Indeed she had found it difficult to leave the place where her son was buried. “Worthless mother,” and “abandoning him” were the only words he could discern as she tearlessly sobbed into his shoulder two weeks earlier.

“But that is precisely my point. I never felt unsafe, at least in the moment. Only in hindsight.”

“Small mercies?”

“Indeed,” she smiled. She let go of his hand, reaching up to brush a stubborn lock of hair off his forehead.

They fell into what he had nicknamed ‘comfortable silence.’ There was little pressure to fill the void, the silence could sit, be peaceful even. It was one of the elements of marriage he found most surprising and gratifying.

He watched as she closed her eyes and scooted closer, resting her head on his chest. His arm wrapped around her back.

“You used the word home,” he said after fifteen minutes or so.

“I misspoke, my home is here, with you,” she said quickly, correcting what she assumed was a transgression.

“Es, I only wished to know where you were referring.”

“I suppose Ohio,” she sighed. “It is humorous because it did not when I was there.”

“Oh, I understand that sentiment entirely.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I would never step foot in London again, and yet if someone asks me where I am from my mind immediately goes to that grey dreary awful city.”

“You would never go back?” She asked, looking up at him. He nodded causing a wrinkle between her brows. “That’s a pity. I have always dreamed of going one day, in the far, far future.”

“Perhaps I could be convinced by an enchanting woman,” he conceded.

“If only I knew where to find one,” she laughed, triggering his laughter. He caught her lips in a quick, familiar kiss.

She broke the embrace with a contented sigh, lying her head back on his chest.

“Did Ohio ever feel like your home?” He asked, threading his fingers through her hair.

“You can not let a dead dog lie,” she sighed into his chest.

“I’m curious about my wife. Is that a crime?”

“You are too curious for your own good, Carlisle Cullen.”

“A trait we share.”

She took a deep breath, he could feel her body rise and fall against his. “I think it must have been the day I told my parents what he had done. I remember feeling entirely alone, clutching a cold rag to my eye to stop the swelling, while my mother went on a tirade about how difficult marriage was. I distinctly remember thinking there was very little left for me in life.”

“You have never told me about that day.”

“I told you they turned me away,” she refuted.

“Yes, but never anything further.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Only what you care to share,” he said. Her breathing halted, her body tightening under his hands. He continued speaking, “You do not have to tell me a thing, Esme. But I know when you broach a subject first you have been thinking of the manner for quite some time.”

She huffed, but he could feel her cheek move as she smiled.

“Recently,” she said, shifting off his chest, moving to tuck into his side to look at him comfortably, “I have begun to doubt my father ever knew what Char-he ever did.” He knew she corrected herself on his account, and as her husband, he should feel guilty about this fact, but when it came to Charles Evenson his rage often trumped his desire to be a supportive husband.

“I thought you said you told him.”

“When I got home he was in the fields,” she sighed as if lifting a heavy object.

For the first year after her transition, Esme had refused to discuss her past, unless entirely necessary. Only after much hurt and passive disagreements did she reveal this was due to the grief, and not lack of trust in her new companions. With clearer eyes the sorrow was evident, the slump of her shoulders, the spaces she left between words, the tone that made it feel as if every word was an exertion of energy.

“I told my mother, everything. She had not said a word in response, besides offering me a rag. He came in for a glass of water. My back was to him. I can no longer remember his face the last time I saw him but I remember the joy in his voice. He kissed the top of my head and asked the reason for the visit. Before I could answer my mother told me to go wash up. When I came back she told me he was going to drive me home in the buggy. I would still have time to make dinner.”

“And you suppose she did not tell him?”

“I presumed she had for the longest time.”

“What has caused you to doubt now?”

“Edward.”

“Edward?”

“Knowing Edward. Make no mistake I would have done anything for my son, but he was a babe. There was a part of me that assumed I could not understand my father’s indifference because I did not know the struggles of raising an impertinent child. But becoming well acquainted with Edward and all his flaws. I know I know I am not his mother, and I do not wish to be, but I care for him. If he confessed a fraction of what I had that day, I believe I would be compelled to commit a massacre. I can no longer conceive how my father would have driven me home, would have held polite conversation with my husband, if he had any idea.”

“Your mother knew, yet she arranged for him to take you back.”

“My mother never cared for me,” she said plainly.

“I am sure, she lov-”

“No, she did not. She told me as much, countless times. She never wished for children. I have accepted this long ago. But my father adored me. He would take me everywhere with him, he would just beam as he introduced me. ‘This is my little girl, Esme Anne.’ That first year of marriage he came by our house. I was in no shape to receive company and Charles asked him to leave. A few months after Charles enlisted he left a meal on our doorstep. He did not knock or leave a note — he could not write. But I know the taste of Platt beef. I am convinced he must not have known.”

“Perhaps he did not.”

“I was cruel to him.”

“Esme, I am sure he understood why you did not contact him. Even if he did not know precisely what you were experiencing.”

“At my brother’s funeral, he approached me, and I made some wicked comment about both his children being dead and how happy he must be,” she laughed humorlessly, a sound that bordered a sob. “Knowing now the pain he was facing, I can never forgive myself. Even if he knew.”

“You were hurt, you believed the one who was supposed to love you had thrown you into cruelty-”

“Carlisle, I do not need justifications,” she said softly, yet firmly, palm pressing to his chest.

“I understand,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I love you.”

A true sentiment, one not meant to comfort or justify. I love you and the cruelty you see when you face a mirror. I love you and the fishing weights tied to your ankles in the form of memories I will never fully understand. I love you.

She pulled herself away from their embrace, forcing herself to sit up with a quiet groan. Her knees went to her chest, her arms wrapping around her shins, her chin resting atop her knees. He followed suit, tucking one leg under himself and letting one fall to hang off the bed.

“I apologize for being so morose,” she said quietly, her hair moving ever so slightly in the Summer breeze.

“I would rather know your true heart than be told empty pleasantries.”

She shook her head. “It is not your responsibility to carry my burdens.”

He laughed, “I believe that is the definition of marriage, my love. You have certainly carried your share of mine.”

She shrugged, tilting her head on her knees to see him better.

“Is the move the only element that has brought up all of this?” He asked delicately.

She nodded. “It feels as if Esme Platt, Evenson, Bauer is gone, finally. I knew she was before, of course. I knew I could never go back but being here, in an entirely new place feels as if Esme Platt is finally dead.” No sooner had she finished speaking was she laughing. “How dramatic.”

“I for one, hope you are wrong.”

“Hm?”

“I’m quite charmed by Esme Platt… and her impertinence,” he smiled, bumping her shoulder with his. It earned him a small smile. “Can I tell you something?” She nodded. “I loathe moving.”

“You do?”

“Oh yes. It feels as if the second I am content, I must pack up an entire life and move somewhere else unfamiliar and drab. Another town with another set of people I have to reinvent myself for.”

“So hundreds of ends?”

“I suppose. But I don’t know if it ends, in a sense I could be hundreds of Carlisles, and Williams, and one John.”

“You went by John?”

“Once, for two weeks. I moved because I could not force myself to respond to the name,” he smiled. “But they’re all me.”

“So this is a death and a birth? I like the sound of that.”

“You are an artist, aren’t you?” He laughed. She ducked her head. The fight over her clearly God-given talent was a battle for a different time, they had uncorked enough for one day. “Thank you for being honest with me,” he said earnestly. In one move, she pressed a kiss to his cheek and was on the other side of the room beginning to unpack one of their trunks. It was a start. A birth of newfound trust, one would say. Now he sounded like the artist, but not a very good one.

#esme cullen #carlisle cullen #my stories

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palmofafreezinghand · 11 days

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Just had to cut this because it didn't fit the story's tone anymore (grief just keeps worming its way into things lately) but I love it so I'm leaving it here:

“I suppose we should keep unpacking,” Esme sighed, slowly sitting up. His hand caught her arm.

“Or we could take advantage of the fact Edward will be in town for at least another hour, and the only piece of furniture we’ve assembled is our luxurious, inviting bed?”

“What ever would you suggest, Doctor?”

“I believe I packed our chess set in that trunk,” he smiled, pointing to the steamer truck against the wall.

She shook her head fondly, “You are such a ninny.”

#my stories

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palmofafreezinghand · 12 days

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hey boss i can't come in today it's a sunny day and there's a lovely breeze coming in through my window, yeah it's rustling the branches of the tree outside that's finally bloomed so it's pretty serious

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palmofafreezinghand · 13 days

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Smeyer can’t stop you from smuggling in a one-time f bomb pass to one of her characters. ¿Who do you give it to, when, and why?

¡Please reblog and explain your choice in the tags!

#billy black deserves to scream it at the top of his lungs #as does leah #polls

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palmofafreezinghand · 14 days

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Having a writing / reposting / ideating kind of day. So my Carlesme stans, your headcanons (and/or leave them in the tags and reblogs!)

#so sorry i'm going to write an essay in your tags #I go back and forth a lot on this subject and tbh it's one of the biggest hurdles preventing me from continuing fas #for waiting I can see it : his faith - his determination to do right by her - her wanting to do right by him #how short their relationship probably was before they got married (presumably)#but on the other hand!!#i always view carlisle as some shade of demi and once those thoughts start to pop up he's already had to start to acknowledge #esme is never going to be his friend #so i can understand him realizing she is not going to be able to go near humans long enough soon enough to sign a marriage certificate #in his eyes they're married in the eyes of God - i can very easily see there being a period where legally they're not married and perhaps #they never say that word but at least a part of him views them as that and they're physical and the word marriage comes later but the view #was there #and then there's the whole charles issue - i don't think carlisle viewed esme as still married once they started a relationship #but i think he was still scared of becoming that man of repeating that and she was terrified of him becoming that man - of forcing him to #become that monster - maybe there's something innate about her that corrupts good charming men & she would rather be constantly terrified o #losing him than having him but a version of him that's Wrong.#i think whether they did or did not wait for marriage their wedding night had too much pressure too much history and was difficult #I have a wip in my drafts where they're planning on waiting - they've toed the line but carlisle wants to do this Right - and one night #she just breaks under the pressure and tells him - before she can think better about it - about her first wedding night and just how much #pressure carlisle is now putting on her and they either take it off the table for the wedding night or they agree if it happens naturally #fine as long as marriage is agreed to - i haven't fleshed it out bc i can't get her to be that honest with him that soon in their #relationship but one day i will figure out how to get at least a conversation abt the 1st wedding night out of them #all that to say i think it was complicated no matter what they chose

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palmofafreezinghand · 16 days

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debutante

An excerpt from this chapter of 1950: It's Alice's first time going to school and Emmett is determined to prank her. Edward POV.

Alice's prediction that we were going to high school was, unfortunately, correct. Jasper knew how eager she was to begin going to school with the rest of us, and soon persuaded her that he would be just fine at home with Esme. Carlisle had gotten his coveted research position, but would still be working nights as often as he could manage, so he would also be home in the daytime occasionally.

Rosalie was a little disappointed about not going to college this time around, but she also wanted to be there for Alice's first time. And we all agreed that it should be high school, not college; less sun, a more predictable schedule, and plenty of opportunity for her siblings to remind her to act human. So for the first time ever, there would be four Cullens enrolling all at once— though not as Cullens. We were all Smiths this time around… just in case Jasper had another accident.

"I guess the Hale twins will have to wait," Rosalie sighed as we all sat together in our new living room, filling out our enrollment paperwork. We had found an old fixer-upper smack in the middle of nowhere, a mere fifteen miles from the park. It had a two-mile-long driveway, and the best part: the brief run to the park didn't cross any roads or go near any human settlements. Perfect.

"Let the McCarty twins have a turn, then," Alice said, winking up at Emmett.

I snorted. "It's still a dumb idea. Nobody's going to believe that you two are twins."

"I don't know," Carlisle mused, trying various possible combinations out in his head. "Maybe not twins, but how about biological brother and sister, with Emmett being a year older? And I suppose you could use McCarty if you like; we're a long way from Tennessee."

Alice and Emmett shared a high-five. "What about you two?" Emmett asked Rosalie and me.

"I could be Esme's younger brother again," I offered. "That would help break up the—" Esme cut me off, appearing beside me and kissing me on the cheek.

"I think that's a wonderful idea," she said, slipping her arm through mine. "Just like old times."

"I'll be Rosalie Smith, adopted at age six as usual," Rosalie decided. "Though I want to be the same grade as Emmett this time."

"I'll start as a freshman so I can keep an eye on Alice, and you two can be sophomores," I said reluctantly. "That'll give us the longest possible stay."

"Isn't this exciting?!" Alice squealed, filling out her form at lightning speed and dancing through her visions as she wrote. "I've never been to school before!"

"And you won't be there long, if you don't remember to act human," I warned her. "Starting with your writing speed."

"And walking speed," Rosalie added.

"Even I can tell that you talk too fast," Jasper said. "Slow it down a little."

"And do try not to answer people's questions before they ask them," Esme suggested gently.

"And remember to blink sometimes," Carlisle reminded her. "Shift your position now and then, so you don't look like a statue. And it always helps to—"

"Hey, everyone back off!" Emmett ordered, wrapping a huge arm around a pouting Alice. "I can take care of my little sister without you lot barking orders at her."

"Thank you," Alice said indignantly, tossing her head like Rosalie—though it didn't quite have the same effect, since her hair couldn't flip over her shoulder. Emmett squeezed her shoulders hard, thinking how nice it was to finally have a sister in the cover story.

This is going to be so awesome, he thought, grinning down at her. Let Operation Prank-the-Little-Sister begin!

The school, like the town, was under construction to accommodate the surge in population. There were two other sets of siblings that were new to the school the same week we started, and a good thing, too; with all the construction going on, a few of our classes were out in trailers and the sun seem determined to ruin our first day. Anything that diluted the attention of our peers was welcome.

Alice and I were late to our first class, which was English. The teacher gave us a sharp look as we slipped into two of the empty seats, trying not to draw attention. Which was impossible, because Alice had dressed up for her first day in something she called a poodle skirt, which she had ginsisted everyone else would be wearing. But her visions must have been skipping ahead, because nobody else was wearing one. All the girls near Alice's seat immediately began whispering behind their hands about the strange new girl.

"Slouch a little," I whispered behind my own hand. Alice was looking a little too enthusiastic, especially for first period. She carefully bent forward over her desk, arranging her posture and hands to match those of the students near her. The other girls continued to gossip about her, but that only fueled her excitement; if she had missed the mark in terms of fitting in, well, then she would just have to set a new trend for high school fashion.

I made a mental note to lecture her later about the need to not attract attention. But it turned out all right; by the time the first hour was over, several of the girls had decided to try and find a skirt just like Alice McCarty's. At least she had taken Esme's advice and used some of my old pomade to smooth down her hair into a respectable arrangement.

As the bell rang to end the period, the teacher shouted over its clamor. "One more thing, class! Here's a new book for you all to begin reading tonight. I think you'll all enjoy this one."

"Romeo and Juliet," Alice read aloud, flipping to read the summary on the back. "Ooh, a romance! Have you read this one before, Edward?"

"Only six times," I sighed, staring morosely at the book in my hands. I had agreed to go to high school for Alice's sake, but I was just beginning to remember why I hated it. Earlier this year, I had been a prestigious medical student. Now I was fifteen again, with half-grown girls batting their eyelashes at me. I had to ask permission to use the restroom, for heaven's sake. Not that I needed to, but still. And was it really necessary for every high school English class in the entire North American continent to read Romeo and Juliet?

On the other hand, there was something rather nice about being a carefree adolescent again. Our stay in New England had brought some pleasant memories: my first try at medical school, the addition of Alice and Jasper into our family... but also some painful ones. As I had said to Rosalie, this was the beauty of being immortal: every few years, we were given a chance to move on... to make a new start.

We met up with Rosalie and Emmett at lunch. Rosalie was enjoying her usual initial fame, leaving a line of gaping boys everywhere she walked. Emmett enjoyed the attention she was getting almost as much as she did; he was determined not to touch her for at least a week so the other boys would think they had a chance.

"That's just wrong, Emmett," I whispered from my spot in line behind him. "Kiss her and put them out of their misery."

"No, it's more fun this way!" he insisted. "And this way, I get babes staring at me too. Don't tell me you don't enjoy that at least a little."

"That's easy for you to say," I muttered. "You don't have to hear their thoughts. Do you have any idea what sixteen-year-old girls are capable of thinking these days?"

"So pretend you're going steady with Alice."

I snorted, grabbing a tray. "Somehow, I don't think Jasper would appreciate that."

He shrugged. "Whatever. Oh! Here she comes. Hey, sis, over here!" Alice scampered over to join us in line, barely keeping to human speed.

"Hi, everyone! I was just exploring one of the restrooms. Did you know they have mirrors that are five feet wide?!"

Haha! Watch this, Eddie… "All right, let big brother show you how it's done," he said grandly, handing Alice a tray. He dropped his voice to a dramatic whisper. "Now, the trick is to find the food that has the blandest scent. That way it doesn't taste so bad."

Alice grimaced, surveying the putrid choices in front of her. "But I thought… I didn't know you really ate it."

"Not in college," he said wistfully. "But in high school, they notice if you don't. Especially on the first day. I mean, a few bites is usually enough…" Come on, Eddie, back me up!

I rolled my eyes, but played along. I was her brother too, after all, and this was our only chance to pull one over on her. "Bread is good," I added, selecting a dinner roll and slapping it down on Alice's tray. "Nice and dry. Don't let them give you any butter. Vegetables are a good choice, too. Very natural."

"No!" Emmett whispered excitedly. "Meat. It tastes the closest to blood. Trust me." Alice reluctantly held her tray out, her nose wrinkling as the lunch lady plopped a serving of some wretched meat dish on her plate.

"Alright, now you have to get dessert," Emmett instructed. "It's standard high school procedure to leave most of the real food and eat all the dessert." Alice frowned again but reached for a danish. "No!" Emmett sighed, shoving her hand away. "You're a girl. Girls eat chocolate." He grabbed a dish overflowing with chocolate mousse and put it on her tray. "And milk. Also relatively painless to get down—I mean, we drink animals' bodily fluids all the time, right?"

"But—"

"That's good," he pronounced. He paid for all three of us. We made our way to an empty table and were soon joined by Rosalie.

She frowned, looking at Alice's loaded tray. "What—" Emmett made a cutting motion, and she sat down, rolling her eyes. Emmett began fiddling with his lunch, waiting to see what Alice would take a bite of first. She finally scooped her fork into the meat mixture, which was already funny because she was holding the fork wrong. She raised the foul stuff toward her mouth, but promptly had a vision of Emmett roaring in laughter as she made a horrid face.

"Emmett McCarty!" she hissed. She lowered the fork back to her plate, finally noticing that the rest of us had made different selections, and gave our brother a withering look. He sighed in disappointment.

"Can't blame me for trying," he grumbled, lifting his unopened pint of milk to his lips.

We spent the rest of the lunch teaching Alice all of our strategies for pretend-eating and for making the food look like we had eaten a good half of it. She did try a tiny bite of mousse out of curiosity, and just to be a good sport, Emmett tried one too.

"Not as bad as I thought," he admitted, gouging a bigger spoonful out of the mousse and burying it in the depths of his salad. "Now. It's tradition for new students to stand up and introduce themselves to everyone during lunch because it's the only time we're all together. The girls usually do it, though… "

Alice looked around the lunchroom eagerly, wondering what some of her new peers were like. She pushed back her chair to stand up, but then foresaw a crowd of students staring at her in confusion. She scooted her chair back toward the table, glaring at Emmett.

"Man…" Stupid visions. I'll get her yet.

"Good luck with that, Emmett," I laughed, leaning back and tossing my napkin over my mangled food.

"All right, seriously," Rosalie murmured to me behind a chewing motion. "Any problems?"

I shook my head. "All clear."

"And how are you doing, Alice?" she asked, touching her throat discreetly.

"Fine," Alice chirped.

"Good. I'd like to stay here for a while, if everyone can behave themselves." Rosalie shot Emmett a threatening look.

"I don't know what you mean," he said innocently as he stood up to throw away his uneaten lunch. "Come on, Alice, we have a few minutes before the next period. I'll give you a tour of the bowling alley in the basement."

#this is so fun #the cullens #incredible reads

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palmofafreezinghand · 16 days

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Want to tell us a favorite headcanon of yours for Carlisle/Esme?

(After being a big fan of yours for years, I’m lowkey fangirling that you’re in my inbox 🥹)

TW: Child loss

Ok, this may be a bit angsty but it’s still a favourite HC of mine.

Every year on the run up to Esme’s transformation anniversary and days before where she lost her baby, Carlisle makes sure that each of The Cullen ‘children’ spend time individually with Esme.

He sits them all down when they join the family and has a conversation with each of them, once the familial relationship is established, and asks them to think of an activity that both the individual and Esme would enjoy together. He asks them to humour him, and feed into her wanted role of mother, even with Jasper who while deeply respects and cares for Carlisle/Esme, probably doesn’t see them as ‘mum’ and ‘dad’.

The whole week, each member of the family spends time with Esme, making her feel loved, wanted and *needed*. They do a range of activities; from hunting, shopping, gardening, landscaping, or something silly that Emmett comes up with. They let her fuss over them, fixing their clothing, their hair (Edward’s), without any complaints. She *needs* this.

At the end of the day, Carlisle happily sits and listens to Esme talk and reminisce about her days with her family. She lights up, her family mean everything to her. His heart expands, he doesn’t think he can love his ‘children’ any more in this moment for what they have done for his wife, his mate; making her light up and find moments of happiness in a time that is filled with loss, tragedy and grief for her.

On the day of the anniversary, Carlisle is there. He holds her, he lets her dry sob, he lets her mourn in anyway she feels like it. He doesn’t try to take away her pain. He’ll never understand that kind of loss and he won’t try to. But he is there. Some years, she wants to sit in silence with her fading human memories thinking of the short time she had with her son. Some years, she wants to scream and run and run and run. Other years, she’s kept busy and plants flowers in his memory, sketches or daydreams about what he would look like growing up. She sometimes doesn’t want to talk about it, she sometimes doesn’t want to be held or “pitied”. But he stays by her, letting her know silently, or through touch or conversation that he is there, whatever she may need him.

When she is finally able to, she hugs him back and kisses his cheek. No words needed. She is so grateful to this man who time and time again stands by her side, who has saved her life over. Who has given her a life of happiness and love when she felt so hopeless, lost and desperate. She will never stop forgetting her son, but she can now allow herself to feel hopeful, content and spread the love she has to her family, with her husband, her mate.

Thanks for asking!

#'he'll never understand and he won't try to' !#this is very sweet #carlisle cullen #esme cullen #esme's son

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palmofafreezinghand · 16 days

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Carlisle joins a "J. Platt Fan Club" group on Facebook. on ao3 here.

201—

In his nearly four hundred years Carlisle had seen countless radical earth-altering changes; social media had proved to be the most irksome.

He had once dismissed the new applications as a fad, nothing to worry about; until he went ’mildly-viral’ as Alice put it. An emergency room patient had posted a candid, unauthorized, photo of him on an application called Twitter with the caption “my doctor is hotter than my fever.” It was quickly, miraculously, not at all the result of a bribe, deleted from the internet, only after ten thousand people had “liked” the post.

The incident forced him to move, take a year off from medicine, and have a lengthy conversation with a man and leader he once called a friend. When he did return to the human world it was with precautions, accepting a night shift position that was largely surgical. It was difficult for patients to reveal a centuries-old secret if they were under anesthesia. Every contract he signed included a contingency his photo would not appear on the online staff directory or in any promotional material. For extra precaution he held fake indiscrete social media accounts, using them to track past coworkers and any time non-consensual photos of a “hot” medical professional trended, which was shockingly often.

One random afternoon of monitoring “Facebook” a group popped up under a tab called “Groups You Might Be Interested In,” ‘J. Platt Fan Club.’ He joined the group in an instant.

The group was full of various paintings by J. Platt. Many members posted their — often incorrect and unintelligent — interpretations, others posted photos of their own homes showing how they styled framed prints.

He stopped scrolling after twenty minutes, looked up, and snapped a photo of the painting hanging above his desk. A landscape of a small hunting lodge in Northern Wisconsin set in late Spring.

He posted the photo with the caption, “I have many Platt’s works hanging around my home but this one is my favorite.”

It was risky, someone was bound to realize he was the only one in the group who had ever posted an original, the only one who could afford an original. Yet, he felt the need to brag, especially to the random posters who claimed they were “J. Platt’s biggest fan.”

Before he closed the tab a comment popped up, it was one of the self-proclaimed ‘biggest fans,’ an older man named Chester Allen.

“I haven’t seen this one before are you sure it’s a J. Platt?”

‘Biggest fan.’ Sure.

---------------------------------------

It had been three weeks since he first discovered the online fan club when Esme peeked over his shoulder. She slinked an arm around his neck, resting her chin on top of his head.

“What is this?” She asked, looking at the comment section he had pulled up. His most recent post of three Platt paintings hanging in their hallway had garnered quite a lot of attention, as had most of his posts over the past three weeks highlighting his collection of one specific artist.

“I’ve joined a fan club,” he smiled, tilting his head to look up at her.

“Oh?” She asked, her eyes landing on his face and then immediately scanning down to his tee-shirt. “What is that?”

He laughed, breaking the embrace to show her his shirt. She scrunched her nose. “You do not like my attire?” He asked, wrapping an arm around her waist.

“I do not think it is inconspicuous,” she said in feigned disdain, allowing him to gently pull her to sit in the chair with him, well more on his lap.

“Why ever not? J. Platt is a quite renowned artist,” he smiled, squeezing her side. “Ask the fan club I joined,” he said, closing out of the comment section and pointing to the group title.

“You started a fan club?”

“No, I joined a fan club, and then I bought their graphic tee shirt. I can purchase you one as well if you wish.”

“Wait, an unauthorized group is selling these ugly shirts and profiting from it?”

“I don’t know how much they’re profiting, it was an inexpensive garment.”

“Who owns this group?” She asked, squinting at the screen.

“Es, you are not sending them a cease and desist. They adore you. Look,” he said scrolling to the recent posts. “There’s your work in someone’s nursery,” he tapped on the screen. Her expression softened slightly.

“That wallpaper does coordinate well.”

He smiled to himself and scrolled on, quickly passing his own post.

“Was that our bedroom?”

“No.”

“Carlisle William Cullen.”

“Yes, it was, but I removed the identifying objects before I took the photo.”

“That bedroom has been in Architect Digest.”

“No one reads that,” he grinned. His joke earned him a slight smile that was quickly covered when she remembered she was trying to be irritated at him.

She gently took the mouse from him and started to scroll. She clicked the comments of one of his posts.

“A print?” She scoffed.

“Your originals are valued higher than most of these people’s houses.”

She shrugged and continued scrolling, he rested his chin on her shoulder as she read. “This man says he’s my biggest fan,” she said, elbowing him slightly. His proclivity to jealousy was her favorite button to push.

“Chester,” he said under his breath.

“He’s quite handsome. Don’t you think?”

“He’s sixty-seven, balding, lives in Illinois, and cheated on his past two wives.”

She turned, eyebrows raised. “How do you know that?”

“I’m guessing,” he lied.

“You are ridiculous,” she shook her head fondly. “Is Dr. Jones on this website?”

“Hush,” he said, tightening his arms around her waist. His tone, which she perceived as jealous but was absolutely not, caused her glee. She pressed a kiss to his temple through her laughter.

Eventually, she turned her attention back to the computer screen, reading various posts for a good ten minutes. He was content to sit there, watching her face as she read the hundreds of compliments. Her slight smile turned to scorn as she read through one of Chester’s comments.

“They think I’m a man?” She gasped.

“Oh yes, there are a few who point out ‘J’ could be disguising a woman’s name, but the popular belief is J. Platt is a man.”

She was already off his lap, and walking towards the door.

“Was that not your intention in picking that pseudonym?” He called as she walked down the hall.

“It was, but I thought people nowadays would catch on.”

He smiled to himself and closed the tab, switching over to his email inbox.

“I do want one of those shirts,” Esme said quietly, popping her head back into the doorway.

“Of course, love,” he smiled, knowing hers was sitting in his closet already. “I love you,” he called when he heard her studio door open.

“Not as much as Chester!” She laughed from across the house.

#carlisle cullen #esme cullen #my stories

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